Monkey Wars

Day four proceeded much as before. Revelry was at 5:30AM and a group of us gathered in the kitchen for tea and coffee before setting off in search of the illusive leopards. Our game muse seemed to have abandoned us as we spent over an hour without seeing anything other than a herd of impalla and a couple of zebras. Suddenly we came upon a traffic jam of safari trucks. It was like the 405 in rush hour except people were craning for pictures of wild dogs rather than rubber necking. The trucks weaved back in forth in front of each other, and did 180s as they vied for photos like paparazzi at a Julia Roberts sighting. Galen and I decided to that fortune favored the brave and made a couple of bold maneuvers to get through the fray. But we got separated from the rest of our caravan. We drove on to see an enormous giraffe just feet from the road. He began staggering towards us on his wobbly knees and we had to back up so he wouldn’t walk right into us. It was pretty incredible. We got back to the house only to learn that the other cars caught a fleeting glimpse of a leopards crawling down from a tree. So at least a couple people saw all the Big Five.

We had lunch on the porch again and our monkey friends came back to play while we were eating. These vervet monkeys are these grey monkeys the size of a back pack with a really long tail and these cute, placid little faces that disguise their nefarious intentions. They scampered into the tree just as we were sitting down for lunch. It immediately became obvious that they have overcome the shyness that accompanied our initial introduction and scurried onto the porch and sat watching us from a few feet away, eyeing our plates with covetous eyes. At one point Jared went into the house and one monkey who had been watching him with particular interest darted out of the tree, streaked across the porch, bounded onto the table, snatched the bunch of grapes off of his plate and launched himself back into the tree. Once he was safe in the canopy he stared down at us with obvious smugness as he gleefully popped grapes into his mouth. Cheeky little fellow. To add insult to injury the rest of the monkeys started chucking berries at us with uncanny precision. Then they escalated their tactics by peeing on Mali and Henry and sending a bomb of defecation onto the deck. Fortunately there were no casualties. But we held our ground, guarded our plates carefully and waved our forks as necessary until eventually they declared a cease fire and went back to performing aerial acrobatics in the nearby neighboring banana trees.

On a related note, Henry seemed to have the worst luck with animals. The second night we were there everyone was sitting by the fire and this enormous beetle the size of a small mouse started crawling across the porch. I saw it and assumed it would give us a wide berth. But before I could say anything it had scurried up Henry’s leg. He hopped around in what looked like a hyperactive Irish jig, trying to dislodge the bug and not fall in the fire. The next night the same bug came back and flew onto his shoulder. He tried to swat it off but it wouldn’t budge so he whipped off his shirt and began beating it against the ground. It was like watching a bizarre cross between a stripper and a Native American war dance.

And yet, when not under siege from impish monkeys and deranged insects the porch was an idyllic place to lounge and chat. The breeze coming off the river kept it blissfully cool even in the hottest hours of the day, the tree canopy overhead made the perfect sunscreen and the smooth wood board were as good of a place for a nap as any. Late in the afternoon I tried to rally people for a run around Skukuzu. Danny said he would be take up running once we got back to Oxford. I pressed him to start right then and he said,  “I should do exercise. I really like exercise. In the abstract.” “What does that mean Danny?” I pushed. “Come on” I insisted, “Your body is crying out for punishment.” I don’t know where that line of reasoning came from but it became one of the most quoted lines of the trip. So we set put for a couple of laps followed by our final evening game drive. The animals were scarce again but we set off for a promontory and watched as the sun sank down and melted into the horizon. 

King of the Jungle

On day three we got up at 4:30AM for a game walk at dawn. So much for a vacation. We piled into an open-air safari truck with our guides Opa and Letis and set off into the inky darkness. Within a few minutes we saw a half dozen sets of eyes glowing in the beams from the headlights. A pack of hyenas was literally trotting right toward us. A few miles later the pack of wild dogs made another appearance. So shortly after when we came upon another set of fury four legged creatures trotting down the road everyone was a bit indifferent. But as we got nearer we realized they were far too large to be dogs. And there were tufts of hair sticking out above their hunched shoulder blades. Lions!!! It was a pride of five juvenile males who looked like they were just reaching maturity. (A male lion’s testosterone level is directly correlated with the size and color of his mane.) 

The lions were totting along ten yards in front of the truck and weaving their way casually back and forth across the road. We pulled alongside them and saw that one had long parallel scars running along his shoulder. Another one stared back at us from no more than three feet away. His paws padded softly on the sand and his hips oscillated up and down as he sashayed alongside us. 

If I had been stupid enough to try it, I could have reached out and touched him. But I also realized that it would have been no trouble at all for him to lead into the four-foot aperture in the open-air cab of the truck. Everyone was taking pictures frantically. But none of us could seem the “lions at dawn” setting on our cameras so everything kept coming out blurry of black. 

