Manic Mission Africa

Download my book @ http://stores.lulu.com/manicmissions

2007-11-14T07:19:56Z

HELLO EVERYONE

Below is the last chapter of my book which I've called

Manic Mission: An Intricate Account of a Fleeting Bundu Bash through Ten African Countries

I have updated all the blog entries above, so that they now contain exactly what's in the book.

You can download it at:

http://stores.lulu.com/manicmissions

It's 5 MB, so be warned.

Please tell ALL your friends and families (or just bulk email EVERYONE in your address book) about my book and blog.

Hopefully I can get some validation and appreciation for my efforts (it was all fun, I promise)!

Over and Out
Dave

Some Book Reviews:

===============================================================================
From Betty Yeager, CANADA
Hi Dave,

I have just finished reading your incredible story of travelling through much of Africa, and it was spellbinding!

You write very well and I was totally engrossed in your experiences. I would never have even wanted, let alone dared, to do the travelling you have done in my own youth, let alone now in my senior years.

From my safe and cosy perch in Canada I simply marvelled at the hardships, fun, dangers, beauty, adventures, you experienced on your journey through Africa and told us about so well. My own few journeys were mainly in Europe--safe, beautiful days admiring the beauty of the various arts, museums and ancient buildings, enjoying the food and wines of various European countries, and certainly nothing like what you have experienced! My only experience in Africa was in Morocco, and that was enough of a culture shock for me to realize I wasn't a traveller like you so obviously are, but merely a tourist curious to explore other cultures mostly like my own, and I discovered I really wasn't comfortable in a Muslim country and seeing such poverty amongst the great wealth of the upper regime. Here in Canada we have no ancient buildings, and very few foreigners who still wear their traditional garb, although Canada is a multicultural country. Immigrants here mostly tend to blend into our society sooner or later, so Morocco was a huge shock to me and sometimes I was afraid for my safety. It really bothered me to see the women working in the fields, often carrying their babies on their backs while working with their primitive hoes and rakes to plant the crops, while the men lazed around together and drank their mint tea and then perched on their camels to go home while their women walked behind them...an amazing reality of life there compared to my western country.

Now that I am finished reading about your african adventures I doubt that anything else I read about others' adventures in far more civilized countries will ever be as thrilling as yours.

I wish you the best of luck and pleasure on your next and every other journey you take.

Betty
===============================================================================

===============================================================================
From Sarah Heddon, USA

Hi!

Vipi bwana?! This is Sarah, the wazimu Swahili student from Milimani
guest house in Lamu, Kenya. Forrest, my traveling buddy, sent this
along via Jen. Wow. Asante sana. Thank you so much for sharing this
and for embarking upon this journey in general.

Once I began reading, I couldn't stop and found myself incredibly
homesick for Africa, all the different Africas you experienced and
described. Along with homesickness, I felt extremely inspired by your
tenacity and ability to execute this trip and general amazement and
fascination by the width and depth of your experiences.

I enjoyed your sense of humor immensely and found myself in various fits
of uncontrollable laughter, mainly because I've been in similar
situations or could imagine them. You portrayed the corruption,
poverty, and heartache pretty adequately and honestly, but what most
impressed me was the equally poignant descriptions of the incredible
beauty, intelligence, passions, and potential of people in these places.
I truly appreciate this and have so much respect for you as a
journalist! Dang. Amazing.

From one wanderer to another, keep pursuing this type of work, as your
talent, drive, and ability to hang off the sides of taxis or matatus and
take pics will truly “take you places.”

===============================================================================

Epilogue

Excerpt from Blog: Sunday February 11th 2007.

So I finally made it home - in one piece.
I have gone straight back to work and will be updating all the missing stories and pictures over the coming weeks.
Over the past few days I have been rapidly "de-Africanizing". My hairstyle has gone from multi-colored braids, to wiry dirty dreadlock-thingies, to a general untidy mess, and I am contemplating shaving it all off (I’m still undecided about the fate of my tri-colored beard - some people actually quite like it!)
This morning I looked at my Michelin 955 Southern and East Africa Map which I placed on my empty bedroom wall. I wasn't sure if I should put it back on the wall, as it had been on several walls for several years. I didn't realise how much of Africa I had covered and the exact nature of my achievements, until I stuck pieces of prestik at all my stops and joined the dots with black cotton. I measured the lengths and it turns out that:
I traveled 22,500 km in 75 days averaging 300km per day.
Busses, Trains, Cars, Planes and Ferries took me to destinations most people don't even dream of.
I spent less than $2000 averaging $30 per day
I slept an average of 4 hours per night!
I cannot explain the amount of data that my mind has absorbed - I am still processing it all and the slides I just got developed take me right back to those special unforgettable moments.
Some travelers I met along the way send me emails explaining how much they miss Africa. I tell them I'm still in Africa, but that I miss them and the Africa we enjoyed together.
Thank you all for your kind wishes and continued support - I wouldn't feel as guilty as I do
(for not updating the site regularly enough) if it weren't for you lot.
If you have contact details of anyone that knows me (from my travels or otherwise), or anyone who may be interested in my travels, then please forward them a link ( http://www.travelpod.com/members/dcm ) to my travel blog or better yet, send me their details. Over and Out.
David, Dahoodi, Dawie, Daveeed, Mzungu, Wazimu, Cheezi, Clinton Marcus

20 years ago I used to write the same line at the end of my school essays:
I hope you have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it!

What else can I say?

You’ve (hopefully) read the entire thing instead of just looking at the pictures
(I purposely didn’t give them captions).
Africa is ………… Africa.
People keep asking me “How was Africa?” and I don’t know how to answer them.
I could come up with hundreds of fancy adjectives to explain it, but I think my experiences I have explained above, along with their accompanying pictures speak for themselves.
I spent six months planning, one month preparing, three months executing and two months documenting my journey.

My initial planning was both precise and unrealistic. For the first six weeks I was pretty much on target. After that circumstances dictated otherwise. Accommodation options either no longer existed or were too expensive. I met other people who I enjoyed travelling with. I got invites. I could stay for free.
I tried to make up for time and stick to my original plan as much as humanly possible. I think I did a pretty good job – considering all the warnings I had before I left.

Other Manic Missions will follow, no doubt. I’m currently planning 52 Countries in as many weeks – around the world! A motorbike would be nice, but probably too expensive and with all the shit I’d carry I would definitely break a few bones on the way. Public transport will probably be the best bet and I have already bought myself a smaller backpack!

My initial routing for the RTW trip:

South America (7)
January: Brazil, Uruguay, Argentina
February: Chile, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia
Central America (5)
March: Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala
North America (3)
April: Mexico, United States of America, Canada
Far East Asia (8)
May: Russia, Japan, South Korea, China
June: Taiwan, Philippines, Malaysia, Thailand
South Asia (5)
July: Myanmar, Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, Iran
Europe (3)
August: Turkey, Greece, Italy
North Africa (5)
September: Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco, Mauritania, Senegal,
West Africa (11)
October: The Gambia, Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Côte D’Ivoire, Ghana
November: Togo, Benin, Nigeria, Cameroon, Equatorial Guinea, Gabon
Southern Africa (5)
December: Congo, DRC, Angola, Namibia, South Africa

If anyone has any advice about or contacts in the above 52 countries, please let me know and tell them I'm coming!!! Better yet give me their e-mail and physical address so they can feed and house me, or else I'm never going to make it around the world on $7,500

Donations and sponsors will be greatly appreciated (& very necessary). You can reach me at manicmissions@gmail.com

Kingsley Holgate, Ted Simon, Ewan McGregor, Charley Boorman and Messrs Theroux:
I’m following in your footsteps!

The End

Download my book @ http://stores.lulu.com/manicmissions remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Home Sweet Home

2007-05-13T22:56:59Z

11th February 2007

Sunday 11th
In Maputo, Maria, a school teacher and Reiki master, who was from the Portuguese colony Goa, told me she was born with a gift, she could tell the future with accuracy. She gave me a few examples of this, which I was skeptical about but didn’t share my opinions with her. She warned me that if I left that day, I would get stuck five times! When I asked her “what type of stuck” she replied “five bad things will happen to you”.

Over the next 2 days, these five things happened:

1. Our brand new luxury bus broke down at 02:00 in Nelspruit and we had to wait an hour for a replacement bus.

2. My watch mysteriously fell off my wrist

3. The Shosholoza Meyl train was not operating a normal service that day, and only had 3rd class seats available.

4. My sim card was blocked but I managed to get someone to unlock it for me. All I could get was ‘error in connecting’ when trying to use it, and nobody could explain why or had ever seen such a thing. On top of that, five calls to customer care were not answered after 10 minute waits, so I was really having bad luck!

5. On the Greyhound bus to Cape Town, which left an hour late, I mysteriously lost my wallet, with all my money in it, debit card, drivers license and seven sim cards from as many countries!

The only other ‘bad thing’ I can think will happen (short of a mugging or an accident, was to contract Malaria, and as I write this on the bus, one hour from Cape Town, two hours late, I have been sweating profusely and shivering without reason, randomly falling asleep and waking up dazed and confused. I had dozed off without realizing seven times during the previous 24 hours, twice on sofas, once at the Wimpy restaurant, and twice on two different buses.

I have no idea how I am getting home with no money, my cell phone broken and no house keys.
I think I have a R5 coin which I used as the base of my Queen in the chess pieces I made a week ago…
I will have to use that to catch a minibus taxi close to home and then walk up the steep hill with all my gear!

It’s what I did exactly three months ago on the 12th November, also a Sunday, so it’s not like I don’t have any practice!

I ended up taking a private-hire taxi straight to my front door, hoping to take some money out of the house kitty on arrival. I rang the doorbell a dozen times but nobody was home. I forgot that it was a Sunday morning. I asked the driver to take me to Nathalie, my second ex-wife. I woke her up, got some money for the taxi fare and then faced the wrath of an irritated woman. She refused to let me enter her apartment. Maybe it had something to do with the ‘thing’ I was carrying and that I looked like a poor white vagrant.
I asked her to drop me at home, where my housemate Jikke, who was sleeping earlier, opened for me.

Home sweet home, finally, physically in one piece (barely), emotionally a wreck…

Home Sweet Home remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Back in MY Country

2007-05-13T23:00:36Z

9th – 10th February 2007

Friday 9th
I woke up at 06:00 (late) and packed up everything, made breakfast and decided I would take a train to Joburg, then another to Cape Town. I swapped my tent for some choice Teva hiking boots and then got my pack into one big hulk of a package, probably 50kg. I took a taxi to the train station and stopped at Maria to pick up my Maasai knife which I’d left in Silva’s truck.
She wouldn’t let me leave her 13th floor apartment and told me the train to Joburg didn’t exist. She said she could no longer accompany Silva to Joburg and that I could go with him. I reluctantly agreed and then fell asleep on her sofa. I woke up for lunch after which they dropped me off at Base backpackers to wait for the weekend to pass (they went away to a nearby island for two nights). I fell asleep in front of CNN at the backpackers and woke up three hours later! I got on the internet to book a bus from Johannesburg to Cape Town and discovered that it would cost me over R500!
The receptionist told me that Intercape was around the corner and had a bus to Johannesburg leaving half an hour later.
I packed my stuff and hurried there, managing to secure a seat, the last one on the bus!
Entering South Africa from Mozambique was hassle free, until the South African police literally pounced on me for smoking in public. When I protested, they reminded me that this had been the law for the past five years and that they were told to display zero tolerance at the border to teach the tourists a lesson. I told them I wasn’t a tourist and continued to smoke my cigarette anyway. There was a mandatory footbath to curb the spread of foot-and-mouth disease, but as I was walking around barefoot at the time, I wasn’t sure if it applied to me. The policemen supervising the dipping sent me away, also telling me to put out my cigarette. I was awoken in the early hours of the morning and everyone was off the bus. I was a bit confused, as it was still way too early and it sure didn’t look like Johannesburg. To my surprise, our luxury bus had broken down and we had already been waiting half an hour for a replacement.

Saturday 10th
I arrived in Johannesburg early, in time to get the bus to Cape Town via Upington. The driver of our bus had told me it was my only option if I didn’t want to spend any time in the city (I hated Joburg and tried to stay far away from it).
It turned out to be too expensive and took way too long, so I explored the other options, finally deciding to book and pay for the Greyhound bus which left four hours later.

I opted not to walk around the city, even though my bags were in safe storage. I was exhausted after 75 days of travel, and only had one more 20 hour bus journey to endure. I called my ex-wife Sarah and left a message on her phone, and too my surprise she came to visit me an hour later. It was great to speak to someone who knew me and I shared some of my journey with her, the highlights and lowlights, while fending of her evil disapproving glares at my ridiculous hairstyle and scruffy tri-colored beard!

Back in MY Country remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Maputo

2007-05-13T23:01:23Z

7th – 9th February 2007

Thursday 8th
I woke up at 05:00 after just three hours of sleep and went on a mission to take photographs of my favorite city. I had taken many great shots three years before and wanted to add to my collection.
I put on my photographer’s jacket and filled all its pockets with lenses, filters, film, cleaning brushes and three cameras slung around my neck.
I first went to the local market to take early morning shots of all the stallholders getting ready for the day’s trading.

After this I found interesting buildings and people to shoot, including a drunken vagrant passed out on a bench. After taking a dozen shots of him, he moved slightly and almost in a trance, started playing with himself while having a mini epileptic fit. I was shocked, as the pedestrians didn’t bat an eyelid and the nearby police didn’t care either. I found two old buildings framed by two really special trees, and while taking pictures of them I saw a ‘banana man’ pushing his huge cart piled high with the bright yellow cargo. I took a picture of him and his cart, and was then accosted by two policemen, the same two who didn’t give a shit about the masturbating vagabond. They arrested me without supplying any reasons (they couldn’t speak English) and took me across the road to the police station. Once inside, a plain clothed policeman explained the nature of my crime: I took pictures of the police station. I completely lost it, especially when they demanded I remove the film from my cameras. I informed them I was a journalist, taking pictures of their city that I’m in love with, and that they should rather focus their attention on masturbating drunkards and petty thieves than harassing tourists for no apparent reason other than to illicit a handsome bribe!
I showed them pictures of the masturbating culprit, as well as the banana man and buildings.
The police station wasn’t in them. The debate got heated at one stage, and then I told them to listen to my story from 3 years before:
I was in Maputo after driving three weeks from Cape Town with seven Europeans in my massive 1966 Forward Control Land Rover. We were on this very road buying some Nando’s fast food, parked in front of a bank avec security guard.
My phone disappeared during the 5 minutes I was inside, and the security guard refused to divulge any information other than “I look after bank, not car. Bank pay me little, you pay nothing!” I freaked and almost throttled the poor guy, making him spill his guts and tell me what he saw. He refused to give details, but pointed in the general direction of an informal car wash operation diagonally across the street. We ran after the culprits (two members of the group, the guilty ones obviously, had made a run for it). Not being able to run far in sandals, we jumped in the truck dragging a hijacked car wash thief with us, and he led the way to his friends’ house. After following the trail from one house to another and from one purchaser of the phone to the next, we knew exactly who had it and what the sale price was. They were just too scared to come out and do the deal as they were warned about my state of mind. It was at this stage that I decided to involve the police – a bad option but a highly entertaining one nevertheless.
They were so eager to help, that five of them jumped in the back of my cavernous Landy and enjoyed my reckless driving around the city. One of them found my police-issue handcuffs (used for sexual and vigilante purposes) and thought it was his duty to confiscate them, for ever! They needed search warrants and court cases and sworn statements and I was leaving the next day and they were too lazy to catch the fuckers with my phone!
So after I reminded them about this experience, told them I had just driven the entire length and breadth of their country and only encountered corruption, and threatened to report them to my embassy (I chose the British one for added effect), they agreed to let me go with a warning.
They still wanted my film though, at which point I stood up and walked out. On the way out I asked if I could take a picture of the plain clothed officer, for my own personal memories, to which he laughed and declined. I explained to him that he wasn’t in uniform, there was nothing in the room indicating it was a police station, and I liked his smile. He agreed, but asked for money. I shook my head in disgust and left the police station with uncontrollable laughter.

Once I’d got back to Fatima’s backpackers, I relayed the story to some of the staff, to their horror, and couldn’t believe I had displayed such a brazen attitude towards them. It was risky, but in the end it worked, and I kept my slide film containing award winning shots, including one shot of the banana man in front of the police station.
I visited a travel agent in the hope of finding a direct cheap flight back to Cape Town. MTS 8,500,000.00 was the best deal I could find – roughly $320! Even if I wanted to, I didn’t have that sort of money, so I investigated other options, including get a lift back home with some Germans in a Cape Town registered car.
I joined some backpackers for an espresso and Portuguese patisseries and bought a brick of butter and the biggest mango I’d ever seen from the deli.
It weighed 2kg and cost MTS 4,200,000 – about $2 – quite steep compared to Maputo-mango-prices. It was truly the best mango of my life and a memorable gastronomic experience. After gorging myself I was a sticky bearded, sticky fingered, content backpacker.
I helped Kiwi’s Steve and Tarryn with planning their journey through Africa – they had eagerly read my blog and came to the decision that I knew how to plan a trip, especially a budget one.

We walked Maputo together visiting travel agents, markets and a brilliant Lebanese falafel restaurant (we all ordered a second falafel it was so good).

It was hot, we were tired, and we couldn’t resist getting a ride in an MCEL yellow tuc-tuc type taxi that looked like a giant motorcycle helmet. He took us down to the fish market where we had planned to buy enough seafood for a banquet.
This is exactly what we did, splashing out on 2kg of giant Lagosta (Langoustines), LM (Laurenço Marques) King Prawns, 1kg of clams, a squid and a cuttle fish for calamari.
The taxi broke down on the way back home, seizing its tiny engine trying to get up a steep hill. The driver radioed in for a replacement while we sat in the shade looking at the diplomatic palaces in the suburb of Sommerschield.
For the next three hours Tarryn and I cooked up a storm and the three of us ate slowly for two hours while the rest of the back packer residents had to deal with the tantalizing aromas emanating from the open-plan communal kitchen. We gave them the leftovers once we were done.

Maputo remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Inhassoro, Vilanculos, Inhambane and Tofo

2007-05-13T23:01:47Z

5th – 6th February 2007

Monday 5th
We drove to Quelimane and bought giant avocados, perfect tomatoes and a woven basked filled with giant crabs for Mts50. I struggled to keep the contents of my stomach inside, after seeing the goat meat on offer. Flies were very busy laying their eggs all over the fresh meat and the putrid smell of the intestines and other organs was too much to bear.

It was pretty scary crossing the mighty Zambezi on a dodgy ferry. There were entire islands rapidly floating by. The guard ordered me to keep my window down, just in case the ferry sank!

I thought I’d seen everything with regards to the chickens on buses and being sold by hawkers everywhere in East Africa, but half a dozen chickens hanging from the bicycles on the ferry were an eye opener. At first it looked very cruel, but upon further inspection I realized that the chickens were pretty comfortable with the means of transport. They simply twisted their necks around and stared at their surroundings. They even had time to play/fight with their fellow fouls. Perhaps it was built into their genes.
After searching high and low for an hour, we couldn’t find a gas station on the other side of the river. We were forced to buy petrol from the hawkers alongside the road. They siphoned the juice from large yellow drums and charged an exorbitant $2 per liter. I wasn’t happy with their measurements, nor did I trust the quality.
200 km later, the red light on the fuel gauge came on and we were nowhere near a city. We hadn’t put enough fuel in as it was too expensive. I did every possible thing to minimize the consumption. We endured the stifling heat without the aircon, I drove 80 km/h, freewheeled down hills and avoided braking or overtaking.
I had driven over 50km since the red light came on, and started to smell fumes. When this happens in my mini, it was usually followed by jerks and splutters, and a few hundred metres later I was stuck.
I was driving on love and fresh air.

