Why and How I Got Out of the Navy

Why and How I Got Out of the Navy

Prior to entering my senior year of high school, I naively enlisted in the Navy. Although I enlisted intentionally, I did not do so deliberately. I took a military aptitude test during my junior year and ended up scoring fairly well. Late one evening, after a long day of school and basketball, my father approached me about the prospect of joining. Apparently, a recruiter jogging nearby the construction site where my father worked claimed to know who I was based on my scores from the military aptitude test. My dad told me about it and suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea. At that point in time, post-high-school-graduation was frightening and the sense of security associated with the military was alluring. Optimistically, I went to the local recruiting office to discuss potential roles I could play in the Navy. The recruiter was deceptive in that he glorified life as an enlistee making it seem far more lucrative and enjoyable than it actually is. In retrospect, I should have been more perceptive of the recruiter’s discontent and ruthless tactics to fill his quota for enlistees.

As an obstinate 17 year-old-boy, loyal only to my father, I bypassed the advice given to me by my mom, teachers, and school counselor; all of who were adamant about me considering my options before joining. By August 2007, less than two years after my brother hung himself, the recruiter and I visited both of my parents so that they could give up their rights as my legal guardians and pass that role onto the Navy in case the military needed me before my 18^th birthday. After my parents signed, I went to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) so that I could swear in. Before swearing in, several psychological and behavioral inquiries were conducted. Advised by the recruiter to do so, I lied on all of them to prevent further scrutiny. From that point, my year of inactive service consisted solely of monthly meetings at the recruiting office. I proceeded to enjoy my senior year excelling academically, athletically, and even socially, as an active member of student government and being the class-appointed speaker for graduation. And with the ostensibly profitable and fulfilling future as a Nuclear Electronics Technician in the Navy, I was on top of the world.

Less than two months after making that speech at graduation, I left the one bedroom apartment I shared with my father so that I could receive some good ol’ military discipline near Chicago at Naval Basic Training. I hated boot camp. Not allowed to sleep for the first 30 hours of training, I woke up two mornings after my arrival to red lights flashing, alarms blaring, and RDC’s (Recruit Division Commanders) yelling in my face ordering me to do shit that would be impossible to do up to their standards. I vividly recall wishing that I was dreaming and that I’d really wake up in a couple hours to my jovial father asking me if I wanted breakfast. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a dream and the next two months were going to be jam packed with miserable monotony and emotional anguish.

Boot camp wasn’t really that hard, in fact, I outperformed my peers academically and physically so the RDC’s elected me to the role of Ship Staff. Ship Staff was cool because I got to clean around the building that housed a multitude of divisions while the other 90 members of the division practiced marching or folding clothes. I even made a friend on Ship Staff, Zane, from Tucson AZ. We reveled in slacking off just to chat with one another about our glory days of high school and our girlfriends. As one would imagine, boot camp is sickeningly strict, so simply chatting freely was truly a blessing. Besides the time with Zane, the only other solace I found were the letters written to me by my family and girlfriend.

As it was the only form of communication we had with the outside world, each night, all 90 recruits would stand adjacent to their bunks anxiously anticipating letters from their loved ones. I cried silently in my bunk as I read and reread those letters. Every Sunday morning, recruits were granted four hours to conduct religious practices, write their loved ones, or shine their boots. I wrote my family frenetically as I relished listening to the songs sung by my fellow recruits. I developed a newfound appreciation for music, even if it was just acapella. Boot camp wasn’t entirely bad, as I mingled with various individuals with whom I wouldn't have met otherwise. Initially, I arrived at basic training eager to be the top of my division and be a positive outlier amongst all enlistees. Day by day, my desire to attain that goal waned and was replaced with negative affects such as paranoia, depression, and regret.

During that time, I was in a long-term relationship with my high-school girlfriend, Matilda. I compensated for low self-esteem by being a controlling partner.  My overbearing attitude and Matilda’s pliable personality made for an unhealthy relationship. Matilda was, and is, an incredibly intelligent individual; I was lucky to be with her. At boot camp, I was overwhelmed with the fear that Matilda was seeking comfort in the form of a male companion as a result of my absence. I longed to be with her and the thought of spending the next six years apart was unfathomable. Looking back, I was a weak young man plagued by emotional fragility.

