Entering the shipping machine
And the tourist trap
I sort my personal items into two piles; ‘Can’t live without for six weeks’, and ‘Can live without for six weeks’. I say goodbye to Rhonda the Honda, as she goes into the wooden crate with the second pile of items - the first pile goes into an old Canadian Navy issue rucksack. I won’t see Rhonda (or the rest of my luggage) again for at least six weeks.
From here we must make our separate ways to Africa. Rhonda will board a train to Montreal and then a ship to Durban. We will reunite when she has been cleared by the mighty customs machine. I go by train to New York and will fly to our final continent from there.
Until then, I am just another tourist! I clean the grime and grease from my fingernails and try to get rid of my helmet hair, as I sit and contemplate what this means.
TOURIST! We all hate to be under that banner, don’t we? We call ourselves travelers, backpackers, or overlanders! Anything but the ‘T’ word! Tourists are the ones that get in the way of that beautiful shot. The ones NOT on two wheels. They are the ‘others’ that we talk about in hushed tones, wishing they would all just go away and stop ruining this otherwise peaceful location. They are the ones that turn every location they can get to into Disneyland, right? Without Rhonda, I cannot get away from ‘them’.
Still - the flip-flops are out and I’m not afraid to use them. If I am to survive, I must become one of them. I must learn the system they call ‘Public transport’. I brace myself, as I put on my disguise and enter the madding crowd. As Rhonda sets sail, I wave goodbye to my individuality and head for the nearest attraction - to get in line... Roll on Africa!