We counted down the kilometers to the nearest town while debating whether we would find any fuel there.
Every incline was met with anxiety. The last thing we needed was to be stranded in the middle of nowhere in this heat
We coasted into the ugly town of Gorongosa and there wasn’t a gas station anywhere in sight.
I have no idea why there weren’t any conventional gas stations in the surrounding 200 square kilometers. We did find another man selling petrol from cans, except he had receipts and very large containers. The price was only slightly better.
I was desperate to empty my intestines, and went on the hunt for a concealed bush to perform the deed. A mama preparing lunch noticed me and pointed behind to an outhouse behind her shack. I briskly walked there, clenching my but cheeks, only to find it was locked. In desperation I broke open the door and despite the spider webs and wasp nests, I had the best crap in a long time. I repaired the door to the best of my abilities, thanked the sweating mama and went to buy some ice cold cokes. On my return she was screaming at Silva and demanding separate amounts of money for the use of the toilet and the damaged door. I screamed back at her telling her to be more polite to tourists and clean her toilet.
We drove through the Gorongosa National Park which was once one of Southern Africa’s best wildlife parks, that is before it was totally destroyed by poaching and the war.
I insisted on regularly checking the front left tire for abnormal wear, as the kingpin was seriously damaged causing the wheel alignment to be very off.
I pulled over at a small village near Nova Golega, and was confronted by a young boy. He displayed some martial arts and we ended up showing each other all our techniques. It reminded me of the boat builder in Zanzibar, where we also communicated using martial arts. After a few minutes he simply walked away, without saying a word. It was a very weird experience.
After 10 hours of driving we made it to Inhassoro and pulled into the Hotel Seta where I immediately arranged for the chef to cook all our crabs. Silva wanted to stay in the self contained white chalets, at $30 a pop, and start cooking the crabs. I showed him the campsite which we had all to ourselves. There was a row of eight hot showers in the spotless ablution block, and the crabs were already in the pot. It cost $5. Silva gave the kitchen staff clear instructions as to how he wanted it done, and they provided us with an accompanying salad. I setup my tent on the soft sand overlooking the moonlit ocean and had a naked warm shower under the stars. The long arduous drive had been worth every minute.
Tuesday 6th After a comfortable mosquito-free sleep I woke up at 04:00 and had a long walk on the beach. We had a long day ahead of us and were hoping to make it to the Bamboozi lodge in Tofo, stopping at Vilanculos and Inhambane on the way. I purchased an oil on canvas ‘trumpeter dude’ painting as well as an ‘African musicians’ batik, which I bargained down to $28.
I persuaded Pedro the painting salesman to swap his vest with me. It was an authentic ‘100% Mozambicano’ shirt that everyone was looking for. It was part of a Vodacom advertising campaign and you couldn’t buy it anywhere.
In the village I found Silva some popcorn he’d been searching weeks for.

Vilanculos, Tofo & Inhambane

6th – 7th February 2007
We had a relatively short distance to cover – only 400km. Unfortunately our first stop was involuntary. Silva was caught driving 72 km/h in a 60 km/h zone. We didn’t trust the corrupt officials, who were ignoring the locals and clearly targeting tourists. Having a South African registered vehicle didn’t make the situation any easier. They demanded $100, we refused. They wouldn’t let us go. While we were arguing, an elderly South African couple got pulled over. They were also doing 72 km/h. The woman freaked out, saying she’d already been bust two hours before, and was purposely driving under the speed limit. None of us had enough money anyway. Silva’s Brazilian Portuguese accent got us all out of the mess and we promised to pay the fine at any police station before we left the country. We all knew that this could never be enforced, and were happy to get away with it. We stopped in Vilanculos where we ate a piri-piri chicken, changed some dollars, used the internet and bought some souvenirs.
After Vilanculos, I drove the next three hours through Massinga, religiously sticking to the 100-80-60-80-100 speed limits. We stopped in Inhambane to stock up on fuel and water and couldn’t find the famous craft market. It was past 18:00 and obviously closed. We drove the last 22km to Tofo, the bustling vacation town which has long been legendary on the Southern African holiday makers scene. It had long stretches of sandy beaches and crystal clear azure waters. Unfortunately it also had thousands of ‘suthefricans’ crawling all over the place. I must say I was embarrassed by my fellow countrymen, most of whom were blind drunk! So we headed for Tofinho where there was supposed to be a secluded campsite in front of a surfing beach. We got stuck in deep sand and decided to abandon the truck and go for a naked swim in the huge waves. The rip current was pretty scary and we soon headed back to the truck to dig it out and find the camping spot.
Silva received a business call from the States and wasted half an hour of valuable sunlight hours without realizing it was quickly getting dark. It took as another hour to finally find a place to stay – the Bamboozi Lodge 3km out of town.
I slept in my tent after we ate a lovely meal in the dune-top restaurant with superb views over the moonlit sea.

Wednesday 7th
We woke at 05:00 and went for a dip in the sea. The further south one travels the more refreshing and powerful the sea becomes. It was one of my best swims on this trip. While packing up, we helped a Frenchman who’d emigrated to Swaziland, dig out his 2wd truck. He told me “South Africa is still the best value for money destination in all of Africa”.
We visited the Inhambane market for souvenirs, where I finally found my Palmar cigarettes and bought a carton. I promised myself after these 200 cigarettes I wouldn’t touch another. Exactly three months later and I’ve stuck to my word. I bought seven grass bags for gifts and a ‘Frelimo 9º Congresso Unidos na luta contra a pobreza a força mudança’ pack containing matching scarf and kikoi to hang up in my room. Ignoring Silva’s protestations, I went to the Frelimo party office and begged them for a flag. I told them I was a supporter and was going to hang it up in my garden. They fished one out of a cupboard and refused to accept any money for it. I was stoked!
We shared the driving and made it to Maputo by 17:00. Silva dropped me off at Fatima’s Backpackers and I did five trips to get all my stuff out of the truck and into the hostel. I setup my camp on the roof like a seasoned traveler – mosquito net and all, then sat down on the same chair for the following eight hours advising backpackers which transport routes to take through East Africa. I felt a sense of completion – 71 days of travel, 10 countries and 5000km of Mozambique!

Inhassoro, Vilanculos, Inhambane and Tofo remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Quelimane & Zalala Beach

2007-05-13T23:02:17Z

3rd – 5th February 2007

Silva heard of a trendy night club that was supposedly still happening and jumped in the truck eagerly trying to find the place. The girl (I can’t remember her name, but will refer to her from now as ‘Farida’) and I were still in the back and everything was a mess. We continued our fun nevertheless, ending up on the floor with coffee grinds all over the place. The club turned out to be a meat market, and the only two white men were immediately propositioned by all and sundry. Drunk girls simply grabbed your arse, and I’m not talking about a pinch, it was a proper grope! As much as I tried, I couldn’t shake them off.
I wanted to go swim in the sea and pass out on a desolate beach. Farida told me there was one only 30 km away.
By now, Silva was too pissed to drive, so we crammed four of us into the front of the truck. Farida’s friend (who I will call Lina), came along for the ride (and to satisfy Silva) and drove a palm tree lined single track road at 100 km/h with bicycles and pedestrians jumping for cover. I was only following the example of the local kamikaze drivers.
Zalala was a small village with an attractive beach.
We arrived there at before 06:00 and were treated to a spectacular sunrise behind dark stormy clouds. With the exception of a few fisherman, we had the entire beach to ourselves. It stretched as far as the eye could sea, and had a 100 meter thick line of pine trees separating the beach from the mainland. After a skinny dip in the warm salty ocean, we setup camp under the canopy of the trees, surrounded by thousands of these tiny luminous frogs.
I stole Silva’s swimming trunks and gave them to Farida, instructing her to wait in the middle of the beach waving them around. Silva wasn’t in the least perturbed, and walked up to her nonchalantly collected his boxer shorts.

Like most Africans living on the coast, Farida and Lina refused to jump into the sea. I’m not sure if they couldn’t swim.

It wasn’t because they didn’t want to get naked, as they had no problem flaunting their sexy bodies!

The heavens opened up again so we walked over to the local canteen, dodging all the frogs, for a giant seafood breakfast.
While we were waiting for the food, Silva arranged immaculate accommodation, a stones throw from the beach, fully furnished and with aircon! The house had just been renovated and it cost a paltry $20 each. We escaped the rain and had a great sleep in our separate refrigerated bedrooms, that is after Farida and Lina had performed their magic once more.
It wasn’t long before the fisherman came to our doorstep offering freshly caught delights from the sea. Camarão, Langoustines, and a big fat fish called Pedra, took up some space in our cavernous freezer. We spent the next two days cooking seafood, enjoying sunsets and recuperating from the harrowing long distance road trip. I made a makeshift chess board out of foil, coins, onions, cashew nuts and garlic. One day we drove on the hard beach for kilometers.
On the second day we were joined by a rowdy group of young Pakistani adolescents. They were drinking and driving and acting the way I used to when I was that age. Mohammed, their leader, bragged about his sister earning $12,500 per month from their property portfolio in Nampula. He was clearly getting access to these funds judging by the flashy 4x4 he was driving. They didn’t make too much noise as they mainly partied in town
Our butler, who came with the place and organized us anything we wanted, taught us how to grill Langoustines on the coals. His condiments were simple: garlic, salt and limes. To him, the seafood wasn’t even a delicacy, it was his daily bread.
At 05:00 on the morning before we left, I discovered a small bird on our freezer. It was truly mesmerizing and allowed us to stroke it and take pictures. I fed it some water thinking it may have a damaged wing or foot, but after 10 minutes it simply flew away. Perhaps it was someone’s pet on a joy flight. We had our last swim on the beach, packed up and left Zalala.

Quelimane & Zalala Beach remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Nampula Again

2007-05-13T23:03:02Z

31st January to 2nd February 2007

I showed Silva the accommodation options that I’d explored the week before. None of the cheap ($15) places had availability and the others we looked at were either overpriced ($50 or more) or didn’t have a secure spot to park the truck. None had aircon or hot water! Then we found the 5 star plush hotel, the only one in the city. It would cost almost $200 for a room and for a while we entertained the idea. An Indian man at the Bagdade cafe told us about a Complexo Touristica Bamboo out of town and called them to book us a spot. Later we worked out he owned the resort.
The place was a security village aimed at local (rich) tourists and businessman. Each mini-condo had it’s own en-suite bathroom, nice double bed and aircon. It was $54 per night and the first two units I was shown were crawling with cockroaches. I completely lost the plot and ordered the management to find me a cockroach free room and move all my luggage into it. I had a great hot shower and had to watch my own movie on my MPEG as the satellite TV they promised had all of two channels! Silva banged on my door and insisted we go party. I reluctantly agreed and we headed for Bagdade café again, this time to hunt for some woman. Silva was very keen to get laid as it had been all of three days since his last dirty deed with a local. He had been screwed over emotionally and financially by his Brazilian wife and was now bitter and rebellious. He didn’t sleep with white girls on ‘principle’, and had as much sex as possible for the two months of adventure travel he took each year. We never found any girls at Bagdade, but I had some interesting conversations with the locals at the bar. This one dude Paulo told me a funny story about his sister who was working as a flight controller in Lichinga, a large town on the edge of Lake Malawi. She had just lost her husband who left for another man. I don’t know what I said wrong, but all of a sudden he wanted to kill me. Silva came to my rescue, scolding the man in his own language, and we got out of there quickly. On our way home, we cruised the streets for a while, looking for another place to go out to and some cell phone credit for Silva to call his 3 year old daughter Donna. He turned into a completely different man when speaking to her, telling her about all his adventures in Africa (minus the censored stuff).
I saw two young girls heading home and stopped to ask them if they knew anywhere for us to go. I was driving as Silva was too drunk, and persuaded them to jump on his lap and come home with us to the Complexo.
They eagerly jumped in and we went home like couples. Silva wasn’t happy that they were more interested in me, but they did find his Brazilian accent quite cute.

We arrived home and went to our respective rooms, each with a girl in tow. I can’t remember her name, but let’s call her Gloria. She said she was 22 but I wasn’t so sure. I mixed some massage oil together and tried to explain to her what I had in mind. She didn’t speak or understand a single word of English, and I found it extremely difficult to convey the idea of giving each other a massage. I thought I would do her first, so as to show her how and what I needed. She was very scared and after a few seconds of massaging her shoulders, she jumped out and started screaming. I calmed her down but was still very confused as to why she had freaked out. She did an average job on my back and then demanded sex. I wasn’t that interested but she practically raped me. I felt shit after the brief intercourse we had and was irritated when she asked me for money. I was too naïve to realize that the girls had come home with us to make money, and not just for fun or to find a future Mzungu husband. I sent her to Silva’s room and made it clear she was to wait until they were ‘done’ and he would take them home.

I washed my hands of the matter, had a shower and went to bed.
Thursday 1st I spent the first hour of the morning defrosting my stiff body, as the aircon had only one setting – fucking freezing – and it didn’t help that I’d slept naked on top of the covers!
A buffet breakfast was included and we stuffed our bellies with muesli, fresh fruit and eggs.
Silva was wearing a broad smile that said ‘I’ve just had it all this morning’. I asked what had happened to my Gloria and he told me she had come in very pissed off. She explained to him that I threw chemicals over a body causing her tremendous pain. Maybe I did put too many drops of Olbas Eucalyptus oil in the mix. Maybe she was just over sensitive. Anyway, Silva consoled her by cleaning her in his shower and then she did all sorts of weird and wonderful things to him. He told me it was the best menage a trois he’d had and was grateful I had sent her over. He wouldn’t tell me how much the threesome experience cost him, but did admit they’d emptied his wallet after he drove them home!
Silva had to get a new tire and service the truck, and Nampula had a big Toyota Dealer. We took it in and they told us it would take a few days.
I was quickly running out of cash and investigated my flight options. It would be cheaper to fly back to Maputo than drive or take public transport.
I booked and almost paid for my half price student ticket, until they told my that they didn’t consider 31 year olds to be students. I protested and showed them my student card but they refused to budge on the issue. I tried two other airlines, but it was going to be too expensive. I hadn’t even taken into account the excess baggage costs.
We got a taxi home and I decided I would accompany Silva all the way back to Johannesburg. I would have to go more over my budget and at least five days over my 10 week limit. Silva wanted to make it to Maputo on Tuesday, which gave us four days to cover 2000 km. I was happy to travel so quickly and if we shared the driving it would be a walk in the park.

I needed sleep, Silva wanted another threesome. We took a taxi to town and searched for the discotheque which ended up being closed. The taxi driver took us to various spots and eventually we settled for Café Carlos. It was filled with white people, most of them volunteers for the UNHCR. I played someone’s guitar and ate Pizza while chatting to a Rastafarian who’d been involved with the Rwandan refugees. There were a twenty thousand of them as well as Congolese and Burundian refugees housed in a huge camp outside Nampula. After the bar closed we were entertained by a series of bitch fights that got very ugly. It was a bad idea for the men to get involved. The girls threw rocks at them, bit, pinched and pulled their hair out. They kicked the shit out of their motorbike and broke bottles on their cars. Silva and I sat on the wall across the road not knowing whether to laugh, cry or get involved and try break it up.

I will never forget his comment: “this is why Africans shouldn’t be allowed to drink”.

Our taxi finally arrived and we went home alone, sans ménage a trois!

Nampula to Alto Molócuè

Friday 2nd
I woke up with a bee in my bonnet. Silva wanted to get to Maputo by Wednesday and I wanted to leave ASAP so that we could spend some time on the beaches down south. I woke him up, we ate breakfast and paid the $108 damage each for our two nights at the Bamboo Complexo Turistica. I wasn’t a happy puppy because I’d spent my weekly budget in two days! Silva arranged a taxi driver who would take us around town, with all our bags in the boot, while we waited for the truck to be ready. We checked out the museum, which, like everything else in Mozambique, hadn’t changed much since the 70’s. The carver’s market was filled with men chipping away at fresh pieces of wood. The fruit of their labors looked worse than what we’d bought near Mueda, and their prices were just plain silly – 10 times what we’d paid.
There wasn’t much else to see in Nampula, so the taxi dropped us off at the Toyota garage where we would wait. And wait is exactly what we did – for over three hours!
They refused to let us near the truck, so we were forced to move all our belongings into the reception, where we debated setting up my tent!

I insisted Silva take a picture of the damaged tire with the mechanic present, to use as evidence when he needed Britz 4x4 rentals to refund him for the new tire and service. One of the pictures he pulled a brown eye (bent over and showed his hairy sphincter), much to the delight and embarrassment of the service manager.

We eventually got out of Nampula at 17:00. It was peak hour traffic on a Friday afternoon and the heavens decided to open up while I was buying some food for the road. Within minutes the roads were flooded and we got lost trying to find our way out of the city.
For the next 10 hours we alternated driving. I was on a mission to make it to Quelimane before sunrise. Silva just wanted a hotel all the way. The road got worse and worse until it disappeared. There was no light, it was overcast and the rain continued for most of the way.
We were traveling on the new highway being built, and there were more diversions than actual road. We soon realized that the diversions were far better than the ‘main road’, especially after we almost hit a truck that was hiding in thick fog. It was stuck in the mud proper and couldn’t turn around. We backtracked a few kilometers and drove with my window open, shining a 3 million candle power torch onto the road ahead. We were irritated and exhausted, but there wasn’t any option other than continuing. At around midnight, we stopped in Alto Molócuè, a ‘pleasant town and refueling point’. We had a drink at a bar, spoke to some locals about the road conditions, ignored their advice, and then continued on through the night, despite the mud and huge dongas we encountered as we left town.

Saturday 3rd
It was really stupid for us to continue, but I promised to drive and Silva occasionally nodded off for a few winks. When the cigarettes and Coke didn’t keep us awake, the sudden change from tarmac to dirt did. This happened regularly and you couldn’t anticipate it either, because the fog was so thick. It was easier (and much safer) to drive off ‘the road’, almost on the encroaching fields, as it was softer and without potholes.
By 02:00 we reached Mocuba, which the LP describes as ‘a junction town for travel from Quelimane to Nampula or Malawi’. I was shocked to see huge palaces along the wide avenues in this small town.
We stopped at an open air bar for directions. The place was teeming with locals and I drove the truck right inside next to the tables. We had a few drinks with some girls (Silva wanted to stay) and I did some investigations. I found a Rastafarian who shed some light onto the wealth in Mocuba. A very expensive metal called Tantalum was mined near Mocuba. It is a rare, hard, blue-gray, lustrous, transition metal and is highly corrosion resistant. It has a wide array of uses ranging from capacitors in cell phones and laptops, to production of super alloys for jet engine components. It is even used in nuclear reactors and missile parts! The girls entertaining Silva told me we could reach Quelimane within two hours. I checked the map and calculated it was another 200 km’s away. I argued that it wasn’t possible to cover that distance, on these roads, in such a short time. They begged us to stay but I was on a mission and we headed off.
Lo and behold, two hours later Silva woke me up pointing at the ‘hot chicks’ strolling the streets of Quelimane.
He told me the road was perfect. We’d been driving from Nampula, almost non-stop, for 12 hours. I refused to check into a hotel, which Silva badly wanted/needed. I explained that we could possible check in at 07:00 and then stay until the following evening, thereby only paying for one night. At $115 a night, the Hotel Chuabo on Avenida Samora Machel was still way to expensive.
We parked outside the popular and happening Bar Aquário where we were pounced upon by several sexy girls. Silva got chatting while I jumped in the back of the truck and brewed some coffee.
Silva had woken me up on the away into town to show me the ‘girl in the gold dress’. It was hardly a dress, just a foil wrapping covering a tiny portion of her giant breasts and a smaller portion of her arse. We were wired to the moon.

While I was making some coffee, a girl walked up the stairs and into the truck. There was no verbal communication, just the language of lust, and next thing I knew the door was closed and we were having more fun than I care to mention. It’s a pity the back door didn’t lock from the inside, because a little boy kicked it open after repeatedly warning us of the polícia.

Nampula Again remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Moçimboa de Praia and the Mighty Rovuma

2007-05-13T23:03:35Z

29th – 31st January 2007

Silva was a very interesting man. He kept telling me how he was confused that he’d let me join him. He told me he had three rules against travel partners:
1. &nbs p; “I don’t associate with people who have dreadlocks”
2. &nbs p; “I don’t talk to ‘suvefrikens’ (South Africans)”
3. &nbs p; “I hate Jews”
I told him I was a ‘self-hating Jew’ like Ali G, my braids were not dreadlocks and that I had a British Passport and wasn’t a racist Afrikaner. I had manipulated him and we ended up getting on like a house on fire!