I was not the only recruit in my all-male division to suffer emotionally. I recall several instances of men far older than myself bawling when the RDC’s would tell us things like, “Well you guys fucked up! All your families, parents, children, or whoever bought plane tickets to come see your sorry ass won’t be able to cause’ you guys can’t get this shit right!” The RDC’s used threats and lies like this as ploys aimed at preventing complacency. One night, about halfway through, Zane received a letter from his girlfriend who wrote about all the new friends she was making at college. One of the friends she mentioned was a guy, who Zane thought she must be fond of. Zane cried and fretted incessantly about losing the girl he loved. Another recruit, who I could only recognize by his frail, sickly demeanor was rumored to have told the RDC’s that he would kill himself if he wasn’t sent back home. He was sent home with an honorable discharge for Other Designated Physical and Mental Conditions (ODPMC).

By the end of basic training, I was completely indifferent about how I performed as long as I could go through the motions necessary and move on to my Apprentice School (A-School). This sense of indifference nearly resulted in me failing boot camp and not being able to meet Matilda, her mother, and my father who had recently bought plane tickets to fly from Portland OR to come see me graduate near Chicago.

Basic training is concluded with a culminating task  aimed to test recruits on the entirety of what was learned during our two months. This capstone event is referred to as, “Battle Stations.” Battle Stations comprises 13 tests over a 12-hour period from 6 pm to 6 am and takes place on a 210 ft replica of a guided missile destroyer. My division, division 363, was scheduled to graduate on Monday, and for us, Battle Stations was on Saturday, just two days before the graduation ceremony. Due to the disdain I felt towards boot camp at that point, I optimistically assumed that I could simply go through the motions of Battle Stations in my team of eight recruits and just be done with that shit. It didn’t work out that way. Out of the 180 recruits that did Battle Stations that night, I was the only one that failed. While my fellow recruits, now considered sailors for having passed battle stations, were celebrating their success, eating pizza, and anxiously anticipating the arrival of our loved ones the following day, I was told to go sit in a room and wait until an RDC explained what was to follow.

It was Sunday morning, Matilda, her mom, and my dad, were arriving in Chicago that day and scheduled to see me the following morning. The RDC told me that I would have to do Battle Stations again Sunday night, and if I passed, I could graduate the following morning. At that point, I had already been awake for 26 hours and would be forced to repeat the overnight process again. The RDC told me to sleep in a fellow division’s room but that was impossible as my circadian cycle wouldn’t allow it and neither would the anxiety I felt about not passing the night before.

At 6 that evening, I stood amongst 180 recruits, with whom I had never interacted, in a long cavernous tunnel. Sleep deprivation made everything so surreal as a facilitator suddenly yelled my name over the massive crowd of anxious recruits, “Miles! Division 363!” I responded by running towards him eager to do whatever was necessary to get through the night successfully. The facilitator was my savior. He quickly informed me that he was aware of what happened the night before and that he’d be looking after me to ensure that I got to the graduation ceremony on time. Honestly, perhaps due to the lack of sleep, I barely remember anything from that night except for the fact that this particular RDC was a true homie and even let me leave Battle Stations prematurely to ensure that I get back in time for the graduation ceremony.

By the time I got back from Battle Stations, it was 6:30 am, and I had been up for 48 and a half hours. I ran into division 363 housing where Zane had already laid out my dress whites on my bunk. My fellow recruits were already dressed and prepared to march out the door but they all ensured I join them in the ceremony and did everything in their power to get me dressed, shaved, and ceremoniously presentable to meet Matilda, her mom, and my pops. I marched in the back of the division in a trancelike state as my thoughts continuously drifted. I even remember while standing at attention during the ceremony, I couldn’t see my dad amongst the thousands of families there, so in my phantasmal state, I simply concluded that he didn’t come, but that it was okay because I finished Battle Stations.

Fortunately, my illusory conclusion contradicted reality as I saw my father running towards me as the ceremony was consummated. I cried tears of happiness as I embraced his hug. Boot camp was the first time for me to be away from my father since he had been to prison. I hugged Matilda and her mother as well. The amount of joy derived from the realization that I would be able to spend a full day with them outside the confines of boot camp was pure bliss. I said goodbye to Zane as we both shed tears of happiness and relished the day we were granted with those we loved. We ate at the Cracker Barrel, I used my dad’s phone to call my brothers, rode a train into Chicago, and went window-shopping at a nearby mall. I got back to division 363 around 8 that night and fell asleep at 10 pm after 64 hours without sleep. Those days with my pops, Matilda, and her mom were cherished respites that I will never forget.

We were granted two more days outside of the base to spend with our families before our division dispersed by going to our respective A-Schools. The night of my final day with Matilda, I received a letter from my little brother, Blaze, bearing burdensome news. In his letter, Blaze told me that Matilda was spending a lot of time with a boy who was quite fond of her and allotted far more attention to her than I ever could. This boy’s name was Gabriel. Perhaps Gabriel perceived my absence as an opportunity to court Matilda without interference. The same night I got Blaze’s message, I received a letter from Matilda that she mailed prior to coming to Chicago. Matilda’s letter also outlined the relationship that developed between her and Gabriel. Regardless of Matilda’s, or Gabriel’s intentions, in my emotionally fragile state, it was devastating. “How could she!? And she didn’t say shit about it while she was here!? While I’m here suffering at Boot Camp, she’s off with that little EMO fucker!?” Irrational thoughts like these consumed me as I prepared for my transition to A-School.

