#it was only recently I developed a semi-ok view of my art

[icedmetaltea]

You’re an amazing artist and writer!!

(I need to use my words more often instead of my nonexistent powers of telepathy)

Bwaaaaa ty so much fren ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[thedetectiveofinaba]

Hey Luna? Do you have any tips in rping Naoto?

Asdsdasas sorry for replying to this late, asks seem to pile awfully lot these days. I’m more than happy to give advice on this and in general on RPing!

1. Trust your gut feeling in how you portray her, there’s no “wrong” in this art. My Naoto is mostly based on P4 anime since it’s the first touch I had on Persona series and the Naoto I fell for and love to this day is on that surface, and from what I’ve heard the game presents her quite differently in f. ex social development, her being not-so-suave in informal situations and her specific interests. After I’ve rewatched her SL for yunao vibes I’m not 100% sure if my version of her is that accurate but I’m not caring anymore if someone here is going to be not fully content with my way of rping my girl.

This applies to headcanons you have for her small personality traits, gender-, career-, sexuality-wise and for verse dependent ideas. If you cannot see her ever wearing any dresses or for example not liking some food flavors, go for it (and make it clear to others so they’re not confused). It’s your muse, your writing and your show and canon-divergence is allowed to exist.

2. DON’T EVER TAKE PRESSURE ON NOT FEELING SHIPPY. Due to Naoto being a fan favorite and possibly one of the mostly known P4 girls & in RPing people often want to explore romantic relationships the chances are that ppl will ask you if you’re fine with shipping their muses. I’ve lost count on the full amount I have been asked that (and how many times I’ve rejected the offer due to me not feeling it) and felt bad on my muse not feeling romantically attracted to all Rise muses she meets, or in cases where the other party wants a romance SL but she nor me don’t. It’s OK not to ship your muse with any muse and stick with platonic bonds, and this to change in a whim. I’m atm having a season where Naoto isn’t showing any interest to romance and have adjusted my writing to match that.

3. Don’t try to change yourself/your muse for others’ approval. That’s going to get you nowhere and kill your muse faster than Phoenix Wright would call out a contradiction in a witness’ statement in the tutorial stages. Once upon a time I tried modifying my muse and her behavior to fit possible verse ideas/interaction plots and lemme tell you, that only caused me a Hell lot of stress and lack of muse regarding those projects. I almost lost muse temporarily on her and had to go on semi hiatus to realize what had gone wrong and how could I fix it, and after the break I did my best to regain my former motivation and rose even higher than I’d foreseen. It was ironically worth it but I don’t want anyone to doubt their own abilities nor be through the same.

Nowadays I tell the other mun right away if I feel that sth is wrong or if I want to drop an idea. Sure, it might sting for a day or two if it had potential and takes guts to do that but it’s better in the long run.

4. It takes time to grasp her and you might notice later how foolish your earlier view on her was. This happened to me recently when I looked at my ages-old replies and was surprised on how bland/one-sided she’s been earlier. A part of me felt like an idiot and fool for missing such obvious things and I was surprised on my original ideas being completely different to my current ones. As you grow in life and have various experiences, it affects your writing and your muse’s growth more than you first think and that shows in your ideas any brain function - and the newest version is often the most important and best one for you.

(On the side note: if you feel like one of your hcs isn’t working properly or now OOC, ditch it. Trust me, you’re not going to miss those bad ideas.)

5. Have fun and remember to take a fucking break if things get too fast-paced. RPing is a hobby and if you’re not feeling her while writing the replies, don’t try forcing yourself to do that. This isn’t a freaking job nor will ever be and we’re all humans with limited resources.

[rodem]

I reached the third major area in SMT5 recently. And here are some updated impressions/thoughts:

I think the novelty of the semi “open world” level design is starting to wear off. The first three areas look largely the same expect for the different colored filter over them. And the repeated assets in the environment are becoming more and more noticeable. (Not that I expect the developers to make like 400 different models for each destroyed building and what not). Well since this area seems to be a big turning point in the story it might not stay this way for the future areas. 