We headed north along the coast on a shit road, stopping for a ‘peixe & pão’ lunch in a small fishing village called Quissanga. It was possible to charter a dhow to the nearby Quirimbas Archipelago, but Silva explained to me that he already lived on an island and didn’t particularly enjoy island life anyway. I persuaded him to rejoin the main road and head for Mocimboa de Praia, the last major town before the Rovuma.
We arrived in the dark and spent a few hours entertaining and pissing off the locals at a pool bar. I hustled them once again, played kwaito music on my iPod and left them all broke. They had served us a horrible meal and was hesitant to leave the 3 squid I’d purchased from a local.

A strange man, the only remotely European looking man in the town, was hanging about the bar, giving me a funny look every now and then. He was very conscious of me looking at him and when he did speak, he spoke in tongues. I asked the locals what his problem was, and found out he was a retired helicopter pilot from the 70’s. He had lost all his friends and family in the war and was now psychologically disturbed for life. Silva actually did the asking and interpreting as he was fluent in Portuguese. His accent was Brazilian because he spent years touring South America.

We stayed at Complexo Miramar which the LP describes the rooms as ‘no-frills rondavels, with just a trickle of running water’. I only read this the following day, as it was Silva who had found the place. I was pissed off when we got inside after midnight, and insisted I would rather camp than spend $25 on a dirty hovel with broken mosquito nets, no running water, and buckets of green algae water that stank! Silva insisted we stay there as there were no other options and he wasn’t prepared to get into trouble with the authorities. It was also very dark and we had no idea on whose land to park and sleep. I woke up the owners – an old greasy Portuguese couple living in a tiny room besides the restaurant.

The old man wore a dirty white vest from which his long white body hair stuck out. His wife was hideous with giant warts covering her face. I used sign language to convey my disgust in their rooms and demanded a cheaper price and fresh water. We were both very confused with the price as the Meticais losing three zeros made me think it cost $8. I paid for both of us, made sure they arranged for 200 liters of fresh water, let them go back to sleep and only realized how much I’d paid while lying on the foam mattress trying not to touch the soiled blue mosquito net!

Tuesday 30th
Luckily we were both early risers and Silva introduced me to the kitchen in the camper. I was pretty impressed with the heavy duty Engel fridge and gas burners. There was water on tap (which he’d filled from a borehole in Malawi) and all the utensils you could possibly need. He had some good coffee he brought from America and I had my first taste of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). The MREs were foil pouches containing dehydrated meals of meat and vegetables. You opened it, poured in boiling water, closed it, stirred after two minutes and waited another five. It was simple and delicious and he had loads more of them. I didn’t want to read the back and find out how many e-numbers and chemicals were inside, but Silva insisted they were 100% organic and contained none of the evil stuff

I ordered the staff to bring fresh water and they carried several buckets of it so I could shower. We took turns throwing buckets of freezing (but very refreshing) water over each other in a make shift shower in front of our rondavel. The locals were shocked at our nakedness and I noticed the absence of Silva’s foreskin.

We got chatting about the Kosher (Jewish dietary laws) foods and I told Silva it was all to be found in Leviticus. It so happened that he had stolen a bible from a hotel in Zimbabwe and I eagerly read out the various sections pertaining to what Jews could and could not eat or touch. For the next few days our favourite words were ‘unclean’ and ‘abomination’ – which was what would happen to a naughty Jew who came near (or God forbid ate some flesh of) that filthy animal the pig. It was only then that I found out Silva was also a Jew. He had recently become more religious but chose which customs, traditions and holidays he would follow.
We searched high and low for petrol and eventually had to buy some from the port – where they sell fuel to boats. It was quite a process involving paying up front, getting a stamped receipt, going to a warehouse and then siphoning the smelly liquid from 200 liter oil drums. There was no pump, so we had to measure using 5 liter containers. It was cheaper than everywhere else and we were happy to get out of the miserable town.
In Pemba, Silva was told by Russell that the ferry across the Rovuma wasn’t running. The previous evening he found out from border officials at the bar that it was running, but had to stop for a few hours each day after spotters upriver would radio in that huge tree trunks or other debris was coming along. We decided to head South, but got horribly lost and ended up in Mueda. We turned around and headed back, but stopped after Silva received a call from Switzerland. After the call, the Michelin Map was taken out and spread on the bonnet, and we came up with the ridiculous idea of crossing the Rovuma into Tanzania, which was now very nearby.

Once in Tanzania we would take a 4000 km detour through Malawi, Zimbabwe and South Africa. I only had $300 left and couldn’t even afford to contribute anything towards the astronomical fuel costs. Silva was happy to have a traveling companion and explained (to my relief) that he would still be using the fuel if he was on his own. So we went back to Mueda for a chicken lunch, stocked up on provisions (if we were successful then civilization would be days away) and then headed out into unknown territory. I insisted on asking half a dozen locals, including truck drivers, if and where we could cross. Despite 80% of them telling us it wasn’t possible, we went anyway. The map showed border posts on each side of the river, which logically suggested that there would also be crossings. Later we found out that maps, especially African maps, are not that logical. I had a 1999 version, Silva the 2005, and Claus (the Dane I traveled with in Tanzania and Kenya) had the 2003 edition. We never found one difference between them. Now in seven years one would think at least a few roads would have been completed or washed away, but this was Africa, and most of the errors on the map had something to do with the fact that the areas in question were so inaccessible. Civil wars had ruined railway tracks, floods had washed away bridges, and even global warming had taken its toll on the width and flow of major rivers. The Rovuma was one of these rivers and after three hours of driving on some of the worst dirt roads on the planet, we hit a dead end 10km after the frontier town of Mocimboa do Rovuma. The views from the town were phenomenal and I quickly snapped away through two rolls of the B&W film that Jurgen had donated to my cause.

We spent half an hour taking photos, soaking up the view and asking for directions and advice on where to stay.
That river looked so close but we were now very sure it wasn’t crossable, at least not with our vehicle.
We decided to get as close to the Rovuma as possible and at least have a quick dip in it!
The road deteriorated until it became a rough track through 6 foot high grass. There was a small river in front of us, which we could cross, so I walked ahead a few hundred metres and tried, unsuccessfully, to get Silva to continue. Twenty kids appeared out of nowhere and told us we could in fact reach the river. Silva didn’t believe them and insisted that they were just looking for money to help us get out the mess we would inevitably end up in.

We drove back to an idyllic spot we had passed under a canopy of trees. We had reset the odometer after passing it and decided that we would spend the night there if and when we couldn’t make it across.

We were treated to once of the most spectacular sunsets I have ever witnessed and then setup camp, made a fire and enjoyed two new flavors of MRE’s.

Wednesday 31st I was awoken at 04:30 by people on their way to work. Instead of the usual curiosity, they were actually scared and hurried past after seeing my interest in them. Silva persuaded a few to come chat while I made the coffee and boiled eggs. I persuaded Silva that we would make it all the way to Nampula that evening – over 600km and 13 hours of solid non-stop driving. He agreed and we quickly packed up and left. He drove like a complete maniac, drilling the brand new rental truck (which hadn’t even had its first service) into oblivion. Every 10 minutes I would close my eyes and bite my teeth in anticipation of the next major ditch that would shake everything up.

I begged Silva to stop after seeing a sign advertising Makonde crafts. Many Makonde carvers live in the outlying villages and I purchased two of the most intricate carvings from a very talented and humble young man.
We took turns at the wheel and an hour after I took over, we had a major blowout. It took 30 minutes in the heavy rain to change the tire.
Eventually we made it to Nampula at 19:30.

Moçimboa de Praia and the Mighty Rovuma remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Naçala to Pemba

2007-05-14T00:46:15Z

27th January 2007
I set my alarm for 04:00 as I had to get the 05:00 Grupo Mecula bus to Pemba. There was only one bus and I was told it always left on time and never stopped on the way. I was adamant that this was the bus, so I packed up my tent, throwing in wet laundry, sand and bugs, made one big parcel out of everything and threw it on my back, all in the dark. It took half an hour to walk the 2km to the main road from Fim du Mundo, and I was hot, wet, purple and exhausted, physically and mentally, when I arrived. There was no public transport until 06:00 and no taxi was prepared to pick me up, not that I would have paid for such an extravagance.
Hundreds of farm labourers walked past me and either gave me confused looks or laughed under their breath. There were groups of woman walking with their heavy hoes and packed lunches balanced on their head.
I got excited every time a bicycle came by, but there was no way I would be able to get on and it would have been a lost cause anyhow as Naçala was 7km away and all of the bicycles already had two passengers on them!
I waited half an hour getting more and more frustrated as time went by. It was now 05:15 and I was praying the bus was delayed. A large truck came past and I stood in the middle of the road desperate for it to stop. It was full. I didn’t care. They made space for me amongst the baskets of fresh fish, furniture, animals and humans.
As I arrived in town I was ushered to a bus that was ‘full and leaving immediately’ for Monapo and Namialo where I could get onward transport to Pemba. The timing was great and they were 100% sure I would get a taxi from either Namialo or Monapo. I couldn’t believe my luck. I threw everything in the bus and began to relax. The relaxation turned to irritation after 30 minutes, when after seeing the same shops, roads and views, I realized that we hadn’t actually left Naçala yet. It seemed we were looking for more passengers to make the two hour journey more lucrative. I didn’t have any other options as this was the last and only transport heading that way. I knew this as all the other passengers were moaning, begging the driver to get the hell out of there. It took more than two hours to finally leave, more time than the whole journey should have taken.
On arrival in Namialo, there was a big blue chappa (open truck) that was ‘full and leaving immediately’. Although I’d fallen for this too many times, this truck was really full, all the luggage packed on the small roof above the driver and all 20 passengers sitting on top of each other.
It was so full that three guys were literally hanging off the back, their feet on the bumper and one arm holding onto anything including me, so as not to fall off. I was wondering how long they could last until I realized that they were actually the touts, getting paid for finding more passengers!

And more passengers (with their corresponding luggage) is exactly what they found. Once again there was nothing I or the dozens of other passengers could do about it.

Again, the only Mzungu in sight was the centre of attention. It would have been fine if the locals harassed me once, but because we were driving around constantly, each time we returned to the frantic market, I was pounced on. I suppose I did encourage them with my drum playing and regularly buying snacks and drinks. They all wanted to touch me and with each touch it was as if they were receiving my autograph. The camera didn’t help either, as they fought with each other to be in the shot! The novelty soon wore off and I ended up ignoring them completely, the other passengers helping me to shoo them away. After an hour some of my fellow irritated passengers jumped off, opting to wait in the shade until we were ready to go. It was blisteringly hot and there was no cover from the scorching sun. I wasn’t prepared to leave all my belongings on board, so I remained stuck. I could feel myself getting burnt and my limbs were in pain from everybody else’s limbs squashed up against each other. I have been told that I am an exceptionally placid being with an abnormal amount of patience, but on this occasion it had run out, as it also had for many of the other passengers, especially the mothers with small children. We threatened to all jump off, got rid of the touts and finally left the town we had driven up and down dozens of times. After waiting a total of two hours since I jumped on there were now 42 passengers on board! I shudder to think how long the others had waited for.
The above numbers are NOT an exaggeration. I really did wait that long and their really were that many passengers.
The journey only got worse when the truck drove through potholes at full speed, causing bruising to everyone. After three hours and 200km, I was the only passenger left, and I was still nowhere near Pemba. I refused to get off or pay them as they had promised me it was going all the way to Pemba. When 6 goats were loaded on I didn’t have much choice but to get off. We argued over payment, I wouldn’t pay anything, they wanted the full amount. They arranged a minibus taxi which they promised me would only take 15 minutes to get to the next town, from where there would definitely be onward transport to Pemba. My gear was loaded into the small taxi and I was charged for three people. I ignored them, paid for one ticket and held my drum and two bags on my lap for the next half hour.
They dropped me at the next town, Namapa, which turned out to be a tiny dusty dump. I was famished and immediately bought half a dozen pão (Portuguese bread rolls) and five boiled eggs. I sat myself down in a local canteen, stuffed my face and ordered three bottles of Lemon Twist from the proprietor, a big mama, to quench my thirst.

Once again a Mzungu in this town was an extremely rare site and soon I had an intrigued audience watching my unfamiliar activities. I asked a few locals if and when the next ride to Pemba would come past, but most of them didn’t hold out much hope. Then the heavens opened up the dusty town quickly became a muddy mess.

I had to bring my gear inside and package it in a way to keep out the rain. It wasn’t happening – I had too much stuff.
A truck stopped on the highway to drop off some beer, and I was desperate.

Both the locals and the driver looked at me in disbelief when I asked if I could get a lift to Pemba. I offered the driver money and promised him I would sit on top. There was already a small child on the back, hiding under a plastic sheet, and so I started opening up the tarpaulin to load my gear. During the five minutes it took me to put my bags under cover, I got soaked right through. So I was naturally relieved when a bus arrived and parked under the cover of the nearby gas station.

They were full, but I knew that no bus was ever full enough. This was your typical mad max bus, with luggage loaded three metres high on top on the vehicle leaning dangerously over to one side. I told them I would stand, but my bags had to be inside, as there was no way I was going to let everything get wet on top. They politely refused, so I jumped on the blue lorry and waited patiently next to the boy for the driver to finish his business. I was cold and wet, but there was no other way I was going to continue, so I looked at the positive side of things and told myself that I was in fact very privileged to experience this delightful mode of transport!
The rain was intermittent and often changed from hectic downpour to light drizzle to sunny bliss. Every time we passed a group of people on the side of the road, one local would notice my white face and pause in shock. Without fail they would then scream at their friends to brag about their Mzungu sighting, which resulted in screams and waving arms. I felt obliged to wave back and reply to their ‘Mzungu Mzungu’ with ‘Matoto Matoto’ (little kid, little kid).
We were soon stopped at a security checkpoint, and the corruption began. I couldn’t believe my eyes with what I saw next. The fat policeman, dressed in a regal white uniform, browsed through the selection of DVD’s on offer, and the driver then parted with two of them, as a payment for letting us pass. I never realized that it was not only tourists who had to put up with corrupt officials, but that the locals had resigned themselves to the harsh realities.
After two hours of an exhilarating but bumpy, cold and wet journey, the driver invited me into his cabin. I hooked up my iPod, dried and defrosted and enjoyed the brilliant colors of the surroundings through the giant unobstructed window.
I eventually arrived in Pemba, 18 hours and five means of transport after my 04:30 departure that morning. The driver called me a private taxi, who drove me from hotel to hotel to find me a bargain. The hotels were ridiculously and prohibitively too expensive, and I reluctantly settled for Russell’s Place, 5km south of Pemba on Wimbi beach.
The last thing I wanted to do was sleep in my tent in the rain, but I was already way over budget and gave in to my unrealistic desires. I setup camp, introduced myself to the locals and tucked into a warm plate of delicious food brought to me at the bar.
There were three guys parked off at the bar, an Aussie and two South Africans, already well into their Saturday night drinking and smoking session. I told them where I’d come from and they were absorbed with my manic African tales.
We listened to my iPod, spoke of corruption and eventually said goodnight at 02:30.

Pemba
28th - 29th January 2007

Sunday 28th
After less than three hours of sleep, I woke up at 05:00 and had seven cups of coffee with Jurgen (a South African in exile), Russel (an Australian and the owner of the campsite) and Ja’me ( a wise man from Portugal). My decision to come to Pemba was well worth it. From Naçala I had the option of going down to Ilha de Mozambique, similar to Zanzibar with it’s stone town, but opted instead to head north, exactly in the opposite direction of Cape Town.
I was now further from Cape Town than I’d been in Northern Uganda, and I only had 11 days of my 10 weeks left, to cover more than 7000 km. I didn’t have the energy or money to do this, and started investigation various expensive flying options. The locals had told me it would take at least a week to get to Maputo, and that wouldn’t include stopping anywhere for longer than one night. I was exhausted by the previous 15 days in which I had traveled all the way from Nairobi to Northern Mozambique, a distance of more than 5000 km, through eight countries, on buses, trains, ferries, taxies, trucks, pickups, private vehicles, hitch-hiking and even bicycles!

I was in serious need of some rest and relaxation, so I was happy when Russell and his friends invited me to join them for a Sunday beach picnic. I accompanied them into town on the back of his newly refurbished Land Rover to stock up on food and drink. Before we left, we checked out the engine bay and found oil in the radiator. This was slightly confusing to me, as a manifold or head gasket had clearly broken, but they decided to drive it anyway. I did warn them that the shit would hit the fan, but these guys weren’t exactly compus mentus at the time.
The city was surprisingly underdeveloped, especially considering what I had read about the idyllic paradise that was supposed to be Pemba. The paradise was actually all centered around the plush hotels, one of which, the Pemba Beach Hotel run by the Arab Rani Resorts, was Mozambique’s only five star hotel outside of Maputo. We stopped at the local market for some expensive fresh pineapples, mangos, avocados and paw-paws.
One child wouldn’t stop looking at me with my braided head and purple face, and eagerly posed for some pictures.

Ja’me arranged a black market exchange rate from ‘Che’ Guevara for my $100 and my wallet was filled with a thick wad of Meticais for the first time.

The Landy spewed and spluttered and we inevitably broke down on the main road. I wasn’t surprised as I own two 1966 Land Rover Forward Controls (huge army vehicles) and spend more time under them than inside. Russell came to tow us in his trusty TLC (Toyota Land Cruiser).
It was the stuff 4x4 enthusiasts always spoke of around the camp fire – how their TLC towed a Landy out of the shit!

The beach picnic was almost called off, but Russell agreed to take us all in his TLC. We picked up a huge sea kayak and drove the 20km along the beach to his friend’s piece of pristine beachfront land. There were seven 4x4 there, all of them local. I was stoked that I could share a Sunday picnic with locals, even though most of the locals were ex-pats, most spoke Portuguese and all had assimilated.

The picnic was held under and around the lapa, a thatched structure made completely from local materials. I took it upon myself to make the fire while Ja’me organized some fresh sardines, hand picked straight from the net of the local fisherman, for an hors de oeuvre.

I was surprised to bump into the American I had met in Malawi and on the border. This was our third encounter and would turn into an adventure of note. His name was Silva Cohen, a 42 year old tree surgeon from ‘the humptons’ on Long Island.

We great fun preparing the fish. I chopped all the onions, tomatoes and garlic while chatting to everyone about corruption and expensive hotels. Jurgen had a collection of spices from around the world which I was thrilled to throw into the mix.

The fire was difficult to keep going during the rain but once the grill was covered in salted sardines drizzled with lemon juice, the coals did their job.

We didn’t have any pots or pans, so I ingeniously sawed off the tops of five beer cans in which to cook the relish for our fish. I thought the pictures would make a brilliant marketing campaign for SAB/Miller’s Castle Lager!

The food turned out delicious and everyone had the time of their lives. I hadn’t been with a more jovial bunch of people in a very long time. The beach was incredible and the ocean almost refreshing.

The sea temperature was no longer a warm bath as it had been for all of Tanzania and Kenya, it was now moving closer toward a cold cup of coffee.
None of us really wanted to end the day, but after a fantastic sunset it soon got dark and Sunday evening was ‘Pizza Night’ at Russell’s Place.
Back at the campsite I downloaded over 300 photographs and did a slide show for everyone while we all munched on delicious pizza. Silva (the American) was very intrigued by my visit to Rwanda, and we chatted until the early hours while I played my Rwandan drum.