The morning after receiving those letters, I flew from Chicago’s O’Hare international airport to Charleston SC. Fortunately, Zane was also in the Nuclear program so I met him a few days later. Despite expecting the situation at A-School to alleviate all the emotional distress I experienced throughout basic training, I realized that wherever I went, there I was. Yes, there were obvious perks about A-School relative to boot camp such as the decent housing, food, being able to leave the base on weekends, having a cell phone, and talking with Zane. Although A-School was an obvious step-up, I remained who I was: an emotionally unstable young man.

I incessantly worried about whom Matilda was spending her time with. I was pissed off at myself for surrendering my freedom for the next six years for a lousy military paycheck. Besides Zane, I didn’t like the other students in A-School. I hated the constant condescending comments made by instructors and advisors, who to me, seemed like extremely unhappy individuals. I seriously couldn’t fathom wasting the next six years of my life with my freedom restricted in a world of subordination. I wanted to go home, smoke weed, and maybe even move back down to Las Vegas with my dad, which is where he and I lived just before his incarceration.

“Dad, I hate it here. I seriously just wanna go home!” I said over the phone just two weeks into A-School.

“Really Rockman? You hate it that much huh? How’re you gonna do it?” My dad could sense my regret and was willing to say or do anything to placate me.

“Well there was a kid in boot camp who got sent back with an honorable discharge for telling the RDC’s that he’d kill himself if he had to stay in the Navy. And I could talk to them about Eddie’s suicide to explain why I’m feeling fucked up.” I solemnly suggested.

“Rock, we’re gonna get you out of there. Don't worry about that. I’ll come down there myself if I have to. “ My dad was saying anything to comfort me. He had already lost one son to suicide and just the idea of losing another was enough to devastate him.

“Alright, well I can’t stand this shit, so I’m gonna talk to my advisor tomorrow and get this shit started.” I said as we ended our conversation, assuring one another that we’d talk the following day.

Before the day of lectures started the following morning, I was sitting in my advisor’s office attempting to inform him of my emotional state. “Petty Officer Jones, I’m not feeling so great about things right now. October is an especially hard month for me because three years ago, on October 25^th, my 17-year old brother hung himself. And now, since I’m new to the Navy and I’m away from home, those dark feelings are resurfacing and I’m having trouble focusing. I need to talk to someone.” I wholeheartedly informed him.

“Well, once October is over, you’ll probably be alright then, right? Or do you think you actually need to talk to someone?” Petty Officer Jones responded.

Relative to any other advisor, instructor, or Naval superior I met during my short stint in the military, Petty Officer Jones was the most genuine. Unlike the other instructors and advisors, who seemed cold and unpleasant, Jones opened up to me and truly cared about my future.

“I need to see someone.” I asserted.

Petty Officer Jones made an appointment for me to see a Naval medical doctor two days later.

I sat in the lobby waiting to be called in by the doctor hopeful that the interaction would go smoothly and the ball would start moving in the direction aimed at me going home. It didn’t.

“So Miles, I hear that you’ve been complaining. That true?” He condescendingly questioned.

“Well no officer, I am feeling down because it’s October and I’ve been thinking about my brother a lot.” I said.

“Who’s your brother? What the hell does he have to do with this?” He disparaged.

“Three years ago my brother committed suicide. It was really tough for me and I’m depressed.” I plead.

“Look Miles, it’s been three years since your brother killed himself and NOW you’re having problems? Sounds to me like you’re just having trouble adjusting to life in the Navy and you’re using this as an excuse to avoid doing your job. You think your mom wants to hear about her son being depressed or suicidal? How selfish are you? If you mention this shit again, I’m gonna make sure that you spend the next six years chipping paint on an aircraft carrier. Now get the fuck out of my office.” He spat brusquely.

I couldn’t believe the lack of sympathy, or the harshness expressed by that doctor. Rather than deter me from being discharged, he reconfirmed the fact that there was no way I would squander away the next six years of my life amongst pieces of shit like him. I was pissed the fuck off and even more determined to get home.

“Dad, you wouldn’t believe what just happened. I went to see that doctor today but he was so fucking mean.” I complained.