I think my biggest issue with the game so far may just be based on my personal preference. In that the fun of filling out each square of the map is gone due to the map being automatically filled in when you reach a certain point. And due to that I can’t tell which corners and alt paths I already explored so I end up accidentally revisiting them over and over.... 

I also wish there was a way to mark which treasure orbs were already opened but still there because your inventory was already full of that item.

Well other than those minor gripes, the game is still tons of fun. I’m very invested in Miman collecting.

I really need to fuse some new demons cause alot of them have been in my party for a while. I want to fuse Idun specifically for that unique healing skill. The game really wants you to use the Doi demons lol. I had Chiro in my party for a long time due to his buff skill, and I still regularly use Anahita because of her all target ice skill. I don’t like Idun’s actual art very much but she looks better as a 3d model. And I have animations off so I don’t have to view that obnoxious idol animation she supposedly has.

In terms of story/characters, Ichiro is still the only character I’m currently invested in. His patheticness is endearing and he’s def the most realistic chara... Also he’s got tons of law flags so far. 

There’s no way the miko-esque girl is truly dead, cause it would 1. be anti-climatic as fuck, and 2. reminds me too much of the smt1 resistance leader heroine’s death, and she got reincarnated. But Tao’s self sacrifice for the mc had me screaming cause that’s the most cliché way for a female character to die sdfsfsdf. 

Ok now that I think about it, the one other endearing character to me is Aogami. I just think it’s really funny that pre-release media made me think he would be like a wise mentor type character. And it turns out he’s more like the protagonist’s pet.

There is a ton of red flags for the prime minister dude. The most telling that he will eventually be revealed to be bad and thus be subsequently killed, is the nameless npcs talking about how much of a great leader he is. Can’t wait for all the potent social commentary on the Japanese government/PM.....

[imeugene]

Why Does Steven Hamilton Skate?

As a kid I don’t think I would be able to grasp that nature of the answer for that that question. I think now with a bit of time under my belt, I’d hope is some level of developed thought. Get things a bit more figured out. This isn’t really a post to describe his reasonings or anything like that in a direct way. A bit more metaphorical or allegorical. Something like that. Obviously I don’t know Hamilton and all speculation is just that but I do remember wondering this question a lot. 

To me Hamilton’s Trafaelio section is my favorite section ever. “Can I Eat?” and that whole time span where Hamilton and his riding really transformed everything was the bee’s knees to me. Still is. I even recall Wiz talking about how his riding is the future of BMX, which is more evidence of my Hamilton nerd-ness. In my defense it wasn’t just me, there was no shortage of hype and expectations behind Hamilton at this time... but if you know a bit of BMX history you know it didn’t unfold the way a lot of people would imagine. Somewhere in the various ups, downs, lefts, rights in his career or life, Hamilton picked up a skateboard. 

You’d read the interviews and it was something he casually mentioned a bit too often. It really did seem like he put some serious time behind the deck. Being in BMX it’s kind of a strange thing in a way.. It’s either you BMX or you don’t. That’s the mentality that is kind of supported in our culture. It’s a very us vs. them headspace that is common in a lot of alternative cultures and lifestyles. For the longest time BMX liked to think of itself as a rival to skateboarding. In some places there was even a bit of animosity between the two. It’s only recently when skateboarding melted into mainstream “cool” culture and completely overshadowed everything BMX, that we put skateboarding on a pedestal. But when Hamilton was skateboarding it wasn’t quite what it is now.

