This man with the sadistic grin who’s about to (mockingly) gobble an otherworldly insect that escaped from Jurassic Park is Daan Joubert, owner of Okapi Shuttles and Tours and my guide for a three-day South African tour/safari last year. This photo was taken minutes after he’d finished changing our truck’s blown-out tire on a lonely stretch of road between Johannesburg and Kruger National Park, where cars zoomed by in an 80km zone at what seemed like an 100km-per-hour clip.

As anybody who’s been on safari knows, game drives are not all action and adventure. In between the pinch-yourself-to-make-sure-you’re-not-dreaming moments, like when a herd of languid giraffe amble past your vehicle so close you could reach out and touch them, or when you glimpse the elusive leopard bouncing from one boulder to the next along a narrow riverbed, there’s a lot of downtime. Hours go by without seeing more than (another f’ing) impala, a few stray warthogs, maybe a handful of birds. It never gets boring (at least it didn’t for me), but I went to bed every night with eyes that ached from scanning, scanning, scanning the bush for signs of life from sunrise to sunset.

It’s possible to tour public parks in South Africa by yourself in a rental car, but you’re missing out if you don’t go with a seasoned safari guide, like Daan, who helped pass the time during those warm afternoon hours when many animals were off napping in remote or otherwise well-camoflauged corners of the bush. Most of what I learned about Jo’burg, Kruger, and the mood of modern South Africa came from him.

We talked about a lot of things. Some of the topics were heavy, like his stories about what it was like during South Africa’s dark days of apartheid (he’s a retired cop, actually) and his anecdotes about the tough everyday lives of so many black South Africans. Others were lighter, like the “friendly” ongoing rivalry between residents of Cape Town and Jo’burg, particularly when it comes to sport.

“People from Cape Town always say ‘what do you have there? Nothing. It’s barren, dirty, and full of crime,” he said. “I always say, ‘what does Cape Town have without the C [sea]? Nothing: it’s just Ape Town. Do you get it? Without the “C”?”

I heard that one more than once during the trip.

He’s a quick-witted, likeable guy, that Daan, with setups and punchlines that rolled off his tongue as easily as they did Rodney Dangerfield’s (with some of them just as, ahem, lewd). When it came to the wildlife, it seemed like he had one-liners for every animal we saw the first morning. Here’s a few of my favorite ones–all educational, in their own way.

+ Hyenas (which Daan admitted is one of his favorite animals): “There’s just something sinister to them; satanic little creatures, aren’t they? I’d kiss them, but they bite.”

+ Impala: “You see that McDonald’s logo on his back? That’s the fast-food symbol for the lion.”

+ Blue Wildebeest: “They make nice jerky.”

+ Warthogs: “They are the religious animal: always on their knees to eat.”

(Warthogs kneel down to graze.)

+ Waterbuck: “After they painted the toilet seat, they were the first to sit down on it.”

(Waterbuck have a horseshoe-shaped ring around their butt.)

+ Vervet monkeys: “They have the biggest, most beautiful blue testicles you’ve ever seen.”

Was it possible that the shopkeeper had just complimented me on my nice eyes? Or – and this seemed more likely – had he really just complimented my ass?

This moment of confusion, which occurred in the Marrakech souk this past summer, was the seed of an essay on street harassment that published this past weekend in The Washington Post.  I think the incident stayed with me because I’ve reacted much differently — and more decisively — to similar incidents when they’ve happened to me at home. One that stands out in particular happened many years ago, when  I was standing on a corner near my apartment, chatting with a friend. A man walking past us reached over and squeezed my behind. I was stunned for about a half second — and then I lost it. I ran after him in a purple-faced, cursing, apopleptic rage. I almost hit him.

But in Marrakech, I did not fly into action, I wondered what had happened: had I’d actually heard “ass” which would warrant a harsher response than the more polite discouragement I’d communicate if he’d said “eyes”?

And even if this man had enunciated his words crisply, I’d still be fuzzy on what had happened and what to do about it. After all, in my travels, I’ve witnessed behaviors and customs that are certainly outside my own sense of comfort, propriety and how things ought to be done – from horking and spitting on the street, to snacking on bugs.   I’m aware that cultural differences do extend to “haptics”, or touch –  international etiquette books are packed with information on simple gestures that have complicated meanings: Don’t pat a child on the head in Indonesia, the head is thought to be spiritual. Don’t pat your stomach in Italy, it means you dislike someone. Don’t point with an index finger in Malaysia, it’s bad luck.

And yes, there are body parts that seem to be universally off-limits for touching by strangers without permission –  a woman’s breasts, anyone’s genitals – but the backside is not always in that category, not around the world, and not here in the United States. Children are spanked on their bottoms, athletes are televised patting each other’s butts in congratulations for a good play, and none of this constitutes fondling. Context is everything with the derriere

In fact, in the workplace, context is dwelled on extensively during a sexual harassment investigation.  A key question is whether the the conduct was unwelcome. Compliments, flirting, innuendo, suggestive lip smacking – it may be harassment, it may not, it depends. But there’s a whole corporate and legal factfinding apparatus that grinds into gear after an accusation is made.