“It’ll be okay Rockman, I’m gonna call Petty Officer Jones today. Just hang in there.” My dad said comfortingly after I reiterated what had happened at the doctor’s office.

            Enraged by what transpired just hours before, I went to my room to do something that I knew would exemplify my willingness to harm myself. I grabbed my razor blade and cut my upper arms several times as I watched the blood trickle down towards my elbow. I called my dad again and told him about what I had just done in order to show the Navy how serious I was about getting the hell out of there. From other enlistees, I’d heard about a student jumping off the third-floor balcony as an attempt to commit suicide. I knew that the balcony wasn’t high enough to die unless I swan-dived, so I often considered jumping feet first as a viable option to escape my current predicament.

            My dad’s call to Petty Officer Jones was impactful enough to get my security clearance stripped so that I was no longer qualified to be in that school. After being scolded by several superiors for my emotional weakness, I was sent to live in nearby housing unit for individuals that couldn’t cut it academically and were waiting on being transferred. Within a few days at the new housing unit, I was afforded the opportunity to meet with an actual psychiatrist.

            “Hello Mr. Miles. I heard that you’ve been having some trouble adjusting to life in the military. Is that true?” the psychiatrist asked.

            “Well, yeah, I hate it here.” I responded.

            “Okay, well you’re gonna have to give me a little bit more information than that. A lot of young men hate their life in the Navy but they aren’t sent to a psychiatrist.” He goaded.

            “Yeah, well three years ago, my brother hung himself and now he’s dead. I’ve already been cutting myself and if I have to stay in the Navy, I’ll kill myself just like my brother did.” I morbidly confided.

            “Well Mr. Miles, the military isn’t for everyone, and based on what you just said, you’ll be sent home within 10 days. I’m not in the military and I’m doing fine. I recommend you get some psychological help when you go home.” He consoled.

            “Okay, thank you sir.” I said while attempting to conceal my elation with a somber look representing my ostensible fucked-up mindset. I was so thankful. I knew at that point that I’d beaten the system and I’d be going home. Yes, what I did was extremely shameful but I knew that I was free of the military. Free to go see my girlfriend. Free to go see my dad. Free to smoke weed. Free to do whatever the hell I pleased because I was no longer trapped in a militant hierarchy that dictated my whereabouts and haircut. I was free!

            Before I flew home, I sat down with Petty Officer Jones to discuss my departure from the Navy. “Look Miles, if you quit now, you’re gonna quit everything for the rest of your life. You’re gonna be a loser. You’re gonna depend on your daddy for everything. I know shit can be hard sometimes but quitting isn’t the answer. When my wife left me all alone with our daughter, I didn’t quit. I kept going. And trust me, if you quit now, you’re gonna be a quitter for as long as you live.” Petty Officer Jones lectured.

            I didn’t respond because I simply didn’t know what to say. But I wish I could respond now and let Petty Officer Jones know what I’ve done with the six years I spent as a civilian rather than working on Nuclear power units on submarines or aircraft carriers. During those six years, I sold drugs, I earned my Bachelor’s degree with a 3.885 GPA, I studied in Botswana, I traveled to Mozambique, South Africa, Zambia, China, Vietnam, Thailand, South Korea, and have been teaching English here in Japan for almost two years. So Petty Officer Jones, if you’re reading this, I want you to know that what you said had an impact. It had an impact on who I am today. And contrary to Petty Officer Jones adamancy to ensure I remain enlisted, I am grateful for the shameful experience I underwent whilst in the Navy because it helped me become who I am today. And I like who I am today.

           

           

Saigon Slip-Up

Damn, I just had one of the trippiest experiences of my life. I arrived in Saigon (AKA Ho Chi Minh city) around 5 this morning. I disembarked the train and hopped on the back of a stranger’s moped for a 20 minute ride to district 1, where my hotel is located. Right after I got off the moped, I walked around a park, sat down on a bench, smoked a pre-rolled doobie, watched old people exercise, and witnessed a homeless man blithely shoot up heroin amongst a throng of people. Unable to find my hotel, I chose to think it over while I eat french toast at a Vietnamese version of a Mexican restaurant. It took me about two hours to find this place; I arrived around 7 am. When i arrived, i was granted a complimentary, yet scrumptious  breakfast. I was informed that I couldn't check into my room until this afternoon. I was full, sleep-deprived, caffeinated, and eager to explore Saigon. Oh, and whilst doing so, I planned to enhance the exploration by lighting up a pre-rolled doobie :) 

Within minutes, I was approached by a cross-eyed overweight Vietnamese man that looked about 19 or 20; it was hard to tell though since Asians seem to maintain their youth so well. Much to my surprise, the crooked eyed fellow spoke to me in natural, west-coast English. "Hey, what's up man? Where you going?" he inquired as he voraciously devoured his baguette sandwich. "For a walk." I replied. It was almost as if he could sense my intention to toke as he quickly got to talking about smoking. "Yo man, you smoke? I can get you some weed." I politely refused the offer by saying, "Nah man, i'm straight." 

