So, Uganda, we made it.
Nic and I are finally back together, this time for good. We’ve been in Kampala for about a week now, it’s a crazy city but somewhat chilled at the same time.
I’ve left the sound of the Imam leading the morning-prayer at 5:30am, goats and cows braying outside my room, plus the distant sound of waves and swapped it for Vervet monkeys chattering, Hornbills screeching, kids screaming and the lovely sound of transit on tarmac. And the bar stays open 24hours! On a Muslim island I am no longer!
On our first visit to town (for me to find the
hospital, due to two green toes!) we left the matatu
(taxi) to be confronted by a wall of noise, buses,
bikes, cars, people, chickens, cows: you name it was
there. The catalytic converter is unsurprisingly not
standard in Uganda, so the air is a constant thick
silver-grey, it seems to hang in a thick broth just
above head height. After a fruitless search, and the
constant badgering from locals determined to show us
where the hospital was (all for a small fee, and they
had no idea where it was really!) we dodged traffic
and Nic was (she won’t mind me saying) close to tears.
So, I hobbled to a taxi and we left the hustle, bustle
and buzz behind us. Actually, foot now better and Nic
hardened to city life, we love the place – it’s an
organized kind of constant pandemonium.
Staying with Nic and I from the last GVI trip, is our
friend Kirsty. Yesterday, all three of us took
ourselves to Jinja for a spot of white-water rafting
at the source of the Nile. On arrival high up above
the banks, we were greeted by a mass of water with the
beginning of “gentle – grade 1” rapids far below. At
this point of the Nile, the hippos are far up river
however, two crocodiles had been seen the day before,
a fact not divulged until we were all on the raft!
After 20 minutes of training we were off: the first
rapid, mild, with only slightly manic laughter from
the boat, phew! We made it! Second rapid, boat goes
over and we all leave. I try to keep hold of Nic, but
I’m sucked back under, let go, and Nic last seen
gently floating off about 100m away! And so, the day
went on. We stopped for a lovely lunch (with real
cheese and real ham!) none of us can hold the plates
properly, ‘cos everybody is shaking! We tell ourselves
it’s the cold, but its not. At times during the
afternoon, the river opens up to a wide, gentle mass
of water, with reed beds teeming with birdlife, at one
point we’re circled by a Fish Eagle that seemed to be
waiting fro something! The banks of the Nile are
periodically, occupied by peoples going about their
daily lives, be it, ladies washing clothes, or kids
just having fun. During these moments of respite, we
are allowed to float in our life-jackets and take in
the silence of the Nile, it was beautiful, but every
log scared the life out of me.
And so, the day ends with a splendid category 5 rapid,
with the nice name of “the Bad Place” uh huh! It’s so
fierce, we are only allowed to join the water two
thirds of the way down, this gives us a chance to walk
above the rapid and take a look. I wish we hadn’t! By
the way, I’ve been at the front of the raft all day,
so it’s my responsibility to “lead”. Yeah right! In we
go, the guide shouts his orders, no one hears because
the roar of the water is too loud, then at the front
I’m confronted by a wall of water, then I have no
idea. For seconds I’m under then back up for a breath,
then back under, time and again until I’m spat out.
Anyway, it was awesome and we survived.
WE’VE BEEN TO THE CONGO!!
So, the day after our source of the Nile rafting trip,
we achingly left the early morning smog of Kampala by
“chicken-bus”, so saying ‘cos its FULL of snot bag
kids, local people who think nothing of staring at you
for hours on end, AND their livestock!
The landscape Of Uganda is lush green and fertile,
much of the country is made of a patchwork of fields,
even the sides of steep hillsides are farmed.
Eventually, the fields gave way to the volcanic
mountains of Virunga with six towering volcanoes
bordering our destination, Kisoro, the last eruption
being 2002.
After a lot of talk we had decided that Congo would be
the place to see gorillas, not a decision we took
lightly. Our large round guide (Sheeba) immediately
put us at ease, as we drove towards the border, he
constantly sang – mostly hymns, and mostly “Amazing
Grace” – possibly fuelled by banana gin!
We set off pre-dawn and immediately things looked
different. During our short time in Africa we have
seen many people struggling, most of them poor, but
not such poverty. Although still dark, many people
were up, some lighting fires, others carrying heavy
loads off to the market and all the time half naked
kids lined the roadside, some of them running
alongside the car for ages; this time shouting
“Muzungu! Muzungu!” (White man!) at us. Only just
inside the border I witnessed six police taking turns
to repeatedly hit (with heavy sticks) a poor man
laying face down in the mud – he didn’t move.
After an hour and a half the road became too much for
the jeep, so we walked, all the time being jeered at
by kids and adults alike. Eventually, we made it to
the base of the mountain; here we met our guides for
the day – six of them (all armed) three of us. We took
off into the trees and the lead guide cocked his
rifle, I wasn’t sure if I was reassured, or scared
stiff!
Climbing upwards, the habitats changed from heavy, wet
woodland (trees burdened by lichen and ephiphytes) to
marshland, then eventually a towering forest of
bamboo. After three hours of hard trekking we almost
stumbled upon them; we had found the “Msafiri”
(Swahili for traveler) troop, a group of 11
individuals. During our briefing we had been warned 7
meters we would be the closest we could be to them,
that never really happened. I’m not sure if it’s a
good thing or not, but at times we could have reached
out and touched them, mostly we were 3 or 4 meters
away.
I was prepared to be captivated (which I was!) by them
and I had been ready to be enthralled, what I hadn’t
thought about was how unsettling it would be. Okay,
maybe not unsettling, bloody terrifying! The first one
encountered happened to be the Silverback – the daddy;
he was lying on his front asleep (thank God!) and he
was huge! Over 500lb, with the strength of 3 men in
each arm, he was a magnificent site. For the whole of
our hour with them, he didn’t (thank God!) acknowledge
us once. Actually, he mostly slept and farted long
(very bad smelling) bamboo farts!