It wasn’t like he was doing it at the time where it was trendy to be able to film yourself doing a skateboard trick, which in my opinion is still the lamest trend to hit BMX videos. Cause it all seemed like “Hey I got this interest that is semi-cool and I’m semi-good at it so everyone look at me get a few extra brownie points”. To the people who were really about it, well they still are and props to them. To the lames who did it cause it was thing, they’re probably doing smith nose bars and pull up bars. But back to Hamilton. It was clearly not that. He was a few years before in typical “before his time” Hamilton fashion. If there is one thing to get about him is that Hamilton is an individual through and through. His riding is testament to that. His bike which has more or less never changed.. and the changes it did see are never intimidations of recent trends, more trends from decades ago actually. He does not come off in any remotely way interested in following what’s happening today. I don’t think skateboarding was the single thing he chose to do just to remain relevant. It had to be more. 

After his hiatus from media and what not, Hamilton would put out edits of him skateboarding almost as much as BMX. It was really solidifying itself into a thing he’s doing. Even today if you look at his Instagram it’s quite evident he follows the culture. When it was first happening I didn’t get it. I remember thinking this guy is the best bike rider and he’s doing this skateboarding thing that he’s clearly not on the same level. He’s so much better at riding, why even skateboard? It just all seemed like a waste of time on his end. Which is not judgement for me or anyone to make but that’s just a byproduct celebrity culture and me being young and falling into something stupid like that. Photography, film, music, and the usual outside of BMX hobbies made sense cause they either compliment BMX directly or they were so different it was like exercising a muscle that wasn’t there. But skateboarding, it was the same thing. The time he spent to get better on the board felt like time that was taken from us the riding community of Hamilton on his bike. 

But like I said earlier in all this. This isn’t really about Hamilton skateboarding. It’s about the mentality of being trapped into doing something cause that’s what  is expected. Whether it’s from trends, people, the world around or even standards people place upon themselves. It’s something I personally go through and I think a lot of people do too. I’ve said this before but this website is what it is. It’s not like I don’t know how to grow this in better ways. Get an Instagram tag, hashtag. Do all that jazz. Merch out. Promote, promote, promote. Go to events. Sometimes I dabbled into that thought but in the end I just end up asking myself why? It took me a while to realize why I didn’t follow through. It’s cause I could never justify the cost vs. what I can possibly achieve out of this. It wasn’t worth it and it felt BMX should certainly be worth it. I remember I had a book completed that would’ve costed me a few hundred. Could sell it at bare minimum for 18. I didn’t follow though. Same with numerous t-shirt designs and stickers. I made a few but there was definitely a lot more in the works that just never went anywhere. All that money and I couldn’t justify it, even an Instagram which would probably be the best thing for this promotion wise, I just didn’t and that would be free. That’s time I couldn’t justify. It took me some crazy  level of self reflection to try to understand. It may seem easy but it really wasn’t. I love BMX and I can say for a long time, it’s all I really knew. Wouldn’t wanting more out of BMX be what I wanted. I realize it wasn’t and I didn’t really get it. 

I think I was forcing myself into a box I didn’t really fit in. Not cause of any outside reason but just me and who I am. I guess somewhere in my head I knew that and I just couldn’t push myself to go that direction cause I was just doing it cause that’s what I expected out of myself. I’m not someone who dreamed of being a pro or anything like that. BMX was always just something fun to do, all the time. I was always the BMX guy in high school, it’s the only identity I ever had. All this is not about finding myself or anything like that but just me letting go and letting things fall into their own places. I realize a lot of animosity I held was cause I couldn’t do that. I was getting frustrated cause it felt like I was forced in some way to be here. Like if Instagram and merch and all that other stuff that it would take to make this place more successful was what I wanted I’d already have done so but it’s not. I like this place where I meander dumb thoughts and I like closing it when I want to and saying whatever I want as long as I feel it’s relevant. If it was more maybe it’d still be the same but outside of a few extra bucks, I don’t think I could get anymore out of it and that’s not cause I hit some glass ceiling or anything like that. It’s cause to me this right here is as good as it gets in some weird way. It’s a cathartic thing like BMX. Somewhere to practice writing with some audience. To formulate ideas and give them form. Like anyone can imagine ideas but at the bare minimum once you start writing it down, you see flaws and unseen perspectives. The articles help me practice that process which is more or less art in general. 