Okay, before i get to this next part, in order to prevent criticism of my discretion, i must provide some context. I arrived in Saigon hours earlier on an overnight train from Nha Trang. In Nha Trang, this shit was sold by commercial businesses such as bars, restaurants, and book vendors. I smoked in bars, restaurants, on the beach, in public, and in my hotel. I'd even spent 3 hours in my room watching Vietnamese cartoons while simultaneously rolling up the goods i'd just acquired from the book boy up the street. Despite the laws in Vietnam being clearly outlined online, one would think that getting baked is perfectly fine out here, especially after seeing multiple individuals shoot up heroin in public. So, due to my 4 day stoner session in Nha Trang, I developed a daring attitude that carried over to Saigon; a place where the exchange of wealth and goods has caused this city to evolve into a mercenary mecca. 

Anyways, back to the fat English speaking Vietnamese dude with crooked eyes that approached me about smoking. As this dude was strolling alongside me on his moped, talking with his mouth full of half eaten bologna and bread, I regrettably engaged in conversation. He mentioned that he knew of a good spot to smoke, a cafe, and offered me a ride there on his moped. Okay, this is where my discretion should justifiably be called into question. I thought, "Well, cafes in Nha Trang were legit places to smoke, so why not?" and, "Up until this point, all the Vietnamese people i've kicked it with seemed cool so this shouldn't be a problem." Besides that rationalization, I have no excuse for not aborting right then and there. Rule of thumb: when in Saigon, if a fat, smooth talking Vietnamese dude approaches you about something technically illegal in that country, rather than engage, evade! Unfortunately, i acquired that wisdom the hard way and hopped on the back of his moped. 

He quickly began weaving in and out of congested streets, all of which, i was completely unfamiliar with. You know that feeling in your gut that arises when you know that some sketchy shit is about to occur? Well, as soon as this fat fucker sped off from district 1, that feeling arose, and it got even worse when he stopped. We were not at a cafe, or any organized establishment for that matter. We were on a sidewalk where we sat in two conveniently placed plastic Coca-Cola chairs. There were no waiters, just a man standing across the street in a parking garage wearing a Korean advertised polo shirt, jeans, and sandals. "What the fuck!? This dude said we were going to a cafe, not a street corner!" He signaled the dude from across the street to come over. They spoke Vietnamese and the fat guy asked me what i wanted to order. I ordered water; i shouldn't have ordered anything. The man went back to the garage then came back with my water. At that point, all I could think was, "Shit, how am i gonna break it to this guy that i need to leave NOW!" He pulled a jay and a lighter out of his pocket and informed that i needed to make a special hand signal using my pinky to inform the waiter of what we were about to do. He handed both the lighter and his jay to me but i immediately handed them back and told him to smoke it first; he refused. 

Based on the hand signal shit, him refusing to smoke it, the conveniently placed chairs in lieu of a cafe, and the fact that other backpackers had told me about this scam on my way down the country, i knew for sure at that point that this fat piece of shit was trying to set me up to be extorted of all my funds. I stood up, told him i was leaving, and began walking. He became livid and so did the man across the street wearing the Korean polo; i'd yet to pay for the water. I took out a Vietnamese bill worth about $5, handed it to the mock-waiter and told him to keep the change. The mock-waiter backed off. The fat guy was pissed and i could see the fire burning in perpendicular directions out of his crooked eyes. "I saw you smoke! Come to my office now and you have no trouble. If you leave, you're gonna have a big problem!" he spat as i walked away, determined to find a cab. "I have a gun right here and if you don't stop, i'll shoot you!" he claimed as he pointed towards the basket in his moped. I remained unflappable because i was incredulous of his claim. I didn't see a gun when i glanced down and due to the strict communist regime of Vietnam, almost nobody out here has guns. Plus, even if he did have a gun, i know that Vietnam doesn't want to experience the backlash of a tourist being shot over allegedly smoking HIS joint. 

