Sports is a national obsession in South Africa. Fans discuss, argue and fret over rugby, cricket, soccer, hockey (the field version), netball, running, tennis, golf and the list goes on, but the first three hold the hearts of a majority of South Africans. Interestingly, the terms football and soccer are used interchangeably. Not surprisingly, even in the realm of sports, the passions and loyalties of South Africans are often divided along racial lines. Rugby and cricket are the “white sports” and soccer is the “black sport”. In speaking with many white folks, they were not even introduced to soccer during their childhood because white children played rugby and cricket in their schools growing up. Generally, only white children who grew up in a rural area on a farm where there were black workers learned soccer during apartheid. That of course has changed in the last fifteen years, but the strong fan support remains largely divided along racial lines.

It is with considerable national pride that 2010 will mark the year in which the FIFA World Cup will be held in South Africa—the first time that a World Cup has been held on the African continent. All of the major cities are busy building or renovating stadiums, improving infrastructure projects all over the country, linking the world with high speed internet, etc. The World Cup is the largest sporting event in the world, and South Africa wants to show that it is ready to put on a great show worthy of the name. Whether it will be without problems will remain to be seen. There are considerable issues related to transportation, crime, stadium security, ticketing, etc. that need to be addressed, but they have been given a chance to have a test run of the World Cup in the FIFA Confederations Cup which ran June 14th – June 28th.

The Confederations Cup is an event with a relatively recent history, and receives only modest attention from the soccer world. In it’s current format, there are eight participants-six coming from the champions of each region in the world plus the winner of the prior World Cup and the host nation. It is called the “Championship of Champions”. Others call it a marketing gimmick. But whatever the opinion of the worthiness of the Confederations Cup from the majority of the nations who could potentially participate, it has evolved into an event held every four years in the year prior to the World Cup and in the same country of the host country and is considered the second most prestigious FIFA-sponsored event. The idea is that the host country can use the Confed Cup as an opportunity to work out the logistics of the World Cup on a much smaller scale and with less scrutiny. Thus, South Africa was the host of the 2009 FIFA Confederations Cup. The champions participating this year were Brazil (South America), Egypt (Africa), Iraq (Asia), New Zealand (Oceania), Spain (Europe), the USA (North / Central America), Italy (2006 World Cup champ), and South Africa (host nation).

I grew up playing soccer from the age of eight. I started on the Beekman Arms U-10 soccer team coached by Frank Luzzi. I was fortunate to have had a coach who actually understood the game as many American kids who played soccer in the late 1970s would have been coached by well intentioned, but definitely ill-informed parents. Mr. Luzzi was right off the boat—the real Italian deal. He understood the game and did not care much for laziness. One of my most memorable moments as a member of the Beekman Arms side was a long range goal scored from mid-field in a game. Since I played defense, I can count on two hands the total number of goals that I scored in my entire soccer career. This one started innocently enough—a volley from the center arc that was intended mostly as a clear out of our area. The ball took a high bounce inside of the 18 yard line. The keeper came out to catch the ball, and then at the last minute decided to catch it after the bounce. As 9 year olds are wont to do, he underestimated the bounce which sailed over his head and into the goal. At that point I was christened “Bigfoot” for my half-field volley—a name which actually stuck for a good part of the next decade.

Unlike many American kids who lose interest in soccer sometime before the age of 14, I continued to play in high school eventually becoming the co-captain of our league champion team, played through college intramurals, and in a competitive adult league in Chapel Hill. My soccer career ended abruptly when I broke a rib playing in an adult league in Virginia several years ago, but suffice to say I have been a player and a student of the game for the better part of my life. I seldom watch soccer on TV, but that is mainly because I am too cheap to get cable and not due to disinterest. That said, I have only been to one professional soccer game in my life—and I am not sure if you can even count a New York Cosmos indoor game in 1984. There could not have been more than 500 fans at the game. The most entertaining memory from that trip was the Greek diner in Mahwah, New Jersey in which Frank Luzzi was ordering a “cheeseburga, aah French afries and a choka shake” to a Greek waiter who could not understand Italian-inspired English. The order took about five iterations each getting louder than the one before. When the waiter left, there were a few Italian words uttered under Frank’s breath. He then shook his head said, “what isa wrong with thata dumb guy. Whya can’t he understanda English?” He did have a point.