I started filming cause of BMX, like a lot of other people. I just know it’s what I want to do and not even in filming BMX type of way but just using the camera to the fullest extent. Unlike BMX, I’m willing to compromise things to pursue it and achieve more. The hate is bearable cause I want to be there, while in BMX it’s always been why am I here type of thing. I can spend $60 on costume for a video I can’t assure will get more than 100 views but I can’t spend $60 to get hat embroidered for this site. At least not now. It’s this change in mentality where I relish everything the good, the bad, the ugly included cause it’s somehow all worth it. I never ask myself why even when I’m quite shit at it but I just know I want to keep pushing everyday to get better. As a rider after I learned the basic tricks, I honestly could care less to get better. Some days I try, most days I don’t but that’s not the case with all this. I know I could film a BMX edit and it’d be good but shifting gears towards narrative work has been a huge learning curve and pretty hard. I can see how bad some things turn out but still I do it cause its where I want to be. It’s not that I don’t think of myself as a BMX rider anymore, I still dress like one, listen to Props rock, ride when I can, try to contribute in ways I know how and most importantly see the world in eyes of a rider, something that once the videos I’ve been working on finishes will kind of make more sense. I just quit pigeon holing myself into being what I think a BMX rider should be and that made all the difference. To some people being 100% BMX is who they are and they’re better person for it but to some it’s not and that’s ok too. Which might as well be the slogan here at this point cause this is definitely the most open minded BMX corner. 

So why does Steven Hamilton skate? I’ll try to take a stab at it. It’s cause he doesn’t care what people expect out of him (obviously). Cause he gets something out of it that he needs that BMX can’t provide. Cause he wants to express it, cause it excites him too. Cause ultimately BMX isn’t everything to him even if he is one of the best to ever do it. And all that is ok cause life is too valuable to waste not living a life you’re content with. It’s not gonna be perfect but it should be something rewarding and to let other people determine that isn't always a failsafe way to get the most out of it. BMX to me is perfect the way it is. Well I’d like it more if I was living in the city so I could ride from 10pm to 1am without driving cause to me nothing is a bigger buzz kill than driving to local spots. 

[nocaptainreuben]

My Thoughts on ‘To The Bone’

               So, just like everybody else in the world apparently, I watched the new Netflix film by Marti Nixon, To The Bone, and I have more thoughts than I can easily express on Twitter. In fact, most of my thoughts are more about the discussion surrounding it on Twitter and such, rather than directly about the film itself, but either way, here’s a blog post.