As he incessantly threatened me, i made my way to a busier street and saw taxi drivers standing near their cabs. Stupidly, i pulled out my hotel card prior to getting in a cab and the overweight wannabe snitch quickly informed me that he now knew where i stay. I hopped in the cab and although the driver couldn't speak English, he knew where my hotel was and he began driving. The crooked eye crook was passionately persistent. He followed the cab closely with his cellphone to his ear but i don't think he was making any calls. I kept my head forward and knew that the only way to conquer the con artist was with confidence so i laughed and smiled to disguise the fear i felt within. The interaction fazed me enough to dispose of my previously acquired goods within the taxi. I didn't know how close the aggressor would be when i got out of the cab, or if he'd called up some of his homies to follow. I wasn't trying to be in possession of anything incriminating as i disembarked the escape vehicle. I graciously tipped my savior of a cab driver hoping that when he discovered the remnants of our rowdy ride back to district 1, he'd keep that small tip in mind and dispose of my goods however he saw fitting. 

Luckily, it's now 9:30 am, which means I haven't seen that gross goon in over an hour. "Welcome to Saigon!" But fuck it, I won't allow my poor decision making damper my experience; I'll allow it to enhance my situation in Saigon. If the dude approaches again, I won't be docile, i'll be hostile! Due to my lack of possession, I have nothing to hide. If he approaches aggressively, I must maximize my masculinity. Cause honestly, out here, these dogs are all bark and no bite, and if it comes down to it, i'll be the first to strike!   

^Me about two hours before the Saigon Slip-UP

University of Botswana (UB) Part 6

     Chobe National Park is a truly remarkable place that left a profound impression upon my mind's eye. Seriously, hippo imagery will forever be in my hippocampus :) Following our final night in Chobe, we traveled north to the Zambezi river's quadripoint separating Botswana, Namibia, Zimbabwe, and Zambia. We were going to Zambia to see one of the seven wonders of the world, Victoria Falls. Located between Zambia and Zimbabwe, Victoria Falls is not the tallest waterfall in the world, nor is it the widest, but by combining its extensive length and height, it is considered the largest in the world.
     Arriving at the Zambezi river, we witnessed numerous men in mokoros carrying an abundance of alcohol over the river and I am unsure if they were being legit about it. By foot, we boarded a ferry in which various goods were being transported including fruits, beer, and diapers. After the short ride across the Zambezi, we stepped foot into Zambia. We immediately hopped in a minibus and were asked to fork over our passports, inside of which, we needed to place $20 to pay for the one-day visa into Zambia. Fortune, the older safari guide, gathered all of our passports, went into the immigration office at the border, and came back within 10 minutes; all of our passports were stamped. I remember thinking, "Wait, what the hell!? We weren't required to sign any papers, nor did they look at us to ensure we were the people in our passport photos, I shouldn't have even paid the $20 and just kept my passport on me." This internal dialogue was drown out by the bustling onslaught of hawkers and beggars that enveloped our minibus.
   

Ferry Surrounded by Mokoros on the Zambezi

 "What you want!?", "We have nice African handmade craft!", "Please help us!", "Oh, you have nice shirt, you want trade?" were just a few of the pitches that these hawkers used. Others would attempt to detach your wallet from your heart by carrying their newborn babies, and inform you that they needed your money to feed their children. The crowd seemed endless, shameless, and ruthless. Obviously, I felt bad and in a way, I wanted to buy something and help the financially unfortunate mother. But in another way, it's a feeding frenzy, and if i were to give one hawker or beggar money, all of them would flock to me until my funds depleted.  All I could do was watch in pure awe, and reflect upon how lucky I was to have been born in a country with such a high standard of living and a relatively stable government.
     The sense of guilt was soon overwhelmed and eliminated by the anticipation I felt as we left immigration to go to Livingstone. Livingstone is Zambia's 7th most populated city and the conduit to Victoria Falls. When we arrived near the park, we spent about half an hour bartering with more hawkers under a long row of tents protecting these salesmen from the African sun. To me, these dudes were like African gypsies, accepting any form of currency, including the clothing you wore, and ran their businesses under tents illegitimately and at prices dependent on the pliability of the buyer. It was interesting as I seemed to accrue about twice as many useless, probably factory made in China, crafts as any other member of our crew for a fraction of the price.
     We moved away from the African gypsy camp towards the park entrance where at first glance, could be mistaken for a scene out of, "Planet of the Apes." Baboons run rampant in that area. And although I had become accustomed to the baboons near UB, I was aghast as the baboons seemed to outnumber the humans three to one. We had to eat our packed lunches in the minibus so that baboons wouldn't take the food. After finishing our highly-processed hotdog lunch, we disembarked the minibus to see a baboon sitting nearby playing with his unprocessed hotdog. What took our attention away from this was even nastier as we witnessed a male baboon mount an unsuspecting female on the walking path to the falls in an alarmingly humanized manner. Witnessing the monkeys fuck doggy-style reconfirmed my belief in the evolutionary process.
   

