Home for Xmas...Even in a Hotel

I love the concept of Christmas! Without examining religious implications, I start singing Christmas music along with the radio the day after Thanksgiving. I love the energy of the season, and appreciate others' efforts to make things beautiful and meaningful.

I love the crass commercialism, too, if it means I can find perfect gifts for loved ones (besides, it helps the economy, right?). I love having a daughter-in-law text to say she can't wait to see her twin eighteen-month nephews open their inflatable, punchable football players. I love having a son call to ask advice on earrings for his wife. Everyone's trying to make someone else happy.

Since our Massachusetts home could accommodate everyone (immediate family now eleven), as well as an in-law or two, I used to leave Florida three weeks early to begin decorating, baking, and shopping. Charley begged to stay in the warm weather till two weeks later, when I needed him as a "gofer." He'd cut the holly and evergreen boughs, string outdoor lights, help me put up the tree, and "go for" anything I needed. As the former owner of an interior design company, I wouldn't miss the house tours in Providence or store windows in Boston.

Christmas Eve we'd all visit friends in R.I., where our sons grew up, and then my husband's family (an Irish clan). Christmas Day, my daughter-in-law's mother brought her recipes, which we prepared together. The holiday was exhausting but provided memories of a two-year-old granddaughter returning again and again to gaze up at the illuminated angel swinging slowly back and forth at the top of the tree; or our satiated son with his hand on his pregnant wife's belly as we all watched "The Christmas Story" together.

Several years ago, after carolling in a horse-drawn sleigh with 20-degree temperatures and a 15 mph wind, Charley declared he didn't want to return to open our home in Massachusetts for the holiday. So the family came to Florida twice; then we alternated between our sons' homes for two years. Due to time constraints for work, as well as travel with twin eighteen-month-olds and three granddaughters under seven, we decided to meet this year at a hotel between our two sons' families.

I hit the internet in August. We had a lot of requirements: a suite big enough for a small tree and gift-opening on Xmas morning; a pool for the kids to swim; rooms with sofa beds for the granddaughters (plus two cribs); decent restaurant(s) in-house or close by.

I traded in a lot of "Frequent Flier" and "Frequent Guest" points and we ended up in...

White Plains, New York!

I wasn't expecting much...

But it was PERFECT!

Eighteen-month Jeffrey laughed hysterically as he splashed me in the pool. Our youngest granddaughter, Ashley, had her first sleepover, nestled against cousin Devon. Arden and Ashley, hand-in-hand next to us, wore antler headpieces across Main Street and stopped pedestrians. The boys dressed in buttondowns with red sweater vests and the girls in embroidered or plaid dresses with ribbons in their hair for dinner and photos. Both twins ran away from Santa in different directions after grabbing small gifts from him. The hotel provided gingerbread cookies to decorate with icings and sprinkles, as well as aprons. Uncles, aunts, granny, and grandpa read The Grinch Stole Christmas for the 100th time and cuddled to watch "Barbie the Snow Princess." We stole a million kisses and hugs, and gave way too many horsey and piggy-back rides for our backs!

On Dec. 24th, granddaughter Arden said to me, "This is the bestest day ever! We get to stay in a fancy hotel, swim all morning, go to Build-A-Bear in the afternoon, and Santa comes tonight!

Wherever we all are, we are home for Christmas.

And to all, a good night... and a very healthy, happy 2012!

(Follow my next two blogs about overnight train travel.)

Our Safari Guide

Our guide every day in Thornybush Game Preserve (25,000 acres next to Kruger Park, South Africa) was Werner Pretorius. When I first heard his name, it sounded Roman to me. But we were in South Africa, so I asked him a far-fetched question. "Are you a descendant of one of the founders of Pretoria?" I didn't really anticipate his answer.

"My father and his brothers have traced their heritage back that far, yes," Werner answered in his quiet voice.

Although Orlando, our tracker, sat exposed on a small iron seat above the left headlight, Werner was THE MAN! A rifle rested securely in its open case on the dashboard in front of him, for an emergency. Werner steered our eight-person, tiered vehicle through ravines, across trees ravaged by elephants, and over twelve-foot saplings to catch glimpses of "the big five" up-close and personal. And we did - day after day! He manned the two-way radio, directing other guides in Afrikaans to rendez-vous at our locations. Then he'd switch to German to suit visitors in a passing jeep or to English for us. He had passed advanced courses as an astronomer, a naturalist, a marksman, and solo guide on foot. He was twenty-five.