Monday 29th
At 07:00 we repeated the coffee routine of the previous day. Jurgen’s eyes lit up once I told him I suffered from Bipolar II disorder. His American girlfriend had the same condition and refused to stick to her medication. She relapsed regularly and spent fortunes of her Senator Father’s money satisfying her manic episodes. Jurgen obviously enjoyed these binges but couldn’t handle the resulting emotional stress. I gave him the names of some important books on the subjects and he gave me a dozen black and white professional Ilford film. His girlfriend was a professional photographer and he had hundreds of unused film. I was over the moon.
Silva joined us at Russell’s (he was staying in a nearby cheap pensão) to ask about road conditions up north. I asked if I could join him, flicked a coin, and 20 minutes later my kit was packed in the back of his camper and we were heading for the mighty Rovuma river on the Tanzanian border.
What possessed me to now go even further away from my destination, on limited funds, I’m not sure, but what I was sure about was that it would be well worth it and probably the last time I’d be able to experience it sans touriste.

Naçala to Pemba remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Nampula & Naçala

2007-05-13T23:04:01Z

Wednesday 25th
I woke up to the sound of chickens pecking around my tent. I peaked outside and saw a man weeding in between the rows of corn we had parked next to. Smoke was billowing from the nearby huts and there were children screaming on the other side of the road. I took a walk down the road wondering which direction I should go in. I explored the area and found a spot to wash my filthy body. There were two nubile girls in the river when I got there, and we all washed ourselves without getting completely naked. Communication was by hand signals and I kept telling them not to worry, I was just cleaning myself. Initially we all felt uncomfortable but they soon started giggling and couldn’t stop. The flowing water was refreshing (freezing) and I got looks of shock from the cyclists riding over the bridge above.
On my return I rekindled the fire, made some coffee and over several cigarettes, contemplated how the hell I was going to get out of there.
It would take days each way, as there wasn’t any public transport around. As I got to the bottom of the dip, a luxury 4x4 drove by and I waved them down. Coffee and cigarette in hand I nonchalantly asked if I could get a ride towards the coast. They agreed, I jumped in, they took my back to my camp where I hurriedly threw all my stuff together and bid farewell to Wingate. He didn’t have much to say besides “you know I’m a single operator, I can’t travel with anyone else for long”. I wished he had told me that before, but I think I manipulated him in the first place.
The four locals in the truck were all timber workers (two of them executives) and I discussed the charcoal issue with them. They didn’t know much about the subject so I left it at that. They told me about their previous attempt at crossing the river ahead, and didn’t seem that confident of making it through. The day before they had to turn back as the flooding had made it impossible to go further.
There wasn’t any communication around these parts, so they simply tried again. My adrenalin was rushing driving at the speeds they were. I hadn’t been that fast on a real road before, so this was like an off-road rally to me. I didn’t complain as was thrilled they were trying to shorten a three day journey into a 14 hour mad rush!
We got to the river and spoke to a lady who had just successfully crossed. She had waited for an hour on the other side, to let the engine cool, and then paid 50 children (there were really that many of them) to push the vehicle across the flowing river. Without a snorkel (the exhaust is diverted to above the roof) it wasn’t possible to drive through, and luckily the base of this crossing was concrete. We did the same, except only waited 20 minutes for the engine to cool. I followed by example and removed my clothes from the waist down, then waded through the 1 metre deep water while watching the vehicle being pushed slowly through by these entrepreneurial villagers.
We continued our mad rush towards Malema and arrived without incident. They stopped twice to let me take a photograph of the mountains, which were only getting better.
The town of Malema was in ruins from a recent flood, and the road onwards was for all intents and purposes not worth attempting.
We took a ‘shortcut’ which would add 300km to our journey, but save 10 hours. The concept doesn’t sound logical, but during the floods there aren’t any other options and at least you still get to your destination, in one piece.
I bought the guys some Cokes and Lemon Twists and we headed off in a Southerly direction. During our detour, through an area where the roads don’t exist on any map, we got hopelessly lost and had to ask directions from locals. Unfortunately most of the locals could only direct us to the next village, as they hadn’t ever traveled much further than their bicycles would allow. I was thrilled every time we arrived in a new village, as I was without a doubt the first Mzungu in the area for a very very long time. This time I was travelling with locals who knew the prices, so I simply went shopping and then gave them the money to pay for it. No chance for a rip-off!
We eventually made it out of the bush and onto a brand new four lane highway that had just got it’s lines painted on.
After the serious detour, they decided to make up some time, and so we drove at almost 200 km/h listening to pumping uplifting house music while devouring oily snacks.
It wasn’t long before disaster struck. The new road ran out and was replace by an almost complete road that hadn’t received its final smooth coating. At the speed we were going it was a given that we would have a major blowout.

They battled for over an hour in the searing heat to remove the spare wheel from under the truck. It was securely locked but the lock was corroded. I tried to help but they wouldn’t allow the Mzungu tourist to get dirty. So I connected up my iPod and started planning the next few days. I had witnessed this problem on three previous occasions – all involving the same vehicle and lock!

I knew the only solution was to cut off the offending bolt holding the wheel on. The problem was that we didn’t have an angle grinder, which was the only effective tool I’d seen accomplish the job. Dave to the rescue! We took turns with the three inch saw on my Leatherman Wave ®, sawing away at the thick rusted bolt. It was in an awkward place which involved limited grip and sawing motion movement. A few cuts, bruises and spasms later it was done. We were on our way again and it was getting dark. Two hours later they dropped me off in front of the cheapest Pensão in Nampula.
I thanked them profusely and they reciprocated. The Pensão was too expensive, so I walked around and found a dodgy dive for half the price. They gave me a giant room with three beds in it. I had a shower, got naked and relaxed on the bug-ridden bed, under the speed-wobbling ceiling fan.
It had been three weeks since I’d left the coast and I was eager to get into the sea. Naçala was northern Mozambique’s busiest port and gateway to some attractive beaches. It was only 3 hours away but the only direct transport left at 05:00!
I checked out the town, found some chicken to eat and arranged for a taxi the next morning. Dodging the pretty whores all over the place was quite a challenge.

Thursday 26th
The taxi driver wanted too much money, so I decided I’d walk to the bus station. It was under a kilometer on the main road and I felt it was safe walking under the bright street lights. I made it the coaster (bigger than a taxi, smaller than a bus) 20 minutes too late, but they hadn’t left yet. It was one of those ‘only leave till we full’ types. Luckily they didn’t have to be that full and we left 30 minutes later.
At our first stop, my eyes almost popped out of their sockets when a tray of prawns was placed in front of my window. Although they looked and smelled delicious, it was 08:00 and I didn’t feel like prawns for breakfast!
and I We arrived in the heart of Naçala at 09:00 and I was dropped off outside a bank. Luckily there was a travel agent and an internet café next door, so I investigated the various flight options and called the Fim du Mondo (end of the world) dive resort to collect me. They were situated on the idyllic Fernão Veloso beach and had cheap campsites and panoramic views. The owner was South African and I was the only guest.

I quickly setup my tent then headed down the steep hill for a dip in the azure waters. I was let down by the tepid water and took a cold shower at the campsite, which was a better refreshing alternative.

I spent most of the day walking up and down the beach with Captain Mario. He was a local beach boy touting for business. He told me he had his own dhow (I am sure he was just looking for commission) and tried to convince me to pay him a lot of money to take me across to the nearby islands. We spoke for ages about my experiences on the east coast of Africa and wondered why it was that Mzungus needed to leave a perfect beach, with all the amenities at their doorstep, to go across to a desolate island, with an inferior view of the mainland and no amenities. Mario told me he had always wondered why but never asked any questions. I told him about the concept of ‘the grass is always greener’. It is surprisingly easy to explain this concept in a foreign language by pointing to things and using emotive speech. Mario understood and related the concept to most of his friends, who wanted to leave this paradise to go live in a dirty city. He told me that their excuses of there being better opportunities and that life was easier didn’t hold water, as most of them didn’t even try make a go of it locally. We brainstormed about the various business opportunities to engage tourists in an eco-friendly way. I suggested he invite them to his village and treat them to a local meal of fresh seafood and Nshima.
I told him I would be his first customer and we could see how it went.
All along the beach there were woman and children washing their clothes. They used the rocky cliff edge as a washing stone and were privileged to have access to the crystal clear spring water flowing out of the mountain. The upper reaches of the beach were covered in a colorful quilt of drying clothes. I took advantage and ran up to my tent, collected all my filthy clothes (they weren’t washed that well 10 days and three countries earlier) and organized collection of same and dinner at 18:00. He arrived with his brother and friend and insisted I take my washing back home before joining them. I should have realized then that we weren’t going around the corner, but instead told them “don’t worry, I’m strong Mzungu”. It took an hour to get to their village, and I ended up constantly shifting my laundry from one shoulder to another.
I refused to hand over any money, and insisted on buying the fish myself. Both Mario and his brother told me it would be better if I weren’t there, as they would immediately take advantage of the white man. I had to agree with them considering I was quite a site in my Sikh outfit, beard and braids!
Mario went on the hunt for some Dorado (a fresh local fish) and disappeared for over an hour. He left me in the able hands of his brother, who in turn left me with his wife and one year old child. She poured me a glass of water from the huge can she had carried on her head from who knows how far. I drank four more glasses while she cooked a mixture of cassava and maize meal with a dried fish sauce. I ate as much as I could and was then summoned to Mario’s house for the main course. The Dorado was superb and Mario gave me a lift on his bicycle all the way back to Fim du Mundo.

Nampula & Naçala remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Niassa Province

2007-05-13T23:04:32Z

Tuesday 24th
I was up before the crack up dawn, eager to get out of there. When Wingate woke up I had already packed up all my gear, made a (charcoal) fire and boiled the kettle, purchased and hid 10kg of charcoal in my backpack and had a shower. He purposely took his time and we only left after he had his obligatory six cups of coffee, a joint or three and 10 saffris. We headed back to the town of Mangochi to fill up with gas, check the internet and buy the last of our provisions before heading out into what Wingate loved to call ‘the while-da-niss’. I had received no replies to my invitation to join me in Moz, so I sent off my last mail for some time, to let the next-of-kin know where I had been seen last in ‘civilization’.
I was still looking for a bicycle but now I had another mission, goats! Wingate had suggested the day before that we take with two or three goats, alive and bleating, all the way to the coast, where he was convinced we could trade them for unlimited seafood. We could eat a small one on the way and tether them to the side of the road at night. I was very keen to add this to my long list of stupid things I’d done, but in the end Wingate realized it would be tough to get them through the border. I nagged him to get some after the border but eventually gave up.
The border crossing was so easy, and I was pleasantly surprised at the treatment we received. The officials were the least corrupt in all of Mozambique and I hoped the rest of the North would be similar. I would be wrong, very wrong.
A South African camper was parked outside and I didn’t really want to meet its occupants. It was a ‘GP’ car from Gauteng and I was convinced only drunken Afrikaners would drive an ugly thing like that. I had seen it at our first attempt at a camp site two days before, and was sure there were boere in it.
I was surprised when the American driver said “hi ya doowin” and begged me for some rolling papers. I immediately answered defensively “I stopped smoking that shit years ago”. I whispered “we’re at a fucking international border, there are customs officers all over the place, we’ll meet up further down the road”. He quickly replied, as loud as most Americans speak, “Uhm smokin’ rollin’ tobacca, I bored it on the saad o’ da road in Zambia!”
I told him I didn’t care, that my friend had rolling papers but he also definitely had weed, so he wasn’t going to get any papers from us until later. Wingate waltzed out of the building, I told him what the guy wanted and he took the Rizzla and weed out of his front pocket and offered the yank some. He happily took several papers and then sped off into the distance. I was sure our paths would cross again.

Wingate had marked a spot on the map where a long river, a train and a bridge intersected, and thought it would make for a possible bush camp. We reached it after an hour and he had visions of grandeur which I thought were delusions. He screamed at some locals who were under the bridge, washing their bodies in the nearby river. “There are crocodiles in this water, you idiots! Get the fuck out of there!”
I reminded him that A: they were locals, and B: they spoke Portuguese.

We pressed on and couldn’t believe the state of the road. It was like riding on a mattress. The road consisted of firm red sand and nothing else.

It was the best road I had seen in months, and was even more comfortable than brand new tarred asphalt. The track was so soft that even dagga boy didn’t emit one shake or rattle (the back door regularly opened after which we would have to stop and gather the items that had fallen out, usually food).
Wingate got tired, it was hot, he needed a joint and refused to let anyone drive what was essentially his home. So we stopped under the only shade we could find, a big tree on the opposite side of the road. His army mattress was on the roof drying, as he’d spent hours washing it the day before. He had a quick nap on top while I made some lunch, canned creamy style sweet corn with warm Portuguese bread rolls.

When I first saw the mountains in the distance, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had never seen such beauty in my life, and was puzzled how this had remained a secret, hidden from the world. I hoped it would stay that way, but Wingate had other ideas and immediately thought of setting up camp at the base of the mountain. I was happy that I was travelling through virgin territory and would probably bring my kids here in 10 years time and there would be dozens of exclusive luxury safari camps.

The new road was going to open up an alternative route for the overland trucks, who were currently driving the long and boring road from Zanzibar to Zambia seeing nothing special on the way. Now they could head South to the Rovuma river , the border between Tanzania and Mozambique. They could then see Pemba , Nacala and Nampula and then continue West to Malawi and then through Zambia, Botswana and Namibia to get to Cape Town. Wingate had it on good authority that this was in fact what they were going to do. He knew most of the overland company drivers, who had promised him business (obviously for a small commission) if he opened up a camp.
We passed through the small town of Cuamba, an important rail and road junction and the economic centre of Niassa Province. There was a lot of industry there, but no infrastructure. This was pretty much true for all of Niassa and I hoped it would stay like that for as long as possible. I searched high and low for ‘Palmar’ cigarettes, as I had remembered the brand from three years before. They were cheap and the quality was above average. All I could find was Pall Mall and nobody could explain to me what had happened to the popular Palmar. I stocked up on all sorts of deep fried sweet things, each one more delicious than the next. The currency was confusing me, as they had recently dropped three zeros from the notes, but the old coins were still in circulation. There was a large 500 Mt (Metical) coin, a giant 1,000 coin and a thick 5,000 Mt coin. Just to confuse the issue more, they had been replaced by new 1Mt, 2Mt and 5Mt coins.
So when someone took a handful of heavy coins from me and I only got a few lemons and onions in return, I thought they were ripping me off. I would then freak out telling them “I’m an African Mzungu and I won’t let you rip me off.” They would then freak out even more because they had no idea what I was saying and their price was the same as everyone else’s. It took at least a week to get used to it, and two weeks to finally find my Palmar’s. The brand had recently changed their marketing and it was now called Pall Mall. It looked and tasted different and was also more expensive!
We were definitely going to free camp in the area and pressed on to find a spot near two huge mountains, desperately trying to get there before dark. Wingate had an unbreakable rule of not driving at night. He broke the rule and we drove slowly shining torches on either side of the road to find a good spot.

When we were sure there weren’t any locals living nearby, we stopped and checked the place out. There was a small forest on a sharp bend in the road, where we thought it would be ideal to camp. It was under cover and hidden from people and the elements. We searched for a place to get the truck in, but it wasn’t going to happen. It was just as well because upon further inspection we got the shock of our lives. We were standing slap bang in the middle of a mass burial site. There were ornate tombstones everywhere, covered in wet green moss. They looked hundreds of years old and we were utterly dumbfounded. Wingate just wanted to get out of there, but I was fascinated and started reading the names and dates inscribed on the stones. It didn’t seem possible, but all the dates were within the last 10 years. I guessed that there must have been a ghastly accident on the sharp corner and all those that died were buried right there and then.

We left in a rush thinking it was probably a bad idea to disturb their spirits, if they believed in them. Twenty minutes later I found the perfect spot, so Wingate decided we’d camp on the other side of the road, somehow thinking my choice was the wrong one. I pitched my tent, started the fire and boiled the kettle within 15 minutes. I boasted about my charcoal fire and he decided to stay in his rooftop tent, sulking. His excuse was “I’m exhausted, it’s been a long day, I’m going to bed early”.

I offered to cook him some food but he insisted he was happy with just bread rolls. I made two baked potatoes, a roast onion and whole cluster of garlic. After eating half I asked if he wanted any and he said no. I then told him how sweet and delicious the onion was after which he proceeded to throw his toys out of the cot.

“You are so fucking selfish. Everyone knows that you have to cook for the driver. Do you know how difficult it was driving all fucking day. You just sit there, talking shit and taking pictures. Fuck you! You selfish cunt!”
I ignored him and made some coffee. He got more and more worked up when I refused to take his shit on, and eventually said “I’m staying right here for the next week. I’m not taking you any further. You can find your own fucking way out of here!”

He kept mumbling obscenities at me while I was packing up my things. Eventually he fell asleep and I had a peaceful time under the stars, wondering how the hell I would get out of this remote spot.

I started working out how much petrol we’d used as I’d spent the last of my Kwacha filling his tank. It was an expensive little excursion I’d embarked on over the past few days, but I saw it as a challenge. I forgot to take any of the food I’d bought, but in retrospect I couldn’t have carried one kilogram more. By now I had four pieces of luggage , all of them bulging at their seams!

Niassa Province remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Lake Malawi

2007-05-13T21:27:44Z

22nd to 23rd January 2007

Upon arrival at Doogles, this is the e-mail I sent on 22 January 2007 at 06:33 CAT:

Subject: Mala wi is cold and wet – but still beautiful

Hi All
The 50 hour ferry was a life-changing experience – I strongly recommend it to any adventurous travellers. I shared a 1st class cabin with a Congolese businessman and spoke broken Swahili and pretty good French to many of the 500 passengers on the 100 year old MV Liemba. I also caught up with my blog (in written form only), now for the arduous task of typing it up and updating the site with photos – expensive in Malawi. So I’ve just made it into Blantyre early this morning after a hectic two days of travel. I jumped off the 50 hour Lake Tanganyika ferry – which was an incredible experience which I will tell you all about later – once I’ve recovered. Zambia was a nightmare – 10 different transport options ranging from 30 minutes to 15 hours each! Breakdowns, border/passport problems - the whole shebang.
I was going to do another ferry all the way down Lake Malawi, but the weather was awful and the experience similar to the one I’ve just completed. So I traveled down the length of Malawi and it’s still pissing cats and dogs. I think I will chill out here at Doogles Bar and Campsite and check out the surroundings. Still not sure if I should go the Mozambique-Zimbabwe-Zambia-Botswana-Namibia route home, or simply Mozambique-Swaziland-South Africa route = I will take my time thinking about this one. Getting a bit tired now, so I will need to recharge my batteries before setting off again.
ANYONE KEEN ON JOINING ME IN MOZAMBIQUE??? Vilanculos? Bazaruto? Let me know ASAP.
Love David

Well, after writing the above e-mail, I took all of 30 minutes and four cups of coffee to recharge my batteries and decide on which route I would take home.
While looking for a camping spot (the rain stopped for a few minutes) I stumbled upon a rough Zimbabwean named Gary David Wingate. My first words to him were “where’re YOU from”. He was intrigued by a crazy backpacker who didn’t even introduce himself and just wanted to know where he was from. I guessed wrong three times and then looked at his number plates and worked it out. He invited me for coffee and we chatted about corrupt African countries (he was really pissed off with Zambia for reasons I’ll discuss later), investigative journalism and adventure travel. He was amazed at my trip and after too much coffee and a lot of cheeky talk, we left the campsite together in his ‘dagga boy’ (an ancient Toyota Land cruiser renowned for its reliability). He was on the way to the mighty Rovuma River that separates Tanzania from Mozambique. This was the last frontier area of Mozambique, completely unexplored and dramatically beautiful!
I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to join a mad Zimbabwean, free camping, travelling through impassable roads and crossing washed away bridges!
We went into town, got more Malawian Kwachas and tried unsuccessfully to find any Meticais for Mozambique.
We spent most of our money on canned food: corned beef, baked beans and sweet corn. I was worried when Wingate bought three cartons of ‘saffris’, the local dirt cheap Malawian cigarettes called Safari. He said we wouldn’t be in civilization for a long time, so he had to stock up. I only realized later that he was a chain smoker. If it wasn’t a saffri in his mouth, it would be a joint.