When I head that the FIFA Confederations Cup was being held in South Africa this year, I wanted to see if we could get some tickets…it would be a good father/child bonding experience. The only problem is that the games are hours from Pietermaritzburg. The four venues were Johannesburg, Pretoria, Bloemfontain and Rustenburg. Bloemfontain is the closest at five hours and Rustenburg is the farthest at seven. The pairings put he US in the proverbial “Group of Death”—Group B along with Brazil, Italy and Egypt collectively ranked 5, 4 and 40 respectively according to FIFA, while Group A had Spain (#1), South Africa (#72), Iraq (#77) and New Zealand (#82). Top two teams advance from each group into the knock out stage. Thus the US had to play three top 40 teams with any hopes to advance. Games against Italy and Brazil were in Pretoria and Egypt was in Rustenburg. We went for the 8:30 game in Rustenburg because Paul had friends who lived there and thus a place to stay. So the date was set, 21 June (Father’s Day) in Rustenburg with the two eldest children and fathers of the Augustine’s and Passaro’s, Jeremiah von Kuhn, and the UNC interns—Robert, Elizabeth and Andrea—ten American’s on a mission with flags waving and faces painted.confed cup game day

Heading into the game, our thoughts were united…I hope we at least put on a respectable show. USA had already lost 1 – 3 to Italy and 0 – 3 to Brazil. The Italy game was closer than the score suggested, but the Brazil game was worse. Sitting 0-2-0 with a -5 goal differential is not what one would draw up in the strategy for advancing in the Confed Cup preliminary program. Egypt was 1-1-0 having shocked Italy two days earlier and Brazil was 2-0-0 and playing Italy who was also 1-1-0. So the stage was set, the USA needed to win, Italy needed to lose, and the US had to make up the 5 goal differential.

We heard a lot of commentary before leaving. “Why are you driving fourteen hours to see the US lose?” was the most common theme. To be honest, there was not a great reason except that there is a major international competition in South Africa, and the USA is in it, so we should go. Little did we know what was to happen next.

We discovered that while Egypt is on the completely opposite side of the continent and has almost nothing in common with South Africa, South African fans were rooting for Egypt to carry the mantle for Africa. We arrived in a largely empty stadium, faces painted, waving American flags to be struck with the overwhelming support for Egypt and the nearly nonexistent support for the USA. By gametime (and later when the officials opened the gates allowing people to stream into the stadium to get a better appearing attendance), there could not have been more than 50 Americans in the stands, and there could not have been more than 1000 total fans cheering for the USA out of an announced attendance of 23,000. We counted no more than five or six American flags in the entire stadium, so we decided to strategically drape our flag over the balcony of the second level with us sitting right behind the flag.

First Half: Vuvuzelas blowing incessantly. When in Rome, so we were blasting our vuvuzelas as best we could and cheering U-S-A, U-S-A at every opportunity. The US side came out pressing and had several early opportunities that they were unable to capitalize on. This looked promising although opportunities do not come often in international football—one needs to finish when the opportunity arises. Then in the 21st minute the US found the back of the net on a broken play between the Egyptian keeper, his defenseman and Charlie Davies. The goal was on the other side of the stadium, so it was hard to tell what happened, but we were leading 1-0. The goal seemed to awaken Egypt who were challenging throughout the remainder of the first half, but the half time score remained 1-0.

After the break, the US came out pressing and had a sure goal stopped by a handball that was not called in the 50th minute. The tension built in the stadium as the vuvuzelas got louder and louder and each possession seemed to carry extra weight. The Italians were losing 0-3 at halftime, so the US needed to score at least three goals and the Egyptians only needed to hold the US to two goals in order to advance. The US midfielder Michael Bradley scored a brilliant goal in the 63rd minute. The US finished the scoring in the 71st minute with a diving header by Clint Dempsey into the back of the net. It was shortly after this point that we realized that the US might be able to advance through a series of SMS messages that we were receiving. Then we started the “D-fense”, “D-fense” cheer for the last ten minutes.

Our fifteen seconds of fame occurred when we were the featured fans by the panning camera looking for the few American fans. We got emails from friends watching on ESPN2 and we were the high-fiving Americans featured on the SABC sports highlights on Monday morning. At that point, we were starting our seven hour drive back from Rustenburg.


Some places in this world are famous for many things and other places for just a few, or perhaps only one, but every place is famous for something. One of the somethings that Pietermartizburg is famous for is the Comrades Marathon; what some call “The Worlds Greatest Race”. It is an ultramarathon run annually between Durban and Pietermaritzburg and is widely considered the most famous race in the ultramaraton genre. The race annually switches direction so that one year is the “up run” from Durban to PMB and the alternating year is the “down run” from PMB back to Durban. These are so named because the terrain from the ocean in Durban to the midlands in Pietermartizburg is definitely…predominantly…punishingly…up hill.