One of the young Mum’s did take notice of us she
dropped to her stomach put her chin on her knuckles
and for 5minutes gazed at us.
Okay, Nic’s telling me off for rambling, so I’ll sign
off now.
We’ve just had a week on a beautiful (half-a-kilometer
long) island on Lake Bunyonyi – very lovely place, a
lot like the Lake District, but on the equator!
Tomorrow, we leave for Fort Portal, then, onto Kibale
Forest, we have an appointment with the Chimps!
Monkeys & Murders (Uganda – Rwanda)
During one of our last few days in Uganda we made it
up to Kibale National Park for a trek to see
Chimpanzees. After only half-an-hour's walk through
the forest, we heard them. Without seeing them, they
led us through the trees until we reached a swampy,
grass clearing; here the ever optically challenged
Nicola managed to walk into an elephants footprint,
full of water, foul smelling and waist deep!
A squelchy short while later, large half-eaten figs
began to rain down from the canopy – we had found
them. Eventually, the fruit rain stopped and one by
one they clambered downward, one of the larger ones
broke the branch she was hanging from - falling the
last 10 feet to the ground she quickly recovered and
swaggered off through the undergrowth a little
embarrassed.
Two days later Nic and I are back in Kampala dodging
the rains. By some stroke of luck we seem to be in
perfect sync with all East Africa’s rainy seasons.
Trying to keep dry we did the only thing possible - a
trip Kampala’s crumbling cinema adequately accompanied
by Ugandan red wine! I have to tell you if you ever
have the misfortune to watch the American paff move,
"Kill John Tucker" share a carton of wine, it makes
for brilliant viewing!
Then, onto Rwanda.
Just as rolling hills, green plateaus and plains are
characteristic of Uganda, mountains and lakes make up
much of this small country. Different from the
snow-covered granite of the Alps or Pyrenees, these
are mountains of weathered stone, the colour of copper
and brass. Much of the lower slopes are coated in
plantations of huge leaved banana trees, or the
abundant pale green-silver eucalyptus tree, used for
firewood.
Walking through the streets of the capital city,
Kigali, it is hard to understand, let alone imagine,
this city saw such horrors. Certainly, nothing of this
survives in the city today - guilt-ridden foreign aid
and investment has built on, or paved over all that
was ruined, almost every street has new buildings
still going up. Much of this country seems in much
better shape (thanks, mainly, to China – the dominant
foreign economy in all Africa) than any place we have
stayed in so far, the roads are smooth tarmac, the
electricity stays on (almost!) and the Chinese buses
are new –although, they are only a year or so old and
so bound to fall apart anytime soon!
The story in the countryside, however, is not quite
the same.
Along many roadsides the burnt out rusting remains of
lorry containers, cars and buses still sit where they
were torched. Incinerated houses are left to stand and
rot. When our bus rides stop beggars are normally
scarred one way or another, and more often than not
limps are missing. Every village and town is
accompanied by its own genocide memorial with
photographs and details of numbers lost - in one
sleepy lakeside town we stayed in (Kibuye) 90% of
Tutsi's (11,500 people) were murdered. Outside the
church they also have a glass filled cabinet full of
the skulls of unknown victims – very grim.
Normally when we walk anywhere we pick-up a raggedy
posse of good-natured urchins – on our walk in
Cyangugu (Lake Kivu) we picked up our normal entourage
of grungy kids (plus smelly dogs and goats) and one
older kid named Gerrard, who despite his lack of
English and our irrelevant pigeon French/Swahili was
determined to “show us the way.” What we did come to
understand was that during the genocide he had
witnessed the deaths (by machete and hammer) of all of
his family he had only survived by running away and
hiding in the fields. For the little we understood of
each other it was difficult to know what to ask or
even what to say. He openly talked about the genocide
as if it were a half forgotten nightmare from which he
had survived.
Having said all that Gerrard (and everyone else we
spoke to) didn’t seem bitter, in fact we had a
enjoyable times with many of them, especially in our
hotel bar when I was the only West Ham fan and they
all supported Arsenal (West Ham 1 – Arsenal 0)!
After Rwanda we took a superb self-indulgent flight
(so over bus journeys) over Lake Victoria (which
lasted forever) to Tanzania. We’re now in Arusha
(where it’s rained for two days solid!) waiting for
our Serengeti safari.
Bored of the Rings part II (Tanzania)
I can think of worse places to be than Arusha, the
capital town of the “Serengeti circuit” but after 3
weeks you really, really run out of things to do. For
those not yet in the know, Nic and I are to be married
in Zanzibar on December 14th. Our reason for being in
Arusha so long was for our wedding rings, which we had
made and were then stuck on the border day after day.
Eventually, they arrived. Brilliant you might think?
Not so, Nic’s ring was perfect in everyway apart from
size, it was more like a toe-ring and a baby toe-ring
at that. Mine fitted perfectly, but looked like a
Zanussi machine part. So, we’ve moved a little closer
to Zanzibar and here in Dar es Salaam we wait again,
for rings part 2.
Last night Nic and I braved the rains once more, and
once again braved the delights of African cinema. This
time a sober trip to the “Metropole” a large crumbling
theatre showing the “latest” (1995) Bollywood
“emotional tragedy” that had us both in tears, but had
little to do with blockbuster drama. Quite amazingly,
and not without deft brilliance, the ticketseller
materialized as ticket-tearing doorman, then ushering
us to our seats he took off in the gloom to become
film projectionist! Unfortunately he didn’t reappear
with choc-ices for the interval break: I guess even
the movie world has its limitations?