Charley took a personal interest in young Werner. He peppered him with questions during our four-hour forays into the bush twice daily. Maybe it was his fatherly image - who knows? - but they bantered easily together and Werner liked Charley enough to answer.

"My father is a farmer outside Pretoria," he told us. "It's a very large farm - hundreds of thousands of acres. I hope to take it over some day."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Charley finally got around to asking.

"Yes, she's a civil servant in Pretoria. I think she's the one I'll marry some day," Werner confided.

"If you move near her, will you still be a guide? You're so good at what you do, and you certainly enjoy being in the bush."

"Probably for a while. There's a problem with my taking over the farm. My father has several brothers who also own it."

"So you're working as a guide to save some good money?"

"Right! Then I'll ask her to marry me, and maybe one day I'll have my own farm."

The next day, Charley followed up. "Have you thought about when you'll propose?"

"Yes, soon."

Werner sat with us every evening for dinner. The third evening, Charley persisted over a couple of beers. "When is soon?"

"Very soon," was Werner's only response.

Our last day on safari, Charley needed a more definitive answer. "When is 'very soon?'"

"Maybe by the end of the year. She's already decided to leave government service to train in pre-school education. She could open her own pre-school anywhere."

"Sounds as though she's making plans," Charley commented. "I guess that means you'd better pop the question. I hope you tell her you met a guy named Charley who wanted to know exactly when this blessed event is going to happen!" he added, laughing. "Maybe she'll send us an invitation and thank me in person."

Disparities in Soweto

It was embarassing! We arrived in Soweto, Johannesburg, inside a steel, air-conditioned fortress - fourteen white faces peering out the windows of a bus, while black faces peered back at us. We sat in comfort, driving past a mile of squatter camps and corrugated iron shanties (with t.v. dishes). Then we ventured into the heart of the 'hood.

"Soweto": an acronym for "South Western Townships," a cluster of townships sprawling across 20 kilometers southwest of Johannesburg. It was established in 1904 (Klipspruit - oldest township)as primary residence for black day-laborers in the City. Soweto burgeoned when migrants moved in. In the '50's it became a relocation center for blacks under apartheid, when the government reserved inner-city neighborhoods for whites. Census 2001 put Soweto's population at close to a million. That census will soon be redone in 2012. Whites will self-enumerate; census-takers will have to track down those living in rented rooms cemented onto legal residences, in tin shacks, or nowhere ("Kwerekwere" is a term for those who have immigrated illegally across national park boundaries and probably cannot be found).

Soweto: vibrant, colorful, sexist, dangerous, juxtaposing differences. Piles of garbage and pitted roads offset green fields, rustic streams, and luxurious mansions (i.e., Winnie Mandela's three-story fortress behind barbed wire, though she no longer lives there). Brown or gray four-room dwellings (the original migrant "matchbox houses") exhibited flowers along the front walk. A "shebeen" or local drinking joint neighbored Nelson Mandela's and Desmond Tutu's original residences on Vilakazi Street.

Soweto: Site of the 1976 Student Uprising, commemorated in Freedom Square. This spark ignited an entire country to overthrow the apartheid state.

We ventured out of the bus and began walking. Directly in front of us was a busy barbershop. Plastic sheets covered the sides of a 10'x10' structure. The back wall was half cement block and half iron fence. Razors hung from metal supports, with extension cords running to an unknown electric source outside. We asked permission to take a photo. No hostile faces reacted to our request - just curious ones, like us.

There were arrangements to eat lunch in a private home/restaurant there. Our hostess was a star in Soweto - a cook whose meals became so famous she won a government grant to take courses in Business. She had become a leading entrepreneur in the Soweto community and a role model for businesses in the home.

In the front room we helped ourselves to a sumptuous buffet of hot meats, vegetables, and Papa. On the walls hung the proprietor's awards and degrees, while to the side her husband stood eating on a built-in counter. Behind was the kitchen. In back of the house was an open area, then newly-constructed men's and women's toilets.

We sat in the double-length renovated garage at long tables, while uniformed family members served us drinks, cleared our plates, and brought desserts. Our table of travellers had a few beers and relaxed, while two of our group described an enrichment course they were taking together in California.

"We pick the topic for the semester ourselves, and the topic this term is 'The Popes,'" Nancy explained. "Each of us researches a Pope, writes a paper, and presents our findings to the class."

"What's been the most interesting Pope so far?" someone asked.

"It was Pope _______, who turned out to be a woman!" Myrna said.

"A woman??" we all wanted to know.