We said goodbye to miserable Blantyre and headed for the border where we planned to spend a few days around the Lake. On the way to Zomba, I got a whiff of something bad, mechanically bad. My senses have been honed over the years and I can tell exactly which smell corresponds with which leaking fluid or burning part. I have been through it all, from electrical faults (burning plastic and then ultimately fire) and broken pipes (petrol fumes) to overheating and seized engines. This particular smell I guessed was related to the breaking system, as I smelled break fluid and overheated break pads. The car got stuck and Wingate pulled over, very stressed out. He rolled a fat spliff while I ran into the nearby fields to chomp on baby corn (the size of my little finger) and search for some pumpkins. He freaked out telling me “that’s illegal, they’ll shoot you for that”. I laughed at him and reminded him what he was smoking!
The hand break was too tight, and he admitted that he had just fixed it in Blantyre. I told him it probably just needed a small adjustment. He agreed and we moved on towards the border.

We stopped many times on the way, for sugar cane, roasted corn and chicken skewers. All of the above were delicious and dirt cheap. We got involved in a heated debate about charcoal. I wanted to buy some but he refused to carry any of ‘the evil stuff’ on board his truck. I persisted, suggesting many ways to store it without the fine black charcoal dust landing up on everything, which Wingate guaranteed me would happen, without fail, every time. Once I had convinced him he started moaning that charcoal use was irresponsible and contributed towards the deforestation of Africa.
I was either very naïve or plain stupid, as I didn’t see the difference between using fresh wood, which was currently all wet as we were in the middle of the rainy season, and charcoal. I was sure that charcoal was simply partially burnt wood. One makes a giant pit, fills it with wood (usually dry branches, not freshly chopped down trees) and sets it on fire. Once it is burning well, one covers the fire with corrugated iron and quickly throws sand on top, thereby suffocated the fire. The result is charcoal, which can be used in minute quantities in a special ‘jiko’. A jiko is a small stove made entirely from recycled metal. Paint cans are chopped in half, holes made for ventilation, a grate made from the tin’s lid and inserted into the cavity, and a soda can used to make a door for poking the coals and creating an initial draft. I have seen giant pots of Nshima/Ugali/Mielie Pap and even woks filled with bubbling oil on top of a tiny jiko, with only a handful of coals required. It was cheap, it created jobs for both the jiko and charcoal makers, and it was their only choice as far as I was concerned. They had no access to electricity, no money to buy liquid fuel, and any sort of wind, solar, or hydro electric power was far from being a reality any time soon.
This charcoal fight would eventually cause us to part ways, as Wingate admitted he was stubborn as a mule and like an elephant, refused to ever forget.

We got within 50km of the border, but Wingate wasn’t comfortable pressing on through. It was 17:30 and the border closed at 18:00, so he didn’t want to take any chances. The LP listed several campsites south of Monkey Bay, and they were only 20km out of our way, so we searched for a place to spend the night. I was very eager to free camp, not seeing the need to spend money in a campsite when we were completely self-sufficient.
The 42 year old felt otherwise and pressed on. The first campsite was idyllic and we set ourselves up pitching tents away from coconut trees (more people die from falling coconuts than the combined total of elephants, lions, crocs and hippos).

We soon found out the price was too high and there wasn’t even hot water. The manager assured Wingate there was hot water, and I assured Wingate there wasn’t. I knew the power was out, and there wasn’t much chance of it coming back on anytime soon. We left in a rush to go find some hot water. Wingate insisted that the only reason he needed to pay for a spot to sleep was because of the hot water. The next three places were either ridiculously expensive, didn’t have hot (or cold) water, or both! It was now almost dark, I insisted we try one more, and feared the worst when we arrived at a set of ornate gates 20 minutes later.. It was an exclusive luxury resort replete with Italian tiles, water features, a concierge and an a la carte menu. He got angry, but I insisted I saw a camping sign on the main road. I visited reception, looking like a tramp, and politely inquired about both their availability and the corresponding rates. The options ranged from a few hundred dollars per person per night, to $5 each for camping. I threw them ten dollars and ran out of there jumping for joy. They called me back and insisted I fill out forms, become an honorable member, leave my passport, etc.
Wingate was now fuming, and didn’t seem to be getting any calmer.
The camping ground was separate from the plush resort, but still on the beach overlooking a stunning sunset with the Mozambique mountains looming 10km across the placid lake. There were more than a dozen staff running around and it seemed all of this fuss was just for us. Not only were we the only campers, the hotel was completely empty!
Wingate would only relax once his tent was installed on the roof of dagga boy and the kettle was boiled on a fire (which had to be made of wood).

I went for a dip in the lake and enjoyed the sunset from under a palm tree.
Wingate was battling with the fire as his wood was wet, so I fetched a large oil drum barbeque, asked for a small bag of charcoal, boiled the kettle and made him coffee, all within 20 minutes. He wasn’t happy I’d used charcoal, and ran off to have a shower.

Half an hour later, after I’d prepared a dinner of boerewors, bread, tomatoes and baked beans, he appeared a completely different man. He looked like he’d meditated (but realistically probably just masturbated) in the shower and was at peace with himself and the world around him. I plugged in my iPod at the bar and we listened to chilled out tunes until the early hours while discussing Africa, Africans, our lives, and of course, charcoal.

Monday 23rd
I awoke to a troop of monkeys yelling from the trees above. They had already nicked my precious mango, a coconut, butternut and sweet potato. Wingate started throwing rocks at them. I joined in. He asked a local boy who was hiding behind a tree trunk, to go fetch a kettie (African slingshot) and promised to reward him handsomely.

Wingate told me my attempts were futile but had to bite his tongue when I hit the primate and the coconut came crashing through the tree’s branches. The boy arrived with what looked like a sturdy piece of equipment that would last indefinitely. The handle, made from a forked tree branch, was perfectly shaped, sanded and grooved for ultimate comfort. It had a thick strong rubber tube for the sling and a fresh piece of brown leather to hold the shot. I got excited and collected some ammo, while Wingate gave it his ‘try before I buy’ test. He pulled the sling back and purposely stretched it more than it was designed to be stretched. It snapped in two after which he threw the remains in the boy’s face and demanded another one. He showed the frightened child exactly where it was week and the boy obediently ran off. I was shocked at the pent up aggression this man was releasing, and soon found out why. He claimed that he spoke to Africans that way and they always understood him. He also promised that they didn’t ever feel threatened and always did what he told them to. I wasn’t the least bit surprised, nor was I going to argue my point, lest he lash out at me.
Wingate was an anal, bitter and twisted man.
The bitter part was justified because he’d been continuously screwed over during the past few years. First his country went to shit and Mugabe essentially forced him to become a refugee. He then spent a large proportion of his life savings, made from his career as a river rafting guide where he had saved all the cash dollars from the tourists and failed to declare most of his income. When the shit hit the fan, he ran to neighboring Zambia, who was welcoming Zimbabweans with open arms. They had only one criteria for letting him in and starting a business. He had to bring $50,000 in with him.
So in he went and spent over a year of his time and buckets of sweat and tears (actually I don’t think he was capable of shedding any tears), building an overland camp site. Just when he was about to open up for business and start actively marketing his spot, the Zambian government (he like to call them ‘those cunts’) upped the $50,000 to half a million dollars! So now he was looking for another spot to start his overland camp and Mozambique was offering the same deal as ‘those cunts’ had originally offered. He was in a rush to get it all legitimate before the ‘Mozzies’ got any bright ideas.
The twisted part was because he had no family (they’d all died in unfortunate and unspeakable ways), no home, and lived out of his ancient vehicle. I believe the anal part was simply due to his military background.
We spent the day cleaning out his truck, eating food, planning the next few days and chilling out.
Being the only Mzungus within earshot of the surrounding villages, we were soon joined by a mob of hesitant traders. I think they were briefed by the slingshot boy. They didn’t come too close, until I invited them after seeing their drums. I played each one, much to their amusement, and was about to buy a gift for Wingate, when he lost the plot and chased them away. I changed my mind and agreed I would buy something from them later when he wasn’t around. Two of them took me on a guided tour of their village and workshop and bragged about the pet crocodile they were taking care of on a small plot belonging to a South African Mzungu. He had left them money to feed the little croc chickens and goats.
I promised to buy some charcoal from them and made it my mission to sneak it inside the truck. I was eager to press on but Wingate was in no rush and insisted we spend another day in this idyllic spot. Later I was happy we had.
After Wingate proudly made me his favorite dish, corned beef and baked beans, we spent the evening under the stars. I played my Rwandan drum while he used his satellite telephone to contact a ‘Jewish business partner’ who he resented.

Lake Malawi remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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MALAWI

2007-05-13T23:09:17Z

21st January 2007
We were woken and pulled out of bed early on Sunday morning. The taxi driver (who I had helped get un-stuck the day before, halfway between Mbeya and Chitipa), made us get our shit together and jump on the back of his truck.
Being used to delayed transport which only leaves when it’s full, really full, I wondered around taking early morning shots of pigs and humorous signs.
The driver got impatient and told me he was leaving right away, much to my delight, as I had a far way to go and didn’t want to repeat the previous day’s experience. The girl had disappeared and we spent 20 minutes driving around town looking for her. We couldn’t just leave without her since her luggage was already on the back, packed deep under the cargo. We left anyway. It was a miracle we made it to Kalonga, 150km away on a seriously muddy track. The vehicles coming in the opposite direction all got hopelessly stuck in the mud. On arrival at the busy taxi rank, I found some Malawian food. It was Sunday morning, so I had to settle for stale scones, Maheu and several cheap and nasty MSG covered packets of maize crisps. Maheu is a delicious maize drink that resembles yoghurt but tastes nothing like it. The milk and honey flavor was my favorite.
My plan was to catch the large passenger steamboat knows as the Illala, which chugs up and down Lake Malawi, once per week in each direction, between Monkey Bay in the south and Chilumba in the north, stopping at about a dozen lakeside towns and villages. Although many travellers rate the journey as the highlight of their trip, the occasional nasty storms ruin the experience. I was currently enduring the occasional nasty storm, which wasn’t planning on going anywhere soon. While on the back of an open truck, after speaking to Lunga, a local school boy, I decided to go to Livingstonia, which the LP describes as ‘a small piece of Scotland in the heart of Africa, quiet and restful, an ideal place to recover from hard travel or the rigors of beach life’. This was exactly what the doctor ordered!

He said it would be easy to get up and we wouldn’t have to pay. I had an interesting chat with Lunga about religion, Malawi, bicycles and Africa. He was very religious and believed it was a way out of poverty.

He wasn’t surprised when I told him that Malawi had the world’s 2nd highest disparity between rich and poor, and that the poor live on less than a dollar a day. To escape the heat, we sat under a giant tree and played my Rwandan drum. Nearby was the best African bicycle taxi I had ever seen. I begged Lunga to ask its owner the price and if he could buy it (I didn’t want to get involved, preferring to find out the real price, not Mzungu price). It was dirt cheap – about $40. I wanted it badly. It wasn’t for sale.

After waiting too long for a lift up the mountain, I saw a big bus stop at the security checkpoint on the main road, and flagged them down to go south. The alternative was a 25km walk up the steep mountain, not a realistic proposition considering what I was carrying. Apparently local children offer to carry your pack for $2. I needed more than ‘local children’ to accomplish that!
Coachline was Malawi’s only respectable bus company, and offered a luxury nonstop service with air-con, toilet, snacks, steward service and good drivers! I didn’t have enough Malawian Kwacha to get further than Mzuzu, and didn’t particularly fancy the idea of staying in the sleepy city. I begged the driver to wait for me while I chartered a minibus taxi to the bank and back. I withdrew MK 100,000 (about $200) as I was sick of running out of local currency, and fewer people took dollars than I was led to believe. I met a French couple on bright yellow mountain bikes, travelling through Malawi, who told me that it had been raining without a break for the past week. Despite that, I still wanted a bike, and asked the taxi driver to find me one, showing him the giant wad of dough that was bulging from my wallet. It was Sunday and he couldn’t help me out. So I went to the local grocery store instead, stocking up on stale white bread, small cute jars of local peanut butter and honey, and my favorite milk and honey Maheu. The bus was going all the way to Lilongwe, another 15 hours, so I bought some samoosas, chapattis, water and chocolates for the road. While waiting for the bus to return from filling up, two local girls begged me to take them with me, explaining that they couldn’t find work and how hard life was in Malawi. I told them that my brother already employed a Malawian named Hossan, and that they should look for some celebrities (Madonna) to sponsor them, instead of adopting cute little children as fashion accessories. The views through the giant bus windows were awesome, and I soaked it up in the air conditioned luxury!
The bus journey was fast and efficient, with the exception of the painful indentation in my side caused by the reclining lever in between the seats. I tossed and turned all night, trying in vain to get comfortable. Every stop involved me running outside for a quick cigarette in the rain and a piss in the bush. We arrived in Blantyre at 05:30 and it was still raining. The bus stand was a muddy pool, and I battled to negotiate my way out of there without slipping on my ass (my hiking boots were in Rwanda and my sandals had no tread whatsoever). It was only a few hundred meters to Doogles Camping and Backpackers. I arrived when everyone was sleeping, and took advantage of their internet café to download all my pictures and let the world know I was ‘still alive and kicking’.

MALAWI remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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ZAMBIA again

2007-05-14T00:33:19Z

Friday 19th
We arrived, amazingly on time, at Zambia’s only port, Mpulungu. I was greeted by the editor of The Post ‘the paper that digs deeper’. We swapped contact details as he was very interested in my story. This was even after I told him that the English grammar and spelling in his paper was atrocious, and that I would be happy to offer them my services. I had already been to their offices in Lusaka and met David, their security guard. He was impressed and promised to follow my blog. He couldn’t believe that I was about to negotiate my way directly to Malawi, on public transport, without first returning to Lusaka. I only understood why 20 hours later, which is how long my journey took.
I got searched (everywhere except my cavities) and interrogated, and was to display and justify every single item in my possession including the plethora of pills and other medication.
My hairstyle didn’t help the situation much, but tipping them off on the ‘refugees’ on the ship did.

I walked the 2km to the town centre and got a minibus to Mbale, discussing the ‘grass is always greener’ concept with the taxi driver. He was moaning about poverty and the rural subsistence farmers desire to move to the city.
In Mbale I jumped off one taxi and straight onto another one (they crammed me in, re-arranging all the occupants to make space for the Mzungu). I was really grateful because it was the last transport to Kasama, where I had to hook up with the Tazara train that only came past every four days.
I endured the normal delays: giving other vehicles a few litres of petrol, picking up extra passengers in the middle of nowhere when we were already filled to the gills, and the ubiquitous flat tire.
It was dark when arrived in Kasama and a difficult woman refused to move her car from the entrance to the butchery. One of our passengers had to get a ‘parcel’ of fish (Kapenta from Lake Tanganyika) off the roof and into the butchery fridge. It weighed in the region of 100kg and four of us battled to move it, especially since we had to negotiate our way around the said bitch’s car! Very grateful for my help, the driver dropped me at the Tazara train station a few kilometers away. The cavernous Chinese station was crowded, every seat taken and most of the floor space too. I was starving and there weren’t any places open. I pleaded with the (closed) restaurant chef to make me some Nshima. She said there was none left, but when she saw my dejected face, she invited me to share her meal which was intended to feed three people. I felt both privileged and embarrassed at the same time. It was a hearty meal with spinach, meat bone sauce and Nshima. They ate little and forced me to (reluctantly) gobble it all up.
Saturday 20th I spread out my kikoi on the floor, my backpack and drum locked to a bench and the straps of the bags tied around me. Four hours later, at 03:00, and with lame limbs, I woke up surrounded by water. Heavy rains had flooded the station with an inch of water. I attached my entire pack/drum/tent package to my back and chain smoked four cigarettes in the drizzling rain while waiting for the train to arrive. It was only 90 minutes late, quite impressive considering its history.

I jumped on the train, all 140kg of me, and made it through the doors without getting stuck. I don’t know how I did it!
I chose to sit in 2nd class because my journey would only last six hours, so it wasn’t worth forking out the extra cash. Most of the staff remembered me from the trip six weeks before, when I had befriended most of them asking them all 20 questions and receiving favors like condiments, cutlery and charging facilities for my camera and iPod. The Zambian border officials jumped on the train an hour before the Tanzanian border. While dealing with the formalities, they informed me that I didn’t need to re-enter Tanzania. I had already entered and departed Tanzania three times, and was glad I didn’t have to do it a fourth. This time I was sure there would be no way to avoid paying the $50 for another visa. All the train staff as well as a few locals said it was very difficult and sometimes impossible to make it to Malawi from Nakonde, the last Zambian frontier town. The border officials told me “there is transport to Malawi; the roads are good”.
At 09:30 I jumped off the train in Nakonde, the border town between Zambia and Tanzania. They recommended I jump out at Nakonde and guaranteed me I could get to Chitipa, the Malawian border town 92km away. They didn’t tell me I had to get an exit stamp at Nakonde. I had no idea there wouldn’t be a Zambian exit border before Chitipa and this caused major problems later in the evening. I waited for three hours aboard the ‘Coaster’ (a big minibus seating 25, but actually cramming in 40) and then drove for two hours before the engine seized! I then waited five hours for backup transport which took another two hours to get to Chitipa. A grand total of 12 hours for a 92 km journey. That’s less than 8km per hour!
During the wait in the middle of nowhere, I had to watch our bus driver get horribly drunk and lower his vocabulary to the single word ‘focker’. He used the word continuously while pointing to everything and anything around him, including the engine, ground, sky, clouds, himself, god, etc, inferring that they were all ‘fockers’.
So I had to endure three grueling trips on bad roads with suicidal drivers and overloaded vehicles which inevitably broke down nowhere near any help. I suppose it was par for the course for African public transport.

At our breakdown spot, I was the only Mzungu in sight and probably one of a handful, if any, to ever spend some time in the area, I wondered why I kept purposely putting myself in these positions. An hour later I realized why. I met local village folk; saw their homes, experiences their cultures and way of life; and even scaled their mango trees in search of sustenance. This was all part of the African experience and I was happy I had chosen to do it that way. It was dark before the 28 occupants of our coaster bus were ‘rescued’.

Three passengers were picked up by a passing luxury 4x4. The fat man driving the car offered me a ride, as if it were the normal thing to do; after all, I was a stranded white man sitting on the side of the road in midday African heat. I politely declined, showing the man how much luggage I was carrying. Instead, he took two fat mamas and their cargo (they were his booze suppliers).

We were rescued by a massive truck that was delivering goods to all the villages on the way. It was pretty hairy driving in the dark (the truck didn’t have lights and was only using emergency hazard indicators as night vision). On several occasions the maniac driver didn’t see the bumps in the road and we were all airborne, almost losing a few passengers in the process. I was sitting on the roof of the cab. The driver wasn’t happy and I didn’t care. I ignored his moaning and played my drum to the passengers that were lying all over each other.

Because the truck wasn’t only on a rescue mission to take us safely to Chitipa, we all had to get on and off every 20 minutes to offload giant bags of cement and building materials!

We eventually arrived at the Malawian border town of Chitipa at 21:30, way after the border post had closed. It wasn’t a problem however, as they were accustomed to late transport due to the horrendous roads and unreliable vehicles.
The border officials soon arrived and promptly refused to let me enter Malawi, (I was already 50km inside the country) because I had failed to get an exit stamp 110km earlier in Nakonde. I took out my map and Lonely Planet, showing him that they didn’t show a border flag and that there was no way I was supposed to know that there was 50km of no-mans-land between Zambia and Malawi. He refused to budge on the issue, even after I showed him my passport and how often I had passed through borders and how far I had traveled. He said “you have no excuses, you go Zambia and get stamp”. I played along and told him I would setup my tent outside and catch the next ‘transport’ back. He wasn’t happy with this, and insisted it was illegal for me to spend the night in Malawi without an exit stamp from the country I had come from. He sent me out and told me to go back to Zambia on the truck I had come with. I politely informed him of all the truck’s mechanical problems. It had no lights; a dead battery; no 2nd gear; it was out of fuel; and had to be push started.
He didn’t care! I wasn’t that phased, and there was nothing much I could do to change the situation, so I went out for a few cigarettes and sat patiently, looking calm and placid.