So back in Arusha we did manage to fill some time by
buying a drum the size of a dustbin, but nasty DHL
soon took it away from us. Also, we spent moments
trying to identify who had lifted $200 from our room,
the maid had my vote. Aside from the odd irritation we
did find time for the odd safari.
After camping overnight near Lake Manyara, we drove on
day one into the park. Bordered to the west by the
dramatic escarpment of the Rift Valley a huge alkaline
lake is home to some tens of thousands of flamingo.
From high above the lake the whole horizon was one
shimmering haze of pink.
Day two the road climbs and winds, slowly leaving
behind the pressing dry heat of the lake. Into the
Ngorongoro Conservation area we make a lunch-time stop
at Olduvai Gorge – a 50km long dusty ravine that could
easily play the backdrop of a Spaghetti Western movie.
Famous for its archaeological finds, the gorge as
yielded a 1.8 million year old skull (“nutcracker
man”) and the world’s oldest surviving (3.75m) hominid
footprints.
Back driving across the plains proper the afternoon
sun beats down hard; from every sphere relentless,
flat yellow grasses fill all directions. Eventually,
flat-topped and always slanting Acacia trees come into
view, then rocky outcrops that tower above the plains.
That night we camped on the Serengeti plains - with
beer in hand we watched a fat, red African sunset that
was very quickly replaced by a sky impossibly full of
stars. Up and packed early next morning we were
quickly rewarded by countless wildlife. First, a
mother cheetah with her two cubs, slinking across our
view, a short while later we found a pride of lions
still portly digesting their zebra lunch. Then, on our
way back to camp a leopard fast asleep in the hammock
of a tree, the remains of her ostrich breakfast
tightly wedged beside her.
For our third night we moved onto a cliff-top camp
spread high above the Ngorongoro Crater. Below us lay
one of the world’s largest calderas, 20km wide steep
unbroken walls keep inside all of manner of animal –
except giraffe, they can’t get down the crater wall!
Trying to sleep that night, was just too difficult;
the previous night poor Nic had been kept awake for
hours by lions roaring and hyenas chattering, then on
the crater top zebra and buffalo chomped the night
away right outside the tent door, and a lone bull
elephant wondered around the campsite all night!
Earplugs within, nocturnal nature passed me by!
For our last day, we drove onto Arusha National Park,
one of the only parks where you can get out and walk.
So, with armed guide in tow we took off across a muddy
field, jumped over a stream then within minutes we
came across a herd of buffalo. About 50 strong the
buffalo is the most dangerous animal in Africa – as we
wandered past the outlying few, they looked up at us,
sniffed the air and took a few quick steps forward and
my bowels took a few quick steps backwards!
Hopefully, our rings will arrive by tomorrow and we
can take off for Zanzibar. Oh yes, the $200? The maid
eventually coughed up and we got it back.
Sometimes skin colour can be an advantage, but not always. For some reason that I can't work out yet, queuing in Africa is something of an art form – queues sort of start at the front, then instead of a line, they form a kind of wedge shape, with three people behind the first, then five and so on. Pushing in seems to be part of the course, and being British I often moan and they being African, tell me in good nature that I shouldn't worry and that my time will come.
So, there we are rucksacks on stuffed somewhere in the middle of the sweaty wedge waiting for the ferry to Zanzibar. It's early December and it seems everyone is going home for Christmas, complete with ALL their Christmas presents. Three hours earlier we had been told that our ferry "is bust", and that we should take the next one - "is quicker anyway" explained the ticket seller. I'm still struggling with just how it can be quicker when we've already been waiting for ages, when a guy grabs my arm and drags N and I through the queue, past all people and their parcels right to the front. It seems our next ferry the "Flying Horse" which should take one and a half hours to get there, is on "cigarette business" (don't ask me?) but here is another boat for you. Already quite deflated N and I let the harbour porter dude lead us down the gang plank to a boat already full and to a ferry that at one time in its life had probably crossed the Mersey.
Grateful for a space we sat on top of our bags, and watched the "Flying Horse" dock beside us. After two hours at sea it became quite clear that our boat didn't have a second gear and the distant bulk behind us quickly materialised as the "Flying Horse", and then just as quickly disappeared in front of us! A good five hours later and over nine since we left the hotel, we made it the whole 20km across the sea to Stone Town.
This is the rustic heart of Zanzibar, your first port of call and I love the place. Since independence (1964, I think) no-one has had the money (or inclination) to properly maintain the town, its tragic really because some of the buildings are quite beautiful, but as in elsewhere in Africa the problem belongs to someone else. Anyway, these tall and crumbling Arabic and Indian style houses line a twisting maze of cobbled alleyways and narrow streets. Apart from the (still) ever present touts, life seems to go on as ever; people slowly bustle about their business, street vendors hawk their goods and always on every street corner groups of men sit about (all day!) drinking coffee and putting the world right.
With only a week left before the wedding we still had one more thing to do. A short walk through the backstreets let us to the High Court – here we expected to deliver our papers to the registrar. After an hours wait we were ushered in to a huge room, complete with huge desk and huge official – he calmly explained that yes he was a registrar, but not the one we wanted. To cut a long story short, we were pushed across town from office to office, made to wait for hours, then someone huge would take pity, listen to our story, shake their head, tut, and explain that we were in the wrong place. However, against all the odds we eventually found our man, Mr. Amis Moosah, although he wasn’t very reassuring – he had no idea who we were (although he knew we were coming!), no idea of dates, and no idea where we were to be married. After about half an hour of repetitive explaining all facts and figures slowly sank in, then, as we left, he looked up from his desk to say, “oh yes, that just leaves my lift”. Before Nic could explode I took her by the hand and led her back outside.