When I’m traveling on a foreign street,  it’s just me and my American point of view.

I don’t yet have any specific travel plans for next year, just as I didn’t have any at this time last year.

This time last year, it’d been nearly 6 months since I returned home to New York after living abroad in Bangkok for a spell. Given the circumstances, my chances of getting any extended time off from work the rest of the year were slim, and by the time the annual holiday visit to see friends and family in Michigan had come and gone, I was feeling antsy. Restless. Distracted.

I needed to get out of New York, soon, but making plans, picking a destination, and setting dates was difficult.

Bangkok was still in the rearview mirror of my not-too-distant past, as were all the places we’d visited during our time there. Japan. Taiwan. Malaysia. South Korea. Southern Thailand. I longed to return to Asia, both to places seen and unseen, but now budget constraints and limited vacation days loomed large over our trip plans. We’d have to stay closer to home this time, and while I’d love to one day travel to the Caribbean, Central America, and parts of Canada I’ve yet visited, at the risk of sounding a snob, none of those places carried as much luster at the time. My heart was still in Asia, and to make matters worse I was still in the deep, dark throes of “reverse culture shock”, too; the last thing I wanted to do was travel within the States.

And Then It All Started Coming Together

On January 18, my travel fortunes suddenly changed dramatically. I was essentially handed the keys to the world, and I used them to unlock romantic, faraway places that up to that point were nowhere near my travel radar.

Four months later I was pouring sweat in Sri Lanka on a bench inside the Colombo Fort Railway Station, waiting for the InterCity Express train that would take us inland to Kandy. There we met Kumar, the kind live-in manager of Kandy Cottage. He helped arrange a driver to take us to the ancient rock temples of Dambulla and onwards to imposing Sigiriya rock, which we scaled in spite of oppressive midday heat. The tea tree-covered hills of Nuwara Eliya were next, followed by safari in Tissamaharama, beachcombing along the southern shores, and quiet, rainy days in Galle.

In the Maldives (the Maldives!), we luxuriated in relative exclusivity for a few days on Furanafushi Island before heading to South Africa via Doha. In Johannesburg the legacy of apartheid hit hard, while in Kruger National Park I walked in the hoof prints of giraffes, elephants, and rhinos.

Further south, I felt exhilirated as we rounded the Cape of Good Horn, driving down the western coast of the tip of the Africa and heading back up the eastern. We embarked on an indulgent marathon tour of the Cape Winelands. I fell in love with mall sushi (miss you, Willoughby & Co.), stared wide-eyed at my luxurious accommodations in The Table Bay, and looked upon Cape Town from the top of Table Mountain.

Oddly enough, that day I shared Table Mountain with, amongst many others of course, the fine gentlemen of Uriah Heep and Deep Purple.

Until Finally…

Those five straight weeks of country-hopping held us over through November, when we somewhat randomly packed our bags for Copenhagen, Denmark. There we basked in the hygge of the season, strolling through Christmasy Tivoli Gardens, warming up one afternoon in front of a crackling fireplace with mugs of decadent hot chocolate at Nimb Hotel, and sipping cups of glögg and pints of fragrant Tuborg Julebryg at various pubs around downtown.

We paid a visit to the world’s most famous mermaid; one night we did what needed to be done.

As I sat here in my Brooklyn apartment at this time last year, I could not have dreamed my travels would take me to all of these places… maybe to any of them. I have nothing planned now as I had nothing planned then, but as ever, I know I’ll go somewhere. I can’t wait to find out where.

Photos Copyright Brian Spencer

This is an excerpt from “Chasing Elephants and Decoding Dung: On Safari in Kruger National Park”, which was originally published at BootsnAll.com on September 30, 2010. To read this piece in its entirety, head on over to BootsnAll.

In the waning pre-dawn blackness of the South African bush, Pat Masabo slides three long, golden bullets into the rifle chamber and locks the bolt handle shut. He clips his ammunition belt around his waist, hands me his backpack, and tells us that during the next three hours we are to walk in a single file line, and that under no circumstances could there be any talking unless he gives the okay.

We were about to leave the safety of our open-air jeep and venture on foot into the unpredictability of Kruger National Park, where hungry lions could attack, elephants could charge, and leopards could pounce. Pat and his trusty rifle were our only protection; the chilly morning air did little to cool my nerves.

That morning we left Pretoriuskop camp, located in the southwestern corner of the park, at around 5:30am, and soon the sun began to rise behind rows of scraggly acacia, painting the sky in streaks of oranges and yellows and blues. Then, with a wave of Pat’s rifle, we took our first steps into the wild unknown of one of the biggest game reserves on the continent. If one of us were to become injured, maimed, or otherwise devoured, the indemnity form in our pockets released South African National Parks from any liability; each of us had, indeed, agreed to put our lives in our own hands after signing on the dotted line:

“I understand that I will occasionally travel on foot or be outside in the veld where dangerous animals will be a risk and SANParks will take steps to ensure the safety of all participants, but will not be responsible for any injuries/loss/death or illness.”

What happened after we set out? Find out by reading the full article here. And don’t forget to keep up with Perceptive Travel’s latest blog posts by subscribing to our RSS feed too.