I was thinking of possibly putting some dollar bills in my passport, hinting that he may overlook my stupidity for a small fee. I couldn’t do it because I had the feeling that this guy was a stickler for the rules and was incorruptible.

He eventually gave in and stamped my passport.

That night I shared a room in a dodgy hostel with a young Malawian girl I met on the bus.
Once again I woke up not remembering going to bed. I was that exhausted.

ZAMBIA again remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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TANZANIA for the 3rd Time

2007-05-14T00:34:07Z

17th – 19th January 2007
I woke up early and re-hung up my washing, it wasn’t rinsed at all, so it was still heavy and dripping from the night before. I went out in search of coffee and breakfast, and to book and pay for my ferry, which I had no idea if it was on time and was the only reason I had just rushed through five countries in as many days.
That night I had got at least 12 hours sleep, almost as much as my combined sleep since Nairobi on the 11th.
So I was happy to be frisky again and made it to the ferry terminal to wait in the queue. The ticket office didn’t open an hour later at the scheduled time, and a nice lady came to explain to us why. The ticket man was at the Scandinavian Embassy doing a training course in computers. Joy! So I strolled around the harbor and persuaded a military policeman to give me a guided tour of the venerable MV Liemba. It cost $55 in 1st class (2-bed cabin), $40 for 2nd class (6-bed cabin) or $35 for 3rd class (a dingy rat hole deep inside ship’s bowels).
The ticket man eventually arrived and couldn’t give me change for my dollars. I had only brought with $50 and he refused to let me pay the difference in shillings. He booked my cabin and promised he wouldn’t sell it until I got back. On returning to my hotel, I realized I had left my keys in the room, and after a lengthy and unsuccessful search for a spare key, a locksmith had to be called in. He eventually gave up trying to pick the lock and must have fucked up his shoulder barging through the door.
My morning involved an extensive search for replacement headphones and buying groceries for the ferry.
Kigoma had become a major refugee centre over the previous decade, accepting tens of thousands of Rwandans, Burundians and Congolese, escaping from their respective wars, genocides and upheavals. It is the major Tanzanian port on Lake Tanganyika and the end of the line for those who’ve slogged their way across the country on the Central Line train. My afternoon was taken up strolling and getting lost in the lively market which was filled with color and a variety of produce, from fresh fish and rotten meat to mountains of pineapples, limes, onions and dried Kapenta. After searching high and low and being sent from one electronics shop to another, I splurged on a quality pair of earphones for my iPod.
I got a taxi to the port and bought my ticket. I was told I had to get my passport stamped at immigration, so the taxi took me back into the city, only to find that a freight train was blocking the entrance to the customs building. I risked leaving my luggage in the taxi and jumped through the train in search of that important stamp confirming I’d left the country.
It took half an hour to explain to the monkeys what I needed, walking back and forth on the lakeside to speak to the ticket man to confirm that I was in fact leaving Tanzania and not arriving. The taxi had to accept my dollars and some Zambian Kwacha.
I initially had the two bed cabin to myself, but soon into the journey I was introduced to my new roommate, a French speaking Congolese businessman. We were forced to communicate because we had to coordinate the sharing of the single key to our cabin.

I soon met Pascal, one member in a group of six illegal immigrants on their
way to South Africa. They had paid a Rwandan businessman (whose cover entailed fetching a few cases of Red Bull from SA) $300 to get them in, which included all food and transport.
All along the way, small dhows and dugout canoes docked against the ship, sometimes in the middle of the night, collecting and bringing passengers, food and mainly Kapenta. The small dried fish is the livelihood of thousands of residents living in relative isolation, up and down the lake.

Our ship collected hundreds of gigantic bags filled with the precious commodity, which Zambians cannot live without. It’s their main source of protein and flavor to accompany their otherwise bland Nshima (maize meal), and as they are a land-locked country this is their only access to fish.
For a change, I wasn’t the only Mzungu on board the ship. An American couple (I found out before I boarded, from a UN worker, that he was the Ambassador in Uganda who had just finished his four year post) was travelling in the presidential suite, and I tried unsuccessfully to engage them in conversation. He politely told me that he didn’t want to talk politics as he was now on vacation. He also refused to divulge his profession or where he was going. What he did tell me was that Lake Malawi had a similar ship plying its waters and he was told it was an unforgettable journey, not to be missed.

I drastically changed my plans. I was supposed to continue to Lusaka, Livingstone, the Okavongo Delta and Namibia’s famous dunes at Sossusvlei. At the last minute I decided I’d rather do Malawi and head home through Zimbabwe.

TANZANIA for the 3rd Time remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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BURUNDI

2007-05-14T00:34:41Z

15th – 16th January 2007

Monday 15th
Only after the ‘Yahoo!’ bus/coaster had left the outskirts of Kigali, did I realise I had left behind my hiking boots (obviously David thought I had given them to him). The only time I had used them was while travelling between destinations, as they were too heavy and cumbersome to tie on to my pack, which already had too many things tied to it.
The bus journey was fascinating, 40 passengers in a 25-seater bus climbing over each other every time we stopped for an ablution or snack break. I felt partly responsible for the luggage we all had to pack around our bodies, but then noticed that I wasn’t the only passenger with a ton of belongings.
I negotiated with the Burundi border officials at Kayanza Haut, the small town separating Rwanda and Burundi. I explained to him that I would only spend approximately 30 hours in his beautiful country and couldn’t afford the $40 visa fee. He gave me a transit visa for $20 and wished me bienvenue au Burundi, merci votre visit et bon voyage (welcome to Burundi, thanks for visiting and happy travels). I asked him how many white people come through the border and he immediately replied with confidence “trois pour mois” (three per month).
The six hour bus ride was both uneventful (mechanically) and punctual. I did however doze off, slobber and hit my head against the window every so often, much to the delight of the other passengers.
It was raining when we arrived in Bujumbura, and luckily for me the bus had parked under the roof of a petrol station forecourt. I spent the next half hour fending off the touts who insisted on either carrying my luggage or finding me a taxi. They were amused and intrigued by my constant unsuccessful attempts to amalgamate all my bags into one package that I could heave onto my back. I knew my hotel was only 100m away, but everyone I asked refused to show me the way. They insisted that the Saga Complex was on the beach, a day’s walk away in the rain.
I had a one in four chance of going in the right direction, and ended up asking a baguette salesman 200m later and sopping wet. His eyes lit up and he insisted on escorting me there and carrying my drum. It was only 20m from the bus stop and in exactly the opposite direction I had traveled. I glared at the taxi drivers who all had smirks on their faces.

The Saga Residence Hotel, under the same ownership of the popular and expensive beach location, had rooms for $25. I wasn’t happy paying this, but there weren’t any other choices and I needed a good sleep. Smelly, cold and wet, I stripped naked and jumped into the shower. There was no hot water! I wrapped my towel around me and stormed out demanding an explanation. They told me that the cheap rooms didn’t have hot water but they would be happy to bring me a bucket.

After waiting patiently for what seemed like an eternity, I was irritated and shivering, and they told me the electricity was off, in all of Bujumbura, and they had no idea when it would come back on. None of the hotels had generators, so I was happy I had opted for the cheapest room. I braved the icy water and scrubbed my body good and proper. I was going to be sailing down a lake for three days, so I had to do some laundry. I went on a mission to find someone to wash my clothes, not knowing how they would dry in the wet and humid conditions. It was lunch time and everything was closed for two hours, everything except a small casino down a narrow alleyway. I had no Burundi Francs, so I went in, exchanged a $20 bill for a handful of slot machine coins and 10 minutes later walked out with BFr 8000 profit.
I found a local hidden eatery across the road and chose the Plat du Jour (special of the day). The food was delicious, typically French and the 2nd floor balcony had incredible views of the looming mountains to the North and East of Buj.
I was joined by some school teachers who put me up to speed with the current situation in Burundi. All was peaceful, the Rebel factions were ‘taking a sabbatical’, and it was perfectly safe to travel down Lake Tanganyika’s coast to get to Kigoma in Tanzania. It was a pity and a blessing in disguise that the ferry stopped running directly from Buj, as it was suspended the year before due to increased violence. This meant I would have to traverse the seldom visited and stunning north eastern coastline of one of the world’s longest and deepest fresh water lakes.
I hadn’t taken any slide photographs since Kenya, so I went out on a mission, armed with all my gear, taking pictures of everything, much to the protestations of the locals. They accused me of invading their privacy and not paying them for their ‘posing’. I shrugged them off, telling them I wasn’t interested in their poses, and was simply admiring the architecture and hectic streets of Buj. They weren’t listening and reminded me it was actually their city. I ignored them and never felt physically threatened. I quite enjoyed the profanities hurled at me, particularly as they were in French. Some were surprisingly polite, others were friendly, like the young hip boys who were eager to meet a Mzungu.

I shopped at the local supermarket and got excited at their selection of European imports. I bought a huge fresh crispy baguette, some duck liver pâté, and Camembert, (I wasn’t ready to brave the pungent orange Munster cheese). When I came across two white girls being whisked away on the back of motorbike taxis, I felt cheated. I was hoping not to see any white people, as was the case in Rwanda, because the LP stated one of the Highlights of Burundi was “the novelty of being pretty much the only tourist in the country!”
Buj was almost as good as Kigali, but too close to the DRC for comfort and I wasn’t that keen on living in an unstable/volatile situation.
After having a picnic on my bed and watching the only TV channel in Burundi, I slept on my first real mattress in 10 days. Even though I only slept for five hours, I appreciated the comfort, especially after the previous 40 hours of uncomfortable bus travel!

Bujumbura to Kigoma

Tuesday 16th
At the crack of dawn I got a private taxi to drop me at the minibus that would get me to the Tanzanian border at Nyanza Lac. The minibus took two hours to fill up while I shopped for souvenirs at the nearby market. I bought an ‘I love Burundi’ cap (which I lost a few minibuses later) and a length of hand-woven coconut-twine rope. It took nine different transports and 16 hours to reach Kigoma. Three sardine-packed minibuses, three private-hire taxis, two bicycle boda-bodas, and one very overloaded pickup truck.
I would have really enjoyed the extra sleep at the hotel and a proper breakfast, which would have been possible if I knew the taxi would be delayed that long. Anyway, this was Africa, and time is beyond your control. It was one of my best taxi trips so far, the people were fascinated with the creature hanging out the window and pointing imposing cameras.
I was equally fascinated by the markets, food vendors and lifestyle of these lakeside dwellers. There were aid initiatives around every corner and most of the roads were being resurfaced. Somehow there was a sense of tranquility in these parts, the drivers weren’t manic, the children didn’t beg and apart from one guy freaking out after I took a picture of him, everything went smoothly. The food was safe to eat and I couldn’t resist sampling the delicious snacks on the way. This time my luggage did occupy most of the storage space and often I had to carry the drum on my lap, playing it regularly.
This was a country I was warned to triple check the security situation. I think I was lucky at the time, but also couldn’t fathom how these innocent people could hack each other to pieces.

I was so happy that the ferry from Buj to Kigoma had ceased, otherwise I would have missed out this rare experience.
This was (hopefully) going to me my last entry into Tanzania, which by now I was harboring serious resentments against.
As a budget traveler I couldn’t experience the gems this country had to offer because they were reserved for the wealthy.
Such is life! I vowed to come back one day and fly into the exclusive game parks, sleep in luxury, eat like a king and not go near any public transport. Then I realized that wouldn’t really be an adventure. I entered Tanzania for the 3rd time, and talked my way out of paying for an extra visa ($50). I was surprised when they asked for my Yellow Fever inoculation certificate, as this was the first time anyone requested to see it. It turns out that you only need one when leaving Rwanda, Burundi and the DRC, and not when entering.
After clearing the border, or so I thought, I declined all the tout’s offers for “taxi, taxi”. All of them were on bicycles. I would’ve needed three bicycles to carry all my stuff, and another one for me to ride on. It seemed I had no other option (except walking) to cover the 2km journey through the no-man’s land that separated the two countries. I didn’t believe the kids when they told me it was “too far for walk”. I contemplated wearing my pack, slinging my other two bags over my shoulders and the last one around the child cyclist’s neck. I quickly realized it wasn’t feasible, so I forked out the cash and got two bikes. They refused to let me ride one of them, insisting that they could handle the weight. I played my Rwandan drum on the back of the bicycle while supervising my luggage being transported on the other. The locals appeared out of the bushes to witness this spectacle, not knowing whether to laugh or call their friends. Most of them stared vacantly, jaws wide open in disbelief. The pre-teen boys were force to dismount and push on the steep hills, resulting in us falling every time!
When I reached the small village across the border, there was a mad scramble for the last transport to Kigoma.
The 40km journey from Nyanza Lac to Kigoma took over four hours on the back of a crammed pickup truck. On the way we stopped umpteen times to collect and deliver cargo (human and food) and arrived in Kigoma in the dark. Jumping into yet another taxi was the last thing I wanted to do but the taxi rank was mayhem and several passengers yanked my gear, shoving it in the back of a giant minibus.

I handed in my washing (pretty much all of my clothes) to the manager at the dodgy hotel and begged him to wash it immediately, as it had to dry before the ferry left the following afternoon. After a freezing shower above a communal pit toilet, I passed out on the flea-ridden bed. It was a shit sleep in a stuffy, filthy room, but the price was right. The day had been an awesome journey with rewarding views, friendly people and exciting challenges. I was looking forward to the ferry on which I could hopefully get some time out.c

BURUNDI remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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RWANDA

2007-05-14T00:35:51Z

13th – 15th January 2007

Saturday 13th
I setup my tent after midnight and had a short uncomfortable sleep. I woke up freezing in the middle of a thunderstorm; water was coming through the roof and I was surrounded by mud. I was not a happy puppy.
I ran into the bar for some food and warmth and overheard there was a bus leaving for Rwanda at 09:00. I had 40 minutes to pack up and get to the station. I acted impulsively (as always) and asked the staff to prepare my bill and arrange a taxi.
I thought to myself: Fuck the volunteering, fuck the job, and fuck worrying if Burundi will be safe or not. Just do it!
I shoved my tent into a plastic bag, mud and all, and hurried through the storm into the taxi.
The security guard wouldn’t let me out of the place as I couldn’t prove to him that I’d paid. I ran back through the mud, and frantically demanded a receipt.
All this rush would be in vain, as I ended up waiting all morning for the bus to arrive. It gave me time to find some Rwandan Francs and fill my stomach with chapattis and tea. I was stoked to find some memory cards for my camera.
On the bus, I met an elderly Scottish lady and young German man. She was heading for the Democratic Republic of Congo and he to small town in Rwanda. Neither of them knew or cared what Burundi was like, but the Scottish lady informed me that all DRC border posts were officially closed to tourists, due to fighting in Bukavu. She was an aid worker and could still get in and out of the Congo, but warned me not to go near the place.

Our Bus got a flat tire (I wasn’t that surprised), so I filled my chapattis with huge espetadas (giant cubes of succulent flesh) that were hopefully not bush meat. While waiting for the repairs to the wheel, I was told why the bus was late. It had needed a service in Kampala. I asked why it wasn’t serviced the day before and then I found out why the bus company was called ‘Regional’. This particular bus had traveled from Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, to Nairobi, Kenya, to Kampala, Uganda, non stop, and was heading to Kigali, Rwanda. Four countries, three days. I wondered how many other problems they had.

I was excited when we approached Kabale, the last Ugandan town before the Rwandan border. The colors in the roadside clothing markets were a wake up call for me, and bore a stark contrast to the dull grey gloomy skies.
The bus driver was really pushing it, and some of the passengers began complaining. They told me the border would close at 18:00 and we were only going to make it if the driver put foot. I looked at the map and calculated that he would have to maintain an average speed of 150km/h to get there on time. It wasn’t possible. We were stuck in Kabale for the night.

The bus driver pulled up in front of the New Standard Hotel and announced that we would be spending the night there and would leave promptly at 04:00. We were welcome to sleep on the bus, but he preferred us to stay in the hotel. Regional weren’t paying for the hotel, I was wide awake and had sat on too many bus seats over the previous six weeks.
I couldn’t find an internet café, but eventually found an old Indian man behind a computer screen in his video store.
He was trying to digitize VHS video footage that he had filmed at a local wedding. The quality was awful and when I showed him my ‘machine-that-plays-videos’, half the size of his VHS video tape, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
So I copied a movie to his PC and showed him, then I begged him to let me use his computer to type up my blog, and in exchange I would copy all of my 80 DivX DVD’s which were on my MPEG4 player. He agreed, much to the delight of his kids jumping up and down in excitement. I spent four hours typing away, until he wanted to go to bed at 23:00.
I hastily threw my things back in the bus, trying my utmost not to disturb the snoring passengers.

Sunday 14th
After playing (hustling) pool until 03:00, I found the bus door had been locked. I couldn’t wake everyone up, so I ended up strolling the empty streets, freezing my tits off in my shorts, vest and sandals! My only company was the odd homeless person tossing and turning under fertilizers bags to keep warm. As promised, at 04:00 we headed for the border. We had to be the first bus there, as more were on their way from Kampala and it would take much longer if we didn’t make it before them.
I was thrilled that there was no visa fee for South Africans!

The culture changed immediately on entering Rwanda, and I was instantly intrigued and excited. They drove left hand drive vehicles on the RHS of the road, and French was the only language I heard from the locals. For a change I could communicate fairly confidently, albeit slowly. I instantly fell in love with the country of ’le mille collines’ (a thousand hills). I couldn’t take enough pictures. It was a completely foreign world to me, like nothing I’d ever experienced. It had a French colonial history but was overwhelmingly African. All the hills were occupied by subsistence farmers.

Vivid scenes from Hotel Rwanda came flashing back to me, but there and then, I saw a tiny, peaceful, gorgeous country, covered in mist and filled with colour. The abundant rainfalls turned the hills into a lush green sponge.
The architecture of the houses dotting the roadside was a weird eclectic mix of European design and African chic. I pictured myself toiling the land and savouring my hard–labored produce of maize, cassava and legumes.

It was a Sunday and there were morning markets in all of the small towns we passed through. I thought there was a political uprising in Byumba, as there were thousands of people stretching all the way up the mountain side.

I met a Kenyan businessman on the bus and we shared a taxi to his friend’s hotel. We had lunch with the Ugandan/Rwandese owner and then tried to squeeze in a power nap, without much success.
I wanted to watch a movie but discovered to my horror that I’d left my MPEG4 player on the bus.
The owner found me a taxi and I was rushed to the station to try recover it. The bus had been taken to the depot, and I was shocked to discover my MPEG4, wrapped in newspaper, in the cleaner’s office. Theft was the furthest thing from his mind. I gave him a big hug and 5,000 Francs!
On the way back to the hotel, I treated him to 10 minutes of the Independence Day friendly football match between Uganda and Rwanda. The Mandela Stadium was recently built and the crowds inside were extremely obedient. I didn’t see any bad elements and the thousands of spectators were enjoying the game quietly. I wished the English Premiership and UEFA fans (hooligans) could take some lessons.
After enjoying the game I visited Kigali’s enormous Sunday Market where I found myself an exquisite double-sided bongo drum, completely covered in soft brown calf hide. It was almost the size of my backpack, and I didn’t care how I would get it home, I had to have it! I bought some quality 2nd hand clothing there too.
I was dropped back at the hotel where I entertained the already drunk guests. They were proud that I had recovered my MPEG4 and immediately attributed this to their safe, rehabilitated city. I had to agree with them.
Kigali didn’t look like a city that had taken a pounding 12 years earlier. I found it hard to imagine the terrors that unfolded during those 100 days of madness, in which hundreds of thousands of innocent Rwandans were bludgeoned to death. Dogs had to be shot en masse, as they had developed a taste for the dead and decaying bodies that littered the streets. The younger generation didn’t speak of the genocide, and if they were traumatized they hid it well. I asked several locals how to tell the difference between a Hutu and a Tutsi. Many of them had interbred by now, and even though there were features distinguishing the tribes (the Tutsis are tall and warrior like and the Hutus are small Bantus), they preferred to see themselves as all being ‘Rwandese’.

A group of locals at the Hotel warmed to me and we spoke for hours on history, politics, my adventures, journalism and business opportunities in Kigali. Pascale, the owner of the Hotel, insisted on accommodating me should I decide to make the move to Kigali.
They were dumbfounded as to how I knew more than them about their country and its history, but they did shed plenty of light on the current issues. I was let in on a secret that the UN were moving their African Head Quarters to Kigali and that it was voted one of the safest cities in the world.

One of them offered to involve me in his business, initially in Kenya, then moving west through Uganda and Rwanda. We brainstormed and came up with the idea of a chain of internet cafés, replete with patisseries, quality local coffee and IT sales and support. I told him I would seriously consider it, as my good friend David from Kenya had contacts in government (ambassadors and corrupt ministers) who would issue me with a journalism or work permit, no questions asked.

They invited me to a Nyama Choma spread, with goat, beef, chicken and plenty of Ugali. I didn’t enjoy it as much as they had hoped I would, as this type of food had become the norm for me in East Africa. I pretended it was my first time.

We continued until after 02:00, when it was just Pascale and his staff still awake. As I was about to say goodnight, a (fairly large) guest and his petit girlfriend appeared, itchy for a taste of the nightlife. Pascale drove us all in the hotel bus to the ‘KBC’ nightclub. Its actual name is Planet, but it’s situated across the road of the familiar landmark KBC bank, which helped direct people there. LP says “the club is filled with beautiful people and really goes off at weekends.” Pascale insisted on leaving David, his barman, as my chaperone. I tried explaining to him I was very capable of protecting myself, could communicate with the locals, and had just been through six countries in as many weeks without incident. He insisted, and the little kid didn’t last five minutes once we were inside. He had smuggled in two half jacks of potent Ugandan spirits and was bust topping up his mixer. The bouncers thought it was necessary for me to go outside and deal with him, even offering me alternative ‘security guards’ to replace the now legless David, who was notorious for his behavior. I sent him home, agreed with the staff that he was in the wrong, and everyone was happy. I was hustled at the pool table and accosted by pretty woman that were eyeing me out like vultures. I was a strange site, a blue and yellow beaded white South African with a strange French accent wearing a Sikh outfit! My nom de plume was Dahoodi. David somehow negotiated his way back into the club, and proceeded to irritate everyone.
It was soon time to catch my bus, and we hailed a taxi, headed back to the hotel and hurriedly threw everything into my backpack.
I was offloaded at the bus station at 05:30, amazingly still very alert after not having had any sleep for over 48 hours.

RWANDA remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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UGANDA

2007-05-14T00:36:26Z

12th January 2007
I arrived early in the morning in Mbale, a quiet town near the North Eastern border between Uganda and Kenya. It had magnificent views of the majestic Mount Elgon, the 3rd highest free standing mountain in Africa. I had initially planned a summit attempt, but the costs had skyrocketed, I was short on time and the weather was awful.
Both my back and neck were in pain from being jerked about on the bus journey while I was in a semi-permanent trance. Anyone who has endured long bus journeys, and this was my 7th major uncomfortable long bus ride, knows that if you don’t get comfortable before your sleep, you just end up slobbering all over yourself and your loose unsupported neck bounces back and forth, every so often waking you up. Even though I had my luxury duck down pillow, I wasn’t used to the public transport thing again. So I opted to hop on the back of a small motor bike taxi, partly to escape the madding crowd that had gathered around our bus, but also to scale the steep hill ahead that would take me to ‘Tom’s Place’ for a hearty breakfast. The boda-boda (motorbike taxi) returned to collect me (with all my luggage) to take me to Makadui, home of the Abayudaya.
The Abayudaya are an isolated community of Ugandan ‘Jews’, who are not officially accepted as Jews, nor will they undergo a conversion recognised by a court of rabbis. From what I saw, they are more Jewish than most Jews I know, especially me!
They are devout in keeping to the customs and rituals. They read from the Torah, have their own synagogue replete with authentic scrolls, are strictly Kosher and follow most of the high holidays including every Shabbat, all in accordance with the Talmudic laws.

The name Abayudaya is simply the Luganda (one of the Ugandan languages) word for Jews, coming from the People of Judea or Ba-Judea. They were founded in 1920 when Semei Kakungulu retired from his ‘presidency’ of Busoga and broke away from the existing ‘Malakites’. The key issue was male circumcision, which Kakungulu and his followers believed was in line with the Old Testament, but most other Malakites deemed sacrilege.
The community consisted of thousands of converts and thrived until 1971, when Idi Amin banned Judaism, closed 32 synagogues and ordered the Abayudaya to convert to Christianity or Islam. During the Amin years, over 3,000 abandoned their faith for fear of being tortured by the military. Some of the more stubborn were beaten to death by Amin’s thugs for collecting synagogue remnants blown away by a storm. None survived (the remnants and the people).
Today there are less than 500 individuals left, most of them living on Nabugoye Hill, near Makadui.

The taxi dropped me off at the bottom of the hill. I wasn’t sure where to go, and didn’t see anything resembling Judaism.
I walked up the hill, with all my gear, and eventually collapsed under a tree. After a short rest, I explored the area and found the Aaron, a young leader of the community. He invited me into his home, insisting I bring my luggage in and put it in the ‘spare bedroom’. His children were clearly living in it, but I bit my tongue nevertheless. We discussed the Abayudaya and I realized that my ‘bright idea’ of writing a story about the community wasn’t such a great idea. It actually was, but dozens of others had already thought of it and written magazine articles, filmed documentaries and donated Torahs, books and religious clothing. This was the most northerly point of my trip, and I had five days to get to my ferry in Kigoma, Tanzania.

Aaron invited me to spend the Sabbath in their home, but I realized that I wouldn’t be able to leave until Sunday. I would be offending them if I did, as they considered my travelling as ‘work’. We discussed it and I produced my Michelin 953 Southern Africa map. I spread it all over their small dining table and we worked out a plan of action to get me to Lake Tanganyika in one piece. Aaron confirmed that Rwanda was safe, but wasn’t so sure about Burundi.
I wanted to climb Mt Elgon and witness the spectacular Sipi Falls, but it wasn’t realistically going to happen. I had to admit that I had bitten off more than I could chew and together we decided I had to sacrifice the mountains and lakes of Uganda. I left his wife with a coconut that I’d lugged all the way from Kenya two weeks before. I donated a yarmulke (skullcap) to the community. I had brought it all the way from Cape Town after finding it on the street while walking home from work one night.

I visited the local store which was run by the community, and purchased some kosher popcorn, freshly popped in their movie-cinema-style popcorn machine. It seemed it was their bestseller as there was a queue of local children eagerly awaiting the next batch.

I bid Aaron’s family farewell and jumped on another boda-boda which had serendipitously arrived after I was told I would have to walk.

Kampala

12th January 2007

I was dropped at the taxi stand, where I was pounced upon by half a dozen touts. I got the last seat on a bus which was about to leave, fighting my way through the chaos of chickens, food, and bodies occupying most of the dilapidated rusted excuse for a bus. The two hour journey became a five hour ordeal.

We didn’t drop or pickup any passengers on the way and did indeed arrive on the outskirts of Kampala on time.

Being Friday afternoon it took almost three hours to get inside the sprawling city. While waiting in the bus I passed the time reading my Lonely Planet and catching up on my blog.

The LP had this to say about Kampala:
The worst thing about Kampala is the traffic. Near gridlock descends on the city during rush hour and it can take more than an hour to break out. The valleys fill up with the belching fumes of the minibuses and some days you can chew the air….
This was one of those days and I was chewing the filthy air and munching on stale, cheap and nasty sweets from Kenya.

I was supposed to meet Dennis Ssetlala and his friend Helen. We had communicated via the Thorntree forum on the internet, with regard to volunteering. Once I had finally arrived at the bus terminal, it took another hour for them to find me, as neither of us knew which one of the three bus terminals I was at. I befriended a local taxi driver, who directed them over the phone.

We met up and they accompanied me in a crammed taxi to the Red Chilli Hideaway. The taxi stand was the biggest transport hub I had ever seen, and I was puzzled as to how any of the vehicles could escape the chaotic gridlock they had created. Luckily the taxi we chose wasn’t part of that mess, and after rearranging the occupants of a sardine packed taxi, so that the three of us (and my luggage) could occupy the front bench seat, we were on our way. I had to close my eyes every few minutes, as it seemed we were going to disappear in the abyss of potholes that were the road. Motorbikes and cyclists were coming directly at us and even though everyone was driving like I do in a computer game, there was miraculously no contact. At least I didn’t see any.

Dennis and Helen ran a Christian charity and needed me to teach young adults how to use computers. They turned out to be students themselves, and their organization was far from what I envisaged. They couldn’t even offer me food or accommodation, but I listened to them and explained that I couldn’t assist unless they could pay for my living expenses. We had some Tangawizis and burgers while discussing my trip and computer education, as well as existing donors and sponsors of their project. I promised to give it some thought and agreed to meet them at their church the next day.
I spoke to a crazy South African (Afrikaans) girl who was a proud Mzungu, admitting to travelling around aimlessly like a lunatic. We shared travel stories and tips on where to go. Nobody knew the current state of Burundi, and I needed to make a decision as to which route I would take. I had planned for this eventuality, and if Burundi was a ‘no go’, then I would have to skip out Rwanda and head south for Tanzania. I decided to sleep on it.

I got excited at a possible job on offer at Red Chili’s Murchison Falls operation.
Before Idi Amin’s regime, the National Park at Murchison used to carry 15,000 Elephant, 26,000 Buffalo and herds of Hartebeest, Kob and Hippopotamus. Although it seems sacrilege to say it, the mass slaughter of wildlife that took place may have been a good thing. The animals chomped their way through almost 400 tons of vegetation, every day!

The falls are supposed to be awesome when viewed up close, and were once described as the most spectacular thing to happen to the Nile along its 6,700km length. The gorge through which the Nile passes is just six meters wide, making Murchison possibly the most powerful natural surge of water to be found anywhere on the planet!
The owner of Red Chilli, a South African woman, would come in the next morning. I planned to put forward my case in the hope of landing the job. They were looking for a couple though, and I was definitely single.
I had a big day coming up that could possibly change my future (I suppose every day does change one’s future, but this was one of those special days). There was the volunteering, the job at Murchison Falls, Rwanda and Burundi or not…..

UGANDA remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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KENYA

2007-05-14T00:37:00Z

10th – 11th January 2007

Wednesday 10th
We arrived in Nairobi at the Upper hill Campsite at 01:00 (Nzioka, a friend of a friend, suggested the place when he declined our request to camp in his garden) and Claus was immediately very concerned about the three Pink Caravan buses on the premises. He had encountered the buses, filled with drunk Swedish teenagers, in South America and Australia. They were wicked buses, painted bright pink, with double beds inside and a dozen more on the roof, nobody slept in tents. I wasn’t the only man looking to get lucky with ‘Inga from Sweden’, as a Rastafarian from Ethiopia had already tried! One of the Swedish girls I spoke to only knew of one Inga, her ancient grandmother.
Perhaps the Inga phenomenon was from the 60’s?
The only really interesting and worthwhile site in Nairobi that I wanted to see was the National Museum. It was described as ‘a grand alternative to the dozens of poky little local museums dotted around the country’.
Mia, the New Yorker that never joined me in Kikambala, was still in town and wanted to meet up. I SMS’ed her suggesting we rendezvous at the museum, to which she replied “It’s closed!” I refused to believe her until minutes later, when I literally bumped into a gorgeous American blonde, who confirmed it was in fact closed. Adamant that both of them may be wrong, I insisted that there must be a way to see it. The blonde explained to me that she was responsible for the renovations at the museum and had been working on it for the past three months. I swallowed my words and asked if she could sneak me in, but it turned out that all the exhibits were in storage, and would remain that way for at least six more months!
Instead, we replaced the tires on Claus’ truck and met Mia for lunch.
She said I should look out for a five foot little girl. Finally there was a face to the voice and months of correspondence. She gave us the lowdown on Nairobi over a cheap meal of Ugali (maize meal) and Kapenta (a freshwater fish) inside a quaint eatery reserved for locals and savvy tourists.
We wished each other bon voyage and then Claus and I did our usual: popped into Jokers around the corner for some freebies and fun.

Workers came in during their tea/lunch breaks for a quick gamble, squandering their earnings no doubt. We came, we saw and we conquered, cleaning them up on the roulette table while enjoying free drinks and snacks.
We got lost in the traffic heading out of town, and I saw a massive sign advertising a swanky Casino.
We were both parched and famished so we avoided the gridlock chilled out at the casino, speaking to the locals about Kenya while waiting patiently for the buffet to open. I had the concierge make a few calls for me to investigate the buses to Uganda, and she found me a cheap bus direct to Mbale, home of the Abayudaya, a Ugandan black Jewish community.
We rushed off to the Akamba bus office to purchase my ticket before they closed. On the way there, while coasting around a gigantic roundabout, in the middle of four lanes of traffic, we drove into and over a pedestrian who literally jumped in front of our slow moving vehicle.
Suddenly, all four doors were simultaneously opened and eight arms were snatching at anything they could get their grubby thieving paws on. The guy we rode over was just a distraction, and in the end I don’t think the injuries he sustained were worth it. The thug who tried to rip my clothes off got more than he bargained for, a dislocated finger. Nairobi is notorious for crime and we had purposely removed everything from the car and locked it away out of site. There were four heavy, used tires on the backseat, which were wedged tightly together. The thieves got away with a towel, and Claus and I instantly developed eyes in the back of our heads, refusing to slow down for anyone or anything in our path.
We returned to the casino to continue discussions with locals and gorge ourselves on the delicious buffet, getting packs of imported cigarettes for free and unlimited drinks. It was bingo evening and the joint was filling up with people eager to win big time. I had never played before and decided to give it a go. Beginners luck, I won the horizontal line competition and walked away with a whopping KSh 6000 – about $90.

Thursday 11th
The next day I set off early to see as much of Nairobi as possible. After the previous evening of criminal activity and fearing the worst, I took with the bare necessities, a bottle of water and minimal cash.
I didn’t encounter a single problem and most people stuck to themselves. After searching for a week, I finally found a charger for my newly acquired digital camera that Claus had generously donated to my cause. It was one of only three items that survived his Australian tragedy. His car, an old Holden 4x4, was reduced to a burnt out metal cage, while he was walking up a mountain in the remote Northern Territory. He lost everything except the contents of his small day pack : the camera, some small iron-on flags from various countries, and an ugly grey beanie.
The camera came at the right time, just when my pathetic baby digital gave up the ghost, and it took high quality shots, even though it had endured its fair share of bashing about. Claus was travelling through 50 countries on every continent over a two year period, the cost of which he estimated at $ 60,000.
For the previous five weeks, I’d been searching for the ubiquitous white two-piece Moslem attire and couldn’t source it anywhere. It wasn’t exactly a touristy item, and I was pretty irritated because I am normally an incredibly resourceful human being, or so I am told. I was finally successful when I strolled through a small opening in a massive metal gate which was the front door of the local Sikh temple, situated down a small side street. I pleaded with the bearded man who greeted me, and made sure he understood that I didn’t want to convert, but that I desperately wanted an outfit similar to the one he was wearing. Ten minutes later I was given not one, but two ornate outfits, personally tailored, including a turban which I had no idea how I was going to wrap it around my braided Mzungu head!

While I was waiting, there was an old man wrapped in so many blankets that he resembled as Eskimo/Yeti/Abominable Snowman. He was shivering like nobody’s business (this expression makes no sense to me but has a nice ring to it and is a favorite of my friend Jano), as if he was defrosting from a holiday in the North Pole. At first I thought he was performing some sort of ritual prayer, because he was facing Mecca in the early morning sunlight, but I wasn’t certain that Sikhs even face Mecca! He also seemed very uncomfortable, he was sweating profusely and had a painful look on his weathered face. It turned out that he was violently ill with a serious case of Malaria and refused medical assistance.
I hope his god cured him.

I suddenly got worried that I might suffer a similar fate, as I had given up on my prophylactic course and the mosquitoes, who adore my sweet blood, were recently successful. I wasn’t carrying any test kits or treatment in case I did contract the dreaded disease, but in the back of my mind I believed I was strong and healthy and would not be an unfortunate statistic.
I returned to the campsite and we paraded our new outfits, much to the shock/delight of the American and Swedish guests. I was quite an enigma, a white Jewish Rastafarian Sikh Mzungu! The resident mechanic, who had just climbed out from beneath an old Mercedes, saw us trying to fathom what on earth to do with the turban thingy. He came over and demonstrated. He admitted that he’d once converted and had spent a brief period as a Sikh. The result was hilarious and we both took pictures with our timers, to one day show our grandkids.

Later the Dutch couple we had met and camped with at the Maasai Camp in Arusha pulled up and setup camp beside us.
They were travelling up and down the length of the African continent and were headed back home. I found it amazing how I kept bumping into the same people wherever I went, our paths inevitably crossing in the big cities, stocking up on food and visas, as well as getting some essential rest and relaxation. I suppose there are only so many budget options in the Lonely Planet (the preferred guide of most budget adventurers), so it’s not that surprising to see the same faces.
Their expectations of the Ngorongoro Crater were far from the marketing they were exposed to. The crater was teeming with snap-happy tourists, racing after the rare sightings of big beasts. Like so many tourist destinations the reality is quite removed from one’s expectations, sort of like a film based on a book.
I was dreading leaving the comfort and flexibility of traveling in an overlander, but the cost of fuel was astronomical and I was way over my budget by now, having at this stage spent on average $25 a day.
I jumped on the Akamba Bus at 21:00 and remembered my Kenyan friend David’s warning to stay far away from Akamba. I dozed off intermittently during the 12 hour journey and was disappointed to have slept through the crossing of the equator. It was probably better that way, as it’s just an imaginary line, and it was too dark to take the cheesy tourist picture of said tourist posing precariously with each foot straddling the Northern and Southern Hemispheres.

Two days later I also ended up sleeping through the second equatorial crossing back into the Southern Hemisphere!

KENYA remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Back into Tanzania

2007-05-14T00:37:36Z

6th – 7th January 2007
The drive out of Mombassa was horrific, with potholes three feet deep in the middle of a perfect road, a complete nightmare. Luckily we turned off at Voi and headed through the Tsavo West National Park. The border at Taveta was surprisingly hassle free and we cruised on to Marangu, a small village at the foot of Mt Kilimanjaro. We were planning on staying at the Coffee Tree Campsite but the weather was misty and dull and we wanted a clear view of the mountain to take some pictures proving we were there.
We drove up and up and up until we could go no further, traversing 40 degree inclinations, muddy slopes and narrow tracks, and passing village after village of fascinated people. Not many (if any) Mzungus came this way, and our attempts to shake off the hundreds of children running after us were fruitless. We arrived at a forest almost a third of the way up the mountain. The heavens opened up for us and we were blessed with awesome views of both peaks, one of which was covered in snow.

On our arrival we were greeted by more than 100 Matotos (children) screaming ‘Mzungu Mzungu’ with such gusto like they’d never seen one before! I climbed up on the roof and started taking pictures of the mountain and forest. The kids wouldn’t leave us alone until I used the most trusted weapon against shy Matotos, my telephoto zoom lens. Just point it in their general direction and they scramble out of there before you can say cheese.

The girls were the best, they watched from a distance, then nervously approached offering to bring us fresh ‘froo-it’ in the morning. I asked them for some maize and sugar cane, which they returned with 15 minutes later, picked from their nearby fields. I gave them a handful of sweets as payment and they promised to return with more in the morning. I filled our water tanks with the crystal clear ice cold Kilimanjaro water, which tasted far superior to the bottled variety with the same name (and it was free).

One of the kids offered us a welcome gift: a Kilimanjaro Chameleon.

After a while the zoom lens approach stopped working (they soon gathered that it posed no immediate threat), so Clause opted to use his crossbow, which worked like a charm.

