End of the Line.

The smoke that thunders. In colour.

Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe – The indigenous Tonga name for the falls is Mosi-oa-Tunya – the smoke that thunders – and even with water levels precariously low, they do. I feel the rumble in the ground, and in the pit of my stomach, as I approach the edge of the massive scar in the earth.

It is not surrounded by safety barriers.

Despite how dry much of the ground remains, the surrounding rainforest makes my lungs sweat. Every pore gasps for breath.

I had planned one last excursion this morning – to the Devil’s Pool – which didn’t work out. I’m gutted: this is the one activity around which I had planned the rest of the trip. For whatever the reason, one of the tour operators cancelled my months-ago booked and paid-for time slot and the rest today are filled. I’ve ventured into Zambia – amassing $100 USD in now-unneeded visas – for nothing.

Oh well; we’re safe, unharmed and have had a lot of fun. But still.

As if to calm me, a pair of rainbows bounce in the mist off the face of Victoria Falls, welcoming us to our final destination of this journey: 5,400 kilometres on the road from Cape Town and, after this morning, six new countries visited.

But, more importantly, many more miles of memories created with my father.

If there’s one thing travelling to this continent offers, it’s perspective.

Elephants and Lions, Oh My.

I'd be lion if I said she wasn't a beauty.

Chobe National Park, Botswana – Our entrance to the park is punctuated by felled trees so crimson they resemble logs of red velvet cake. The roads, however, wear the well-worn wrinkles of time, causing our guide, Perci, to slip repeatedly in the deeply pitted ruts of the sandy path.

Almost immediately, a sign of things to come: in the valley, a hundred elephants – their faces creased and grey like the roads – smack at the ground to loosen grass, salt and calcium. They are perched on three legs, alternating their balance to distribute weight, which elephants carry most of on their front legs. If you haven't noticed, that heft is substantial.

By the end of the day, we'll have seen more than 500 of them, including countless calves snuggling into their mothers as others stand guard like massive boulders at which even Atlas would have shrugged. One calf sprawls in the dusty road before us, playing gleefully and unable to control its trunk, which swings like a wet pasta noodle.

We stop, giving him right-of-way.

Interspersed among them is a herd of zebras. Alternating stripes allow them to regulate body temperature by controlling absorption of warmth like an on-off switch built into the skin. Nearby, a lioness crouches into a prowl, then decides to take a break.

Later, a rare sighting: a large pack of wild dogs, tucked under a tree. Just as lazily as the cats we have seen.

Then, the sun sets in a swirl of red, orange and purple. Backlit against the sherbet sky, elephants appear to exit the river upside down – their shadows kaleidoscoping into each other. It’s a stunning sight.

They dance us into the darkness of our campsite within the park, alone with all we have seen today. But hardly alone.

Highway Hazards.

Look left, look right. Not just for vehicles.

Somewhere, Botswana – The sun is high, lighting jagged green acacia and bulbous quiver trees along the road to Kasani. Today is our longest drive of the trip, at more than 600 kilometres.

We're paralleling the old single-lane highway, which, washed out at regular intervals by now-empty streams, more closely resembles morse code etched into the soil.

Nearby, large swaths of land have been blackened in an effort to clear them using fire. Remaining trees stand as a macabre reminder of their previous splendour. In the distance, a miles-wide plume of smoke stretches to the single cloud sitting in the sky.

In a field to the east, clumps of trees stand in completely cylindrical mounds of red earth 15-feet high, giving them the appearance of having been planted in massive clay pots. The soil has eroded all around, or a small lake has evaporated, leaving the roots to cling to survival.

Meanwhile, tiny antelope pick at closely cropped yellow grasses along the road. Giraffes barely turn their heads as we pass. A small herd of elephants, though, shrinks behind a roadside tree.

A lay-bye with a concrete table and four stools for picnicking motorists is shaded by a blue sign: "Disclaimer: This is a wildlife area. You are stopping at your own risk."

Bon appétit, but for whom?

Overlanding Tips.

Powerpoint presentation: Get in touch with nature.