What is an ultramarathon? Think ridiculous endurance race of 26.2 miles (42.2 km) that legend has it started in ancient Greece with a messenger running between the towns of Marathon and Athens announcing that the Persians had been defeated in the Battle of Marathon. That is a standard Olympic distance marathon. Now double this distance, and then add a little extra just for good measure. Make it 89 km (55.3 miles) just for the sake of argument, and you have the Comrades Marathon. Technically an ultramarathon is any distance longer than a standard marathon, but the Comrades is known as the mother of ultramarathons. It has been staged every year since 1921.

You might ask, who would sign up to run in a 55 mile race on extremely hilly terrain in Africa? I certainly don’t know most of the names, but actually 13,000 hardy souls were part of the race this year.  Here is one of them:comrades

That’s me at 5 am in downtown Pietermartizburg shortly before the starting gun at 5:30 am. Actually it is a starting cock crowing which is actually a starting man pretending that he is a cock crowing. Sounds strange and it is. Thirteen thousand people eagerly waiting to run 55 miles. At least it was mostly downhill this year although some say that the down run is more grueling than the up run. Amazingly, 12,999 of these runners qualified for the Comrades by first posting a qualifying time of less than 5 hours in a standard marathon in the prior year.


Many would be surprised to know that I had made a qualifying marathon time as my usual running distance is somewhat less than 26 miles. It is actually closer to 4 miles, but I did mention that 12,999 qualified? There was at least one that did not, and I write that with full knowledge of the one who did not. Call me Ferris Bueller…the guy who seems to get into things that he has no business being in.

The story begins with a friend who will remain nameless who did indeed qualify for the Comrades. I sent him an SMS the night before the race wishing him well. He called me shortly thereafter and asked me if I wanted to run. I laughed and then hesitated. He was serious. Did I mention that I usually run up to 4 miles…on a really good day I will push 5. He said not to worry, the race actually goes right past our house and I could bail out there. He had injured himself several weeks earlier and would not be able to participate, but he did have the needed race number. He assured me that the start is the most exciting part. After the first 5K of excitement, the remaining 84 km is basically hell, and I would be in on the best part.

And he was right. The atmosphere was incredible. Music blaring, people chatting, pacing nervously awaiting who knows what. I say that because the first 5K’s were very pleasant. Actually the first 5K was a very leisurly pace. I usually run 5K in about 22 min, this one took over 40 minutes. It actually took 6 minutes just to cross the start line there were so many entrants. My stopping point was just before the legendary Polly Shortts hill–a brutal series of two climbs that occur 8 km from the end of the up run. The first “hill” is nearly a half a mile long, the second is 1.25 miles long and steep. I asked a runner who has done the up run to tell me about Pollys; her adjective–“impossible”. Only a few runners can actually ascend the climb without walking. Getting ready to bail here:first 6k comrades

Here are some amazing statistics from the race:

The 2009 winning mens time: 5:23:26 by Stephen Muzhingi (2nd fastest down time)
The 2009 winning womens time: 6:12:11 by Olesya Nurgalieva (she and her twin sister have won several)

Silver medals are given for finishing in less than 7.5 hrs, and a bronze in less than 9 hrs. After a greuling 9 hrs., only 10% of the runners have finished! In order to be considered as someone who “completed” the race, you need to finish in less than 12 hours. Cross the line at 12:01 and your name is not even recorded as having raced.

I have to confess that “being part” of the race piqued all of our curiosity. After picking me up, we all drove about 20 km down the road to Camperdown at 6:30 am to watch part of the race. We missed the leaders by about 30 sec., and saw the womens leaders pass several minutes later. You can see “the twins” behind the motorcycle in the middle of the pack. What you can’t see are the two helicopters overhead and the huge pack of men running with the twins to get their five minutes of fame as one of the men running with the twins on national television.

twins comrades

After the race was over, I had several people ask me if I was going to try to finish next year. Didn’t the excitement and the challenge make me wish that I was part of the actual finish? To be honest, in a word, NO. I can appreciate the sacrifice and the dedication of every other runner there. It really is incredible. And the judge who fires the gun after each significant milestone including the heart-rending 12 hour mark is very powerful. But at no point did I wish that I was one of the people running for 11 to 12 hours. I’ll stick with sprint triathlons. But if someone has an extra jersey next year, I could be tempted to turn the Comrades into my own personal 25 km race.