"Did they have to turn the chimney smoke from gray to pink?"

"How did they figure out he was a woman?" The jesting began.

"Well, after that they had to test each Pope to make sure," Nancy continued.

"How did they test?" my dear husband asked. "Did someone have to reach up under the robes?" Charley raised his right hand and motioned as if he were changing a light bulb!

No answer, amid the laughter.

"And who did the testing?" Charley continued. "The unlucky bastard!"

"The head Cardinal has to do it, even today," Nancy explained. By this time, we were laughing so hard, we had discontinued all eating and drinking.

When we regained our composure, we thanked our hostess outside. I snapped a photo of three local children in front of the house. One of them had severely crossed eyes. That snapped me back to reality. Still in Soweto.

We walked a couple of streets over and began a ritual that has, apparently, become protocol for tour groups in Soweto. Since the democratic government spearheaded a movement to develop parks and provide electricity and running water in the townships, its funds are depleting to do so, with 25% unemployment in the country. So tour groups help. We planted a sapling that we had brought in the bus. Two local men provided the shovels and chiseled away the rocks in the red clay, then watered with buckets. Each of us shovelled dirt onto the tree. The local children joined in, some in shoes, others barefoot.

Mrs. Kekana, the owner of the house, watched with interest. Behind her the high cement wall surrounding her dwelling was littered with drying laundry. "Did you know you had been chosen for this?" I asked her.

"Yes, someone came to the door one day and said they would like to plant a tree here! I don't know why it was me."

I asked her if the clothes that were drying were for her family. "Yes, they are for all my children and grandchildren." I suspected that she, like so many others, ran a very successful business out of her home.

We walked back and re-entered our bus. Our afternoon had been a peek - a very whitewashed peek - into a disparate lifestyle. I thought of the hardships and atrocities we hadn't seen, described by white author Steven Otter living in Khayelitsha, a black township outside CapeTown. I was grateful for the air-conditioning, among other things.

Souvenir Shopping

I used to collect eggs from all over the world during our travels - ceramic, crystal, stone, beads, etc. But I ran out of space on our glass shelf.

So I started buying gifts for family members and friends during our travels. That really mounted up, with siblings (Charley was the oldest of seven), parents, sons, aunts, uncles, etc.

Now I try to take at least one quality photo on each trip that I can blow up to 11" x 14." We have two walls full of them, but at least they're conversation starters and memory prods.

On the South African trip, the only things I bought were small Christmas presents for the immediate family. Our tour operator hadn't scheduled shopping time. We found items in hotel gift shops and managed forty-five minutes in a craft market in Johannesburg. I discovered a 250-pound wooden hippo there, which would forever remind me of the "Danger: Hippo Crossing" signs along the Zambezi River in Zambia. Charley insisted I curb my enthusiasm!

I observed we had different kinds of shoppers among the fourteen of us. Grandmothers like me were always on the hunt for kids' outfits, headbands, books, toys, and girls' accessories.

The die-hard shoppers rushed from shop to shop in the airports and at the craft market. They compared prices for items on their lists (like African fabrics) and returned them, when possible, if they found a better price. They knew the managers in each hotel gift shop on a first-name basis.

The professor who accompanied us from Brown University had lived in Johannesburg and planned to grab a taxi to her favorite shop as soon as our plane hit the ground. Unfortunately, a traffic jam (perennial, in South Africa) prevented her excursion that day, but eventually she sneaked away and did some damage.

Then there were those who needed a second (or third) opinion before coming to a decision. A choice between two heavy stone necklaces necessitated a lengthy discussion. "Do you think she would wear something this heavy?"

"Yes, but the stones are more neutral in this one, and she could wear it with more."

"True, but the colorful necklace is less expensive."

"Do what you wish!"

In the shop at Thornybush Game Lodge (next to Kruger Park, South Africa), I pointed to a woven blue and brown handicraft hanging on the wall. "I love that basket!" I told the sales lady. "Would you mind getting it down so I could look at it?"

She was snickering as she handed it to me. "That's not a basket! It's a Zulu woman's headpiece!"

I looked at the loose weave and realized anything small in this "basket" would fall right through. So I put it where it belonged - on my head. Just then Charley walked into the shop. "Why do you have a basket on your head?"

Phyllis and Gert Check into the Westcliff Hotel

The following is a composite of calamities that befell several of our group checking into the Westcliff Hotel in Johannesburg. For purposes of this blog, I have combined the incidents into one story and attributed them to two travel companions.