This is not Monkey Masturbation, it's Ape Asexualization

     After guiltily being infatuated with the sexual behavior of the baboons, we walked down the path leading to the falls. While walking, the baboons eagerly accompanied us in every direction. These creatures have definitely become acclimated to human presence, and rather than being afraid of their genetically close counterpart, they see humans as a source of nutritional sustenance. I won't lie, the big boss baboons kind of frightened me as they brushed past me walking on all fours foraging for food. Within minutes of walking down that path, a woman was bamboozled by a baby baboon and the big boss it signaled over. As the woman stood adoring the cute creature, it made a peculiar sound to get the big one's attention. Cued by the sound which i perceived as announcement of human vulnerability, the biggest baboon crept behind the woman distracted by the cuteness of the little one, stood up on its hind legs and snatched her purse with both hands. The little one, whose role in the heist was seemingly over, averted eye contact and joined the big baboon as they ran away. Luckily for the woman, a nearby guide heaved enough rocks at the dirty apes to incite them to leave their spoils behind. 

     Although amazed by the ingenuity of the baboons, i was far more astounded by the environment in which they inhabited. Victoria Falls was incredible. Rainbows formed in the mist created by the vehement flow of the water off of the gargantuan cliffs. Meandering across narrow bridges hundreds of feet above the water, being sprayed by the flow of the Zambezi river, and witnessing countless baboons blithely frolic upon the colossal cliffs was a truly enchanting experience. I couldn't imagine a more ideal location for bungee jumping. 

Victoria Falls, Zambia 2011

     Hearing countless accounts of other travelers doing so, i had made the decision to bungee jump at the falls prior to the safari. Considering the beauty of the surroundings, the height of the bridge (420 ft), and the fact that i would forever be able to say that i went bungee jumping in Zambia, it would have been irresponsible to not have embraced the opportunity. I, and four girls in our group, made our way to the Victoria Falls Bridge to sign waivers ensuring that if we broke our necks or died, it was on our own accord. Because I was the only male in our group of jumpers, i attempted to maximize my masculinity by volunteering to go first and mustered up a facade of nonchalance as the bungee jump facilitator wrapped my shins in a seemingly slapdash contraption attached to the bungee cord. Adamant about ensuring that the facilitator didn't shove me off the platform, i was determined to actually, "jump." I stood on the edge staring out at the sheer cliff in the distance as the man counted down from five. I was shaking with anticipation, but as soon as he got to one, i leapt off the platform and free fell towards the crocodile infested Zambezi River. Although frightening, i was exhilarated and honestly, the dopest part was not the initial free fall, the biggest rush was the elasticity of the cord launching me back up. I retreated back to the platform and relished listening to Amy, and the other three girls scream to express the irrepressible rush of adrenalin associated with jumping off of a 420 ft bridge for the first time. 

     We were pretty lucky as things went as smoothly as bungee jumping in Africa can go. None of us were hurt, and ostensibly, the organization coordinating the jumps seemed pretty reputable. One of the girls i went jumping with shared this link on Facebook showing a girl jump off the same bridge with the same organization less than a year later. Sketchy Shit Going Down on the Zambezi River! 

     Pumped with adrenalin, and boasting about the thrills of bungee jumping to the non-jumping members of the group, we took the minibus back to the border. After a short ferry ride, we were once again in Bots, where we were greeted by Extra and his open-sided safari truck. From the border, we drove to Kasane, where we expected to board an overnight bus back to Gabs. This plan went awry as one of the local UB students facilitating the trip rejected the idea of taking the bus we were scheduled to ride in because it was going to pick up other passengers along the way. He didn't consult any of us about making that decision and it may have been a ploy to make a bit of extra money at the very end of our journey. All of us would have been cool with picking up other passengers along the way because we were eager to get back to UB before classes started and to take a shower, which we hadn't done in over a week. We were forced to stay in Kasane that night and hopefully find a bus in the morning. 

     Prior to canceling our scheduled transportation, the two UB students claimed to not have any money to eat and asked the international students to share their beer. As a result of the bus cancelation, we were obligated to pay for our campsite which the UB students negotiated by speaking Setswana. They then informed us that each of us would have to pay about $10 a piece for the campsite; it seemed a bit expensive but fair. However, my suspicion of being ripped off arose as shortly after collecting the money for accommodation, the two UB students who were complaining about being broke and shamelessly mooching beers, went off to purchase bottles of alcohol and meals from a nearby restaurant. If my suspicions were correct, that wasn't the only time i'd be ripped off that night. 