Catch and Release

April 25, 2009

I love fly-fishing. No news to those who know me. I only started two years ago, but the pastime is somewhere between covetousness and obsession. I still have a lot to learn, but it is one topic that I enjoy studying.

Fishing of all sorts is very popular here in KwaZulu-Natal. At St. Lucia/Cape Vidal we watched a bunch of “sportsmen” who were surf casting. They were using something like telephone poles with 30 pound test to catch a few fish in the 4 – 6″ range.  They were using bait–and fishing within a few meters of people swimming including us. I wasn’t impressed. I also saw a guy with monofilament line casting some sort of bait out and catching what can only be described as aquarium tropical fish along the coral reef–and keeping them. Why he wasn’t just using a net was beyond me. The barbed hook was likely to do a lot of damage to a 1″ “keeper”.

Those who know a little about fishing may be getting the sense that I practice what has become known as “catch and release” fishing. This is an ethos that evolved in the fishing community in the early 1980’s and particularly amongst trout fishermen, and particularly trout fly fishermen. The idea is relatively simply. Anything that you catch, you release without injuring. The logic is also sound. In the 1970’s, many of the famed trout streams across the United States were becoming fished out. There were many stories that began with, “back when I was younger, the average trout caught was 18″, now we are lucky to get a 12″ trout…” That was heard all around the land. If the story was tiresome, it was also true. Trout grow to 10″ by the end of the second year, and in rivers where fish were caught and cooked, very few trout survived past two years without gettting caught.

Thus the catch and release ethic was born. If you want to enjoy sportfishing, you need to return the fish to preserve the breeding stock. The logic and ethic has taken over in the fly fishing community to the point that by the time I started the sport, it is almost unheard of to kill the fish that you catch.


I went Natal Yellow fishing today with a graduate student at UKZN. His name is Matt. A local. He grew up in Pietermartizburg, and is an avid fly fisherman. He wanted to introduce me to the Yellow Fish. It is a bottom feeder in the carp family. Not the type of fish that one would typically think of as a sportfish and definitely not an eating fish. But they are indigenous to Natal, they can grow quite large–the record Natal Yellow Fish was over 9 pounds caught about 40 minutes north of Pietermaritzburg, and they can be caught on a fly rod. Those are more than enough reasons for me to go Natal Yellow fishing.

Matt took me to a private stretch of water below the dam at Albert Falls Nature Reserve. The water comes over a waterfall and into a pool, and it is here that there are some large yellow fish enjoying the highly oxygenated and food rich water coming over the waterfall. The fact that it is private means that only those who have permission from the owner can fish here, and it is under a strict agreement that all fishing will be catch and release. That is not a stipulation that I would find difficult to abide by.

We arrived early on a beautiful morning. After Matt gave me the run through of the type of flies that I would use (San Juan Worm with a nymph dropper for those interested in the technical details), we started fishing. I’ll spare you the suspense. I never caught my first Natal Yellow Fish, and I still have yet to catch a fish using a nymph. That is not really the main story here.

About forty minutes after we arrived, a group of four young Zulu boys arrived with cans of worms and various and sundry fishing gear. Technically they were poaching–illegally fishing on private property. Practically they were hungry. Frankly they did not have a very good chance of catching much. Three of the boys had sticks with about five feet of fishing line. The fourth had a well-worn spinning reel. They seemed a little in awe of the rhythmic spectacle of two men fly casting 15 meters of line toward the water falls. I don’t know whether they had seen fly fishing before, but it was far different from what they were doing. They moved out of sight to poach a different hole.

About forty five minutes later they returned empty handed. As it happened, Matt had just hooked up with his second big yellow fish. His rod was doubled over and was quivering under the tension of a large fish. The boys came to a stand still about three meters behind him watching in rapt attention. I was about 10 meters away, and likewise stopped to enjoy the show. I never tire watching someone play a large fish. This fish was no exception. He worked the fish for probably close to four minutes and finally carefully landed a 26″ yellow fish in his catch and release net. As he disengaged the hook, I could see the anticipation in the boys faces. And then four jaws dropped incredulously and the Zulu furiously started as a flick of the tail sent the fish into the murky water below. The boys chattered to each other and walked away dispondently. About five minutes later I saw the boy with the spinning rod catch a 4″ yellow fish and then smack it against the rock and put it in his can.