All wedding bureaucracy complete we headed out for the east coast; for five lazy days and nights we stayed at a private house on the long, empty beach of Jambiani. During our time here, our host Elyas had become our good friend – he laid out breakfast each morning, then with a minimum amount of fuss made sure we were okay each day, during the evening we three would wander down a pitch black beach to find a beachside place for seafood dinner. On one night we saw something neither of us had seen before, a moonrise. It must have been about 11:00pm; we’re walking back home, the sky full of stars, and an ocean black below, with only the gentle foam of breaking waves visible on the beach.
Then, Elyas points out towards the horizon where a pale yellow sliver of light shows itself, rising slowly at first then brighter and bigger against the black, until, moonlight penetrates water, sending the dark sea a shimmer of silver. For the rest of the walk I turn off my torch, its no longer needed.
Next day (wedding eve) Elyas shakes my hand, hugs us both, promising that he would definitely be our wedding witness. Now slightly hardened to the “African promise” – it took sometime to realize that although people don’t exactly lie to you here, they don’t know how to hold to a promise either. And so, ever hopeful that maybe this time, this guy would be there for us, we perhaps knew that his hugs were a little too much for a 5 day visit and this would be the last of Elyas.
Back in Stone Town we set out once more to find the oversize, Mr Amis Moosah. Being British N & I kept our promise to meet (as requested) again to sign pre-wedding forms. His assistant takes us through the corridors, up stairs, along another corridor to his room, without knocking she bowls in and tells us to sit at the table, sits down herself then informs us he’s not in! “Then what the **** are we doing in here then!?” asks Nic, quite perceptively. True to form Moosah had buggered off and we were to come back “maybe later.”
Suffice to say aside from missing everyone at home our wedding day couldn’t have been any better. Eventually Mr Moosah did actually turn up, but I can’t say the same for Elyas. Sitting at the bar, with only moments to go, we did the only decent thing, we asked the bar staff! The ceremony was a typical African affair, a mixture of form signing, rubber stamps, a bit of frustration at the amount of forms to fill in, and a lot of laughter as proceedings were periodically put on hold as the
bar staff ran off to serve.
For our “honeymoon” we journeyed first to Stone Town where we made our way to “236 Hurumzi”, a wonderfully restored Swahili house set deep inside the town. Here, on the roof, perched high among the minarets, temple towers and church spires we sat among sprawling floor cushions an listened to the sound of live Tarab music; which is less Drum ‘n Bass, and more Bongo ‘n Violin.
Then onto to Kiwengwa on the north east coast. This time our banda literally sat just above the high-tide, at night the sound of waves crashed so loudly against the reef walls that everynight N thought a tsunami was coming! After a couple of dives off Mnemba Island, where we were treated to huge Green turtles, withshells the size of coffee tables and on one occasion,
four Black-tip Reef sharks (probably not that big, but
big enough to loosen my bowels!) we finished our
Zanzibar tour in Kendwa, high up on the lively north
coast.
Joining us for Christmas ‘holidays’ were our captains
of GVI, Corti and Rache. And I can confirm that on the
dance floor, Rache still perspires nicely and despite
a drastic change of hair-cut, Cortez moves are
unchangeably unique. A mixture of nightly beachside
bonfires, and bongo sessions, this was (for us) the
most beautiful of places to stay - wide, white open
beaches that go on forever and that gently roll down
to a sea many shades of turquoise. After a wonderful
and eventful time here neither of us wanted to leave,
but like the last kids on the beach at the end of
school holidays, we’ve sulkily refused to brush the
sand from our feet and now sit once again in downtown
Dar es Salaam.
One more thing before I push off (Nics telling me to
reel my neck in again - married life huh!). This
morning N and I made our way across town to the Zambia
High Commission; here a very jolly old lady helped us
with our forms. After a short while she knew all about
the last nine months of travel, including the wedding.
As we left we promised to return in a couple of days
with pictures, then as we reached the door she stood
up to ask, “So, back home, your families villages are
close by each other, yes?” – “Not that far apart I
suppose, why’s that?” asked Nic. With a big smile on
her face she said, “Cos when your husband beats you,
you don’t have to run too far to Mama!” We all thought
this hilarious, but not to be out done, Nic replied,
“Actually, it’s me who does the beating!” Shrieking
with laughter the little of lady shuffled up the
corridor, laughing all the way.
Travel News (Malawi – Zambia) – (25/01/07)
They say it’s not where you go its how you get there - well I say that’s just crap.
For a relatively short passage across southern Tanzania and down to Malawi our roaming schedule was not without of drama. By now, our backsides and patience have become sorely adapted to excursions that will no doubt include sweat, blood and tears – and that’s normally before we leave the car park, but this journey was…special.
Suffice to say although it was one of our shortest distances we’ve traveled, it took 12 hours and involved 6 different types of transport – including a few miles on the back of a push bike (with rucksacks) a gear-grinding, tyre-smoking bus journey driven by the devil himself and rust bucket minibus that was powered by hope and held together by faith. In short, our ticket conductor ripped us off and so if anybody happens to be passing Mbeya in southern Tanzania, please look out for the Impudu bus stand and if you find a tall, chain-smoking, glassy eyed guy there please punch him in the face, thank you.
Unlike the major road from home in everything but name, Malawi’s M1 cuts through an ever changing landscape of flat farmland, twisting escarpments and with Africa’s third largest lake a lakeshore that seems never too far away. Instead of the Watford Gap service station we make do make do with a screech of brakes, a bit of off-road and a 3 minute stop at a dusty old town – in these 3 minutes you must do all your necessaries, eat, drink and maybe stretch a bit. If you do not want to get off or, if bags, boxes and babies have left your legs numb and useless, then all sorts of goodies are thrust through your open window.