After a couple hundred yards of tailing them our guides announced that we would start the game drive here. We all laughed at the joke and continued snapping pictures. But he was serious and pulled the car over. Right. Well I suppose it is better to know where the lions are before you start whacking around in the bush. But the lions scattered as soon as we stepped out of the truck. Our guides then proceeded to walk us through the safety instructions for the game drive. Stay in a single file line. Don’t run if charged by an animal. No talking. Sounded a bit like heading off to recess during kindergarten. But then the teacher wasn’t carrying a rifle.

But after such an exhilarating start, the rest of the morning was rather uneventful by comparison. We followed a black rhino’s tracks through the sand and stopped to observe from a safe distance. We studied the skull and antlers of an Impalla, saw a snake skin hanging from a bush, ducked under spider webs with enormous orb spiders and tried not to crunch the poisonous millipedes we frequently saw underfoot. Our guide’s longest lecture was reserved for a giant undulating pile of poop where we received a fifteen-minute lecture on dung beetles. Apparently there are four types of dung beetles, but the only kind I thought worthy of remembering were the kleptocopry beetles, named because they steal the dung balls rolled by other beetles, pull out the eggs and insert their own. Stealing poop seemed a bit ridiculous but it reminded me of some friends in college who had a tendency to get sticky fingers when they were drunk and open their purses the next morning to discover ping pong balls, straws, shot glasses, playing cards and any number of other pocketable items discovered at parties. Anyway, enough about the kleptos. The walk was a great way to get a more intimate perspective and note the stillness of the bush, the denseness of the vegetation and the small life forms teeming in a seemingly static landscape.

The entertainment picked up again in the afternoon as we sat on the porch whiling away the time. Two hippos dueled for primacy right in front of us, bobbing up from under the water every few minutes like a submarine breaching the surface. They then proceeded to bellow in righteous fury and gnash their sparse teeth. Eventually one ambled off in defeat. When things quieted down a few buffalo came down to wallow in the shallows, the crocodiles resumed their sunbathing and a few elephants came to dehydrate. The menagerie in our backyard almost defeated the point of a game drive but we went out again in hopes of spying a leopard. But an hour’s drive didn’t yield anything carnivorous, just a smattering of horned creatures. On our way back we discovered a troop of baboons scampering along the road, their pink bums bobbing frantically up and down as they scurried for the cover of the trees. 

Looking for the Big Five

We got up with the sun to go Kodak hunting. It reminded me of a story about how it doesn't matter if you are a lion or an antelope; when the sun comes up you better be running. Well we were. Armed with a wide range of cameras and driving everything from Lyle's white BMW to Dean's rugged 4x4 we set off to see the big game. The morning started with a little intrigue- we came up on a pile of cars and learned that they had just seen two leopards run across the road and then heard them calling out. Dean says that leopards only make noise when they mate so we figured they must have gotten a room, so to speak. We moved on to give them the appropriate privacy.

It seemed like ages before we saw anything else but just as I was thinking about taking a nap we came around a bend and found a pack of wild dogs loitering in the road. There were at least fifteen of them and none showed the slightest inclination to move as four cars inched towards them. Apparently wild dogs are really rare- there are only 300 or so in the 6 million acres of Kruger. So we sat there for about twenty minutes observing. They must have had a kill recently because one of them had the head of a young impala in its mouth. The imagine of one head sticking out of another head is probably my favorite picture from Kruger. Talk about the Circle of Life.  Meanwhile, the other dogs alternated between napping and hipping at his heels and tail to try to take the skull. The contrast between extreme agression and perfectly docile behavior was pretty extreme but their antics were quite entertaining.

As the morning progressed we saw zebras trotting down the road, elephants mowing down bushes, water buffalo wallowing the in the mud, rhinos hiding in the trees and a hippo ambling along the riverbed. It certainly wasn't the type of safari I had imagined- cruising around in a Chevy Spark (hybrid) with the flip-flop sporting Galen at the wheel rather than a seasoned black guide with a rifle in a rack behind his head in a Land Rover 4X4, but the animal sightings exceeded expectations.

We came back to the house for brunch and made scrambled eggs, bacon (proper bacon rather than fried English ham) and breakfast potatoes. We ate on the back porch as we watched crocodiles sun themselves on the sandbar in the distance and dodged leaves and twigs dislodged by monkeys scampering around in the trees above our heads. It was pretty unreal. The rest of the afternoon was spent lounging on the porch. As the heat from the sun began to wane I crossed the street to go into the Skukuza camp for a couple laps running around the perimeter. As soon as I slipped in the gate I was intercepted by a huge warthog. He looked a lot like Puma but didn’t seem nearly as affable so I backed away slowly and went about my business. Fortunately that was the only animal sighting on my run. The evening game was pretty quiet. We saw a herd of elephants bathing in the river and some mongooses popping in and out of the grass like a game of whack-a-mole. Dinner was conducted outside again under a blanket of the brightest stars I have ever seen. We made a thick stew in a very magical looking cauldron and Alice, our resident Australian, gave us a little tutorial on the constellations in the Southern Hemisphere. 