The catch and release ethic makes perfect logical sense, unless it smacks up against the reality of a pervasive poverty in South Africa. This was not an ethical decision that I had to make today due to my incompetence yellow fishing, but I began thinking what would I have done if I did catch a fish. We were fishing on private water with the permission of the owner on the agreement that we could fish as long as we released anything that we caught. And yet, here are four hungry young boys who in several hours caught one 4″ fish…hardly enough for two bites of food when cooked.

Matt must have had the same thoughts swirling through his mind, because in the car home he brought it up. I asked him if he saw the looks on their faces when he let the fish go. He said that he didn’t have the heart to look at the boys.

What should we have done? What would you have done?

What’s In Your Wallet?

April 22, 2009

It seems that I posted a few hours too soon about us not having been a victim of any criminal activity while in South Africa. I discovered this afternoon that someone had stolen our Capital One credit card information at some point in the past few weeks and made over $2000 in charges over the weekend. To Capital One’s credit, they flagged the transactions which were posted in Johannesburg and put a block on the card. They did not reveal what triggered the automatic block, but I am grateful that of the $2000, we are only potentially on the hook for $600. After speaking with their fraud division today, the most likely scenario is that we will be credited for the entire amount after the fraud investigation. Credit card fraud is another ongoing reality in SA, and now we have our own personal story to add to all of the others.

Freedom certainly is not free today.

We have been nominated for the coveted “Worst Parents/Best Tar Heel Fans of the Year Award”. It is an award given annually to the family that displays the qualities of outstanding loyalty to the UNC Tar Heels, but in the process inflicts untold psychological damage upon their children–damage which may require decades of counseling and medication.

Dook fans would argue that any parents who root for UNC are abusing their children, but in order to be considered for this award, one needs to do more than simply indoctrinate your innocent children into the Carolina Blue traditions. Simply being a member of the “light blue mafia” is not nearly enough to win this august award. Herewith, I make the case for two Tar Heel families, a Clemson fan and a South African for the 2009 WP/BTHotY Award:

We begin with the coveted UNC Golden Gourmet Peanuts:championship-cupThese were imported from Franklin Street, Chapel Hill, North Carolina–getting past customs in Johannesburg, South Africa. The children have been asking to sample the peanuts since our arrival in January. We told them emphatically…not until UNC wins the national championship. (n.b. expiration date November 2009, so they will not taste so great several years from now.)

28 March 2009: 4:00 am (UNC-Gonzaga Sweet Sixteen)

The Augustine’s and new Tar Heel convert and South African native Adrian Murray arrive at Jeremiah von Kuhn’s apartment at 4 am in time for the tip off of the UNC-Gonzaga game. The game is shown on ESPN on digital satellite TV in South Africa. Jeremiah has DSTV unlike the rest of us. The Passaro’s arrive fifteen minutes later. Total tally: 5 adults, 6 children under the age of 12.  Jeremiah is a Clemson fan, but agrees to both host us and cook eggs and bacon along with Adrian, thus disproving the rumors that Clemson fans are worthless. There is at least one great Clemson fan in this universe and his name is Jeremiah von Kuhn.

three-cheers-for-clemsonThe Americans promptly fired up the laptops not content to rest at 4 am. Kristi is copying photos from our various trips, Paul working on some spreadsheet or sending important emails or whatever it is that businessmen do, and Brian is trying to hack into the Tar Heel Sports Network. Paul usually gets up at 4 am, so he is looking particularly chipper-Brian not so much.tar-heel-laptops-on-fireFortunately, at least Brian was successful as the UNC-Gonzaga game was not the featured game, so we listened to Woody and Eric for most of the game only catching the last fifteen minutes on TV.

The kids celebrated the 98-77 victory at 6 am:unc-child-abuse-part-1

Lightning strikes twice:

30 March 2009, 4:00 am (second half UNC-Oklahoma Elite Eight)

The Augustine’s, Adrian and Jeremiah repeat the March Madness celebration of two days earlier. We arrive at the gate at 4 am and are greeted by Jeremiah. We announce that we are here for the “Worst Parents of the Month Conference”. Jeremiah readily agrees that we are in strong contention for this months award. Tip-off time for the game was an hour earlier on the East Coast, and thus the Elite Eight game started at 3 am in South Africa. We arrive for the start of the second half. Not watching the entire game could be the one hitch in our otherwise strong resume for the WP/BTHotY Award nomination. The girls have vacation from school, but Brian does not have the day off from work. We all celebrate the 72-60 victory while holding the South African flag. If you look carefully, you can see Ruthie’s sleeping feet sticking out from under the flag. They don’t make 3 year old’s the same any more.unc-child-abuse-part-21