     Although slightly pissed off about the bus situation, we concluded that it'd be best to enjoy our last night with the guides. In typical Bots fashion, we imbibed the putrid non-palatable alcoholic beverage referred to as, "Chibuku" or, "Shake Shake." Chibuku is a beverage brewed in Bots and other parts of Africa. Due to its tendency for the pulpy shit to settle, one has to shake it often to consume all of its goodness, hence the name, "Shake-Shake." Essentially, it's just fermented maize porridge sold in cardboard cartons at affordable costs. I didn't enjoy the drink but to exemplify my willingness to embrace the Setswana culture, I told the guides that it wasn't so bad. 

     With the help of the guides who seemed to actually enjoy the stuff, we inhaled two cartons of Chibuku and were eager to obtain more. Due to his extensive experience in Kasane and northern Bots, Fortune knew of a hangout nearby where Chibuku was sold. Fortune, two mono-linguistic safari cooks, the two UB students, Amy, and I hopped in the safari truck in search of fermented maize porridge. When we arrived, we were disappointed because the place seemed devoid of life. We rummaged through the area and found a man who seemed to be sneaking out of the building where the Chibuku was stored. Fortune, eager to get his hands on some shake-shake, approached the man and inquired about the beverage. The man assured us that he would be able to satisfy our Chibuku desires. Wanting to express my gratitude towards the guides for the splendid safari, I magnanimously let everybody know that $6 of Chibuku, more than enough to intoxicate an elephant, was on me. I handed the man the money who at first walked, then slithered away with my 40 Pula! Our entire group chased the man down and caught up with him thanks to Fortune's spotlight in the safari truck. 

     It took us a few minutes to catch up with the thief because at first, we trusted that he was going to a place nearby to get us our Chibuku. Fortune was intuitive enough to realize that the man with, "Legalize Marijuana" tattooed on his arm might not be the most trustworthy person, so he announced his doubts and incited the chase. The two cooks caught him because Fortune shined a spotlight into a dark field where the thief attempted to conceal himself. The two cooks grabbed a large piece of wood and swung it at the man without questions. For some reason, the thief abandon, or hid the 40 Pula somewhere nearby and no longer had it in his possession. Pinned on the ground by the cooks, Fortune ransacked the man's pockets and snatched the few things he had. The thief was thrown in the safari truck and the cooks sat on either side of him. The two UB students would later inform me that in Setswana, they threatened to drive very far away and drop the man off in the middle of nowhere, alone and naked. Rather than waste gas money driving far away, we did the more responsible thing and extradited his thieving ass to the police station. 

     The police were violent. This man had been arrested multiple times and the police in Kasane were tired of his antics. I sat alone in a room with the police chief, a woman writing the report and a skinny thief who had his viewpoint regarding marijuana laws tattooed on his arm. Unable to understand anything other than basic greetings, i didn't follow the intense conversation in Setswana. However, I knew that the skinny fellow fucked up as the chief fumed and ended up heaving a three hole puncher into the ribs of the impotent thief. At that point, i kind of felt like shit because it was a mere six dollars that this man was suffering for. It was just $6 and i didn't plan on returning to Kasane, so i told the police chief that i would not press charges. Perhaps dissatisfied with the level of brutality up to that point, or just angry enough to use this as an excuse to inflict violence, the police assured me that they would deliver a substantial beating to the thief prior to his release. I don't condone violence, nor do i approve of stealing, so i felt disconcerted as i lay in my tent on my last night in Kasane. 

     Replaying the insanity of the day continuously in my mind, i got little sleep and woke up at 4 am ready to board a bus back to Gabs. We headed to the Kasane bus station around 5 am optimistic about boarding a bus that morning. The two local UB students informed us that when the bus arrives, we all must jostle our way into it to ensure that we will get a seat or standing space. Boarding the bus was almost as much of a clusterfuck as riding it. 

Waiting for the Bus Kasane 2011

     Against all odds, each of us somehow made it on despite the numerous folks left behind due to the lack of space within the bucket of bolts. Amongst livestock and a profusion of people, we embarked on what ended up being a 16 hour 600 mile journey south to Gabs. The bus was delayed for multiple reasons, including but not limited to foot and mouth disease checkpoints, its overall inability to haul twice as many passengers as seats available, and the constant shit and/or piss stops in the middle of the Kalahari. Due to the lack of human existence along the A33 and A1 highways, there are no legitimate locations to facilitate the passage of bowel movements or urine. As a result, we would intermittently stop on the side of the desolate highway so that anyone within the jalopy could quickly run into the desert to shit and/or piss. Despite how weird this experience seems now as i write it, it was only a day prior that i watched a baboon steal a woman's purse, went bungee jumping, and watched a thief experience police brutality after stealing $6 from me. I know this last line is cheesy as hell but whatevs, TIA right? (TIA=This Is Africa)

Bus Stop in Francistown 2011