Legacy

Every two years a group of Rhodes scholars get together and organize a trip to South Africa over the spring holiday. It's a chance to recharge in the sunlight after a long, dreary winter in Oxford, but more importantly, it is an opportunity to learn more about the region where Cecil Rhodes made his wealth and think about the problems imperialism left in its wake. This year we had about a dozen scholars signed up to go and an action-packed two week itinerary.

We flew into Johannesburg airport and immediately piled into a minibus for the six hour drive to Kruger National Park, a six million acre game reserve where we would be spending our first four days. I'm a big fan of car trips. It's probably a survival adaptation I developed as a child when my parents piled us into a hideous purple Econoline van every summer for multiple-day treks from St. Paul to San Diego or St. Paul to Hilton Head. One year when they were feeling particularly bold, we drove coast to coast from South Carolina to California. I've never been able to play I-spy since. Team van rides up and down the California coast are also some of my favorite memories from water polo, particularly an all night drive from San Jose during the 2003 wild fires, but that is a separate story. Anyway, our ride across the grasslands of South Africa didn't disappoint. It was a great way to get to know everyone a bit better and our conversations ranged from the pedagogical weaknesses of Oxford to gardening and foreign service careers. 

We arrived at Kruger just before they locked the gates for the evening. Large sections of the park are fenced off to keep the rhinos from wandering into local towns and to keep tourists to trying to sneak in to steal a peek at the lions during the night. During the days cars can drive all over the paved roads but you aren't allowed out of your car unless you are in one of the gated campsites.  Apparently one too many Kodac-happy visitor got munched by a lion. 

Our timing couldn't have been better. The day was finally cooling down and the sun was beginning to set. Almost immediately we spied zebras hiding in the bushes. Then another mile on there was an elephant casually ambling along the side of the road like a hitchhiker looking for a ride. Unfortunately, we didn't have room. We saw a rhinoceros and baby rhino grazing in a creek bred and then practically hit three bison as the sauntered across the road. I guess they don't take J-walking very seriously in Kruger. 

It is incredible to be surrounded by so much open space. I forget how cloying Oxford is. Here there is bush as far as the eye can see and the sun set in an explosion of burnt orange splashes against a backdrop of lonely trees flecking the horizon.

We stayed at the house of one of the South African's friends, who is the doctor at Skukuza, the largest camp in Kruger. It had a sprawling backyard with a massive deck and fire pit that opened up onto a river. It was too late to see anything when we arrived but Lyle assured us that it is usually teeming with hippos and crocs. After everyone settled in we had a braai (South African style BBQ- I can't really say how it is unique except that they use link sausages curled up in tight spirals). Grilled meat was an amazing change after all the roasts in England. We all went to bed with high hopes for the adventures that lay in store for us. 

The Boat Race

Admittedly the Oxford Cambridge Boat Race is not the world’s most exciting sporting event. There are no high impact collisions, acrobatic catches or bloody brawls. No. For 17 minutes, sixteen men rhythmically pull their oars through the water with a grace and fluidity that looks effortless to the untrained observer. But what the fans don’t see is their pulses are hammering at an insane rate and every stroke harnesses every fiber or their strength. This single race is the culmination of seven months of the most grueling and arduous training imaginable. Long hours on the rowing machine that sets muscles on fire, sprint ergs that left them puking in their lap, and frigid pre-dawn outings on an icy river. It’s the kind of sport that tests spirit as much as strength. And the Oxford and Cambridge are obsessed with it. For 158 years these universities have pitted their eight best rowers against each other and in recent years over a quarter of a million people swarm the banks of the Thames while millions more sit glued to their TV sets. And this year’s race was one for the ages.

After a crushing win last year and impressive performances at earlier regattas, Oxford was the heavy favorite, although the Cambridge boat outweighed them by almost twenty pounds to the man. The race started off according to expectations, with Oxford maintaining a narrow lead in the early minutes of the race. Myself and about ten friends watched on a jumbo screen in a riverside park and crowded along the riverbank as the boats surged past. Moments after everyone settled into our seats to watch the last seven minutes of the race, something unprecedented happened. A swimmer emerged directly in line with the Oxford blades, which were churning through the water at close to 40 strokes a minute. The coxes frantically called for both crews to stop and the swimmer dived under water to avoid being decapitated by the blades. It quickly became evident that the swimmer was a protester who had disrupted the race deliberately. Meanwhile, the race referee determined that the raced would need to be re-started from the half waypoint of the river. Both crews turned around and paddled back the way they had come, followed by an armada of power boats carrying police, referees, medics, coaches and the like. By the time the race was ready to resume 30-minutes had elapsed. I can only imagine what the rowers must have felt, soaking wet on a freezing cold day, lactic acid surging through their blood stream and thoughts whirring as they tried to refocus and prepare for a 7 minute race, a sprint piece dissimilar to what they had been training for.