The Westcliff Hotel cascaded down a hillside, with pool and terrace overlooking the majestic Magaliesberg Mountains and the forests (none native) of the northern suburbs. The brochure we received prior to departure described the Westcliff as having "an understated elegance, holistic spa, palatial marble baths, and individually furnished guest rooms decorated by South Africa's premier designer, Graham Viney."

The brochure failed to mention that the accommodations had previously been apartment units, some smaller than others. In fact, some much, much smaller than others. And some not fully reconditioned.

The fourteen of us arrived via air from Zambia in the late afternoon and checked in. The abundant staff (in uniform) shuttled us up the hillside to our rooms on golf carts. "See you tomorrow morning," Gert yelled to us, as she and best friend Phyllis disembarked. A staff member in the black pants-black jacket-white shirt uniform walked in front with their key.

Phyllis and Gert entered their boxlike room and saw piles of crumpled sheets and towels strewn across the carpet. An open container of lotion and a used razor accessorized the "palatial" marble bathroom. Splashed water darkened the marble floor. At least there were two beds, but no space to walk around them. The "premier" designer Graham Varney had screwed up in this one!

Phyllis, being the more assertive, turned to the black jacket-black pants-white shirt carrying the luggage from the golf cart. "Put those back, please. We don't want this room. We need to go back to the lobby!"

Upon arrival at the front desk, three receptionists (same uniform, skirts, no pants) consulted their computer screen. "You see, ladies, we are booked with two conference groups. There is no other room to give you. We will have yours made up immediately!"

Phyllis was quick on her exhausted feet. "We'll go have an early dinner in the pub," she replied. "Please come get us when the room is ready." Gert nodded in agreement. A drink sounded delightful! The same black pants-black jacket-white shirt that had brought them down the hill carried them back up.

The two ladies enjoyed a leisurely dinner and a couple of frosty pink martinis. Black pants-black jacket-white shirt appeared to escort them back to their room.

This time it was clean. Although the outside temperature had dropped into the fifties, the room still smelled musty. Gert went over to get the air conditioning going. No luck!

Phyllis got right on the phone to the front desk. "Could you have someone come right away to fix the air conditioning? It won't go on!"

They began to unpack. A knock on the door and the air conditioning man appeared (dark pants, white shirt with logo, no jacket). Some fiddling and sometime later, VOILA! Cool air began to circulate.

Gert went into the "palatial" bathroom first. "Phyllis! You're not going to believe this! There are no towels!"

Phyllis jumped back to the phone. This time she asked for the manager. Every inch of her 5'2" frame was rigid, down to the tips of the hairspray on her blond coiffure. Only her voice shook. Soon, another knock on the door and a woman (you guessed it - black skirt, black jacket, white shirt) appeared with towels and washcloths.

"Gert, we'd better not try to get around the side of these beds," Phyllis warned. "We'll get stuck!"

"I don't think I could slide in there soaking wet!" Gert responded. By now, she had a towel around her and was looking forward to a hot, soaking tub. She leaned over, adjusting the water temperature in the spout. Like a statue, she leaned and leaned.

"Phyllis, I can't get any hot water in the bathtub!"

"OH MY GOD!" was the response. "What next??"

Back on the phone with the manager, an enraged voice came from a petite lady. "This is Ms. Gotkin again! This is supposed to be a five-star hotel and we have no hot water. We're exhausted and we need a plumber here immediately! We've run out of patience!"

Another knock on the door (black pants, white shirt with logo, sans jacket). By this time, Gert was fully dressed again.

Eventually, Gert got her long bath. Afterward, she wrapped herself in the warm terrycloth robe hanging on the back of the "palatial" bathroom. She put on her slippers and quietly shuffled between the two beds, so she wouldn't wake up her good friend. "Ahhh!" she sighed, gratefully sliding under the clean sheets.

There was a knock on the door. Gert couldn't believe her ears. She willed her swollen ankles from under the covers and found her slippers. "Who is it??" she asked through the door.

"Something for you from management," was the response.

Gert peered around the chain lock to see another black pants-black jacket-white shirt holding out a tray. On the tray were two bottles of red wine, four wine glasses, and two boxes of chocolates. "Please accept our profuse apologies," the note read. "The management."

"Thank you," she said to the uniform, taking the proffered tray and relocking the door. Gert looked around for a place to put it. Their nightly necessities covered every inch of the small bureau and nightstand. Balancing the tray in one hand, she began to push earrings, watches, and bracelets to one side. A wine glass teetered against the edge of the tray, then toppled over against the hard metal suitcase beneath. Glass shattered around her slippers.