             To The Bone, is a semi-autobiographical film about a young girl with severe anorexia nervosa, documenting a short portion of her recovery. Whilst I have my share of mental illness and have worked with young people who have eating disorders (EDs), I have never actually suffered with one myself, so if you think that makes my commentary on the topic invalid, feel free to switch off now. I fully support the idea of “own voices” and I see why it’s so important to give (particularly marginalised) people a chance to bring their own experience to their work and give representation to groups of people whose lives may be similar, but I also have a couple of problems with the movement. For one, I don’t think that if a story is not own voices, then that means you have no right to tell it. As long as your process involves research, respect and sensitivity, you should be able to write what you want and exercise your creativity, because life would be pretty boring if we were all only ever allowed to write about people exactly the same as ourselves. Also, I don’t think that shouting “this is #ownvoices so you have to listen to me and respect me and take my word for it!” makes sense. Everybody’s experience is different (and valid) and no one person is the spokesperson for all things bisexual or Chinese or Schizophrenic or whatever else you’re shouting about. It is possible for other people to disagree with a portrayal of a certain identity, even when it is true to you, and it is still possible to offend people with the same identity as you. The point I’m trying to make is this: To The Bone is own voices. That doesn’t mean it’s automatically brilliant and exempt from criticism. My review of it is not own voices. That doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to have an opinion.                Now, on to said opinion… I loved it. I thought it was handled sensitively but with enough grit not to come off twee. It was, in places, difficult and emotional, but then also sharp and witty, with sweet moments and harrowing moments coming with little transition between each other, in a brilliantly realistic portrayal of the multifaceted experience of life with a severe mental illness. The acting, on the most part, was superb, but in particular the portrayal of Ellen/Eli by Lily Collins felt so true. Her abrasive personality, dark humour, small voice and quiet rage resonated with my experiences of other young people in similar circumstances. I felt, as loved ones of ED sufferers often do, that I cared about her, worried for her, pitied her, but was also angry and frustrated with her in equal measure. She was both controlled by her disease and responsible for it, and it was so refreshing to see a portrayal where she wasn’t pandered to and made out as a helpless victim, but given the brutal truth that only she could help herself, and if she wanted to die, nobody could – or would – stop her.                I think this is key in my disagreement with the criticism of the film I have seen in the news and social media. I’ve read that it is “irresponsible”, “dangerous” and – depending on who you’re reading – “stigmatising”, “fetishising” or “glamourising” eating disorders. However, I think it takes more than looking at what topic a film is on, or how the main character approaches that topic, to decide if something is problematic. Whilst To The Bone does deal with a very delicate subject, and the protagonist is so deeply entrenched in her anorexia that she isn’t exactly a poster child for recovery, when looking at the tone of the whole film, the views of the supporting characters and the message that came through between the lines, I got a very strong sense that EDs were not sexy or desirable. It wasn’t even a subtle message to be honest. Everyone was pretty clear on their position that EDs were serious and real, and it even dealt head on with the idea of Ellen being someone’s “thinspiration”, making it absolutely transparent just how negative that was. Of course it is possible that people who are already suffering with EDs will look at this and find inspiration, tips, or something to compete with, but that is not the fault of the film. That’s what mental illness does, and people who are struggling will often seek that out wherever they can, so the film is not to blame when somebody takes that from it, and nor should potentially “triggering” somebody be a reason never to make art with a tricky subject matter. I read a really great quote by Krisitina Saffran, one of the founders of Project HEAL, (a charity which deals with eating disorders and supported Noxon by developing a discussion guide around the film) which says “in recovery, part of the process is learning to live in a world full of potential triggers and being ok.” And I think that rings so true, not just for EDs, but for any subject where people would demonise something for being triggering.                I do understand people’s concerns and the need to handle certain subjects very carefully, particularly with media that is targeted to a young audience, as when I watched the recent Netflix series, Thirteen Reasons Why, I had the opposite response. I felt that was very dangerous and irresponsible, but the difference lies in the tone. In that show, Hannah Baker blamed other people for her suicide. Fine. One person is allowed to feel that other people are responsible for her mental health. However, just because she feels it, that doesn’t mean it’s true, and this never seemed to be addressed in the show. The only people who ever explicitly said “nobody else is responsible, it was her decision” were people who were blamed by her and trying to assuage their own guilt. The people who were the “13 reasons” were made out to look very guilty, whilst Hannah was painted as an innocent victim, the whole thing did feel quite romanticised, and the overarching message I got from that show was “think about how you treat other people, because look what the consequences are when you bully someone”, which I feel is a well-intentioned but problematic message to be sending to young people. To The Bone, however, showed the reality of one person’s experience, reflected at a number of different angles by the characters around her and didn’t present her version of the truth as fact.                I’ve already stated that I don’t think any piece of work can be truly representative of a whole group of people, but I do think this is an accurate and believable portrayal of one person’s experience of anorexia, and it can’t be argued that it’s “wrong”. This story is Noxon’s own, so of course it’s about a rich, thin, straight, cis, white girl. But whilst the film couldn’t have been about anything other than that, as she was using it to portray her own experiences, there was a conscious effort to show that EDs don’t only happen to rich, thin, straight, cis, white girls; there were some other characters in the group home, all struggling with EDs, who were of different races, ages, sizes, sexualities and genders. And no, that’s not me saying, “stop whining about representation, you’re there in the background, isn’t that good enough?”. Believe me, I know we need more stories with minority characters in front and centre roles, but you can’t demonise one film for a problem that is with the whole industry. There is nothing wrong with this particular story being focused on a rich, thin, straight, cis, white girl as long as other people keep coming forward to make films that show different experiences, and I feel that To The Bone can be a stepping stone for us seeing EDs portrayed more frequently, and in more ways, on the big screen.               I applaud the team behind To The Bone for making something so honest and difficult, and would urge people watching to look past the fact that it may not fit their own experience or understanding of anorexia, and use this film as a platform for constructive discussion about eating disorders, as Noxon so clearly intended, rather than getting hung up on “I didn’t like the weird bottle scene”.