The race restarted with Oxford pulling ahead in seconds and they took an aggressive line to force the Cambridge crew into the rough water. Suddenly the ref was welling at Oxford to move away and before the coxes could correct the inside oars from both boats clanked together. The blade of an Oxford oar snapped and went flying. The race was over before it had even really re-started. Down a rower, Oxford would have no chance of challenging Cambridge for victory. The race commentators suggested that Oxford should stop rowing and register a “did not finish” rather than a loss but the Oxford rowers would have none of it and continued on valiantly. Cambridge pulled steadily away and cruised across the finish line as Oxford limped along behind. Moments after crossing the line they sat gasping for air and reeling at the sudden turn of events. Suddenly the Oxford bowman collapsed and when his teammates were unable to revive him he was moved to a medical boat and treated for exhaustion. To push himself so hard in a loosing battle was a tremendous display of determination that can only be done justice by Teddy Roosevelt’s famous Man in the Arena quote:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. 

Once the oarsman was revived, all attention turned to the protester. Allegedly he was protesting elitism, which he, an LSE graduate who lives in a 350,000GBP flat, claims is epitomized by Oxford and Cambridge. Words cannot do credit to the injustice he wrought on the Boat Race, but Will Zeng, and American Rhodes scholar on the Oxford squad said it best:

When I missed your head with my blade I knew only that you were a swimmer, and if you say you are a protester then, no matter what you say your cause may be, your action speaks too loudly for me to hear you. I know, with immediate emotion, exactly what you were protesting. You were protesting the right of seventeen young men and one woman to compete fairly and honorably, to demonstrate their hard work and desire in a proud tradition. You were protesting their right to devote years of their lives, their friendships, and their souls to the fair pursuit of the joys and the hardships of sport. You, who would make a mockery of their dedication and their courage, are a mockery of a man.

In the aftermath both boat clubs exhibited a level of sportsmanship that is rarely exuded in modern athletics. The Cambridge boat refrained from any raucous displays of celebration and the presentation of awards was cancelled out of respect for the hospitalized oarsman. Please take a minute to read some of the statements. It is a terrible shame that in a world where physical talent is so exalted, such integrity is undervalued.

The Oxford cox, Zoe de Toledo:

Firstly, I’d like to say how proud I am of the eight true gentlemen who I had the pleasure to cox in The Boat Race yesterday. Seeing how the guys attacked the Race in the last 5 minutes was simultaneously one of the worst, but also one of the proudest moments of my life.

Ultimately it is just a tragedy that neither crew had the opportunity to display its best ability over the full course from Putney to Mortlake. We are devastated that we did not get the chance to find out what we were capable of achieving in the second half of the Race, and many of us will never have that opportunity again. It is our sincerest hope that every future Boat Race crew, from both Oxford and Cambridge, is afforded the chance to fairly test themselves over the full 4 and a quarter miles that make The Boat Race such a unique event.

We are all extremely proud of The Boat Race as an event and a tradition, and accept that bizarre events like those that occurred yesterday do happen. That’s sport. Whilst I believe I will remember yesterday’s remarkable events for all the wrong reasons, I would not trade the friendships I have built with my crewmates for anything. Yesterday I truly learnt what it was to be part of a team. A team that rallies around you and shelters you from the storm when you are at your lowest. Lastly I want to finish by saying how proud I am of my teammates in the Isis crew, who not only set the record for the Reserve Boat Race, but also recorded the third fastest time in the history of the Race.

Dr. Alex Woods, the rower who was hospitalized for exhaustion:

Thank you all for your kind wishes, it really means a lot. I'm sorry for worrying anyone with a slow reply. I've only recently been discharged under supervision and have access to my phone. I am ok, the doctors at Charing Cross believe that I just ended up with too much lactate in my blood, and my body just shut down in response. I should be back to normal in a few days. 

I'm very proud of Zoe De Toledo Roel Haen Dan HarveyHanno Wienhausen Karl Hudspith Alex Davidson Kevin Baum Will Zeng, it has been an honour to call you my crew mates.

I don't remember anything of the end of the race, and am obviously devastated at the way things turned out, but congratulations to CUBC for their win. I'm sorry my collapse prevented your celebrations, and thank you for thinking of me at the time. Such sportsman-like behaviour is a credit to yourselves and Cambridge.