Phyllis sat up. "Pour me a glass," she muttered.

Ferryride across the Zambezi River

We were at the mercy of the tour guides that the company operator assigned us at each location. We had become skeptical, after Wendy had more than a few "senior moments" around Cape Town.

Leaving C.T. and the wine country, we flew to Johannesburg, then into Livingstone, Zambia. There we were, plopped in a corner where three countries intersected: Zambia, Namibia, and Botswana. Pushing our luggage carts in the searing heat, we scanned the airport for someone who looked as though he/she could speak English. Turned out everyone did - they were taught English in school!

Then there she was! Mary turned out to be an incredible spokesperson for her adopted Zambia, as well as a superb guide. Raised in England and transplanted to Rhodesia by her mother and father, she married and stayed till Rhodesia became nonexistent. When the government took over the farm she and her husband owned, they headed to Zambia.

The next day she warned us, "Don't expect a customs and immigration office like you're used to!" We were about to take a "ferry" from Zambia across the Zambezi River to Botswana for a safari into Chobe Park.

We had an inkling of what to expect, having passed through the town of Livingstone, Zambia, on the way to our hotel at Victoria Falls. In town, red clay surrounded chicken-wire fences, which surrounded the schools, boarded factory, tin-roofed shops, and "Fawlty Towers." "That's the best hotel in town," Mary pointed out, "and the only one!" The one-story structure looked like it was constructed of fiberboard, and did, indeed, lean.

Our road was paved all the way to the ferry crossing, unlike the one we'd taken to board the Sunset Cruise the previous evening. About a mile from the ferry, we began to see eighteen-wheelers parked along the side of the road. They were fully loaded with copper and other goods leaving Zambia. Beside many of the trucks were tables and chairs, set up under small tents. "Is it a strike, like in Italy?" someone asked.

"No," Mary answered. "There's a hoe-down up the road, so they all stopped," she quipped. "Just kidding! Really, the ferry that carries these trucks across the River can only load one at a time. So some of the truckers wait days, even a week, to get across. They have full living arrangements in the cabs of their trucks."

"Aren't there roads or bridges?" someone asked.

"The fee is too expensive. And it would take even longer to drive all the way around than to sit in this lineup."

Like dutiful sheep, we got off the van, following our leader. Hundreds of native Zambians stood in a queue inside another chicken-wire fence. The queue led to a one-room wooden building, the customs office. On the other side of the building the dirt road became muddy, as it neared the River.

"Just follow me!" Mary instructed. "We have to get our passports stamped, then we'll get on the ferry."

We wound our way past the waiting Zambians, then cut in front of them. "This is going to be trouble," I thought to myself. Still, they kept smiling. "Where you from?" they yelled in English.

"U.S." we replied.

"Obama! Obama!" they began chanting.

We kept moving. One at a time, at a single window inside one room, we got our passports stamped and filed out. By this time, all of us white people were sweating profusely in the heat and humidity.

"Just keep moving toward the ferry," Mary advised. "You'll have a lot of hawkers trying to sell you wooden carvings and things, but as long as you keep walking, they'll walk with you. No-one will stop you or touch you."

I spotted our "ferry" - a pontoon boat that may or may not fit all fourteen of us. Were they kidding? Mud squished around my sneakers. As we moved down the bank, the hawkers descended. Still chanting, "Obama!" they held out wooden crosses, giraffe carvings, bracelets, or necklaces.

"What your name?" they asked each of us. Suddenly, they spied Mary, their savior who brought tour groups to them each week. From, "Obama!" the chant changed to, "Mary!" "Mary!"

All of us successfully boarded to cross the River. None of us had spent a dime. As we were pulling away, I noticed the black tee shirt on the hawker nearest us. It read, "Get Every Dollar." He raised his arms in triumph. "See you later - afternoon!" he yelled across the water, as we pulled away.

The other side provided more fanfare in Botswana. We were met by uniformed guards and our passports brought to an office and stamped. Guides whisked us away in two vans. Botswana was more developed with substantial shops, paved roads, and luxurious developments along the River. At a beautiful safari hotel we embarked upriver for the morning. Hippos and their babies swam alongside, followed by herds of Cape buffalo, impala, and more pachyderms than we'd thought possible. The giraffes simply ignored us, as we approached in open jeeps in the afternoon. Still, we had to return to Zambia.

The reverse crossing proved more costly. "G.E.D." tee shirt positioned himself at my elbow when we hit the wire mesh laid across the embankment. He insisted on knowing my name. I avoided eye contact, then felt guilty, as he walked with me. Finally, I wilted under his gargantuan smile. "What's yours?" I asked.

"Thabo," he responded. "Your name, missus?"

"Pamela."

"You like necklace, Pamela? You must have!"

OK, OK, one more trinket wouldn't kill me.

Out of Africa: Overview

There are some trips you wait a lifetime for, and they disappoint. And then there are some that exceed your expectations. And more.

South Africa fit the "more" category. Though it was not for the faint-hearted. The flight to Frankfurt was eight hours, with hotel rooms waiting for us there after our early morning arrival. That same night we flew another ten hours to Johannesburg, then connected to Cape Town. The trip back was seven hours by bus out of "the bush" to Johannesburg, with reverse plane trips to Frankfurt and on to Boston, after a six-hour layover.

Our group of fourteen alumni from various colleges went under the auspices of A(lumni) H(oliday)I(nstitute). The tour company handled visa and shot procedures, all modes of transportation, tickets (with better airfares than we could get individually), itinerary reservations, and suggested reading. With us for the entire trip was travel director Joanie, our "mother-hen." It was a good thing, since one of the group fell getting off the escalator with her luggage in Johannesburg, and ended up in a hospital with sixty stitches. This fearless traveller rejoined us the next evening in CapeTown.

Also with us was Nancy Jacobs, Associate Professor of Africana Studies and History from Brown University. Nancy had lived in Africa and been a U.N. observer during the 1994 elections. She was insightful and funny and a wonderful companion (also a mother of two who left the kids with her husband while she travelled with us on sabbatical, doing resesarch). She provided three fascinating lectures, in addition to those of local experts in various destinations.

Did I mention the average IQ of the group was probably 150? Apologies if I got this wrong, but I counted seven PhD's among us, one LLD, one retired surgical ophthalmologist, one retired city planner, among other degrees. Everyone was an experienced traveller and really cared less about degrees. We all bonded well, laughing till I peed in my pants, helping each other with luggage, pushing from behind onto high jeeps or buses, getting the lighting just right for couples' photos, identifying birds and wildlife so Kay could check them off in her Guidebook, counting heads when Wendy miscounted, and sharing insights.

At each destination, we picked up local guides who stayed with us until we departed for the next location. Wendy, Mary, Mark, had full days planned in the Cape Town region, the Victoria Falls area of Zambia and Botswana, and Johannesburg. There was no sleeping in on this trip, unless you wanted to miss a tour...which Charley and I did in CapeTown. We skipped the wine country tour in favor of spectacular Kirstenbosch Botannical Gardens and, as it turned out, that was the ONLY morning we slept past 7 a.m. In the South African bush, we were on a jeep every morning at 5:45 a.m., followed by breakfast at 10 a.m., followed by a lecture, then lunch. Back out on the jeep at 4 p.m., unless you wanted to miss tracking the elusive leopard. Why did they think we had to eat so much?

Neither was there any shopping time (except at hotel gift shops), or time to wash out our undies, or shower (except maybe 5 a.m. or 10 p.m.), or answer all our emails. Somehow, though, the shoppers among us managed to bring back enough souvenirs to claim "VAT" (shopping for souvenirs will be the subject of another blog post).

Amazing what we accomplished in two weeks!! We stood in Nelson Mandela's prison cell during a tour of Robben Island with one of Mandela's prison contemporaries as a guide; we cablecar -zipped to the top of Table Mt., then whisked out to the Cape of Good Hope; sampled wineries' products; stayed at Victoria Falls, Zambia, then crossed via "ferry" into Botswana for a daylong safari along the Zambezi River; lunched at a private home/restaurant in Soweto (Johannesburg), then planted a tree in front of another home not far from Mandela's and Desmond Tutu's first residences on Vilakazi Street; toured the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg, followed by four days in a private game preserve on the edge of Kruger Park (northeastern So. Africa). Not only did we see all of the "Big Five," we told our guide to "Drive On!" when impala herds or kudu passed by. They became mundane!?

What didn't I do that I wanted to (besides sleep and shop)? I wanted to take an outdoor shower in Thornybush Game Preserve, but it would have been 5 a.m. or 10 p.m., with the monkeys and who-knew-what-else accompanying me. And I wanted to swim in one of the gorgeous pools at our hotels or venture out of the hotel in Johannesburg (only by vehicle!) for dinner. Too tired...

Stay tuned for humorous glimpses of group travel in future posts. We're still reliving the experience!