[jonathanbelloblog]

Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT

[jesusvasser]

Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT

[eddiejpoplar]

Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT

[maia]

Mission District Walking Tour (San Francisco)

I love the Mission District. Climate reports say it is San Francisco’s warmest, sunniest neighborhood, but its vibrance extends far beyond the weather. Whenever I have friends visit from out of town, I take them on a walking tour of the Mission. I wrote the first version of the post in an email to a friend who needed something to do with an out-of-town guest. I fleshed it out to share publicly, in case anyone shares my love of history and standing in line for food. (Please leave questions, comments, suggestions!)

In red is the Mission tour, but you can easily see Bernal Heights and The Castro too by adding the blue parts.

#1. Dolores Park: 20th St. & Church St. Dolores Park has a crazy history. First, see one of the best views of downtown San Francisco from this top corner. Look over the park. In the late 1800′s, Dolores Park was a Jewish cemetery. Around 1900, land in SF was deemed too valuable for dead people and they DUG UP ALL THE GRAVES and moved them to COLMA. Then, in 1905 Barnum & Bailey graded the land for their circus, in 1906 it served as a refugee camp for earthquake victims, and now it's a pretty segmented park that becomes crowded with locals whenever the weather breaks 70°.

Wander through to park to 18th st. In the morning, you’ll find the controversial buses from Google, Facebook, etc. picking up tech workers from 18th & Dolores to truck them down to campuses in Silicon Valley.  If it’s warm out, stop at one of the best ice cream shops: Bi-Rite Ice Cream (you can skip the line if you’re buying a pint!). If it’s cold out, stop at #2. Tartine for a pastry and a coffee (sadly, I have no tips for skipping the line here). Tartine is famous for baking the best bread in America.

Meander down 18th St, admiring the Women’s Building on the way. Arrive at #3. Clarion Alley. The Mission District is famous for its murals and street art, mostly driven by the Latino movement. Clarion Alley is newer than Balmy Ave (which we’ll visit later) and is dedicated to using public art as a force for the marginalized. The featured artists are regularly rotated through, as managed by the Clarion Alley Mural Project. Clarion Alley is always a great way to view the current hot-button topics -- right now, it’s  around evictions and gentrification.

Cruise back to Valencia St. The lights on Valencia Street are timed in both directions so if you’re cycling 13mph, you’ll have green lights the whole stretch. It’s called the Green Wave.

Valencia has been described as a pinterest strip mall -- but I prefer to describe it as the longest shopping street in the US with no chain stores.  Between 18th & 19th streets you’ll find strings of expensive hipster storefronts. The highlights are Dandelion chocolate (single-origin chocolate! is that important?), Craftsman & Wolves (famous for their Rebel Within muffin which contains a softboiled egg), and Mission Bicycle (owned by my landlord!)

On to the next block, where there’s #4. three wonderful shops to explore: Paxton Gate, 826 Valencia, and City Art Cooperative Gallery.

Paxton Gate is a store for “natural curiosities”. Make sure to read the labels, and make it all the way to the garden in the back.