Kasane, Botswana – I may not yet be as well-seasoned as our meals have been, but, having now overlanded with Africa Travel Co. on the Cape Town to Victoria Falls route, here are a few things I have learned about this trip that can help with your journey:

• Invest in a USB battery charger for your camera, and possibly a backup battery. You won't want to miss a thing. (Except some of the sand – that goes on a while.)
• Extension cords with multiple charging ports (including USB) can reduce strife and stress in camp. See above.
• Sense a theme related to power? Indeed. If you have devices to charge, consider bringing a travel-sized energy bank.
• Credit cards are, in fact, widely accepted. With pin numbers, even, which is more advanced than many places in the United States.
• Always choose the thicker sleeping mat.
• A Bluetooth speaker can inject life into camp.
• Don't hog the 'good' seats; move around the truck.
• Bring Band-Aids: setting-up tents and helping prepare meals can find ways to bite you. (Or, maybe I'm just a danger to myself.)
• Games, music, reading materials or something to occupy the time on some of the longer drives can come in handy and help make you some new friends.
• A great camp cook makes a world of difference. (Thank you, Peter!)
• Most camp sites are a lot less rugged than expected: solid infrastructure, nice washrooms – including showers with warm water – swimming pools and even wi-fi.
• It really can get cool to cold at night, particularly in the desert.
• Ask questions: there's so much to learn and you'll cross paths with some tremendously knowledgeable people.
• There are plenty of opportunities to buy food, snacks and beverages at large grocery stores along the way. Ice cream is always a hit.
• A few excursions require you to pay tips that weren't mentioned at booking, but aren't particularly expensive.
• If you're susceptible to dry skin or cracked heels, bring lotion. It's super dry for the most part, and you'll want to be in sandals much of the time.
• Lens cleaner and a small air blower are invaluable if you have a DSLR; this trip is dustier than a fraternity house.
• You may randomly see a herd of elephants at the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere: keep your eyes peeled.
• Hydrate.

As with everything else in life, you'll get out what you put into it. You're going to spend time in close quarters with all sorts of different people with varied backgrounds, values and work ethic. Roll with it. Energy and positivity can go a long way when you're several days into wake-up calls before the rooster crows.

Embrace the experience and the open road. Safari njema – pole pole.

No Words.

Magic in a mokoro.

Delta Force.

Egrets, I've had a few.

Okavango Delta, Botswana – The bleached bones of a years-dead elephant lie scattered like broken china on the lawn. Its skull is amazingly simple to lift.

Awakened before the sun, we're on a 15-kilometre hike into the Okavango Delta, where we just came within 50 metres of a pair of elephants – likely the ones from overnight. The breeze is a saviour in the already-blazing sun.

We trace sandy paths through the parched grounds of one of the larger local islands, stepping over prints left earlier by four lions. They have chased much of the wildlife to another corner of the delta. Still, skittish antelope and zebra graze amidst various elephant families.

Towering termite mounds and football-sized elephant dung punctuate the land like exclamation marks. Both are critical to the inland delta's survival.

The termite mounds, which – like icebergs – are 90 per cent underground, provide the basis for many of the delta's islands during the wet season, creating homes for wildlife. They also serve as signposts given that they point west – they follow the sun when they're still wet.

Elephant dung, meanwhile, is full of seeds and plays an essential role in 'drop planting,' ensuring life returns to the delta, providing food sources and shade.

At that, it's amazing to consider we have seen but the tiniest speck of the greater delta.

Sleepless.

My eyes, in the morning.

Okavango Delta, Botswana – The plastic bag at my father's feet crinkled like a candy wrapper.

It was, however, just the start of a much bigger symphony played out under a bejewelled sky.

I have just been rousted from my sleep by a snarling roar over my left shoulder, which was immediately greeted by a loud trumpet: an insistent reprimand.

It’s 2:30 a.m., and a lion has apparently overstepped its bounds amidst grazing elephants. There are no fences where we’re camping in the middle of the Okavango Delta.

Closer, a branch snaps. Then another.

And another, still closer. A crack. From the low tree that hangs over our tent. Dinner for some means no sleep for others.

Drawing an arc behind us like the thin moon, the massive animals make their way to the water nearby with a splash. It’s a thud of biblical proportions.

With it, the low, rooting snort of a hippo.

What a tremendous time to have to answer the call of nature.

OK, Van Gogh.

Pole pole.

Boro Village, Botswana – In unison with dragonflies in the air, water bugs skitter across the glassy surface. White day lilies sway gracefully amongst the tall reeds.

Our pilot, Kay, stabs at the ground with a long pole, guiding our narrow fibreglass mokoro – a traditional dugout canoe – through the narrow arteries of the Okavango Delta toward the island that will be our home for the next couple nights. It's utterly peaceful as we glide over the surface of the shallow water.

Apart from the odd reed that slaps you across the face as you pass.

In the distance, a massive bull elephant grazes indifferently.

In the afternoon, we have an opportunity to borrow a mokoro – standing tall with a long pole, trying to maintain balance at all costs – to visit the swimming hole. Just be sure to avoid the hippo pool, we’re told.

Free in the Okavango Delta: amazing.

Desert, Deserted.

People in grass houses shouldn't throw matches.

Kubundu, Namibia – Closely cropped thatched-roof homes dot the landscape. Some, freshly cut, still shimmer in shades of yellow.

Incongruously, several have satellite dishes wedged into the sandy ground outside.

Their walls are constructed of a bare skeleton of crooked sticks that clutch the loose mud smoothed beneath. At one, the sun dances across rings of clear soda bottles thrust into the plaster. Larger branches stand sentry, fencing the compound.

Still, goats and chickens roam freely as women sweep and rake the dry ground in front of their homes. Others carry buckets of water on their heads. Buckets, baskets and bowls of everything, really.

Babies, though, are carried at the hip in colourfully printed sashes.

A blue-grey smoke hangs languidly, filling the air with the spicy smell of charcoal. And of community. People gather under a large, shade-bearing tree speckled with small, orange fruit. Nearby: bars, salons, bustle.

On the outskirts, long cinder-block buildings house a school, tidily painted yellow. Kids wave eagerly as we pass. We share in the enthusiasm: civilization for the first time in a week. Finally, some colour.

It has been an overarching theme of the whole trip: it's amazing how much water can alter a landscape.

Water, Whole.

Etosha National Park, Namibia – The sun has set and the park has come alive. A low, baritone rumble issued below us serves as a warning.

A more forceful trumpet: a rebuke.

Elephants of all size – lit against the darkness – have gathered at our camp’s waterhole. Four rhinos, meanwhile, have infringed upon their space. One of the junior male pachyderms flaps his ears and mock-charges, causing three of the rhinos to retreat to a safe distance.

Another, unfazed, strides into the water. For a moment, an uneasy truce.

One of the many baby elephants, taking a break from suckling at its mother, grows curious, wandering over to the interloper. Its mother uses her trunk to forcefully flick water at the rhino. The message is clear.

A bunny hops by in the foreground between a pair of jackals, offering comedic relief.

The park is dry, but it won’t be long before humans, too, fight wars over water.

With more than 50 elephants now ringing the pool, the rhino snorts and shrugs, shuffling back into the bush.

Crisis averted – the calf, trying to catch up to its trunk, remains blissfully unaware of the high alert its curiosity has caused.

Game, Set, Match.

Are you making fun of my nose?

Etosha National Park, Namibia – Late this morning, we again set out into Etosha National Park in search of rhinos ambling across the flats.

Fragrant Namibian myrrh rose with the dust, bathing the air with a pungent perfume of herb and fruits. The sky soon dissolved from blue to half-grey.

Elephants here, giraffes, everywhere – animals that, just yesterday, garnered such excitement in the truck – sprinkled between wildebeest, zebra and impala. Springbok huddle from the sun under squat acacia that resemble tiny parasols twisted into the sand.

Under a low tree, our target: a horn-less black rhino, wearily resting at the side of the road, its ears twitching insistently at flies seeking a meal. The wings of a thousand of them wouldn't provide the magnificent beast with any respite from the heat.

Three lions heave from a morning spent lying around. Cats.

Then, right before we pull into camp for the night, an even more rare white rhino crosses the road in front of us. At the waterhole in camp, four more.

It's called a game drive: sometimes you lose; sometimes you win.

Sometimes, you hit the jackpot.

Life (and Death) in the Desert.

You seem to have some junk in your trunk, Judy.

Etosha National Park, Namibia – The southern corner of Etosha National Park is so desiccated it looks as though it has been paved over with white cement. Looking for animals makes the eyes bleary.

The good news: it's easier to spot them when they appear; the bad – many will have receded into areas of the park where there is more water and vegetation. The drought is bad enough the park has had to create its own water holes.

Deeper into the park, the 120-kilometre-long Etosha pan is cooking: blanched bones lie scattered, tracing a crooked trail to a full tree under which two lions lie lazily, their stomachs full of what was once a living, breathing wildebeest. The chorus of "Circle of Life" rings through the truck.

Eventually, the post-apocalyptic landscape, from which springboks melt like a mirage, lets up and we arrive at a watering hole, where oryx patrol the waters, making springboks leap awkwardly and in a panic. It's a whole different world.

Shortly thereafter, the long-horned antelope are no longer kings of the pool: nine elephants have come to roll in the water and to spray themselves, exchanging tender touches of the trunk like complex handshakes. Dap, for the animal kingdom.

It's obvious they know each other, and regard each other with affection.

Magic.

Kudus and Kudon'ts.

Looking for something else.

Uis, Namibia – Topless Himba women, painted with butterfat and ochre, stand roadside – thick red dreadlocks falling from their heads.

Scattered amongst them, children with impish grins and loose checked blankets or loincloths scramble over a crooked tree branch. One sports a thin, closely cropped wedge of hair that courses over the centre of his head. A few conical and thatched huts lay conveniently behind tables of handicrafts.

Tourists flow from a line of trucks, shutters clicking at bare-bottomed children. Fifty Namibian dollars per photographer, please.

Billed as authentic, I can only imagine why, with countless miles of open space behind, we will pass several tiny villages at the side of the dusty highway. Uncomfortable with the spectacle being orchestrated I, and a few others, stay behind.

Privilege is very real. To me, it’s just too much of a human zoo: 'natives on parade.' This isn’t the way I wish to support the local economy.

To each their own, I suppose. I'll just watch the kudu and giraffes.

A Peak In Time.

Rock on.

Spitzkoppe, Namibia – We tumble over rough roads like rocks being panned for gold.

A few ramshackle homes – scrap metal, folded like origami – dot the still-barren landscape. Nearby, a makeshift table cobbled together from a couple spare tires offers a selection of handicrafts to visitors to Spitzkoppe – described as Namibia’s Matterhorn. Additional tin trinkets twinkle from the branches of pale scrub.

We are the only dusty speck on the road for miles.

Shady rays attempt to force their way through the clouds, lighting one side of the jagged rock, which, ages before, chewed its way from the earth during a volcanic eruption. Despite the years, its teeth remain prominent, albeit dulled.

The ochre-coloured hills stand 1,700 metres above sea level and 700 metres above ground. Tucked within them are caves nomadic tribes inhabited between two and four thousand years ago. On their walls, the remains of red pictograms – painted with blood, ostrich egg yolk and red and yellow ochre – which depict giraffe and rhinoceros pointing the way to local water sources.

What have I told you about writing on the walls, Jimmy!

Others show people transforming into animals, as represented at ancient ceremonies. Tucked below stands a white zebra, painted with milk bush – an endemic poisonous plant also used to tip arrows. According to legend, even the smoke from burning it is fatal.

Rhinoceros, however, find it particularly tasty.

The drawings were only discovered 50 years ago, and, somehow, you can still walk right up to them.

It’s art with a purpose. Unlike most other, it’s also timeless.

Three-Storey Swakop.

Wake me up before you flamingo, go.

Swakopmund, Namibia - A sea of pink flourished across the sky like an ever-shifting sunset.

Stepping loudly along the camel path, I had upset a tide pool filled with flamingos. They filled the sky, circling above and eventually gliding back in when I stood still. As they took flight, their long, awkward necks stitched together clouds in the sky. Others stood tall in the water, like egrets, a flash of black under the wing.

Heading down the beach, I restored their peace.

Street hawkers amble up, seemingly following the same script: "Where are you from? I'm from Etosha. My name is Mike; what's yours?" From under worn windbreakers, they produce small, carved ornaments crafted from nuts. Unlike anywhere else I've been, though, they seem to fade away when you say you aren’t interested.

We're in Swakopmund for a couple days, where the soaring dunes of the Namib desert meet the Atlantic Ocean. There's a saltiness and a chill to the air. Some of the group's adventure seekers are spending their time quad biking and horse riding in the dunes, while a couple others are thinking of skydiving.

For me, the ocean has always been a happy place. I'll stick to that.

Sands of Time.

Say, do you come here often?

Sesriem, Namibia – We queued along the crease between light and dark as the sun mounted its assault on the sky.

We had arrived early to climb Dune 45 – purported to be the second-tallest dune in the world, behind nearby Dune 7 – in Namib-Naukluft National Park. Looking around later, doubt in that statistic crept in like the shadows that fell onto each of the sand's curves.

Sometimes you have to take these 'facts' with a grain of sand. Still, the dune is 80-metres high, and composed five-million-year-old sand.

Either way, it was hilly beach as far as you could see. The sand was soft and cool on the feet, but each step forward led me to sink anew as we hiked the knife-edge to the summit. Soon, my legs themselves felt like sand. I had become one with the mountain.

The hourglass, filled on the way up, emptied in an instant as I promptly ran straight back down.

As the temperature climbed, we carried-on to Sossuvlei, making our way to a 400,000-year-old dried lake bed now carpeted by bleached clay. The gnarled remains of blackened trees twisted hauntingly from cracks in the ground that mirrored their grotesque – yet beautiful – form.

History, preserved; the hourglass tipped for another day.

Somewhere.

I'm rooting for the defiant tree.

Sesriem, Namibia – An evening cold had dropped into the desert, but the rising sun warns menacingly of its impending bite.

Knowingly, a springbok grazes on the hill, snacking before the heat becomes unbearable.

We spent the night at the Canon Roadhouse campgrounds near Fish River Canyon, which is the world's second-largest canyon at 156 kilometres long, 27 kilometres wide and 550 feet deep. As runner-up, it’s just as grand.

We're also making our way through the world's largest national park – Namib-Naukluft National Park – which will take three days.

Given the apparent absence of people – of life, period, frankly – it seems like it may also be the least-visited. A low fence has lined the entire route, but there hasn't appeared to be much to keep in, or out.

This has been middle-of-nowhere. Like, really middle-of-nowhere.

That has been part of the beauty of this trip thus far: watching the landscape dance between mountains and valleys, swirling from green, to red, to yellow, to brown, to grey; spying round tufts of scrub popping up like heads in the sand; and tracing the scars of desiccated streams. Even the water is too lively to linger long.

We are travelling over millennia of dust that twists and settles temporarily like an anxious nomad, muting the few plants to have the audacity to turn green. Rocks, sand, scrub. Repeat.

Even nowhere is somewhere, and in absence, beauty.

Lunch in a Namibian Desert.

Time for a sand-wich.

Somewhere, Namibia - Pulling off the dusty road, we tuck under an acacia tree dotted by spherical spiral weaver nests. Hills fade off into the distance.

A blanched jawbone rests next to a tic-tac-toe of snake holes. A persistent fly buzzes excitedly at the sudden appearance of life. Thankfully, the wind whips up, providing a natural fan to combat the sun.

Inexplicably, two horses cling to the side of a cliff. In the middle of nowhere, we have found some of Namibia’s wild horses, only 90-150 of which remain.

With improved efficiency, the group hauls tables, food, washing materials and chairs from the truck. The day's work crew prepares materials for a salad and sandwiches. We are quietly becoming accustomed to life as overlanders.

Roadside, somewhere in Namibia, lunch is served.

Amazing.

Can you Canoe?

Surf border-crossing.

Namaqualand, South Africa - The ride down was smoother than the one up.

It was also wetter.

Bouncing between powdery rocks on an ochre-hued mountain exhaling large clouds of dust, we made our way by van to the launch point upstream on the Orange River, which divides South Africa and Namibia. The door holding us in caught a breeze and flew open with a slam.

The glass had apparently previously cracked for a reason.

Dipping the paddles to our two-person inflatable canoe into the cool, brackish water, we casually made our way downstream, popping through small rapids. The sun welcomed us with fierce intensity. 

After more than two hours on the water, we radiated some of it back.

The river is the lone scar on an otherwise completely arid region. Fish somersaulted and egrets fanned their wings as we passed. Atop a lone, skinny tree perched crookedly on one of the many promontories sat a massive fish eagle, seemingly being picky about its next meal.

I cooled off with a quick dip: it's not every day you have the opportunity to swim between countries.

Hydrated.

Springbok, South Africa – Thirty litres of water, 2.25 litres of South African wine, three litres of Stoney ginger beer. And two ice cream bars.

Twenty-six dollars.

While not as cheap as in East Africa, we chuckled after stopping at the Super Spar grocery store in Springbok on our way to camp.

With 15 litres of water per person now on the truck, we should be able to float through the desert we'll be in for the next few days. Hopefully, nobody had to toss their sleeping bag to make room.

Just as importantly, the wine is still more than decent.

Interlude.

the hourglass – overland, south africa/namibia

Red hills roll by
between window frames
like film,
taking me forward
and back in time.

The plot is a slow burn,
but with the hours,
a denouement
where mountain faces
are scrubbed clean.

The sands of time
have emptied here.

2016.9.19


pole pole – overland, south africa/namibia

Dust that predates time,
clapped like chalkboard erasers
choking on the past.

Between rocks and sand,
scrub clings to an existence
at the table of
an unwelcoming host.

Its breaths, slow and dry
like the nature
of the millennias' worn-down rock
it is.

Patient boulders await
their day in the sun.

2016.9.19

On the Town.

Hamming it up for the camera.

Cape Town, SA – As we pulled into the township of Gugulethu, on the outskirts of Cape Town, a young man with a half-finished beer in his hand stumbled, tripped over his feet and fell to the ground.

When he stood, another man slapped him repeatedly on the head. Apparently, he was no longer welcome. He fell again. It was all of 9:30 a.m.

The township is home to 700,000 people living in tight quarters stitched together by scrap plywood, cardboard and sheet metal. Wood smoke from the braii clouds the air, and shreds of garbage bag flap in the breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.

Tellingly, countless crooked abortion posters are pasted to the outside walls, alongside murals advertising Coca-Cola and SIM cards.

While the community's people were lovely to us – and we were investing in their community – the experience felt precariously close to one of 'poverty porn.' It's a moment your privilege leaves you naked.

Even more, given the morning's first encounter, it seemed wrong to be on a tour where we were to learn how traditional beer is made, and then sample it. But we did, engaging in the ritual of doffing our caps, kneeling and tipping the large communal tin can to our lips. The bready mixture will win no awards.

Glassy-eyed men sat in the corner of the cramped black shack, egging us on.

We had made it to 10 a.m.

A Point in Time.

Waddle you do when you get to the bottom?

Cape Point, SA – As we wound down the coast, the hills were painted with colourful houses: watercolours in the mist. It was a nice break from the grey.

Approaching Chapman's Peak, cliffs rolled into the ocean, making me grip the steering wheel a little more tightly. Then, the skies melted, collapsing to the ground.

Despite the weather – and despite driving on the opposite side of both the car and the road from what I'm accustomed to – it was a nice day for a road trip. I barely exhaled as I adjusted to maneuvering a manual transmission with my left hand.

Soon, it should just be the views that left me breathless.

We wove through Simonstown's pretty Dutch architecture before arriving at Boulders Beach, where we were greeted by braying and a salinity that gripped at our nostrils.

Nearby, an unmistakable waddle: African penguins.

Cape Point: just the tip.

By the hundreds.

In fact, the sea and sand were salt and peppered with them. It was also the first time today we had seen the sun.

We proceeded to Cape Point, which is the southernmost point in continental Africa and where some argue the Indian and Atlantic Oceans merge. Again, the rains hurtled toward us. Reaching the top of the hill, and the lighthouse – long-ago rendered useless by the amount of fog that rolls through the area – four humpback whales crested below.

A good road trip, indeed.

Timeless.

Where are the red balloons?

Frankfurt, Germany – For the duration of the 19-minute journey from the airport, the train ran two full minutes behind.

By the time we had arrived in downtown Frankfurt, however, Germany had restored its reputation. Tick. Tock.

With an 11-hour layover, we had few expectations beyond seeing the Rhine and the old town, which amounts to little more than a city block with a beautiful stone plaza, and a large church at its epicentre.

Having been levelled during the Second World War, the Frankfurt we saw today stitched together reconstructions of traditional structures with the ultra-modern. Familiar, gothic restaurants meld with curved bank towers, shimmering in the sun.

Our exhaustion melted with us as we took the time on a hot, sunny day to find some schnitzel, bratwurst and beer.

These remain areas in which past and present are more closely aligned than timelines can possibly hope to dictate.