Preparing to watch the Final Four, we are excited as we are all traveling to Swaziland to stay at the Ezulwini Sun hotel. We figure that they would be sure to have DSTV in one of the most luxurious hotels in all of Swaziland. Not exactly. We had DSTV, but not ESPN and the Tar Heel Sports Network was not connecting either. So we wake the kids up at 5 am on Tuesday, 7 April to listen to the second half of the UNC-Michigan State national championship game on the CBS Sports radio broadcast. We celebrate the Tar Heels National Championship with a breakfast of eggs, bacon and golden gourmet peanuts.

Our official nomination reads as follows: The Augustine’s of Bridgewater, VA and Passaro’s of Chapel Hill, NC, Tar Heel Fans for Life, are nominated for the prestigious “Worst Parents/Best Tar Heel Fans of the Year Award” for cheering for the UNC Tar Heels in their National Championship run in the 2008-09 season. They are nominated for waking up six young children during the middle of the night to watch or listen to three NCAA games in two countries six time zones away, for using gigabytes of expensive data time to listen to the UNC-Dook game, two ACC and several NCAA tournament games, for importing Tar Heel gourmet peanuts, Jersey Naps napkins and UNC bottle openers to South Africa and for converting one South African and one Clemson fan into Carolina Tar Heel fans for life. (We’re stretching on the Clemson fan.)

GO HEELS! Let the psychological studies begin.dth-unc-nat-champ-040709

Some may have noticed that there have not been any recent updates on In To Africa. SA Teatime and RCubed have been making up for some of my slack, but there have been a lot of gaps left in my absence. Not that I want to make lame excuses, but you can basically look at my last post date, and realize I started teaching the “Science of the Small” nanoscience course at UKZN about two weeks after that post. It has been a challenge to keep ahead of the course–organizing lecture notes and a laboratory course for almost 30 third year students. I will post on another day about the students at UKZN (really, I will), but for now, I want to fill in at least one gap. Our trip to Sani Pass on the border of South Africa and Lesotho several weeks ago. Kristin gives her perspective here.

800px-locationlesothosvgSani Pass is the only road connecting KwaZulu-Natal with Lesotho. The other border crossings are on much less treacherous roads. The reason that there is only one “road” is that the Drakensburg mountains stand between KZN and Lesotho. For the not so adverterous, the sane way to enter Lesotho is into the capital city of Maseru on the border of SA through the province of the Free State…just cross a bridge at the border crossing and you are in Lesotho.

For those who like to live a little dangerously, Sani Pass is definitely the way to enter Lesotho. It is sort of like the X-games of border crossings–requiring a 4 x 4 vehicle and a lot of courage.

Rather than post fifty pictures, I have compiled a short slide show (Bandwidth challenged: Beware…13 MB file). I do realize that Lesotho is spelled wrong in the video, but fixing might add three months to getting this post done at my current pace.


  • The road goes from bad to worse to absurd in a 34 km stretch. These are given fancy names like grade 1, 2 and 3, respectively.
  • The peak at Sani Pass is over 9000′
  • We went on a stunningly beautiful day. I would be terrified to attempt that on a foggy, rainy, snowy, icy or just about any other condition day.
  • In the middle of the video, there is a rare picture of the border post. Actually, I was not supposed to take one, but a telephoto lens allows for a lot of interesting shots. If you want a better picture taken by someone more brazen and close, go to Google Earth.
  • The people of Lesotho living near Sani Pass are dreadfully poor. Much of their income is derived from tourists buying bread and beer in the traditional huts.
  • For a real beer, visit the highest pub in Africa, just be careful not to have too many Maluti’s or
  • The trip down could be your last.

Primate Invasion

January 26, 2009

In October I made the fateful decision to question the veracity of whether there were monkeys in Pietermartizburg. We baited the monkeys with a few bananas strategically located in the Passaro’s back yard and then armed the camera ready for close up pictures of wildlife. Four hours later, nothing. Two days later, nothing. Since our arrival, nothing. At night we think that we hear monkeys, but this monkey business is getting old.

Then today…a direct assault by a monkey commando squad (actually vervet monkeys) and their three babies seeking to scorn my disbelief in our backyard. See for yourself.

Three hours later the monkeys and dogs are still barking!