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Author: Christopher S. Blin
This is not your grandfather's, or even your father's, idea of a travel book.
Swimming to Angola is a gregarious look at how to help improve Third World conditions, and make it back home
safely from 96 countries -- with all limbs hopefully attached in the right places.
It tells what to do if challenged by machine gun-waving security forces, or if Gypsies are getting a little too close for
comfort. Readers can learn how to drive from the USA down to South America, or even the length of the African continent.
Tips include how to manage local currency fluctuations to get the best values, while avoiding a myriad of scams that are designed
to separate travelers from their resources.
Some of the destinations in these pages have rarely, if ever, made it to those high-gloss volumes of global travel literature.
And for a good -- or at least logical -- reason: most people in so-called 'advanced' countries looking for 'exotic' locales
to spend time in, normally wouldn't want to go here. These are places that we might consider deep in poverty and hopelessness,
where civil wars rage, where dictators confiscate land for their own use, where babies starve, and where travel itself is
crimped by men in battle fatigues carrying automatic rifles.
It also highlights real danger, moments when less luck or less wise on-the-spot decisions might have been life threatening.
However, this is an occupational hazard for any hardy world traveler with a yen to veer off the well-beaten path.
Traveling light in the pocketbook, in fact, is one of the rules of this book -- the reason being that you don't want to stand
out and become a target, especially in the Third World. Being Western looking enough as it is, you don't need a sign around
the neck reading: "Free money for everybody, right here."
About the Author
Christopher Scott Blin is an international management consultant who some have called the real-life Indiana Jones. He graduated
with a Business Management degree before going overseas for further studies in Munich, Germany and Latina University in Panama.
Having visited 96 countries around the world, he has had work assignments in 12 of those. Highlights include playing basketball
in the leagues of the United Kingdom, as well as Australia, where he enjoys dual citizenship.
Christopher regularly gives key-note speaking addresses on the subject: "Surviving an overseas assignment in a developing
country."
This is his first published book on the subject.
Free Sample
The time was February of 2002, the place Namibia, in southwestern Africa. I had just made it safely through the country and
gotten to the border with Angola, located just to the north. But between here and the next step of the journey stood a border
guard -- one of the fraternity that world travelers come to know as the ultimate gate keepers for any movement to and fro.
These fellows usually don't present themselves as helpful, which is only because they aren't there to be helpful. Instead,
they are usually there to give you a hassle, or possibly pick up something for their back pocket in the process.
This one played the role of the stone wall. "Sorry sir," he said, "this is a war zone." There had been a civil war raging
in Angola for three decades, but I assumed they would allow at least some tourists into the country. I assumed wrong. They
were not giving out any tourist visas, at any price.
I like to go places where there is action, and am not generally scared off by war zones. After all, are people trapped in
the ravages of war any less of human beings? In my experience, having been in countries torn by violence, refugees of war
-- those breathing the stench of death, rousted from their homes at a moment's notice, being caught in crossfires they have
nothing to do with -- are the very people who need affirmations of hope and reassurance that their lives still mean something.
I wished do some kind of goodwill work in Angola. Right now, though, it seemed good enough to at least leave my footprints
there.
Little did I know that this was possibly the worst time to tempt the country's wariness about outsiders, given that tensions
were running particularly high. An insurgent leader was killed in combat with government troops, and there was grave concern
about minefields and an outbreak of the Marburg virus. Driving a little farther until coming upon the Okavango River, there
was a little beach area on its banks. I pulled onto the hard sand, near where some people were washing their cars, and looked
across the river. Could this be my 'back door' to Angola?
The river was only something like 100 yards wide, but it wasn't a calm river by any means. It had rushing water, not quite
like rapids, but a quick current just the same. Still, I am a good swimmer and had been through strong currents in the Amazon.
A local man happened to be sitting there, obviously looking for something to do. When he saw this big white guy approaching,
one could read his mind: there's got to be some money here somewhere.
I then got the idea of paying him to watch the car while making my foray into Angola. "Is this water safe?" I asked.
"Oh yes, quite safe."
"No crocodiles?"
"No."
"Okay, great. Do you mind watching my car while I swim?"
"No problem."
While stripping down to my trunks, I gave the mission some thought. Swimming straight across, the current would certainly
pull me down-stream far away because it was that strong. So when diving in, to the amazement of the people on the shore, I
had to start swimming into the current, and swam basically at a 45 degree angle. Swimming as hard as possible would compensate
for being pushed sideways by the current. But I was never in any real danger, and made it across to the Angolan side in a
matter of minutes.
I finished pretty much straight across from the starting spot on the other side. Looking around to make sure there weren't
any border guards waiting with guns drawn, I found instead there weren't many people around at all. Trading some souvenir
coins with the locals was my main activity, being only in a pair of trunks and not able to wander around very far. Having
cheated the Angolan interdiction against tourists, I wasted no time going back across the river before someone could get wise,
utilizing the same maneuver: swimming against the direction of the current as it pushed me down-stream.
But because of fatigue, I was pushed past the beach area into some reeds which line the sides of the river. These reeds were
a good six feet tall and quite thick, and cut off any movement to and from the river. A perilous situation, indeed. I was
standing in about four feet of water, with the water up to the chest and rushing at me. Knowing drowning was a possibility
if unable to extricate myself, I grabbed the reeds hand over fist, pulling myself into the oncoming current. It was only about
15 yards, but I pulled myself back to the safety of the little beach area.
Just then while wading ashore, another local man who was washing his car looked a bit surprised to see me. "You're a brave
man," he remarked in English.
"Why is that?"
"You could have been a crocodile's breakfast."
I said, "A man told me earlier that this water is safe."
He explained, "Oh yes, it is safe -- here at the beach. But down there by the reeds, that's where all the crocodiles live!"
I thought, gee, thanks for that critical bit on information -- which had been offered just a bit late. Needless to say, it
is good to get a consensus of opinion before doing something on impulse. One man's idea of safe is another man's peril. The
postscript, as I found out later, was that there had been nine deaths on that very section of beach -- all having been eaten
by crocodiles! I might have been number ten if luck hadn't been kind.
But the lesson had been learned. Whenever venturing into the Third World:
Be aware.
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