Photo Credit and Copyright Vanessa Diaz

Our three days of indulgence in the Cape Winelands flashed by like an ’80s movie montage, all postcard-perfect backdrops, long laughs, rental cars, and red teeth.

During our three-day splash here in this, the biggest wine-producing region of South Africa, we managed to squeeze in stops at 25 different vineyards and taste some 120 wines while scooting around between Stellenbosch, neighboring Franschoek and Paarl, as well as, a few days later, the Constantia Wine Route in the suburbs of Cape Town.

Half the fun was never knowing what to expect at each vineyard. A handful of recommendations (Delheim, Fairview, Delaire) came from new friends we made in Johannesburg and Cape Town, and we loosely followed some of the tips in our trusty Lonely Planet and Time Out guidebooks. Mostly, though, we just picked names out of a hat (or, more specifically, randomly chose ones listed on the free wine maps) and left it to chance.

Would it be corporate or boutiquey? Would the tastings be free, or cost 10, 20, maybe 30 rand? How aggressively would the staff push the wine, and would they be easygoing, knowledgeable about the products, or clearly full of shit? Would it be packed with tourists, or would we have the tasting room all to ourselves? How did I get stuck driving and spitting again while she gets to sit back and imbibe?

The autumnal mountainous scenery and clear, cobalt-blue skies were intoxicating. We met so many great people making good wines and working hard to make them even better. The menus at restaurants like the Delaire Graff Estate’s Indochine and Kleine Zalze’s Terroir were inspired, and “el vino did flow” at night in downtown Stellenbosch at bars like Vinehuis and Jan Caats. We really had such an amazing time.

Here are just a few quick notes and snapshots from along the way.

Though KWV’s tasting room in Paarl was one of the slicker, more corporate ones we visited (along with Ernie Els Wine in Stellenbosch), the friendly staff, surprisingly laidback vibe, and accessible everyday wines belied its bigwig status as one of South Africa’s biggest global wine exporters. Our tasting offered a choice of five wines from an expansive menu that included 40 different wines, liqueurs, and brandies to choose from; the 2006 Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon and 2007 Cathedral Cellar Shiraz stood out.

We had one “best meal ever!” after another during our wine-tasting tour, but a hedonistic lunch at the Delaire Graff Estate’s Indochine restaurant, dramatically perched on the Helshoogte Mountain Pass between Stellenbosch and Franschoek, was a highlight. It began with a melt-in-your-mouth, pepper-seared tuna starter, above, which came drizzled with zig-zags of olive tapenade and was served with a side of quail eggs, watercress, and tomatoes. I washed it down with a glass (and generous pour) of Delaire’s crisp, grassy 2009 Sauvignon Blanc Coastal Cuvee. My main, seared salmon trout with crispy potato rounds and an avocado remoulade, was brilliant.

Our afternoon cruising the Constantia Wine Route, which runs along the backside of Table Mountain in the suburbs of Cape Town, began with a stop at Groot Constantia, where the first grapes in South Africa were planted back in the 1650s.

From there it was on to the stunning Constantia Uitsig, pictured above, for a tasting led by one of the bubbliest, most-enthusiastic winery employees you’re likely to meet. Uitsig is best known for their whites, so no surprise that the 2009 Unwooded Chardonnay, 2009 Sauvignon Blanc, and 2008 Constania White were highlights. The Muscavet D’ Alexandrie, the first cultivar ever planted in the country and made from Uitsig’s oldest vines, was the best of the bunch and, at 285 rand a bottle, it was also the priciest.

In addition to the tasting room and, of course, the vines, this sprawling estate also houses three award-winning restaurants, a spa, and hotel. Along the service road between the tasting room and the hotel are well-marked vines with signs that indicate each grape type and when the vines were first planted (the earliest, at least from what I saw, were in 1984).

Like many vineyards in the area, Uitsig was forced to harvest their grapes at different times this year–some earlier than usual, some later. They expect a high-quality harvest in 2010, but less quantity than normal. Based on this and other conversations I had with other wine producers, it sounds like there’s going to be some interesting, boom-or-bust blends coming out of the Cape Winelands as a whole from this year’s crop.

As the last full day of our vineyard-hopping extravaganza wound down, we settled into Chamonix just before closing time late Sunday afternoon. Located up a hill near the end of a residential street shooting off from downtown Franschoek, this small tasting room is a cozy, converted 18th-century blacksmith shop, the kind of place where you could hole up for a long, cold winter by the fireplace, surrounded by jugs of cheap wine, pouring glass after glass and eating wedge after wedge of cheese until you pass out.

Known for their chardonnay and pinot noir, Chamonix’s wines didn’t overwhelm; in fact, outside of the 2007 Greywacke Pinotage we felt they were just decent. But three months later, as I look back on the hour or so we spent there, it doesn’t matter that the wine was just okay, just like it wouldn’t have really mattered if it was the opposite. Either way, I’d still always remember being there, at that time in my life, with my best friend, smiling, laughing, hopping back in the Honda Jazz, and asking each other if our teeth were red.

All photos © 2010 Brian Spencer and cannot be used or reprinted without permission.