Here, I think our motorway services could take some culinary advice – for the finger licking price of 100 kwacha (less than 1 pence) you can buy yourself a tasty snack of 10 dried mice on a stick. Not your little fellas from home either, these guys are big, fat and rat size. Apparently, mouse hunting takes a lot of patience and is not without some skill, which is more than I can say for the cooking part – once caught, you take out their intestines (a little bitter, I’m told) then you plunge them into boiling fat, then let them dry in the sun until hard. Next, with head, tail, little claws, fur and whiskers dribbling with fat you shove them onto a skewer and hope that someone will see them as a treat.
Bypassing all rodent indulgences we arrived at Nkhata Bay, a sleepy, wet little town set high up on the slopes of Lake Malawi. It must be by some climatic coincidence that we continue to follow each countries rainy season – and not just the small rains either, oh no, we follow the big rains. Luckily, however, the wet has not stopped us from being, or doing where or what we want to do.
So, on our second day we found ourselves on a boat chugging across calm clear waters, ready for our first freshwater dive. With less to worry about than the sea the dive was quite nice – substitute sharks for catfish and coral/fish for cichlids (850 species and very pretty) and you get the idea.
Leaving the lake we took ourselves off to the capital, Lilongwe. Not much to say about this place, apart from its bloody awful. We stayed near the bus and market stand, which in hindsight is never really that wise. I can’t say that I’ve seen so many people (us included) living alongside such shit filled streets, with piles of filthy rubbish littered across muddy roads, not helped by constant rain. Although, I am told that in the market place you can buy almost anything, even young orphans can be purchased, if you’re a popstar that is.
In complete and utter contrast we are now in Zambia. Here the city centre is devoid of potholes (unheard of so far), the roads are flat and they even have real pavements, another novelty for us. The capital city of Lusaka is the most western style city we have seen do far and I’m not sure that’s such a good thing. Here, guys swagger down city streets in designer jeans and trendy shirts, whilst girls titter along behind them in high heels and sparkly tops.
Leaving the city’s behind us we took off for Bovu Island on the lower Zambezi. Taking the last 50 km in the back of a pick-up, then dugout canoe, the island was beautifully mellow. For company we had a gentle German entomologist who was catching butterflies for his PHD and the most loud American basket I’ve ever met in my life. Each and every morning from behind the trees of an early dawn chorus came “Well it’s a good morning to yer, what are we gonna do to day!” Over cornflakes it was ever so difficult not to say “O I don’t now, how about you F*** Off!”
Now, we are in southwest Zambia in the busy town of Livingstone. Yesterday, we
took ourselves down to see Victoria Falls – I hate to use the word, but they were awesome. We walked cross “knife-edge” bridges, got absolutely soaked, watched smoky white walls of spray hundreds of meters high, gawped at ever changing rainbows, clambered over rocks all the way down to the falls end and just sat and took it all in - spectacular.
Zimbabwe is not what we expected.
With inflation at well over 1200% it’s hard to understand how people survive here, but they do. In today’s paper the National Bakers have taken out a full page explaining why the cost of a loaf of bread has risen from $70(Zim) to $US336 in 2 months – a 336% increase. The official rate for the US$ is $250 (Zim) to 1US$, on the black market it’s around $4,500 (Zim) to 1US$, oh I’ve had loads of fun with shady backseat dealings. And I’ve never seen a bank note with a “Best before July 2007” message!
Staying in the suburbs of Harare (the capital) each house appeared to competing with the size of its swimming pool and ferocity of guard dog. Our home for a few days was a spare room of a 1970’s square house of glass and concrete, and owned by a craggy old Rhodesian war vet named Ian – for over 10 years he spent 1 month fighting and 1 month at home, he chitchatted about the war explaining that “killing the blacks was kind of like a necessary sport.”
Quickly growing tired of our 3-piece aubergine bathroom suite, we took an overnight train out of the city across country to Mutare. As ever, journeys by train are never that restful, but when the carriage next to you is full of young lads with local homebrew they are never that dull - served from ageing plastic containers it looks and tastes like vintage toxic waste and although it does hit the right buttons I’ve soberly since learned that it can sometimes lead to blindness.
Enclosed by pine heavy mountains, Mutare is a pretty old colonial town that has its fair share of middle-class white where you can still find little old ladies who sit in their manicured gardens chatting about the state of the country whilst munching on muffins and sipping expensive fruit wine. We know this because one evening we sat in such a garden to watch a film (“Frieda” v. good) with all the locals and their gaudy outdoor blankets and pork pie picnics.
Thoroughly over stories of church and tennis club’s N and I took ourselves off out of town to see the “Balancing Rocks” – as per normal we failed to see any entrance sign and sailed straight past, perhaps over excited to be crammed back on to a scruffy local bus. Realising our mistake the bus driver imaginatively brought the bus to a stop then grunting something unintelligible we were released from the bus onto the dusty streets of rural Epworth - and I’m glad we were.
For the next couple of hours N and I walked throughtheir streets, chatting to villagers and playing with the kids. From the moment we left the bus we were the source of Saturday afternoon fun; as you can imagine tourists are almost non-existent here and so for some of the kids white skin is something quite new. Curious to see us and always polite you could see the people were definitely struggling but were very friendly towards us and so we had a brilliant afternoon not seeing the Balancing Rocks.
Up early next morning we marched our way through town ready to hitch the 40km up to Zimbabwe’s Eastern Highlands. Disregarding our Lonely Planet map entirely N and I orientated ourselves in completely the wrong direction and so when the first truck stopped the driver informed us (rather sarcastically I thought) that we were on the road to Harare and already 3km out of town in the opposite direction from where we wanted to be! Sometimes I wonder how we ever made it past Gatwick – eventually, and a good and sweaty 3 hours later we had made it to our destination.
Still, it was worth the effort. Without getting all superlative on you the mountains of Bvumba are a thing of outstanding, incomparable beauty. In densely sweet smelling layers, thousands of pine and eucalyptus trees smother the hillsides in countless colours of green and blue. In between the forests are wildflower meadows, orchards thick with fruit and large clover strewn lawns often with stables, or quaint little teahouses. It reminded me of long, summer childhood holidays somewhere in England, or maybe a romantic part of England that I think I remember but have only read about in books.
We stayed in a large thatched roof house, complete with bowling-green lawn, narrow paths that disappeared into dark woods and impossibly high fern trees and fat pink rhododendrons. A short, but steep walk took us to the top of Chinyakwaremba (Hill of Tired Legs): from there you can see for miles into Zimbabwe – turn around and you have the lakes and valleys if Mozambique. Moving down from the rock we continued our way down to Leopard Rock, a 150US$ a night hotel modelled on a French chateau and built by Italian prisoners in WWII. Within the grounds is a beautiful PGA golf course which costs less than 10US$ for 18 holes, plus compulsory caddy.
Neighbouring Ndundu Lodge (where we stayed) sits an equally impressive thatched cottage – this is “Tony’s Coffee Shoppee” owned by a wonderful, but slightly scary old poof. Being more camp than Peggy Mitchell Tony described the menu with such gay flourish that when he got down to the “oozing” and “squelchy” banana and chocolate cake N nearly fell off her chair for laughing. Then over 2 perfectly straight black coffee’s he sat at our table and entertained us with detailed stories of his debilitating problems with Candida (that’s Thrush right?), his failing life energies and his special nutritionist “friend”.
Like I said, Zimbabwe, not what we expected.
Maybe the monetary bubble will one day eventually burst here, but until it does I would urge everyone to come to Zimbabwe, its beautiful.
Next stop Mozambique…
ps this weeks diet - garlic chocolate pancakes (tasted amazing) ostrich (tastes nothing like chicken) buffalo (like beef) inch long grubs (tasted like shite)
Mozambique
A piece of advice: don’t drink too much the night before a bus journey. Especially, if your departure time is at 2.30am.
At this time of year the roads get so hot that bus drivers are wary of burst tyres and so the mass of miles are completed whilst you’re still drunk, and still very much asleep. Once again we are brusquely wedged onboard, this time N has for company Man.
United fan number 3,605, complete with silver crucifix so huge that Madonna would be proud. Next to me sits a scantily clad gathering of African woman, her low-cut vest top struggles to control two oversized puppies that stretch their brown noses for air.
This is swelteringly hot Mozambique, where an old and enveloping colonial Portuguese are nourished by Indian, Arab and African in a sort of multi-coloured, multi-flavoured, liquorice-all-sorts of peoples.
Still cursing our late night stupidity, we are still moaning “never again” when our bus dumps us (and only us) at a roadside junction 20km from where we want to be. Unsure of our release or relief from the bus wehave no time to think when a pick-up stops; we bundle aboard and are off again. Minutes later we stop for another passenger, then again, then again, until at final count we carried 18 people, 2 babies and 3 stacks of firewood all bumping our way to the sea.
Vilankulo, our first port of call, is (was, after Cyclone Favio hit hard here) a lazy scattered town that spreads itself for miles along a palm fringed coastline. For company we had two lovely sisters from Slovenia and a constantly drunk Swedish guy, who was definitely a doppelganger for Jamiroquai’s Jay Kay (check out the website pix).
On Sunday’s the town shuts down and everyone has a day off. Then, around 4, or 5 people start to appear in their Sunday finest and the whole town heads for the beach for colour, music and football. In between head-to-tail makeshift football pitches fat speaker’s battle for the loudest tune and those not playing footy have a drink and dance with the kids. After a few beers our Space Cowboy bravely takes to the pitch, I wisely stay on the touch-line shouting encouragement. He thinks he’s Henrik Larsson but all that time in the band has taken its toll and he ends up getting kicked more times than the football.
Down the coast we wander Mozambique’s second oldest town of Inhumbane, here the architecture is grand but it has undeniably seen much better days. At the closed railway station market stalls now pedal their wares and still waiting patiently on platform 2 sits an ancient steam train with beautifully polished and gleaming chrome, enjoying her care but the binding weeds at her feet show she is never likely to meet her destination.
A short minibus ride takes us to the coast of Barra. Here, the beaches are wide, remote and empty of people and for the first time in Africa a high surf crashes onto the sand. We make the most of long walks along the sand, surfing (near drowning really) and some fantastic diving.
Then, like a slowly gathered sneeze, the licks of Cyclone Favio began to rustle through the palm trees, waves that had been fun the day before now churned the sea from blue to a crashing foamy grey – next morning we were advised to leave. Typically for Africa everything takes time - even running from a cyclone. A journey of no more than 200km took a very patient 2 day stretch: including a sleepless night in Inhumbane where a sweaty American harbinger spent the night saying things like, “now I don’t want to alarm anyone but…” and “its gonna be fine folks, I know the way to higher ground”…dickhead.
Finally, we make it Mozambique’s capital city – the tired old colonial lady of Maputo. Although somewhat geriatric and crumbling, on top of her flaking and fading streets someone has bought our aged lady some sparkly new things to wear – up town glittering bars and café’s spill out onto the streets – a huge 5 floor nightclub, complete with 3 full-size screens and an outdoor swimming pool suggest that there’s probably life in the old girl yet.
For our one night out we venture to the French-Mozambique Cultural Centre where a funky pink poster boasts of evening of jazz. Slipping into our finest we made our way to our seats, only slightly puzzled by a couple of nurses splaying themselves across stage. Unperturbed and thinking they may be dealing with some kind of stage fright, the medical profession where quickly joined by a guy in drag.