826 Valencia is Dave Egger's tutoring center. He bought an empty store front on Valencia to create a tutoring center for low-income kids. San Francisco was like "You can't do that; Valencia is zoned only for retail." So he was like "Fine, you need a retail store? I will make a retail store." So it's a half-joke pirate store that serves as a front for the tutoring center. Since then 826 has expanded to run many tutoring centers around the world, but their name pays homage to the address of their first one, here on Valencia St.

City Art Cooperative Gallery is a co-op that showcases wonderful local artists. For example, I adore the hyper-local work of Jessica Joy Jirsa - she paints so many scenes I walk past every day. The gallery is staffed by the artists, so go ahead and ask whoever’s around which art display is theirs!

Go back to Mission St. It’s obvious that both Mission and Valencia are major streets - despite being only one block apart. A brief history is in order. You’ll notice as you walk down Mission that there are many decrepit, old theaters. In the 1940′s, San Francisco had over 100 movie houses -- today, there are 5 theaters from this era on Mission street between 19th and 23rd.

Majestic theater turned Tower theater turned church turned semi-abandoned

Their demise was a combination of several forces. In the 1950′s, the home television set started reducing traffic to theaters. Then, in the 1960′s, construction started on BART, which tore up Mission Street. Entertainment seekers were diverted to Valencia street, instead of construction-filled Mission street, leading to the development of the shopping and restaurant area now. I think the theaters are easy to miss if you’re not looking for them so I make a point to notice their former glory. It’s so sad... some have been turned into parking garages!!

El Capitan - 2,500 seat theater + 85 room hotel turned into a parking garage in 1965

The good news, is that Alamo Drafthouse recently purchased and restored the New Mission theater.

Ok, next walk down to 24th St -- Calle 24. The whole Mission District has a reputation for being Latino, but there is some more nuance here: it’s a large neighborhood and constantly changing. The population first became predominately Mexican when California was a part of Mexico :) Ok but the next time was during the 1940′s-1960′s, as Mexicans were pushed out of their homes in the Rincon Hill neighborhood during the construction of the Bay Bridge. The west side of the Mission (the part we’ve seen so far) quickly changed in the 1960′s-1990′s to house a community of artists, LGBTQ, and punk musicians. Now, they’ve largely been displaced by severely Caucasian and very boring tech workers, like me!

Mission Street, Calle 24, and the eastern/southern parts of the Mission have a different history. They were predominately Mexican communities until the 1970′s-1980′s, when Central & South American started to fall apart. Many immigrants from politically unstable countries came to these microhoods, imbuing them with the Latino flavor that the Mission is now famous for. The 1970′s-1980′s also saw the rise of gangs in the Mission, and low-rider culture. It’s inconsequential, but as we walk South this is where we switch from Sureño gang territory to the Norteño gang’s territory.

Walk down 24th St. Everything here is great. My favorite part are the Lucha libra masks, but there are many wonderful shops, bakeries, community centers, and restaurants.

More murals down #6. Balmy Ave. These are more historic (and, I think, more famous) than the ones on Clarion Ave - they focus on the Latino history of the neighborhood, protests on US involvement in Central American, and the Chicano/Latino movement. All artists have origins from Mexico or Central America. Then, for a quick sharp contrast, visit hipster ice cream shop #7. Humphrey Slocumbe to try the Secret Breakfast ice cream.

That's the base tour - if you want more, start at the historic gay neighborhood of the Castro and 17th st and Market st before heading to Dolores Park. If you want even MORE, continue on to 8. Precita Park, #9. Bernal Heights (even better views of downtown) and #10. The Epicurean Trader in Bernal Heights neighborhood, SF’s historic lesbian neighborhood.

Have fun, and happy walking!

[eddiejpoplar]

AUTOMOBiLE Flashback: Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT

[jonathanbelloblog]

AUTOMOBiLE Flashback: Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT