Zanzibar is one of those places where time just slips by. I could have easily spent another week there, enjoying the beach, watching the sunsets and moon rises, and part-ay-ing on the beach until the wee hours. But time is running short, my friends, and I wanted one last adventure before flying home next Wednesday.
Before the full moon party I had purchased a ticket to fly from Zanzibar to Entebbe, Uganda, connecting in Dar es Salaam. Dennis Hopper's voice had faded from my head, no doubt forced out by days spent lazing at the beach by day and killing brain cells by evening, and I figured splashing out for a flight to save four days travel when I only have eight days remaining was a decent idea. I guess I might actually digress from Uganda for a moment to write a bit more about the full moon party and impressions of Zanzibar in general. Again, chances are that this will be more for my edification than yours, so bear with me.
It's not that there was anything wrong with the full moon party per se. Rather, it had just been built up so much that I was expecting the world and was a bit disappointed when it didn't arrive. Unlike Thailand, where the full moon party (let's just call it the FRUMP for Full-on-Rager-Under-the-Moon-Party) spans the entire beach at Kho Phangan, in Zanzibar the party is isolated to a single bar called Kendwa Rocks. I actually like that it's smaller in Zanzibar because it feels more intimate, and because if you're tiring of the party you can walk five minutes in either direction and enjoy the beach with some privacy. Rather than comment on why one would want such privacy, I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to surmise for yourself.
But lest your imaginations run too far too fast, I'll go ahead and drop that I didn't really meet any interesting women in Zanzibar. Perhaps that's why I liked Thailand's FRUMP better, but I must admit that in the back of my mind I had dreams of meeting Zoe #2 and spending the last two weeks of my trip just chilling out honeymoon-like on the beaches of Zanzibar.
That of course didn't happen, but I did see lots of, well, um, let's just say not-so-attractive women who walked arm-in-arm down the beach with local men. In Thailand you see disgusting old farts parading around with a local prostitute on each arm, but here it seems to be the opposite: it's western women that shell out the bucks to get laid. I think that men go to Thailand for this sort of sex tourism because it's cheap, the women are good looking, and the culture is generally accepting of their transgressions. Africa isn't nearly as cheap, the Muslim culture of Zanzibar is most certainly not open to the idea of sex tourism, so I can logically deduce only one attribute unique to the African male that might cause these women to come flocking in droves. Given that this is a PG-blog, I of course can't say explicitly what that attribute is. But I can say that I was once firmly in the size-doesn't-matter camp, and now I'm starting to question some of my most fundamental beliefs.
Frankly, I didn't come to Zanzibar to concern myself with the sexual lives of others, nor did I come here for the FRUMP. So I really didn't care that the party wasn't all that great. I came here to chill out on the beach and nothing more. And my god does Zanzibar have incredible beaches. The sand is so fine it sticks to your skin like flour, the water is so warm and smooth on your skin that you can't help but make an evening skinny dip part of your regular routine, and the sunsets are so incredible--accented as if on cue by dhows crossing through view--that it's the biggest priority of the day to be relaxing with a cocktail in hand to watch it go down. And one of the best parts is that there virtually no development on the beach so you can relax in peace.
And land here is cheap. Incredibly cheap. So incredibly cheap that I wouldn't think twice about buying here if I were allowed to as a foreigner. A Tanzanian friend of mine--a fellow Stanford student who we joined at the FRUMP--is looking at purchasing land in Zanzibar. He found one plot that's three acres with 300-400 yards of pristine beachfront for the grand price of........wait for it.....$25,000. $25,000!!! I'm telling you, Zanzibar is going to be Ko Samui in 20 years' time. If they ever relax the restrictions on foreign ownership of property, this place will explode. The food is pretty average, the music selection is pretty limited, but any place where the locals give themselves names like FBI, Black Moon, State, and Black Mamba (the names of the guys we were hanging out with last night) is going straight to the top in my opinion.
But I'm now in Kampala, Uganda, and it feels a world apart. For starters, it's raining something fierce right now. Hard, thunderous, torrential rain. Rain so hard that the 15 seconds it takes to get your backpack out of the trunk of a taxi is enough to saturate your clothes entirely. I really haven't seen rain since Cape Town, where I saw it in droves, so it feels kind of nice to have it raging outside. Uganda seems lovely though it's too early for much in the way of observations.
Tomorrow night I'm off on the bus for southwestern Uganda to a town called Kisoro. I'll spend a day and a night there getting everything arranged for the trip into the Congo, and by Friday morning I should be with a habituated family of mountain gorillas in the DRC. I will need to double check with everyone the security situation in the DRC at the moment, but indications are good that it's safe to cross over as long as you stay in the park, where the military guards against poachers and guerillas. If I think it's excessively risky, I won't hesitate to bail out.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
ZAAAAAAANNNNNZZZZZZZZIBARRRRRRR!
If you're looking for the best full moon party on offer, don't come here. Go to Thailand. But, if on the other hand, you're looking for what is arguably the best beach in the world, you should definitely come here. I'm at Kendwa Beach on the north end of Zanzibar. After giving it much thought, I think I'm going to rate this as a top 3 beach in the world (well, at least of the
ones that I've been to).
We came over to Zanzibar on Thursday by way of the "slow" ferry to Stone Town. The ride was pleasant enough, if a bit woozy as the boat bobbed over the big sea swells. They pass out courtesy plastic bags at the beginning of the trip, so I was expecting the worst but never saw one person puke. Seeing Masai people dressed up in full garb and struggling to fight back seasickness was quite a site though. We spent a couple of days in Stone Town, which was plenty. Just enough time to have a few sundowners and watch a couple of sunsets, eat fresh
seafood cooked right in front of you at the open air markets, book some onward travel (next stop: Kampala, Uganda), and get lost in the maze of old, narrow streets. I spent the better part of a half a day searching for a bathing suit to no avail. I honestly can't figure out where people buy clothes in Stone Town, because all I could find were curio shops, bottle shops, and travel agencies. Thankfully, my buddy Mark was kind enough to lend me an extra pair of shorts so I didn't have to spend all day in the buff.
I could go on and on about how incredible the beach is, but I'd rather be out there enjoying it than in here writing. So I'll sign off, and by the time you hear from me next I should be in Kampala. I'll spend a day or two there, then the plan is to head into the Congo ("Democratic" Republic of) to see the mountain gorillas. Then back to Kampala and eventually back to Nairobi for my departure on August 8th. Hard to believe there's just over a week left.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Dar is Far
There was a point in time that I contemplated flying from Southern Africa to East Africa in order to save time. Then Dennis Hopper’s voice from Easy Rider and that old axiom “The journey is the destination, man” popped into my head and I realized how foolish it would be to fly. So I set out overland through Malawi for Dar es Salaam.
Well, I’ve now made it to Dar, and I have to say it was quite an adventure in getting here. I left Nkhata Bay in Malawi on Sunday, and over four days took the following modes of transport to get here:
-Small boat
-Big boat (Ilala)
-Minibus at 3am in Chilumba, Northern Malawi
-Walk
-Hitchhike, get picked up by a truck
-Taxi
-Walk
-Minibus - called here a Daladala (by the way, my personal record of most people in a minibus – 18 in Namibia in the off chance you can’t remember – was shattered a few days ago in Mbeya, Tanzania: 26 people in one single minibus. 26!)
-Taxi
-Tazara train (27 hours, but astoundingly arrived only a few minutes late)
-Pickup truck
I’m off to Zanzibar this afternoon by boat, so there will be at least one more leg to the journey before I settle down again for a week or so there. I have to say, I’ve really, really enjoyed the journey in getting here. It really did feel like an adventure, and we were quite off the beaten path in northern Malawi. On the Ilala there would be hours of total darkness on the coastline, then the occasional collection of fires that indicated a fishing village somewhere back there. We’d also occasionally see big swaths of hillside awash in flames. Apparently, this is their traditional method of hunting small game: light the hillside on fire, and wait for the rabbits and everything else to come running out the other end. Hardly sustainable in my opinion, but who am I to judge?
I’m in Dar now—a city full of people and cars and activity and noise and light—and I’m feeling a bit shocked by the contrast. I haven’t been in a city since Cape Town, and the change I notice most is the bright lights at night. Malawi, Botswana, Namibia, and Zambia were all so very dark at night. The only real light you would get was from a campfire or a full moon or the muted lights of your hostel.
That I’m shocked by the level of development in Tanzania says as much, I think, about Malawi as it does Tanzania. Malawi is so utterly poor, so lacking in infrastructure and investment, that you almost don’t notice it. Something on the order of 85% of the population lives hand-to-mouth, so Malawi can at times almost seem more an idyllic collection of agrarian villages than a destitute country. Peter, you have your work cut out for you, my friend.
Crossing over into Tanzania, one of the first things I noticed was the presence of Indian immigrants. True to their stereotype by locals here in Africa, Indians seem to be running most of the shops around town. You can also sense the presence of industry and mechanized farming here in Tanzania, and, reassuringly, you see schoolchildren wandering the streets in uniform. It’s distressing though to see the number of people—and schoolchildren in particular—who seem to be sitting around idly. Many schools here do ½-day shifts, so there’s often one group of kids milling about while the other group is in school. But you also see big groups of men standing idly, often under the shade of a tree in a village or on street corners here in the city. Why aren’t these people working? I keep asking myself this question over and over again. Appropriate for an MBA student, I suppose, but a bit worrisome. I think it’s a combination of high unemployment and a culture that relies heavily on women to do most of the work in the village. Whatever the reasons, it’s distressing to see so many people without something to do.
Things are different here in a fun way, too. For example, the first day of the week apparently is Saturday, rather than our custom of Monday. High noon is the 6th hour rather than the 12th hour of the day. As far as I can tell, the custom prior to European arrival was to count only daylight hours in their concept of time. And, there are squat toilets here. God damn it, I hate squat toilets. I understand that they are actually more hygienic and easier to keep clean and all that blah blah blah. But give me a western-style toilet and a local newspaper and I’d be a much happier man.
The only downside of the Tazara train actually was the squat toilet. Waking up early in the morning, laying there in bed, knowing full well that the task ahead would involve squatting, bracing, balancing, and other related gerunds was really the only time when I wished I was anywhere else but the Tazara train. But, we press on, and we cross our fingers that Zanzibar may be home to the porcelain thrones that we have all come to love.
The train was a blast. Not quite as cool as the boat, but pretty close. We three bought a first-class sleeper cabin so we were traveling comfortably, but spent most of the time in the dining car where, paradoxically, there was no food. They did have warm beer though, so we subsisted on that for the 27-hour ride. We also bought some local food from people selling it on the tracks when the train would stop (which it did, often and randomly). I ate sugar directly from the cane for the first time, and had other firsts like banana-in-chipati sandwiches.
I also met some very interesting characters on the train. One guy, Clinton, was a Professional Hunter and with his dad ran one of these outfits that bring rich American hunters over to Africa to kill big game like elephants, lions and leopards. Tanzania is one of the only countries left in Africa where you can still hunt big game in the wild, but you have to pay big bucks for the privilege. Lion and leopard are $12,000 and elephants are $18,000. Why anyone would pay $18,000 to shoot and elephant dead is beyond the scope of this missive, but The Economist at one point did a write-up that explains both sides of the hunting issue pretty well, so if you must know more, crack on. However one might feel about big game hunting, Clinton was a damned interesting guy to talk to. I also met a local guy, Masozi, who was the country learning advisor for a U.K.-based charity called Plan International. He was incredibly knowledgeable, affable, and his English was excellent. We talked a lot about the state of Tanzanian education, and basically netted out that even with all of the funding in the world there would still be serious cultural obstacles to overcome. How you go about reforming a culture such that it supports education is also beyond the scope of this missive.
Then I had a discussion on politics with two 19-year old British guys who opened a conversation with “What’s it like to be an American and hated everywhere you go in the world?” I’ve been good at restraining myself so far on this trip, but I think the arrogance and ignorance of their youth touched a nerve in me, so I felt obliged to give them a good lashing. As inane as the conversation was, it did serve as a good reminder of something that I’ve noticed widely here: the world really is pissed off at America. Most people are unable to separate the actions of a government from its people, so by association the world is really pissed off at Americans. Not a day goes by when I don’t have to smile outwardly and inwardly bite my tongue as someone casually insults me for being American. Whether the ill will is legitimate or not, we have a lot of goodwill rebuilding to do in the world. Once GWB is turfed out of office, the next American president will have a tall order on his (her?) plate.
Signing off now, as the pictures are finally uploaded. I’m catching the midday boat to Zanzibar, which should have us into Stone Town right around sunset. A few days in Stone Town, then it’s up to the north end of the island for a full moon party. My last one was in Thailand five years ago; it will be interesting to see how this one compares.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Some Pics (Finally)
Here are some pics. Could only upload at full resolution, so sorry for the big size. Descriptions at the bottom.
Descriptions, from top to bottom:
-MV Ilala, Nkhata Bay, Malawi
-With schoolteacher friend, Mary, Bwelelo Village, Malawi
-Gabriel and his sister in his weight room, Nkhata Bay
-Boys with toys made out of milk cartons and beer caps, Northern Malawi
-With friend Gabriel, Nkhata Bay
-Local live music at Mayoka Village, Nkhata Bay
-Ganja mobile (they do have Malawi Gold, after all) Nkhata Bay
-Sign that greatly helped me, Chipata Zambia
-Girls carrying firewood to their village, Bwelelo Village, Malawi
-Boy saluting on beach, Chikale Beach, Malawi
-View from my chalet, Mayoka Village, Malawi
-More boys on beach, Chikale Beach, Malawi
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-Elephants at safe distance on walking safari, after near miss, South Luangwa NP, Zambia
-Minibus from hell, Zambia
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-South Luangwa sunset, Zambia
"The Captain is a Good Man, but When He's Drunk He's a Madman"
"Do not disrespect Malawi," boomed the absurdly drunk captain over our ship's loudspeaker as we pulled away from the dock. "Anyone who treats Malawians bad is rubbish," he continued in a voice so fire-and-brimstone like that we thought we were listening to some sort of bon voyage prayer. Apparently, the captain had taken the crew of our boat, the MV Ilala, into town to get drunk for a few hours, which would seem to provide at least a partial explanation for why the ferry was nine hours late in its departure from Nkhata Bay on Lake Malawi.
What we would later learn is that the captain and some idiot owner of a Land Rover4x4 were in a heated dispute over who was responsible for damage done to the 4x4. The Ilala goes up and down Lake Malawi one time per week in each direction, and the owner of this car had it loaded onto the bow of the ferry and taken north. They banged it against the side of the ship when they got to port, denting the front quarterpanel. The owner was pissed, the captain got pissed that the owner was pissed, so he headed into town with his crew and got pissed. The owner waited on the dock for a few hours, fuming, and when the captain got back he started telling him off, and didn't finish telling him off until we were well out of port.
Ahh, Malawi. Instead of "you will find life jackets under your seats and life rafts here, here, and here" it was "you are a fucking rubbish for disrespecting Malawi." You might think that if the captain goes out to the bar to get drunk that a first mate or some other sort of person in charge would stay behind to be responsible. But no. The first mate was wasted as well. "Very, very drunk" was the quote we got. Later we saw him and I can vouch that he probably couldn't even have found his own nose let alone some small coastal port in the middle of the night. Drunk pilots have become such a routine here in Africa that my only reaction to hearing this news was to look on the top deck to find the best liferaft and then laying my sleeping bag out right next to it.
All of these sordid, drunk details we later learned from Moses, the bartender of the Ilala. The Ilala was built just after WWII in Scotland as a steamer to ply the waters of the Clyde near Glasgow. The boat was dismantled and shipped here in the 1950s (I couldn't figure out why exactly), and reassembled to serve as the ferry that links all of these small coastal towns together on Lake Malawi. It's a beautiful, old, classic ship that looks exactly like what you would expect an African ferry on Lake Malawi to look like.
We met Moses through Charlie and James, two Brits who are on a tour of all of the bars and gin joints in Africa. Charlie, James, my two Kiwi friends, and I were the only muzungu on the boat, so we spent quite a bit of time together and drank quite a bit of James' gin (it was for the malaria, Mom, the malaria...). All in all, it was an incredible experience and will go down as a highlight of the trip. I wish we could have stayed on the boat longer...
What we would later learn is that the captain and some idiot owner of a Land Rover4x4 were in a heated dispute over who was responsible for damage done to the 4x4. The Ilala goes up and down Lake Malawi one time per week in each direction, and the owner of this car had it loaded onto the bow of the ferry and taken north. They banged it against the side of the ship when they got to port, denting the front quarterpanel. The owner was pissed, the captain got pissed that the owner was pissed, so he headed into town with his crew and got pissed. The owner waited on the dock for a few hours, fuming, and when the captain got back he started telling him off, and didn't finish telling him off until we were well out of port.
Ahh, Malawi. Instead of "you will find life jackets under your seats and life rafts here, here, and here" it was "you are a fucking rubbish for disrespecting Malawi." You might think that if the captain goes out to the bar to get drunk that a first mate or some other sort of person in charge would stay behind to be responsible. But no. The first mate was wasted as well. "Very, very drunk" was the quote we got. Later we saw him and I can vouch that he probably couldn't even have found his own nose let alone some small coastal port in the middle of the night. Drunk pilots have become such a routine here in Africa that my only reaction to hearing this news was to look on the top deck to find the best liferaft and then laying my sleeping bag out right next to it.
All of these sordid, drunk details we later learned from Moses, the bartender of the Ilala. The Ilala was built just after WWII in Scotland as a steamer to ply the waters of the Clyde near Glasgow. The boat was dismantled and shipped here in the 1950s (I couldn't figure out why exactly), and reassembled to serve as the ferry that links all of these small coastal towns together on Lake Malawi. It's a beautiful, old, classic ship that looks exactly like what you would expect an African ferry on Lake Malawi to look like.
We met Moses through Charlie and James, two Brits who are on a tour of all of the bars and gin joints in Africa. Charlie, James, my two Kiwi friends, and I were the only muzungu on the boat, so we spent quite a bit of time together and drank quite a bit of James' gin (it was for the malaria, Mom, the malaria...). All in all, it was an incredible experience and will go down as a highlight of the trip. I wish we could have stayed on the boat longer...
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
"Dr. Chocolate, Where Are Your Pants?"
After seven days in the paradise that is Mayoka Village, I’ve just decided to set off with two Kiwis, Mark and Rick, for Zanzibar, Tanzania by way of the ferry up Lake Malawi.
It was quite hard to leave Mayoka. After a week here it’s started to feel like home. In contrast to the frequent solitude of traveling, I have made lots of friends here, I’ve fallen in love only to get left two days later, and have collected quite a few interesting experiences.
For example, the first night we arrived was the 8th anniversary for Mayoka. The owners threw a big party for the tourists and locals alike, and through it I was introduced to two unwavering maxims of Malawians: they are incredibly friendly and gregarious; and, they can dance. My god can they dance. From the moment the music starts the entire crowd is moving, and it stays moving until the music stops, which in this case was about 4am.
At about the midpoint in the evening the crowd formed into a dance circle. Now, you see, I really hate dance circles, namely because my moves require the anonymity of darkly lit and tightly packed rooms to be properly appreciated. These giant circles throw off my game, especially when filled with athletic Africans casually performing feats of dance and physical coordination normally reserved for the shows of Vegas. The men were taking turns in the middle doing flips, break-dancing, and just generally moving in a very coordinated way. The women would strut their stuff by balancing their drinks on their head while they spun and gyrated and just looked generally coordinated on the dance floor.
I was appreciating watching this spectacle, standing just close enough to watch but not so close as to be at risk of getting pulled in. My calculations did not take into account getting pushed into the circle from behind, which is, of course, exactly what happened. Suddenly I found myself in the spotlight, knowing full well that I couldn’t balance my drink on my head under the best of circumstances, let alone while I danced around the floor. What could I possibly do to best the dancer before me, I thought. What could I do that would really impress them? Then it came to me like a ray of shining light gleaming off of the bottle of Kuche Kuche (local beer) in my hand: don’t beat them by playing their game, Alex, beat them at your game. And what’s the one dance that I can do better than almost anyone else? The old white man’s (OWM) dance, that’s what.
So into the circle I plunged, knees rigid and bumping against each other, back stiff and moving in an abrupt jerking motion, arms at my sides with elbows pinned against hips, fingers forming the shape of a gun and firing imaginary bullets into the crowd, just off beat with the music and often times followed by a wink and a crooked smile. That’s right, my friends, I brought it, and they bought what I was selling. I was the emissary sent from the land where old white men dance, and my fellow OWM brothers, our dance has arrived in Africa.
Then there’s the story of Dr. Chocolate, and old man (OBM, not OWM) that comes in to the lounge area of Mayoka every evening without fail. Dr. Chocolate can usually be counted on to wear the same outfit every day: black trousers; pink dress shirt; black cowboy hat; and a Mickey Mouse tie to bring the outfit together like Lebowski’s rug did his room. Dr. Chocolate arrives at the lounge area just after dinner, and promptly—but not quickly—takes the chocolate bars off the shelf where they are normally sold and meticulously lays them out on a bench in front of his usual chair according to some soft of chocolate taxonomy that is beyond the grasp of most mortals without doctoral degrees in the stuff. By 8:00 in the evening he is available for private or group consultations, doling out chocolate alongside advice in broken English. As you can imagine, with such a connoisseur of chocolate readily available, and such distinguished brands as Nestle Crunch, Snickers, and Mars Bars on offer, I quickly developed an after-dinner chocolate habit.
One evening, as was my usual custom, I pulled up a chair opposite Dr. Chocolate, seated beneath his height so that my eye level was about at his chest. The first thing I noticed was that in lieu of the black cowboy hat, Dr. Chocolate had selected a purple floral hat, like something an upper class British woman would wear to a garden party. In place of the pink dress shirt and Mickey tie was a partially-matching purple frock, almost like the scrubs you see doctors (AND DENTISTS!! Congrats, Bethie, on passing your Boards) wear. And, importantly, in place of his normal black trousers were, well, nothing. “Dr. Chocolate, where are your pants?” I asked on sitting down next to him, and noticing that what I was looking at was a hand covering his private parts.
Assuming that I had come to him with another problem in need of chocolate and advice, Dr. Chocolate immediately began to point to various bars. Said Dr. Chocolate, pointing to the chocolate as he spoke, “This one is good, and this one is nice, and this one is also very good, and this one is aalso very nice.” In about 30 seconds Dr. Chocolate could get through each bar in his stash, recommending each as his favorite. 30 seconds was about all I could tolerate before erupting in laughter and excusing myself. But not, of course, before purchasing a chocolate bar.
My days at Mayoka basically consisted of waking up around 8am, putting on my swimsuit, going for a swim, then dragging myself down to the restaurant for breakfast and 1-2 hours of bullshitting. Then perhaps another swim, sometimes across to the other side of the bay if we were feeling ambitious, and at other times we would try our luck paddling around in local dugout canoes, or if all else failed I would just chill out and read my book. Then lunch, a similar set of activities in the afternoon, and then dinner followed by some sort of social activity in the evening. The food is really, really good here, there’s often live local music, and just generally a pleasant atmosphere to chill out in. After the stress of the last year with business school applications and all of that, this week has been positively idyllic.
I would also get out to the nearby town and villages occasionally as well. I became good friends with a Malawian guy, Gabriel, and one day he took me to his house for the afternoon. He’s into weightlifting and martial arts and has shown an incredible amount of ingeminate in constructing an entire gym in his backyard out of old car parts, coffee canisters full of cement and the like. He’s a really sweet guy with a big heart and an even bigger scent of body odor. One afternoon he and I and my new Kiwi friends who I am now traveling with (I am now in Mbeya, Tanzania with them but more on that later) went on a walk to a nearby village. There we met Mary, a teacher in the village school who has one of these personalities that seem larger than life. She needs personality, patience and more to run the village primary school: 700 children attend, spread across nine classes with only seven teachers between all of them. There’s no electricity, not enough seats for all of the children, and not a single poster or other sort of educational supplement in any of the classrooms. They just don’t have the money for it—they only get about $200 per year for the whole school from the Malawi Gov’t. It was really sad to see the environment that kids learn in here, and we vowed to support them however we could once we were back home. (Fair warning: you may be hit up for a donation).
But the harsh conditions didn’t dampen Mary’s enthusiasm or the optimism of the children one bit. She was an incredible character and invited us back the next day for lunch at her home and a walk back to the village where she grew up. Everyone was so incredibly friendly, so genuinely happy to make our acquaintance, and so generous with what little they had that I was incredibly humbled by the experience.
I think I could have easily spent another month here, but it’s time to get moving again. I’ll miss this place and all of the wonderful people I’ve met here (most of whom have Haight-Ashbury names like Hope, Precious, Gift, Love, Special). I won’t miss the ants, which are crawling over this page as I’m writing this, nor will I miss the roving bands of chickens that at times surrounded my chalet for a 5am wake-up call. I’m excited for the next part of the journey though.
We’re off to Chilumba in the north by way of the MV Ilala up Lake Malawi. We’ll spend a couple of nights there, go on a few hikes, then make our way across the Tanzanian border where we’re hoping to catch a train to Dar es Salaam.
It was quite hard to leave Mayoka. After a week here it’s started to feel like home. In contrast to the frequent solitude of traveling, I have made lots of friends here, I’ve fallen in love only to get left two days later, and have collected quite a few interesting experiences.
For example, the first night we arrived was the 8th anniversary for Mayoka. The owners threw a big party for the tourists and locals alike, and through it I was introduced to two unwavering maxims of Malawians: they are incredibly friendly and gregarious; and, they can dance. My god can they dance. From the moment the music starts the entire crowd is moving, and it stays moving until the music stops, which in this case was about 4am.
At about the midpoint in the evening the crowd formed into a dance circle. Now, you see, I really hate dance circles, namely because my moves require the anonymity of darkly lit and tightly packed rooms to be properly appreciated. These giant circles throw off my game, especially when filled with athletic Africans casually performing feats of dance and physical coordination normally reserved for the shows of Vegas. The men were taking turns in the middle doing flips, break-dancing, and just generally moving in a very coordinated way. The women would strut their stuff by balancing their drinks on their head while they spun and gyrated and just looked generally coordinated on the dance floor.
I was appreciating watching this spectacle, standing just close enough to watch but not so close as to be at risk of getting pulled in. My calculations did not take into account getting pushed into the circle from behind, which is, of course, exactly what happened. Suddenly I found myself in the spotlight, knowing full well that I couldn’t balance my drink on my head under the best of circumstances, let alone while I danced around the floor. What could I possibly do to best the dancer before me, I thought. What could I do that would really impress them? Then it came to me like a ray of shining light gleaming off of the bottle of Kuche Kuche (local beer) in my hand: don’t beat them by playing their game, Alex, beat them at your game. And what’s the one dance that I can do better than almost anyone else? The old white man’s (OWM) dance, that’s what.
So into the circle I plunged, knees rigid and bumping against each other, back stiff and moving in an abrupt jerking motion, arms at my sides with elbows pinned against hips, fingers forming the shape of a gun and firing imaginary bullets into the crowd, just off beat with the music and often times followed by a wink and a crooked smile. That’s right, my friends, I brought it, and they bought what I was selling. I was the emissary sent from the land where old white men dance, and my fellow OWM brothers, our dance has arrived in Africa.
Then there’s the story of Dr. Chocolate, and old man (OBM, not OWM) that comes in to the lounge area of Mayoka every evening without fail. Dr. Chocolate can usually be counted on to wear the same outfit every day: black trousers; pink dress shirt; black cowboy hat; and a Mickey Mouse tie to bring the outfit together like Lebowski’s rug did his room. Dr. Chocolate arrives at the lounge area just after dinner, and promptly—but not quickly—takes the chocolate bars off the shelf where they are normally sold and meticulously lays them out on a bench in front of his usual chair according to some soft of chocolate taxonomy that is beyond the grasp of most mortals without doctoral degrees in the stuff. By 8:00 in the evening he is available for private or group consultations, doling out chocolate alongside advice in broken English. As you can imagine, with such a connoisseur of chocolate readily available, and such distinguished brands as Nestle Crunch, Snickers, and Mars Bars on offer, I quickly developed an after-dinner chocolate habit.
One evening, as was my usual custom, I pulled up a chair opposite Dr. Chocolate, seated beneath his height so that my eye level was about at his chest. The first thing I noticed was that in lieu of the black cowboy hat, Dr. Chocolate had selected a purple floral hat, like something an upper class British woman would wear to a garden party. In place of the pink dress shirt and Mickey tie was a partially-matching purple frock, almost like the scrubs you see doctors (AND DENTISTS!! Congrats, Bethie, on passing your Boards) wear. And, importantly, in place of his normal black trousers were, well, nothing. “Dr. Chocolate, where are your pants?” I asked on sitting down next to him, and noticing that what I was looking at was a hand covering his private parts.
Assuming that I had come to him with another problem in need of chocolate and advice, Dr. Chocolate immediately began to point to various bars. Said Dr. Chocolate, pointing to the chocolate as he spoke, “This one is good, and this one is nice, and this one is also very good, and this one is aalso very nice.” In about 30 seconds Dr. Chocolate could get through each bar in his stash, recommending each as his favorite. 30 seconds was about all I could tolerate before erupting in laughter and excusing myself. But not, of course, before purchasing a chocolate bar.
My days at Mayoka basically consisted of waking up around 8am, putting on my swimsuit, going for a swim, then dragging myself down to the restaurant for breakfast and 1-2 hours of bullshitting. Then perhaps another swim, sometimes across to the other side of the bay if we were feeling ambitious, and at other times we would try our luck paddling around in local dugout canoes, or if all else failed I would just chill out and read my book. Then lunch, a similar set of activities in the afternoon, and then dinner followed by some sort of social activity in the evening. The food is really, really good here, there’s often live local music, and just generally a pleasant atmosphere to chill out in. After the stress of the last year with business school applications and all of that, this week has been positively idyllic.
I would also get out to the nearby town and villages occasionally as well. I became good friends with a Malawian guy, Gabriel, and one day he took me to his house for the afternoon. He’s into weightlifting and martial arts and has shown an incredible amount of ingeminate in constructing an entire gym in his backyard out of old car parts, coffee canisters full of cement and the like. He’s a really sweet guy with a big heart and an even bigger scent of body odor. One afternoon he and I and my new Kiwi friends who I am now traveling with (I am now in Mbeya, Tanzania with them but more on that later) went on a walk to a nearby village. There we met Mary, a teacher in the village school who has one of these personalities that seem larger than life. She needs personality, patience and more to run the village primary school: 700 children attend, spread across nine classes with only seven teachers between all of them. There’s no electricity, not enough seats for all of the children, and not a single poster or other sort of educational supplement in any of the classrooms. They just don’t have the money for it—they only get about $200 per year for the whole school from the Malawi Gov’t. It was really sad to see the environment that kids learn in here, and we vowed to support them however we could once we were back home. (Fair warning: you may be hit up for a donation).
But the harsh conditions didn’t dampen Mary’s enthusiasm or the optimism of the children one bit. She was an incredible character and invited us back the next day for lunch at her home and a walk back to the village where she grew up. Everyone was so incredibly friendly, so genuinely happy to make our acquaintance, and so generous with what little they had that I was incredibly humbled by the experience.
I think I could have easily spent another month here, but it’s time to get moving again. I’ll miss this place and all of the wonderful people I’ve met here (most of whom have Haight-Ashbury names like Hope, Precious, Gift, Love, Special). I won’t miss the ants, which are crawling over this page as I’m writing this, nor will I miss the roving bands of chickens that at times surrounded my chalet for a 5am wake-up call. I’m excited for the next part of the journey though.
We’re off to Chilumba in the north by way of the MV Ilala up Lake Malawi. We’ll spend a couple of nights there, go on a few hikes, then make our way across the Tanzanian border where we’re hoping to catch a train to Dar es Salaam.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Malawi, Paradise
The first thing I noticed in crossing into Malawi were the coffin stores. They are everywhere, a sign of the scourge of AIDS and other diseases that have ravaged this country. Men carve the coffins by the side of the road under the shade of trees, and judging by the number of stores, do a good, albeit morose, business. And the tendency for people to ask for handouts when they see mzungu is even worse here than it was in Zambia.
Even though on pure economic measures Malawi is poorer than Zambia, for some reason it doesn’t feel that way to me. Many survive on subsitence agriculture, growing maize and living in huts made of brick that they themselves make by mixing clay with water and hardening the shapes in a fire. The people generally seem happy, friendly, and quite outgoing. Rarely do you walk by someone on the street without first pausing to say hello and then introducing yourself. The roads are excellent—two-way, paved highways that are even painted. Occasionally you forget you’re driving in one of the world’s poorest countries, but you’re brought back when you have a near miss with a bicyclist (cars definitively have the right of way here as in Zambia, and it’s not uncommon for drivers to force bikers off the road and to see them tumble off their bike as a result), or tree branches on the road, which is the Malawian signal that there is an accident or trouble ahead on the road.
The other thing you run into on the roads here, about every 25km it seems, are police roadblocks. Usually you pass by without incident, but at one point we were asked to take out our passports by a policeman who was stoned out of his mind and seemed to be sizing us up for a bribe. There is a history of corruption and greed in this country, like so many African countries, that goes back to the days of independence. The former president of Malawi, Hastings Banda, declared himself President for Life, ran this place like it was his personal bank account, and pocketed millions of aid dollars that were meant for his destitute people. A Malawi friend of mine needed to get a passport, and naturally had to bribe the officials to shorten the normal two-year wait. Just the normal way of doing business here: corrupt officials taking advantage of their position of power, and the people they are meant to govern suffering as a result. The nicest house in the town that I’m staying in now would be a nice house even on the shores of Lake Washington. And it belongs to—wait for it—the police commissioner. The relative difference of the mud huts that the people live in and the palacial digs of the police commissioner is palpable.
But things are looking up for Malawi. This is the second year in a row of a bumper maize harvest. This year they grew enough maize to sell some to the crook next door in Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe, who in six years managed to turn the country that was once the bread basket of Africa into a recipient of food aid.
If I thought the missionaries were successful in Zambia, it was only because I had yet to make it to Malawi. 75% of the population here is Christian, but it’s usually the fire and brimstone flavor that’s full of fervor and zeal. I bought a local paper yesterday and thought you might like to see some of the headlines (in bold), and in some cases the captions beneath the headlines. All are verbatim.
-“Some People Hate Lawyers
If some lawyers go to heaven, then hell will be empty.”
-“God is in Control, the Devil is Not in Control
The call means the President realizes that God is in control. God can solve whatever issue human beings fail to solve. The Devil is not in control. God is in control but Devil is trying to take control. Human beings have problems all the time.”
-“Dangerous Sphere of Truth
History bears witness to the fact that telling the truth is not only problematic but can at times lead to unutterable problems.”
-“Prayer for Malawi,” by Rev. Keith Banda
-“Demons in Life, Angels in Death”
-“Government Looks to Biofuels” (first real article I’d seen…about Malawi looking to sugar cane as a potential export and source of hard currency. Sadly, small and poor Malawi could probably never compete with Brazil in this market)
-“Bottom Power is Not Forever – Chief Lacks Mandate”
-And, “Clinton [Bill] Back in Malawi Friday”
I got a serious chuckle out of the headlines and I hope you do, too. It's sad that this country is so wrapped up in religion in sorting out its affairs though. There was one article in the paper titled “Who is Telling Our Story?” that was basically a rant wondering why the foreign press insists on writing about negative things every time in writes on Malawi rather than about the beautiful things that are on offer here. I can’t help but wonder the same thing—this country is beautiful.
As you drive north the harsh, flat grassland gives way to gently rolling, green hills that are covered in pine trees. Pine trees! I haven’t seen an evergreen since I left Seattle. And nearly the entire country is bordered by the beautiful, blue Lake Malawi.
I’m now in the northern part of the country in a town called Nkhata Bay, at a beautiful oasis of a backpacker’s resort called Mayoka Village. I have my own chalet up on a lush hillside overlooking the lake below. It is truly a paradise—all for $15 per night. I think I’ll stay here for a few more days before continuing north to Mbeya, Tanzania, where I’ll catch a train to Dar es Salaam. I met a lovely Dutch girl, Zoe, who I honestly think I fell in love with only to have her leave two days later. I’ll need a few days here just to lick my wounds if nothing else. In other news:
-I have a piece of wood lodged in my big toe that got stuck there on the climb down to the Zambezi River in Zambia. It seems to be working it’s way out, but I’m worried I might lose the toenail less than a year after it finished growing back.
-My camera seems to be on its last leg, and I think I’ve got the sands of Sossusvlei chunking around in there
-I just realized, courtesy of my doctor friend Maria, that calcium counteracts the absorption of my malaria pill, Doxycycline. This would have been good to know many weeks ago, since I have been taking a multi-vitamin full of calcium alongside my malaria pill every morning. Whooops. Keep your fingers crossed for me that I don’t get it.
-I’ve still got a mild case of the trots, which makes the travel more, um, adventurous
Hope you all are well.
The "Road" to Malawi
I have a new record for the most dilapidated car I have ever seen, which is, incidentally,
the same car that took me over the worst roads I have yet to see in Africa. The safari camp I was staying at in South Luangwa Park had promised to give me a lift to the nearby village, from which I was assured there would be a shared minibus that I could pile into for the 120km journey to the Zambian border town of Chipata. On my day of departure, in typical African fashion, the minibus was suddenly no longer running, and I basically had no way to get out of South Luangwa.
Then I met a lovely American family from Chicago, the Spectors, who were in a similar
predicament. Fortunately, two of their daughters, Elizabeth and Maria, were living in Zambia and spoke the local language. Liz was here with the Peace Corps, and Maria was a medical student doing a rotation at a local hospital in the town of Lundazi. They were able to work with the nearby village to find what surely must have been the only minibus in town, and a driver to take them to Chipata, and were kind enough to invite me to join them.
I wasn't prepared for the pile of rusting steel that arrived though. It was a Toyota
minibus that was surely older than I. The body and chassis had rusted through in parts,
most windows were missing, and the sliding door didn't close. Springs erupted through the fabric of the seats in a fierce, rectum-pinching sort of way. There were four bald tires--one with literally no tread left on it--and, crucially, a horn that no longer worked. How you can drive in Africa with a dysfunctional horn is beyond me, for this seems to be the single most important feature on a car here. Because there are so many pedestrians on the roads, and due to the bad surface conditions, drivers rarely stick to their own side of the road and the horn becomes a critical element in arriving safely at a destination. Driving without one seemed dangerous, as did getting in the car with our driver, who clearly had been drinking all day. But, that was the only transport option to Chipata, so in we piled.
Our first stop on the 120km journey was at kilometer #1, in the local village, where we switched our drunk driver for a sober one and filled up with fuel. There was a BP filling station in town, but instead we bought gas from the boys on the street who regularly make the 120km journey to Malawi with empty jerry cans to fill with cheaper Malawian fuel to resell to locals in the village. While we were waiting we cahatted with this guy, Leonard (pronounced either "Leonard" or "Reonard" as R's and L's in Bantu language are interchangeable, so you hear lots of "Herro, wourd you rike some more flied lice?" around here). Reonard was so off his trolley that all he could manage to say was "Amen!" and "Hallelujah" and point to himself and, chuckling, say "Reonard" over and over again.
As an aside, the Christian missionaries have had more success here in Zambia than any other African country I've been to thus far. For example, I asked our safari guide's assistant, Karima, what his name meant and he said--in the first intelligble English I had yet hear him say--"It means, I believe in only one God and his son Jesus Christ." It also seems that all of the young village kids that you meet here have biblical names like Joseph and Abraham and the like. And it's common to see stores with names like "God Only Knows Best Grocery" and "Radio Maria, Christ in Your Home". In general, I expect to continue to see a strong correlation between the poverty and misery in a country and the success of the Christian missionaries there. If your pitch is eternal salvation from a miserable life on earth, it helps a lot of your targets do lead miserable lives on earth. But I digress.
Back on the minibus we were traversing some of the worst roads I'd yet seen in Africa, often at a pace that seemed slower than walking. The rains last season were much higher than normal, and the resultant flooding had wiped out much of the road. We passed many villages along the way, collections of four or five thatched huts where people live a hand-to-mouth existence largely based on growing maize, which they beat into a powder and mix with water to form a porridge called nsima.
Every once in awhile you pass a sign for the chief’s house, which is usually much more substantial structure, some with even solar panels to provide electricity. I couldn’t help but think that the solar panels were donated by some well-meaning Western charity or government, and I wondered how the donor might feel to see the panels they donated to some distant African village sitting on top of the roof of the chief’s house to provide him a greater level of personal comfort.
As we would drive slowly past these villages, kids would run out after us on the road, extending their hands and asking for money, tic-tacs, or pens. Again I thought of the well-meaning tourists who traveled with sweets or stacks of pens to hand out to the village children they see while on their vacation. “They don’t even have pens to study with!”, I can just hear them exclaim. Little do they know that all such arbitrary handouts seem to do is encourage children to abandon their studies and run out to the street every time they see a mzungu, or white person/foreigner, to beg for more. I’m all for bringing things like pens that are cheap and easy to carry to donate to local areas that you visit on a trip, but my god why do people insist on handing them out to the children themselves rather than to the headmaster of the school who can distribute them to the kids that need them most? I can’t help but think that so many of those who insist on handing out goodies to kids are doing it really only for one reason: to make themselves feel good.
I just finished a book by Paul Theroux, Dark Star Safari (I’ve also read Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela and Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton while here), and in it there’s a great quote from Thoreau that sums up the mixed emotions I’ve had about all of the aid that’s gone to Africa:
“Be sure you give the poor the aid they most need. There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root, and it may be that he who bestows the largest amount of time and money on the needy is doing the most by his mode of life to produce the misery which he strives in vain to relieve.”
Again I digress, and both of these digressions warrant posts of their own so I will wait until my thinking is more solidified to write about them. Back in the bus we saw throngs of people walking along the road, often balancing heavy loads of water or maize on their heads. Even children learn to carry this way from a very young age. This brings me to another observation that I’ve seen both in Africa and other parts of the developing world where hardship is a way of life: children don’t cry here. Literally. I’ve seen babies everywhere here (the median age in both Malawi and Zambia is 17 years), but I cannot remember the last time I saw a child fussing about or crying. It’s like they are born with a patience and tolerance for suffering that many of us never achieve. It makes me wonder what it is that we are doing in the Western world to create such fussing and expectant babies. I have a few theories, but won’t go into them here.
Anyway, after nearly a day of traveling such, tolerating the deafening sound of metal crashing against metal as the body of the car shook against the open sliding door over the washboard road (imagine a giant box of pots and pans being turned over onto a cement floor right next to your head, and that’s about what it sounded like), after being exhausted from bracing myself upright across the roughshod of the road, and after being covered in a dust so thick that my black hair had turned a soft shade of brown, we arrived in the border town of Chipata, where I crashed that evening at the Peace Corps regional headquarters with the Spectors.
the same car that took me over the worst roads I have yet to see in Africa. The safari camp I was staying at in South Luangwa Park had promised to give me a lift to the nearby village, from which I was assured there would be a shared minibus that I could pile into for the 120km journey to the Zambian border town of Chipata. On my day of departure, in typical African fashion, the minibus was suddenly no longer running, and I basically had no way to get out of South Luangwa.
Then I met a lovely American family from Chicago, the Spectors, who were in a similar
predicament. Fortunately, two of their daughters, Elizabeth and Maria, were living in Zambia and spoke the local language. Liz was here with the Peace Corps, and Maria was a medical student doing a rotation at a local hospital in the town of Lundazi. They were able to work with the nearby village to find what surely must have been the only minibus in town, and a driver to take them to Chipata, and were kind enough to invite me to join them.
I wasn't prepared for the pile of rusting steel that arrived though. It was a Toyota
minibus that was surely older than I. The body and chassis had rusted through in parts,
most windows were missing, and the sliding door didn't close. Springs erupted through the fabric of the seats in a fierce, rectum-pinching sort of way. There were four bald tires--one with literally no tread left on it--and, crucially, a horn that no longer worked. How you can drive in Africa with a dysfunctional horn is beyond me, for this seems to be the single most important feature on a car here. Because there are so many pedestrians on the roads, and due to the bad surface conditions, drivers rarely stick to their own side of the road and the horn becomes a critical element in arriving safely at a destination. Driving without one seemed dangerous, as did getting in the car with our driver, who clearly had been drinking all day. But, that was the only transport option to Chipata, so in we piled.
Our first stop on the 120km journey was at kilometer #1, in the local village, where we switched our drunk driver for a sober one and filled up with fuel. There was a BP filling station in town, but instead we bought gas from the boys on the street who regularly make the 120km journey to Malawi with empty jerry cans to fill with cheaper Malawian fuel to resell to locals in the village. While we were waiting we cahatted with this guy, Leonard (pronounced either "Leonard" or "Reonard" as R's and L's in Bantu language are interchangeable, so you hear lots of "Herro, wourd you rike some more flied lice?" around here). Reonard was so off his trolley that all he could manage to say was "Amen!" and "Hallelujah" and point to himself and, chuckling, say "Reonard" over and over again.
As an aside, the Christian missionaries have had more success here in Zambia than any other African country I've been to thus far. For example, I asked our safari guide's assistant, Karima, what his name meant and he said--in the first intelligble English I had yet hear him say--"It means, I believe in only one God and his son Jesus Christ." It also seems that all of the young village kids that you meet here have biblical names like Joseph and Abraham and the like. And it's common to see stores with names like "God Only Knows Best Grocery" and "Radio Maria, Christ in Your Home". In general, I expect to continue to see a strong correlation between the poverty and misery in a country and the success of the Christian missionaries there. If your pitch is eternal salvation from a miserable life on earth, it helps a lot of your targets do lead miserable lives on earth. But I digress.
Back on the minibus we were traversing some of the worst roads I'd yet seen in Africa, often at a pace that seemed slower than walking. The rains last season were much higher than normal, and the resultant flooding had wiped out much of the road. We passed many villages along the way, collections of four or five thatched huts where people live a hand-to-mouth existence largely based on growing maize, which they beat into a powder and mix with water to form a porridge called nsima.
Every once in awhile you pass a sign for the chief’s house, which is usually much more substantial structure, some with even solar panels to provide electricity. I couldn’t help but think that the solar panels were donated by some well-meaning Western charity or government, and I wondered how the donor might feel to see the panels they donated to some distant African village sitting on top of the roof of the chief’s house to provide him a greater level of personal comfort.
As we would drive slowly past these villages, kids would run out after us on the road, extending their hands and asking for money, tic-tacs, or pens. Again I thought of the well-meaning tourists who traveled with sweets or stacks of pens to hand out to the village children they see while on their vacation. “They don’t even have pens to study with!”, I can just hear them exclaim. Little do they know that all such arbitrary handouts seem to do is encourage children to abandon their studies and run out to the street every time they see a mzungu, or white person/foreigner, to beg for more. I’m all for bringing things like pens that are cheap and easy to carry to donate to local areas that you visit on a trip, but my god why do people insist on handing them out to the children themselves rather than to the headmaster of the school who can distribute them to the kids that need them most? I can’t help but think that so many of those who insist on handing out goodies to kids are doing it really only for one reason: to make themselves feel good.
I just finished a book by Paul Theroux, Dark Star Safari (I’ve also read Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela and Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton while here), and in it there’s a great quote from Thoreau that sums up the mixed emotions I’ve had about all of the aid that’s gone to Africa:
“Be sure you give the poor the aid they most need. There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root, and it may be that he who bestows the largest amount of time and money on the needy is doing the most by his mode of life to produce the misery which he strives in vain to relieve.”
Again I digress, and both of these digressions warrant posts of their own so I will wait until my thinking is more solidified to write about them. Back in the bus we saw throngs of people walking along the road, often balancing heavy loads of water or maize on their heads. Even children learn to carry this way from a very young age. This brings me to another observation that I’ve seen both in Africa and other parts of the developing world where hardship is a way of life: children don’t cry here. Literally. I’ve seen babies everywhere here (the median age in both Malawi and Zambia is 17 years), but I cannot remember the last time I saw a child fussing about or crying. It’s like they are born with a patience and tolerance for suffering that many of us never achieve. It makes me wonder what it is that we are doing in the Western world to create such fussing and expectant babies. I have a few theories, but won’t go into them here.
Anyway, after nearly a day of traveling such, tolerating the deafening sound of metal crashing against metal as the body of the car shook against the open sliding door over the washboard road (imagine a giant box of pots and pans being turned over onto a cement floor right next to your head, and that’s about what it sounded like), after being exhausted from bracing myself upright across the roughshod of the road, and after being covered in a dust so thick that my black hair had turned a soft shade of brown, we arrived in the border town of Chipata, where I crashed that evening at the Peace Corps regional headquarters with the Spectors.
We're Stuck Between the Elephants and the Lions
I guess the moral of this story is to be careful what you ask for. I wanted to go on a
walking safari to be closer to the animals, and to see them without the protection of a big
vehicle. It seemed that a walking safari would be a good way to understand the relative
scale of the animals, and to get a glimpse of what it might have been like for our ancestors who used to share these savannas without the protection of big game vehicles.
So we set off, Zoe and I, with our guide and an armed guard. After a few hours of walking we came across two lionesses stalking a warthog. We hid behind a fallen tree to watch the scene unfold, hoping that we might get to see a lion on a successful hunt. We were so focused on looking forward at the lions that we failed to notice a family of six elephants approach us from behind, flapping their ears in a sign of aggression. Elephants are some of the most dangerous animals to encounter in the bush on account of their size, their intelligence, and the fact that there is no place to hide from a charging elephant--all of the trees are so small they just knock them over.
Our guide excitedly said, "Sir, we're stuck between the elephants and the lions, and we must go now very quickly." He quickly ran away toward the lions, putting the armed guard between the elephants and us. Oddly, my first instinct was to take out my camera to get a photo of this mad scene, but I was quickly admonished by my guide. I wouldn't really have been scared but for the fear in our guide's voice--elephants move so slowly and gently as to seem innocuous. We ran quickly away, and the elephants soon lost interest in us, but not before the whole series of events disrupted the lion's hunt. So, in seeking a bit of adventure from a walking safari we definitely got it, and with it my fill of safaris for this trip. Even though the wildebeest will be running up in the Serengeti and Masai Mara parks in Tanzania and Kenya, I think I'll skip seeing them in favor of other sites.
walking safari to be closer to the animals, and to see them without the protection of a big
vehicle. It seemed that a walking safari would be a good way to understand the relative
scale of the animals, and to get a glimpse of what it might have been like for our ancestors who used to share these savannas without the protection of big game vehicles.
So we set off, Zoe and I, with our guide and an armed guard. After a few hours of walking we came across two lionesses stalking a warthog. We hid behind a fallen tree to watch the scene unfold, hoping that we might get to see a lion on a successful hunt. We were so focused on looking forward at the lions that we failed to notice a family of six elephants approach us from behind, flapping their ears in a sign of aggression. Elephants are some of the most dangerous animals to encounter in the bush on account of their size, their intelligence, and the fact that there is no place to hide from a charging elephant--all of the trees are so small they just knock them over.
Our guide excitedly said, "Sir, we're stuck between the elephants and the lions, and we must go now very quickly." He quickly ran away toward the lions, putting the armed guard between the elephants and us. Oddly, my first instinct was to take out my camera to get a photo of this mad scene, but I was quickly admonished by my guide. I wouldn't really have been scared but for the fear in our guide's voice--elephants move so slowly and gently as to seem innocuous. We ran quickly away, and the elephants soon lost interest in us, but not before the whole series of events disrupted the lion's hunt. So, in seeking a bit of adventure from a walking safari we definitely got it, and with it my fill of safaris for this trip. Even though the wildebeest will be running up in the Serengeti and Masai Mara parks in Tanzania and Kenya, I think I'll skip seeing them in favor of other sites.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Into the Heart of Africa for One Last Safari
Last night I awoke about 2am to an elephant eating a tree right outside my window. I at first thought it was my friend, Zoe, crumpling newspaper in the kitchen, for that's exactly what it sounded like. Then, as I came to, I realized that I could hear heavy breathing and the sound of tree branches breaking. I looked out the window of my chalet--which is really just a hole with a screen over it--and there was an elephant looking back at me, eating a tree just 10ft away. I've seen elephants before, but this was by far and away the closest I've been. Hearing them from up close, as opposed to just viewing them from the car, gives you a sense for how huge these creatures are. They eat up to 260 kilograms of food a day (that's over 500 lbs!), so spend most of the day eating leaves and bushes and small trees. They can be quite destructive, actually.
Then today on an early morning game drive we saw a leopard. It's a rare thing, as they are wily creatures that are incredibly hard to find given their ability to camoflauge themselves. She was slowly approaching a herd of impala, and we thought initially that we might see a kill, or at least an attempted kill. But, after a few minutes of observation, she just rolled over on her side and chilled for a while. It was still great to see one nonetheless.
I'm now at a safari camp in South Luangwa National Park, in northeastern Zambia. I'd had enough of the EXTREME! activities on offer in Livingstone, so it was time to push on. Besides, as fun as seeing Victoria Falls and bungee jumping was, it's not 'really' Africa there. So rather than enduring three grueling days on a bus to get here, we opted to catch a flight. That still involved two planes, six official forms (all in triplicate--Africans seem to LOVE carbon copy forms), a few hours of delay, and the better part of a day to get here. Upon arriving in camp though we were treated to giraffe and elephant wandering through it. Unlike Etosha National Park in Namibia, there are no fences here so the animals wander through freely. To go from your chalet to the restaurant area, you must be accompanied by a guard. I thought this was a lot of posturing, but we rounded a corner this morning and there was an elephant blocking our path. I was glad the guard was with us.
Last night we went on a night drive, and we'll do so again tonight. Tomorrow is the walking safari that I've so been looking forward to, then the next day I'll begin to make my way over to Malawi. First a bus to Chipata, a night in Chipata, then I'll cross over the border the next day and make it to Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi.
The drive in from the airport yesterday afternoon was a troubling one for me. The road is incredibly good (well, relatively incredibly good) and paved, surely the best road in the entire region. The entire purpose of the road is to ferry tourists from the airport to the really high-end game lodges inside the park, and the only other cars that you see on the road are 4x4s with tourists in them. All of the Zambians you see are walking along the road, many of them barefoot. I was struck how the best infrastructure in the region existed solely to service tourists who don't live in the region. There's often a ton of development around these tourist 'hot spots', so it's entirely possible that you can go from site to site in Africa and never really get a sense for what it's like for the people who live here. Yesterday I was really struck by the juxtaposition--the super-expensive 4x4s full of tourists and the locals without shoes. I realize that tourism is a key driver of the economy for Zambia as a whole and for this local economy in particular, but it's hard not to be affected by the poverty given the standard of living we all enjoy back home.
Yesterday summed up perfectly what my experience in Africa has been like so far: incredible awe of Africa's natural beauty and the freak show of nature that exists here; and, a troubled, disturbed feeling at the poverty that exists alongside it. Between now and Zanzibar I'll be taking only public transport--local buses, taxis, a ferry up Lake Malawi (hopefully) and then a train through southern Tanzania to Dar es Salaam. And I'll be entering one of the poorest countries in Africa, Malawi, where GDP per capita is a mere $600 (compared to $44,000 in the U.S.), the infant mortality rate is nearly 10%, and where life expectancy at birth is 43 years.
Then today on an early morning game drive we saw a leopard. It's a rare thing, as they are wily creatures that are incredibly hard to find given their ability to camoflauge themselves. She was slowly approaching a herd of impala, and we thought initially that we might see a kill, or at least an attempted kill. But, after a few minutes of observation, she just rolled over on her side and chilled for a while. It was still great to see one nonetheless.
I'm now at a safari camp in South Luangwa National Park, in northeastern Zambia. I'd had enough of the EXTREME! activities on offer in Livingstone, so it was time to push on. Besides, as fun as seeing Victoria Falls and bungee jumping was, it's not 'really' Africa there. So rather than enduring three grueling days on a bus to get here, we opted to catch a flight. That still involved two planes, six official forms (all in triplicate--Africans seem to LOVE carbon copy forms), a few hours of delay, and the better part of a day to get here. Upon arriving in camp though we were treated to giraffe and elephant wandering through it. Unlike Etosha National Park in Namibia, there are no fences here so the animals wander through freely. To go from your chalet to the restaurant area, you must be accompanied by a guard. I thought this was a lot of posturing, but we rounded a corner this morning and there was an elephant blocking our path. I was glad the guard was with us.
Last night we went on a night drive, and we'll do so again tonight. Tomorrow is the walking safari that I've so been looking forward to, then the next day I'll begin to make my way over to Malawi. First a bus to Chipata, a night in Chipata, then I'll cross over the border the next day and make it to Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi.
The drive in from the airport yesterday afternoon was a troubling one for me. The road is incredibly good (well, relatively incredibly good) and paved, surely the best road in the entire region. The entire purpose of the road is to ferry tourists from the airport to the really high-end game lodges inside the park, and the only other cars that you see on the road are 4x4s with tourists in them. All of the Zambians you see are walking along the road, many of them barefoot. I was struck how the best infrastructure in the region existed solely to service tourists who don't live in the region. There's often a ton of development around these tourist 'hot spots', so it's entirely possible that you can go from site to site in Africa and never really get a sense for what it's like for the people who live here. Yesterday I was really struck by the juxtaposition--the super-expensive 4x4s full of tourists and the locals without shoes. I realize that tourism is a key driver of the economy for Zambia as a whole and for this local economy in particular, but it's hard not to be affected by the poverty given the standard of living we all enjoy back home.
Yesterday summed up perfectly what my experience in Africa has been like so far: incredible awe of Africa's natural beauty and the freak show of nature that exists here; and, a troubled, disturbed feeling at the poverty that exists alongside it. Between now and Zanzibar I'll be taking only public transport--local buses, taxis, a ferry up Lake Malawi (hopefully) and then a train through southern Tanzania to Dar es Salaam. And I'll be entering one of the poorest countries in Africa, Malawi, where GDP per capita is a mere $600 (compared to $44,000 in the U.S.), the infant mortality rate is nearly 10%, and where life expectancy at birth is 43 years.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Cruisin' With The Oldies, Cont'd
Right now I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Zambia, waiting for a video of today's bungee jump to upload. It's taken an hour so far and shows only 8% complete, so fair warning: I have lots of time to wax lyrical and fill your screen with bombast.
So while I am here waiting, perhaps for my edification more than yours, I thought I would write a bit more about the trip through Botswana, as I really haven't gone into that yet. Our trip started with an all-day drive from the capital of Namibia, Windhoek, to a town near the Okavango Delta. Eastern Namibia is a part of the world that's so dry that to get the key to a bathroom, you must first have a conversation with the restaurant owner to get a key. When suffering from a case of the trots, this can be both a serious test of patience and quite embarrassing. It goes something like this, and takes place in front of the entire group:
Me: May I have the key to the bathroom, please?
Owner: Is it sit down or stand up?
Me: Um, sit down, I suppose.
Owner: Are you sure? Because all men are meant to pee in the garden.
Me: Yes, I'm pretty sure. And the longer this conversation goes on, the more sure I get.
Owner: Okay, well if you must pee you must go in the garden. If it's sit-down, don't flush until everyone else has gone.
Me: Lovely.
On arriving in the Delta, the first thing I was struck by was how utterly flat this region is. An entire river, the Okavango, empties into the sands of the Kalahari, forming the largest inland delta in the world. It took me a while to get my head around that: a river just flowing into a flat sandy area as its terminus. The result is a swampland that is home to hippos, elephant, crocodiles, and tons of birds and fish. And papyrus. Tons of papyrus; everywhere. It's really beautiful, and the best way to see the area and look for wildlife is in a dugout canoe known as a mokoro (there's a picture of one in the blog entry below).
The most interesting part about the mokoro trip, other than seeing hippos lazing and playfully fighting in a pool right next to us, was learning each of our guides' names. They all come from the nearby village, and must have some dreadfully difficult names to pronounce, for they have adopted pseudonyms such as Rambo, Bimbo, India, Action, and--my personal favorite--Banana Man. On that trip we learned a lot about the local flora and fauna, such as how to use a particular tree to treat gonorrhea. Our guide was kind enough to point out that he had tried it himself and could vouch for its efficacy. It's my sincere hope that I will never be able to speak to its efficacy. Were I able to, I'm relatively certain I wouldn't blog about it anyway.
We hung out at a lodge in the Delta for two days, which provided plenty of time to just relax. After the partying in Cape Town and the gluttony of Namibia, I decided to go for a run. The problem is that with wild elephants everywhere, you can't leave the security of the camp fence. So, I ran on the nearby runway, back and forth quite a few times. It turns out the locals use the runway to walk to their village, a fact I wish I had known before taking off my shirt and setting off for the run. They gathered on the side of the runway to watch go back and forth, pointing, surely thinking I was utterly insane. By then I was committed to my jog, and I wasn't sure if it would be more embarrassing to stop and gather my shirt, meekly walking back to the camp, or to continue on, pretending like I was a skinny Kenyan training for a marathon. I continued to run, but I think the jiggling of what were once my pectoral muscles belied any hope of being confused for a marathoner.
In any case, the Delta was a wonderful experience and one of the highlights so far. I also learned a little bit more about the taxonomy of "now" here in Africa. If you ask someone when something will happen, here's how you know when to expect it:
Just Now Now Now: between now and the next five minutes
Now Now: between now and the next 15 minutes
Now: between now and tomorrow
Tomorrow: never
Damn, 20 minutes later and only at 12%. I hate to say it, but I don't think I'm going to get this bungee video uploaded. I promise I'll do it from home, as the footage is pretty cool. Off to get some grub now...
So while I am here waiting, perhaps for my edification more than yours, I thought I would write a bit more about the trip through Botswana, as I really haven't gone into that yet. Our trip started with an all-day drive from the capital of Namibia, Windhoek, to a town near the Okavango Delta. Eastern Namibia is a part of the world that's so dry that to get the key to a bathroom, you must first have a conversation with the restaurant owner to get a key. When suffering from a case of the trots, this can be both a serious test of patience and quite embarrassing. It goes something like this, and takes place in front of the entire group:
Me: May I have the key to the bathroom, please?
Owner: Is it sit down or stand up?
Me: Um, sit down, I suppose.
Owner: Are you sure? Because all men are meant to pee in the garden.
Me: Yes, I'm pretty sure. And the longer this conversation goes on, the more sure I get.
Owner: Okay, well if you must pee you must go in the garden. If it's sit-down, don't flush until everyone else has gone.
Me: Lovely.
On arriving in the Delta, the first thing I was struck by was how utterly flat this region is. An entire river, the Okavango, empties into the sands of the Kalahari, forming the largest inland delta in the world. It took me a while to get my head around that: a river just flowing into a flat sandy area as its terminus. The result is a swampland that is home to hippos, elephant, crocodiles, and tons of birds and fish. And papyrus. Tons of papyrus; everywhere. It's really beautiful, and the best way to see the area and look for wildlife is in a dugout canoe known as a mokoro (there's a picture of one in the blog entry below).
The most interesting part about the mokoro trip, other than seeing hippos lazing and playfully fighting in a pool right next to us, was learning each of our guides' names. They all come from the nearby village, and must have some dreadfully difficult names to pronounce, for they have adopted pseudonyms such as Rambo, Bimbo, India, Action, and--my personal favorite--Banana Man. On that trip we learned a lot about the local flora and fauna, such as how to use a particular tree to treat gonorrhea. Our guide was kind enough to point out that he had tried it himself and could vouch for its efficacy. It's my sincere hope that I will never be able to speak to its efficacy. Were I able to, I'm relatively certain I wouldn't blog about it anyway.
We hung out at a lodge in the Delta for two days, which provided plenty of time to just relax. After the partying in Cape Town and the gluttony of Namibia, I decided to go for a run. The problem is that with wild elephants everywhere, you can't leave the security of the camp fence. So, I ran on the nearby runway, back and forth quite a few times. It turns out the locals use the runway to walk to their village, a fact I wish I had known before taking off my shirt and setting off for the run. They gathered on the side of the runway to watch go back and forth, pointing, surely thinking I was utterly insane. By then I was committed to my jog, and I wasn't sure if it would be more embarrassing to stop and gather my shirt, meekly walking back to the camp, or to continue on, pretending like I was a skinny Kenyan training for a marathon. I continued to run, but I think the jiggling of what were once my pectoral muscles belied any hope of being confused for a marathoner.
In any case, the Delta was a wonderful experience and one of the highlights so far. I also learned a little bit more about the taxonomy of "now" here in Africa. If you ask someone when something will happen, here's how you know when to expect it:
Just Now Now Now: between now and the next five minutes
Now Now: between now and the next 15 minutes
Now: between now and tomorrow
Tomorrow: never
Damn, 20 minutes later and only at 12%. I hate to say it, but I don't think I'm going to get this bungee video uploaded. I promise I'll do it from home, as the footage is pretty cool. Off to get some grub now...
EXTREME!
The town I've been in for the last few days, Livingstone, is known as the adrenaline capital of Southern Africa, or "adrenalin" capital as everyone here has decided to spell it. After seeing the mighty Victoria Falls, and as a way of releasing some steam from the trip with Wild Dogs, it seemed to be a good idea to partake in a few of the EXTREME! adrenaline activities that they have on offer here.
The EXTREME! activities began yesterday with a rafting trip down the Zambezi River. I'd heard of the Zambezi before, and knew it to be a pretty serious river for white water rafting in Africa, second only perhaps to the Nile at its source in Uganda. The rafting begins just beneath Victoria Falls, where something on the order of 1 million liters of water per second cascade over falls that are 108 meters high (360 ft) and 1.7km long (~1 mile). For comparison, Niagra Falls is 51 meters high and 1.2 km wide. Right now is the water's high season, so the volume of water going through these rapids is absolutely intense. I certainly have never seen whitewater rapids like this before, and I've rafted what was supposed to be a class 4 rapid on the Skykomish River back home. Compared to the class 4s that we went over yesterday, I would classify the Sky as about a class 1.
We flipped our boat on the first rapid, which hardly inspired confidence as we had 12 more major sets of rapids to get through. We managed to keep it upright for the rest of the trip, though I got sucked out once as did quite a few others. All in all, it was an incredible day. And the scenery in the gorge is absolutely stunning. At one point they let us jump out of the raft and swim down the rapids, and we got caught in a whirlpool--about four of us--just swirling around and around and around each other again before we finally got spit out. An incredible time.
That brings me to EXTREME! activity #2, which I've just now returned from (Mom, please stop reading here). Between Zambia and Zimbabwe is the Victoria Falls Bridge, which sits 111m over the river below. In the middle of the bridge is a little platform they've built so that adrenalin-hungry tourists can fling themselves off on either a bungee or a swing (more on that later). The bungee is the third highest in the world, and my god when you're standing on the platform about to jump off I can't imagine how anything could be higher.
I've skydived before, but for some reason bungee always just seemed crazy to me. Perhaps it's the immediacy of the whole thing: you jump off and 2-3 seconds later you're either still alive or, well, you're not. At least with skydiving you have a nice long fall, the ground is so far below you that it almost doesn't even look like it's approaching, and you've got a backup parachute in case things go wrong. I like the idea of a backup; I'm a backup kind of guy. But I took one look the other day from a distance at people jumping off the bridge, and I knew that I had to do it. If I was going to do a bungee jump, where better than the beautiful Zambezi gorge, nested in no-man's land between Zambia and Zimbabwe?
The initial feeling was of shitting myself on the platform, but the moment I jumped everything became very calm and I could just hear the wind rushing past my face and could see the river below quickly approaching. It felt more like flying than falling. It was absolutely, fundamentally exhilarating.
On the "swing", on the other hand, I felt more like a rock dropped off the bridge than anything else. You basically step off the platform, feet-first unlike bungee, and free fall until the rope catches you and swings you to the other side. For me this one was much more difficult than the bungee. I got great videos of both my bungee and a friend's swing, but unfortunately the internet is too crap here to get them uploaded. So, I'll post some pics below with a promise to do the video when I get back to the states.
(Victoria Falls Bridge, Zambezi River below, Vic Falls in distance)
(border w/Zimbabwe)
(seconds before the jump)
The EXTREME! activities began yesterday with a rafting trip down the Zambezi River. I'd heard of the Zambezi before, and knew it to be a pretty serious river for white water rafting in Africa, second only perhaps to the Nile at its source in Uganda. The rafting begins just beneath Victoria Falls, where something on the order of 1 million liters of water per second cascade over falls that are 108 meters high (360 ft) and 1.7km long (~1 mile). For comparison, Niagra Falls is 51 meters high and 1.2 km wide. Right now is the water's high season, so the volume of water going through these rapids is absolutely intense. I certainly have never seen whitewater rapids like this before, and I've rafted what was supposed to be a class 4 rapid on the Skykomish River back home. Compared to the class 4s that we went over yesterday, I would classify the Sky as about a class 1.
We flipped our boat on the first rapid, which hardly inspired confidence as we had 12 more major sets of rapids to get through. We managed to keep it upright for the rest of the trip, though I got sucked out once as did quite a few others. All in all, it was an incredible day. And the scenery in the gorge is absolutely stunning. At one point they let us jump out of the raft and swim down the rapids, and we got caught in a whirlpool--about four of us--just swirling around and around and around each other again before we finally got spit out. An incredible time.
That brings me to EXTREME! activity #2, which I've just now returned from (Mom, please stop reading here). Between Zambia and Zimbabwe is the Victoria Falls Bridge, which sits 111m over the river below. In the middle of the bridge is a little platform they've built so that adrenalin-hungry tourists can fling themselves off on either a bungee or a swing (more on that later). The bungee is the third highest in the world, and my god when you're standing on the platform about to jump off I can't imagine how anything could be higher.
I've skydived before, but for some reason bungee always just seemed crazy to me. Perhaps it's the immediacy of the whole thing: you jump off and 2-3 seconds later you're either still alive or, well, you're not. At least with skydiving you have a nice long fall, the ground is so far below you that it almost doesn't even look like it's approaching, and you've got a backup parachute in case things go wrong. I like the idea of a backup; I'm a backup kind of guy. But I took one look the other day from a distance at people jumping off the bridge, and I knew that I had to do it. If I was going to do a bungee jump, where better than the beautiful Zambezi gorge, nested in no-man's land between Zambia and Zimbabwe?
The initial feeling was of shitting myself on the platform, but the moment I jumped everything became very calm and I could just hear the wind rushing past my face and could see the river below quickly approaching. It felt more like flying than falling. It was absolutely, fundamentally exhilarating.
On the "swing", on the other hand, I felt more like a rock dropped off the bridge than anything else. You basically step off the platform, feet-first unlike bungee, and free fall until the rope catches you and swings you to the other side. For me this one was much more difficult than the bungee. I got great videos of both my bungee and a friend's swing, but unfortunately the internet is too crap here to get them uploaded. So, I'll post some pics below with a promise to do the video when I get back to the states.
(Victoria Falls Bridge, Zambezi River below, Vic Falls in distance)
(border w/Zimbabwe)
(seconds before the jump)
(looking down from bridge)
(Vic Falls, as seen from bridge)
(Zoe, about to jump off on the "swing"--you have to look closely in the photos below to see her)
(Zoe, about to jump off on the "swing"--you have to look closely in the photos below to see her)
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Eating My Words, All The Way To Zambia
A few weeks ago a younger, more brazen, and more ignorant version of me promised that I would never go on an Overland Tour. The thought of getting on a bus and driving from sight to sight with 20 other randomly selected white people for 25 days did not appeal to me. I kind of regard the Overland "trucks" as one of the sights of Southern Africa, viewing them with as much interest and study as I would any other. Alongside the giraffe and rhino you’ve got giant white boxes full of white people listening to their Ipods as they roll from site to site in Africa. “Self, not for me,” I said to myself.
Well, I regret to inform you, dear reader, that while I may not have broken that promise in letter, I have done so in spirit. I’ve just arrived in Livingstone, Zambia (where Victoria Falls is located) after eight days on an organized tour. I know, I know—you must be thinking “hypocrite!”or “liar!”or even possibly, “fat pompous bastard!” So let me take a moment to explain myself, and hopefully along the way I can relay what it’s like to be on one of these organized tours in Africa.
After a week in Swakopmund, I realized that it was probably time to move on. I did some research on traveling to Botswana and learned that there are really only four ways to get there from Namibia: 1) fly (too expensive, and otherwise not available until mid-July); 2) rent a car (too expensive to do alone, and I had yet to meet anyone going that way); 3) catch a ride with this dude named "Tarrence" who for the princely sum of $750 would drive me into Botswana (Tarrence seemed sketchy, and $750 is about what I paid for this entire tour anyway); or, 4) go with an organized tour that can arrange the transport/border/accommodation issues for you and provides food. I chose the latter.
The tour operator was called Wild Dog and Crazy Kudu Safaris, and I took a bet (incorrectly) that they were better at touring than naming. They cater to a more “mature” traveler and are much smaller than the big overland trucks. Seeing as how I had no other way to Botswana, this would have to do. I booked it, and set off for Namibia’s capital from Swakopmund by local transport, called a Combi.
A combi is basically a van-taxi, often a VW bus, operated privately but licensed by the government. You go to a prearranged spot to meet the Combi, pay your money ($10 for about 200 miles), and then wait in the bus for the seats to fill—as long as it takes. Now you might be thinking that you could probably fit about 7-8 people in a VW bus, but with some ingenuity in the arrangement of humans, utter disregard for passenger comfort, and a trailer to tow the luggage, you can actually fit 15 people into the bus. 15. In a VW bus. For nine hours.
This Combi ride started out ordinarily enough. The bus filled quickly--one hour vs. up to three at times. I had a window seat, and there were only three of us in the farthest back seat instead of the normal 4-5. We lit off right away, and I was feeling pretty smug about the whole thing. I brought out my water bottle, my book, and I settled in for a comfortable journey to Windhoek. Our first stop was 3 minutes later at a gas station, where we put air in the tires and fueled up. Before we would actually depart for Windhoek, we would visit that gas station three more times. It turns out that one of the tires had a leak in it, and the driver was testing how quickly it was leaking before setting off on a 200-mile journey through deserted roads.
Now the way that they fuel cars in Namibia is quite interesting. It's full service, similar to how our Oregonian friends do it down south. But the fuel attendants can't actually ring you up. They take your money then go inside the gas station, and wait in line with all of the other customers to effect the transaction. It creates a total bottleneck at the cash register, and you end up waiting in your car for quite some time. This isn't all bad though, as when they say full service here they really mean it. Other attendants wash your windows, clean your locks of dust (the gravel roads are killer), and are otherwise just generally helpful while the one pays your money for you.
There's one modification to this procedure for the Combis though. The Combi drivers and gas station attendants have got it in their mind that by rocking the van back and forth you can actually get more fuel into the vehicle. Since driving in Namibia is a bit of an adventure, it's a good idea to completely fill the car before you go out. So one attendant tops it off, and then the driver and the other gas station attendants push back and forth on the bus while the guy fueling slowly adds additional droplets of gasoline. Meanwhile, 15 of us are in the overloaded bus, bobbing back and forth, banging heads together. It's really quite a comedic sight.
Finally we set off, and immediately I was treated to the sweet sound of Damara music played at full volume. For those not familiar with Damara music, I'll tell you how to recreate it: form groups of two; one person gets a Casio electric keyboard--the fewer keys the better--and plays A-A-C-D-G over and over again in single notes; the other person sings whatever words enter their mind over this cacophony of synthesized sound, and there you've got it. Ten stops, two pounds of meat snacks, and seven diet cokes later, I arrived in Windhoek, approximately nine hours after I left Windhoek.
Sadly, at the bar that evening in the hostel I met not one but two groups of people with their own cars heading north to Nairobi. One was a group of three Swedish guys driving a Land Rover Defender (I love those cars) that was completely kitted out with 4x4 gear, and the other was an Englishman and his Australian girlfriend who drove this 1970s VW bus that had been converted into a camper. It was the most hideous car I had ever seen, but my god did it have style. Three weeks in Africa and I hadn’t met anyone like this, then one night in Windhoek and I get two invitations to join. Argh. Since I’d already paid for the organized tour, I opted for that and hoped that I might see them again here in Vic Falls.
The following morning I was picked up at the hostel and introduced to my fellow travelers, with whom I would spend every hour of every day for the next eight days. Immediately I realized that my definition of “mature”and that of Wild Dog’s differed in age by about 50 years. In our group of nine we had two German women in their 30s, one Englishwoman in her 30s, one Australian women in her early 70s, and four retired Americans, one of whom was in his 80s. Our average age was most definitely over 60. Now, lest you be thinking that I am about to discriminate on age, I would like to state for the record that I love old people. I think old people are great. My grandparents are some of the coolest people I know.
But old people and young people don’t quite have the same approach to traveling, as I would come to learn. For example, unlike the oldest American, Winston (names have been changed to protect the innocent), I don’t think it’s interesting to call out the temperature every 10 minutes. “10.2 degrees!” Winston would call out from the back of the bus, following that rousing data-point up with, “that’s 50 degrees Fahrenheit!” Every morning I was greeted with a discussion of the various temperature points throughout the night, and the always-appreciated game of “guess the temperature right now”.
Winston also was apparently on leave from the Discovery Channel and shooting a documentary of organized travel in Southern Africa. He literally recorded nearly every waking moment of our trip on his camcorder. Example pieces of footage include coffee beans that he picked up in his hand to film, 75,000 different impala, and just generally shooting video of local people outside of our bus as we would drive by. And people say that Americans have bad reputations as travelers. Not so! Of course you wouldn’t mind somebody driving through your neighborhood, filming you as you’re working in your yard, right? This experience was made all the more hilarious by the commands barked by Winston in English at the locals as he was filming them. “Smile,” he would tell one group, or “Pick up your brother and hold that basket on your head,” he would say to another. They would look back at him with blank stares, surely thinking, “White people smell funny.”
I could go on and on for hours on what this travel experience was like, but suffice it to say it probably won’t go down as a highlight. On our last night, just yesterday, we were treated to our guide getting absolutely smashed and passing out in the dirt of the campsite. He woke up later on, and decided in a drunken stupor that it would be a good idea to take the truck, packed with all of our valuables, into town for a joyride. Needless to say, someone’s tip was trimmed back a bit at the end of the journey.
I’m going to sign off now, as I’m going to meet some friends at the Royal Livingstone Hotel (a really nice one, apparently) for English High Tea (please say that in your very best British elocution). More to come soon, as I’m finally in a town with internet access. Tomorrow we’re off to river raft on the Zambezi, which is supposedly one of the better rivers out there. Hope you all are well.
P.S., For those with a map and the interest, from Windhoek headed east to Ghanzi, then 2-3 days in the Okavango Delta, then a day in Chobe National Park, and a day in the Moremi Game Reserve before finally arriving here in Livingstone, Zambia.
Some pics:
(Monkey eating our yogurt in camp, Zambia)
(The mighty Victoria Falls)
(My new friend Zoe, with the bridge connecting Zambia and Zimbabwe in background)
(Members of the tour group)
(Yours truly at Vic Falls)
(Elephant crossing, Botswana)
(On a game cruise in Botswana, elephants in background)
(same game cruise, family of elephants in distance)
(14th sunset in a row, Botswana)
(truck with an ábnormal' load, Botswana/Namibia border)
(Mokoro trip, Okavango Delta, Botswana)
(Mokoro guide, "Rambo", and me, Okavango, Botswana)
(Really cool Baobab tree in background, Caprivi Strip, Namibia)
(Sunset-in-a-row #15, Caprivi Strip, Namibia)
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