Obviously, we hadn’t understood a word from the poster, this was African avant garde opera at its finest. It probably made little difference that we didn’t understand very much, the shite wailing combined with much running around and screaming said it all. I guess experimental type operatic performers who think they are too clever by half can be crap in any language?
Swaziland - South Africa
I’ve been warned not to waffle, and as it’s been a
while I’ll (try to) condense.
Public transport is a distant, and not always too pleasant, memory: for our last (and final) few weeks we have a brand new Nissan, complete with power steering, very nice coffee cup holders, air conditioning (which we broke, on second car already) and our very own personal seats.
Since picking up the car we’ve driven over mountain pass, coasted beside miles of windswept beach, managed to find every pot-hole in the road, clocked-up over 4000km and have been stopped by the police three times (more later).
By unhappy coincidence our ending day of public transport happened to be our most unpleasant, and definitely our most anxious. After a long sweaty bus journey to Swaziland’s logging town of Piggs Peak, we sat for hours in the bus park, all the time the brunt of incoherent local laughter. The gag finally clicked, a bus to the border didn’t exist, so we found a taxi for the final, relatively short, but expensive 20km to Bulembu.
Bemused by our presence an unhappy officer stamped us out of Swaziland all the time asking how we meant to reach the next town. In a change of tune, he then happily explained that there would be no public transport (ever), the next town into South Africa was 40km away and we could either start walking, or sleep in the forest and hope to hitchhike tomorrow.
This was it; our luck had finally run out: we’ve been face-to-face with gorillas, rafted the Nile, endured endless suicidal drivers and even taught seven year old kids, but now we had before us a walk through the forest into potentially the most volatile country in Africa. Then, with barely 10 minutes to the close of border a rusting truck rolls up the hill towards us: unbelievably, this was the first car they had seen all day. It didn’t seem to matter that he wanted a small fortune for his troubles, or that he twice lost control on the loose gravel we were out of there and on our way.
After another great safari in Kruger National Park, where the highlight for me was watching a rather perceptive monkey taking a bite out of an overenthusiastic American, we made our way inland towards the battlefield regions of KwaZulu Natal and the heartland of the Zulu nation. It was here among the rolling green hills of the lowveld in a small remote farmstead that, despite overwhelming superioty of numbers, that brave Michael Caine (with less than 100 British soldiers) held off 4,000 Zulu at the Battle of Rourke s Drift in 1879.
Onwards, through the Battlefields to the jagged escarpments of Drakensburg: (Dragon Mountains) where we hiked the last 600m of a 3,400m peak. From the summit we had a clear (I’m told) 360 degree view of S.A. and Lesotho - Nic sat with her legs dangled over the edge of a 3,000m drop whilst I stood 5m away looking the other way and saying yes the views were probably very nice.
Back in the seaside town of Durban a storm blew for days on end, sending abnormal wind and waves so fierce that whole sections of the coastal road were swept out to sea. Before leaving we took a tour of, supposedly, the largest mosque in the southern hemisphere a thoroughly bizarre experience with a very keen bumbling guide and a bright-eyed journalist from the Dubai News.
During our walk around Juma Mosque bumbling guide switched from lecturing to preaching, then in mid-flow of a sermon (something about Judgement Day) his mobile
rang. And maybe Nic was still lost in the mumblings of Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) but before she had time to think she was being interviewed by the Dubai News. Then, just as things couldn’t get any more surreal we were invited across the road to the International Islamic Propagation Centre for orange squash and cookies.
With the mere formality of gaining a legal driving licence out here (over 3 million of 7 million drivers here have a dodgy licence) being something of a bother, traffic police are all too apparent. And so back on the road again I wasn’t too surprised to pulled over once again (the first time I was merely asked if I had any guns or meat) once out of the car I had to agree that cameras don’t lie but the situation quickly diffused by the constable taking pity on a West Ham fan, being a Tottenham fan he slapped me on the back laughing & you are down enough already. Very funny!
Arriving at Hogsback was almost overwhelmingly nostalgic. Oak avenues dripped with rain, swirling mists tumbled up the valley and over the Hogs, waterfalls gushed through deep gurgling woodland bushes a riot of azalea, toadstools and braken littering the forest floor. And strangely in reverse for some flowers here pink-white crab apple blossom heralds their Spring before Winter.
Another trip took us to the capital of Little Karoo Oudtshoorn. Described as a sedate town with some nice old buildings N and I arrived to a bustling town with no accomodation anywhere. Finally, the last guesthouse in town, owned by a wonderfully friendly minister and his wife, gave us their stables not really, they rather devoutly threw their daughter out and we had her tiny bedroom. By chance we had arrived at a week-long Afrikaans arts and music festival with 100,000 expected each day. My lasting memory will be watching the Sunday night gala perfomance presented by an Afrikaans Barbie doll on steroids check out - www.patricialewis.co.za/ - Flicking her flowing blond
hair into a wind machine every two minutes she introduced the final of their Afrikaan version of Pop Idol&.think very, very bad 1980’s music, with EuroVision outfits and sung in a strange warbling version of Dutch. Viva la Colonies!!
Finally, on a long drive home from the beach last week constable number three flags me down. Just before leaving, N went for one last paddle and misjudged a wave, getting her shorts wet in the processs. And so, as road cop stuck his head through my open window his first sight was Nic’s bare legs and knickers, he muttered something about driving safely and wandered away.
And Finally….(South Africa – Namibia)
And so, on our last and final leg of our long Red Road we have followed our U-shaped (or, U-bend) route from Swaziland’s kingdom of weed, along South Africa’s dramatic and often racially challenged coastline and up via the verbal oddities of Namibia. Driving, on average, for 500km each day we crossed the border, 3 weeks ago, into country number 13…Namibia, land of Bushmen, searing heat, endless dune-studded desert and surreal (German speaking) colonial towns by the name of Luderitz, or Spitzkoppe where Lutheran architecture still oddly fly red and black crested eagle flags to their beloved and not forgotten Fatherland.
Almost Biblical in it’s remoteness this land is mean, thirsty. It is a lean land of barren rock, although still rich with precious stone. Often beautiful, but relentless and remorseless in it’s intensity of heat and cold.
With air-conditioning on full, roads quickly empty of cars and very soon tarmac gave way to gravel and sand. Before long the interior of the car felt like the inside of one of those cheap snow-dome souvenir things of a crispy white scene: but unlike the toy, our snow never settled, churning up and around, until everything, no matter how tightly packed, was subjected to a red, grey pervasive dusty invasion.
With our new inner and exterior speckled matt finish we spat and spluttered our way towards our first stop at the head of Fish River Canyon, here we took an afternoon plunge into uncomfortably warm waters of “therapeutic” skin removing liquids of the local hot springs.
At our first desert camp the silence was deafening: so much so, that N picked-up every vibration. And my entertainment for the evening?...lifting up a wooden chest to reveal a dusty desert mouse, then watch N stand in the middle of the bed mumbling ever increasing high pitched warnings at the little fella.
Next day we joined our Damara speaking guide (they speak in a language of clicks and clucks that overlap speech, you have to hear it to believe it, I actually retuned the radio 3 times before I realised) for a pre-dawn 4x4 drive to Sossuvlei, at the edge of the vast Namib Desert. Coloured in hues of red, gold and pink standing at the base of a 200 metre high sand dune is a daunting experience. After a sweaty 40-minute glomp to the top you wouldn’t think it possible to achieve vertigo from a sand dune, but I managed it. Then, watching a beetle skuttle down across sandy-ridged dune, N and I had the same thought. Launching ourselves into virgin sand we took the short-cut, sending great puffs upward with each ungainly leap. Screaming like a pair of Sand Gorgons I hadn’t realised my mouth was open until landing in a yellow explosion at the bottom – well, that’s what sand dunes are for, isn’t it?
Needing a stretch of leg we ventured northwards towards the Nankluft Mountains for a short 10km hike at the pleasantly named “Olive Trail”. And in name that’s where the niceties ended: here, valley and gorge cut deep into ancient and yielding rock, with walls that took an age to sculpt we took our trail that was less path and more dry riverbed. Gravel and rock soon turned into boulders so large that our walk had turned into something like a horizontal climb. With little choice we used rusting old chains embedded into rock-face to traverse a steep sided ravine. Leaving us both tired and a little shaken but still climbing sideways I noticed what I thought were eagles soaring over the small sliver of blue high above the canyon walls, then as the bed widened to gravel we almost stumbled over the black and white stripes of a half eaten zebra. Realising that the birds encircling above were probably not eagles, but an even bigger and uglier species it quickly occurred to us that whatever had killed the zebra was probably not too far away and we got out rather swiftly.
Pointing the car northeast we drove along an unimaginably long straight road to the Caprivi Strip and the start of the Okavango Delta. With desert now far behind, our Ngepi Camp destination was a small, but lush green island of Amarula and Jackalberry tree. Set among beautifully unspoilt reaches of the panhandle, hippos and crocs were literally our lodge-side neighbours – evidence in the pink dawn revealed huge prints right outside our non-existent door. Up before sunrise one morning I caught the end of a light studded black crystal clear sky, as night began to ebb ever endless celestial bodies seem to cast a surreal glow upon the first flush of the Okavango’s early morning light.
Turning south for our long last leg, the season’s began to change: crossing the border to South Africa autumn’s touch was now well under way. Still with semi-desert all around, you could see weather happening from miles away, from distant horizon’s blankets of grey rain envelope mountain as tall tower blocks of lopsided rain – what is broken dust one side soon becomes a shadow of water on the other.
Back all the way down in Cape Town for our last and final week, we have been exploring and enjoying the metropolitan life once more. Although, our funky apartment in a street of boutiques and banging bars seemed such a good idea, our morning supply of fresh earplugs gave it away and I have definitely rested easier in the middle of a nightclub. But, trips along the coast and up to Table Mountain, plus a spot of retail therapy have helped fight the fatigue. Not least a boat trip across to Robben Island, the political prison for so many who fought for Apartheid end, most famously, Mandela who spent 18 years here (and 27 years total in prison). Unselfishly shown around by an ex-prisoner called Glen (he now lives on the island with his young family) we took a tour of the prisons tiny cells while listening to stories of struggle and how things were.
Standing between the cells at the tour end Glen asked for our questions, of which, you might imagine, there were many. The last question came from a black African, he asked if Glen was content now that the white regime was over. Without hesitation he replied that it was good that apartheid was over, but he was far from content: Glen eloquently, explained that he had spent 6 years on Robben Island, and fully expected to serve 25. He went on to say that is grandmother had lived long enough to vote for the very first time and now they were free, but still poverty, violent crime, HIV and corruption were all still big problems for South Africa and with such a long way still to go, always worth fighting for. From all the countries we have seen, for me, Glen could have been talking about any country in Africa…or maybe just any country at all.
I had promised myself that in a last e-mail I wouldn’t try to summarise our trip…too long, and I go on enough as it is. However, aside from all the wonders we have seen and the many peoples we have been fortunate enough to meet, the “African problem” is never far from our minds and I’m sure N and I will keep talking about it for a very long time to come - suffice to say that my opinion is probably the reverse of what I thought a year ago. Maybe I’ll save that for another time…
And we t(w)o have a long way to go.
Okay, that’s it - thanks for listening.