The novelty soon wore off however, and we ended up having to chase them away, both verbally and physically. They sneaked up later in the evening and we let them soak up the warmth of the fire, with the only condition being that they stay 100% silent. No giggling, no pointing, no playing games.
It only took a few gestures of the universal finger to the lips accompanied by a “Ssshhh” to do the trick.

It was fucking cold that night and I finally got to use my arctic expedition jacket that took up 20% of the space in my back pack. The stars in the dark sky were incredible, even though I couldn’t recognize any of the constellations, being so close to the equator. The long drive and chasing the kids away took its toll on me, and Claus got a good picture of me sleeping in front of the fire…

Sunday 7th
In the morning we were once again blessed with clear skies and no mist shrouding the majestic peaks of Kilimanjaro. I took advantage and snapped away using my tripod on top of the truck, while I instructed Claus to reverse back and forth so that I could get an unobstructed view.
I disappeared into the thick of the forest to have the biggest longest excretion in years, while Claus played with the Matotos who had gathered around our camp at the crack of dawn. We only realized later that it was at this time that some naughty little shits had nicked various items from inside and outside the car.
At first Claus only noticed that his thin blue roll-up mattress was missing. He wasn’t that perturbed and insisted we leave without it. He couldn’t find his camera but guaranteed me that it was in the roof top tent which was now firmly closed and that it must have fallen out of his pocket while he was sleeping. Even though it was a mission, I forced him to open it up to look, and it was just as well because the camera was nowhere to be found.
I lost the plot and in my broken Swahili, threatened to call the ‘polisi’. I stormed into the local mud houses and demanded they reveal the fuckers who had taken heaven alone knows how many of our belongings. I was pretty sure who one of the culprits was and decided to even the playing field. I took his radio, clearly a prized possession, and refused to give it back until ALL our stolen goods were returned. It worked like a dream and suddenly the camera, then mattress, then the rest of the things appeared. I wasn’t sure we had everything back, so I kept his radio to teach him a lesson, that crime doesn’t pay. His friends and the elders found this very amusing, especially the sight of him running behind our vehicle for kilometers down the mountain.

Moshi & Arusha

7th – 9th January 2007

We took a back road towards Moshi and stumbled upon a majestic waterfall. A guide showed us around; we braved the icy water, took some pictures and swapped some sweets for a giant bunch of bananas from a local woman’s tree.
We stopped in Moshi, the coffee capital of Tanzania and I stocked up on Camel Lights and a whole beef fillet, vacuum packed for only TSh 4000 ($3).
The rain came down hard, so we pressed on past Arusha, where we were hoping to stay with Kevita who had said ‘Karibu’ in her drunken stupor at Watamu two weeks earlier. She suggested we stay at the camp site known as the Snake Park, which was an hour out of town. We got hopelessly lost and only realized we were heading for Kenya when we noticed Mount Meru on our right hand side. We shouldn’t have been anywhere near it!
We eventually made it to the Snake Park where we had to share the place with no fewer than nine massive overland trucks, not to mention the crocodiles and deadly snakes only meters away.
Many of the overlanders had come directly from Nairobi, and this was their first stop on their safari, some headed as far as Cape Town. It was highly entertaining watching the fresh, brilliant white, Mzungus receiving lessons on how to set up a tent. Most of them were scratching their heads like monkeys in utter confusion, trying desperately to complete their mission before dark.
I persuaded the South African driver of one of the overlanders to give me several shovelfuls of his red hot coals on which I cooked a succulent tender fillet with pepper sauce.
Monday 8th I played with a hyena in the morning like it was my Labrador puppy. It was an orphan that had become a cherished pet, replete with sharp teeth and claws to assist in giving tourists souvenir wounds they could show their friends back home. I also saw the behind the scenes operation required to maintain the diet of the scavenging vultures and hungry reptiles. A few dozen crocodiles, deadly snakes and birds of prey needed to be fed, and all of the food was grown on the property. Rabbits, guinea pigs, mice, rats, chickens and worms were farmed intensively under artificial light in cages.
We bought some curios from the adjoining Maasai craft market and museum. I got myself a fuck-off 18 inch Maasai knife with red cow-hide sheath, to slice up cattle, cut biltong and brandish to thieves (mine’s bigger than yours)!
Kevita let us down and we couldn’t stay on their coffee farm on the rim of the Ngorongoro crater. Instead we attended the war crimes court in Arusha, where they had a viewing area complete with portable audio translation devices for the media and interested public. I was very interested in the process but after half an hour we were escorted out as a witness had to testify ‘in-camera’ for fear of his life (his testimony would lead to life imprisonment for several architects of the Rwandan genocide responsible for hundreds of thousands of people being hacked to pieces).

Claus attempted to get a Tanzanian drivers license, which was as simple as going to a stationary shop and buying one, a tiny matchbox sized book available in a variety of colors and containing just three blank pages. The process required you to take the little booklet to the police, show them your international driving license, tell them you’re an aid worker (no proof required) and then watch them insert the details, your picture and a stamp. Voila!
Next up he needed local registration plates for his car, in the hope of persuading the national park officials to charge him resident rates (a saving of roughly half the exorbitant entry fees).
I walked into a police station with plenty of scrapped vehicles in their lot, and simply asked a pig for a set of plates, preferably from a white Toyota pickup truck. I told him it was a souvenir to put up in my bar in Copenhagen, to complement my African collection! He believed me and agreed.
We later learned that only citizens (not residents) get discounted prices at the parks, so it was all in vain.
I somehow got it into my head that I needed to buy and travel with (and sometimes on) a ‘Phoenix’ (pronounced fo-nix), the quintessential indestructible African bicycle, made in China obviously. They are known to the local Mzungus as ‘black mambas’ and have a reputation of being able to carry more than you can possibly imagine and still lasting forever. I searched far and wide and test drove four different specimens. Luckily I didn’t find one, as I had enough shit to lug around already.
Tuesday 9th On the way out of Arusha, en route to Kenya, we were blessed with surreal views of both Mount Meru and Kilimanjaro on a very rare clear day. An old drunk Maasai man came begging for money and tried to stop me taking pictures of ‘his mountains’ until I coughed up enough money to buy him more Vodka tot packs, to add to the collection he had hidden in his cloak. I reprimanded him for drinking alcohol, but he didn’t understand and continued to clutch his precious plastic vodka dose which he sucked on like a lollypop.
I was told that the Namanga border on the Kenyan side was notorious for corruption. So I was surprised when everything went smoothly. Then the shit hit the fan when Claus refused to pay the $20 road tax because he wasn’t charged when he entered Kenya three weeks before. What shocked (and humored) me, and every other border official I complained to, made us really skeptical. The big mama in charge of customs was demanding KSh200 for ‘overtime’. We decided to report the corruption to department after department including the local police, who all told us that our problem lay with customs, not immigration or the police. I tried to explain to them all that there were massive billboards all over Kenya, urging the public to report and stamp out corruption. They said we had to “pay now and complain later”. If we didn’t, then they promised “we won’t allow you to enter Kenya and we will detain your vehicle!”
Naturally we freaked out and said we would rather return to Tanzania, which they also refused to let us do! After almost three hours of moaning, they eventually agreed to show us evidence of the ‘overtime’ law and receipts of others who had paid, after which we gladly handed over the money. To frustrate us further, they decided to do an extensive search of the truck, but forgot to search Claus’ shirt pocket in which he had stashed all his joints!

Back into Tanzania remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Kikambala & Mombassa

2007-05-14T00:38:29Z

30th December 2006 to 6th January 2007

Friday 29th
Claus, the Danish seven-toed Jesus look alike, and the two American dykes Lee and Katia, met up with me in Kilifi late on Friday. I had invited them to join me at the timeshare resort for a week over New Year.
Claus had previously expressed his desire to ‘ditch the bitches’, and that evening I discovered why. They disappeared with the car keys, demanded we join them for drinks at a place we had no idea how to find, and four hours later had the cheek to blame us! Their attitude sucked and it was clear to me that they hated men in general.
I had previous experience of evicting undesirable hangers-on, once they had overstayed their welcome, so I hatched a plan to get rid of them. It involved Claus and I visiting the Mnarani Ruins at 05:00 the next morning in order to get good light for photography.
Saturday 30th I woke up at 04:00 to the now regular beautiful chanting of a young boy in the ‘call-to-prayer’ for any Muslims eager enough to get up and attend Mosque. I recorded it on my iPod with surprisingly good results and played it every now and then, as meditation music or entertainment.
I collected all my belongings, woke up Claus (he was sleeping in the car’s rooftop tent) and as quietly as possible, removed the dykes remaining belongings from the car and put them in my room.
We sneaked out of there unnoticed with smug looks on our faces, like naughty little boys. Mission accomplished.
The plan worked perfectly and both of us remembered the famous line from the A Team: “I love it when a plan comes together!” We gloated all the way to Kikambala (when we weren’t dodging giant potholes in the dark).
We arrived at the Royal Reserve Safari and Beach Club at 06:00, looking very out of place in the plush five-star timeshare resort. Fortunately we were greeted by the night staff at the end of their shift, and all the guests were sound asleep. Our unit wasn’t ready yet, so we were given keys to a luxury suite to clean ourselves up. Life was good! We enjoyed the sauna and steam room, and came out squeaky clean.
While exploring the resort, we discovered the beauty salon. They didn’t do much business as the majority of hotel guests were local Kenyans and not that into manicures, pedicures, massages and the like.

For some reason Clause decided he needed a pedicure (after I explained to him what it entailed). We drove a hard bargain after intimidating and embarrassing the staff into taking 40% of the price as there were only two toes on one of his feet (the big toe counted for two, so he was missing four).
I explained to the masseuse the concept of taking on her client’s negative energy, and manipulated her into letting me give her a full body massage, tit-for-tat, I do her – she does me.

My ex-wife and sister were classic examples of the negative energy transfer concept and I always had to beg them for a massage (I wasn’t a paying customer). She enjoyed my strong hands and technique (self-taught) as well as my own blend of massage oil which was a concoction of Olbas eucalyptus oil and pure essential rose geranium oil from our Karoo farm
Three hours later I plutzed on the ‘fold-out-of-the-wall’ hotel bed, naked and in front of satellite TV, the aircon blasting an arctic breeze over my serene body. The timeshare was a godsend, and we were both extremely grateful, but also strangely guilty, like we didn’t deserve it all.
The resort was mainly occupied by wealthy Kenyans, with only a handful of Mzungus, none of which were eligible or available (for some fun/sex).
The Royal Reserve was to be our home for the next week, and it was just the two of us, as Mia the New Yorker had cancelled at the last minute. She didn’t want to start her African safari in luxury and have less time in Ethiopia.
Claus and I had nothing to complain about, as we each had our own cavernous air-conditioned bedroom with en-suite bathroom. We watched satellite movies inside our own chilly cocoon, and when we were bored of that, we took dips in the Trompe l’Oeil swimming pool which blended into the ocean, meters from our ground floor balcony, pure bliss.
Eat, sleep, shit, we had copious amounts of all, and it was all top quality. We took advantage of the free shuttle bus to the Nakumatt in Mombassa. It was the biggest Mega store I have even seen. It consisted of three floors containing gardening, hardware, appliances, groceries, restaurants, video rentals, internet, post office etc.
Half a dozen heavy bags full of munchies and a hefty bill later, we returned to cook up a storm. I was in my element.

We got hooked on tennis, playing barefoot and topless and taking smoke and refreshment breaks in between sets. Claus got stoned before and during our matches, so he didn’t realise/care that he had developed several blisters under the apres-pedicured, baby soft soles of his feet.
I removed my cornrows as they were annoying me. They were too tight and uncomfortable while I was sleeping. We spent New Years Eve watching Papa Wemba, the legendary Congolese jazz singer with his own unique style, all in French.
It was held at Mombassa’s exclusive Sai Resort and was attended by the crème de la crème of Kenyan society, along with a few old sad Mzungu Europeans who had found local love in the small villages.

Woman in their late 50’s were accompanied by Rastafarian beach boys in their teens and old men had young nubile girls clinging to them, all of whom seemed to be in a win-win situation. I suppose the Mzungus get sex and ‘unconditional love’, and the locals get financial security and a trip to Europe every year.
The fireworks on the beach were impressive and we joined in with our own bazooka fire crackers that were louder than gunshots! A Ugandan prostitute tried her luck with me, but I wasn’t that horny (actually I was, but not that desperate or stupid). We partied till sunrise at Bamburi’s infamous nightclubs, which attracted a slightly wild crowd of locals, tourists, prostitutes and hustlers. We weren’t happy that the Mamba International nightclub was closed. The Lonely Planet says: “who knows what twisted genius thought it was a good idea to have a disco in a crocodile farm”!
The following evening we found a casino, left with a lot of their money and ate plates of their food.

We also played 10-pin bowls and watched Sasha Baron Cohen’s brilliant film Borat, “for make benefit glorious nation of Kazakhstan”. After the hilarious commercials and before the main feature started, everyone rose, their right hand covering their chest, and sung the Kenyan national anthem. That, together with the fact that every establishment/business MUST display a portrait of the President (that they have to pay for) seemed to me to be a mild form of indoctrination. During the proceedings, we remained seated, struggling to contain our laughter.

On the way back home, (the nightlife was an hour away on a pot-holed road with some asphalt making an appearance every now and then) we stopped at the same place we were at for New Years Eve. We played pool until sunrise and fended off the scores of young girls who tried every move in the book to come home with us.
Eventually Jesus and Gabriel (our stage names, Claus was Jesus and I was the Archangel Gabriel) picked two out the bevy. It was a difficult choice. They came home with us and spent the night (morning) and then the entire day. Both girls decided to braid my hair, again, as well as the mutual massage thing with both of them.

My hair was now a complete mess, so on the day before we set out, I visited the salon again and they twisted my rubber arm to get the job done properly, using extensions. After bargaining the price down (I got it for half price as I had bought three bags of multi colored elastics the day before, which they now had to pull out). All three staff members began the laborious task of removing the elastics, untwisting my hair, and then attaching brown, yellow and blue ‘hair’ to my head.

I was preparing a chicken to roast for our last night out, when I tried to look like the creature from the movie Predator. At the time I really thought it was an authentic impersonation. So did Claus.

I decided it would be fun to travel with Claus for a week en route to Nairobi. We cleaned out his overlander, which was a fully equipped Toyota Hilux 4x4 double cab PETROL with Technichest (a big grey plastic contraption with storage compartments that fits onto the back of the truck) and large rooftop tent.

Early on Saturday morning we set off hoping to reach the slopes of the majestic Mount Kilimanjaro…

Kikambala & Mombassa remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Watamu and Kilifi

2007-05-13T21:15:49Z

I hugged my heavy pack on the Matatu, which cost all of 50 shillings (less than $1).
I arrived in Watamu famished and headed straight for Mama Lucy’s supermarket. It was filled with European delicacies serving the plethora of self-catering resorts in this popular coastal holiday destination.
Unfortunately, the said European delicacies were ridiculously overpriced, so I was left salivating.
I was escorted by a beach boy, through a maze of side street through his village, to Malob guest house, and after heated debate with the manager, I got the last unit left, a three bedroom with en-suite bathroom, for the price of a single.
I told them that I’d called earlier that morning and was guaranteed that there was a room for me at given a price.

It was too hot for a white person to be outside, so I searched for an Internet Café.
For some unknown reason I decided that it was time for me to put cornrows into my hair (Snoop Doggy Dog style). $10 and an afternoon in Brenda’s Salon transformed me into a proper African Mzungu tourist. During the braiding process I took a break while Brenda & friends listened to Jennifer Lopez and 50 Cent on my iPod.

I found a kiosk selling the usual fruit and veg, but also had used European clothing on offer. After having to borrow a smart shirt from Uri in Malindi, I proudly made a bargain purchase and got two stylish dress shirts, in perfect nick, for $2!
After my hair was done, I found a internet café with a satellite linkup, run by a one-eyed Mohammed and his uptight German wife. It was the fastest connection since Cape Town, so I spent two hours updating my blog, all in vain. The electricity cut and I lost everything, even though the PC’s were equipped with Uninterruptible Power Supplies. Just before the power disappeared and the darkness ensued, I got a call from Kevita, Uri’s friend who hailed from Arusha in Tanzania. Kevita invited me to dinner and gave me complicated directions which I tried to memorize. I jumped in a tuc-tuc and we got hopelessly lost in the dark. None of the houses were lit up, nor were their door bells working and neither the driver or I had credit in our phones! The tuc-tuc got stuck on a steep hill, and I had to get out and push. Luckily Kevita called and sent an Ascari (security guard) to find us. I stepped into ultimate luxury, once again. I met a bunch of holidaymaking expats, already very drunk. Kevita’s South African boyfriend, a Swahili-speaking trophy PH (professional hunter), was sleeping in bed trying to cope with his umpteenth bout of Malaria. I chatted about my trip to Kevita’s brother and girlfriend, a newly arrived very pale Scottish lass. I listened with great interest to the horrifying ordeals of Petra, a United Nations IT employee. She had been posted in Rwanda during the genocide and was right in the thick of things, just like in the movie Hotel Rwanda. She had been evacuated to Arusha to provide IT support to the International Tribunal of the Rwandan Genocide (war crimes court). I started dreaming of working for the UN, and was even more excited to go to Rwanda in two weeks time. It was a great evening around the rim flow pool under the stars, a mere Frisbee throw from the ocean (at high tide). I was treated to mountains of giant crab meat, pasta and REAL coffee from their own plantation, fit for a connoisseur.

In her paralytic inebriated condition, Kevita extended me a Karibu (welcome/invite) to visit them on their coffee farm. She proudly said it was ‘the last farm before you reach the famous Ngorongoro Crater’ on the way to the Serengeti.
I was thrilled and vowed to change my routing slightly.

Wednesday 27th
I had a bee in my bonnet early in the morning, adamant to go snorkeling, as I felt I hadn’t make enough use of the scuba gear I had laboriously been lugging through Africa. I attempted snorkeling (known as goggling to all the Italian tourists). Once again, the visibility was shit, however I did manage to circumnavigate the local fisherman’s huge fishing drag net. All along the East African coast I kept seeing tropical colorful fish being caught and eaten, and tons of coral reef being used to build houses, and somehow I think it’s sacrilege. The locals begged to differ with me, justifying that it was their free food and building materials. They did have a point, even though it was a mute one.
My ears were aching and it seemed that my diving days were over, especially while my sinuses were blocked.
On my return to the guest house I watched an entertaining tennis match, played by the two kaaskoppies (my name for Dutch people who are almost all cheese lovers) who were staying at Malob. By 09:30 it was too hot to continue playing.
I joined the Dutchmen and we took a Matatu to the famous Gede Ruins. Hidden away in the forest, was a vast complex of palaces and mosques, mysteriously without any records of their existence in historical texts. As usual the entrance fees which were quoted in the Lonely Planet had quadrupled, so I asked to see the curator and gave him my “I’m a journalist doing research, can you show me around” routine. He eagerly agreed to give me a tour and explain the history of the place, conveniently forgetting to charge me.
The light was really bad (as it had been for the past two weeks up and down the entire coast), so sadly I had no photo opportunities, but took full advantage of the local children hanging out under the trees, grooming their hair.
On my way back, I decided to enter a pool bar down a side street. The next two hours were great fun and I was taught a new game involving three or more people. All the balls are spread out strategically on the cushions. The number 1 ball is placed in the centre of the table and each player is to pot the balls in ascending order. The skill comes into it when you are encouraged to hit another ball first (in/off) when potting your number, resulting in the value of that ball added to your score. The highest score wins and that was me, a few times. They were happy to gamble and persistently tried to hustle me. I never would have guessed I’d hustle in five Countries. I felt sorry for them and spent my takings buying drinks for the losers. After a dozen games, I had to lie to them and sneakily escape, as they refused to let me leave. I suddenly got ants in my pants, I had seen all there was to see in Watamu and headed for Kilifi.

Kilifi

27th – 29th December 2006

Kilifi was a gorgeous river estuary with effortlessly picture perfect views from its massive road bridge, the only stretch of
road without potholes on it, because it’s built upon a solid metal and concrete base.
In Cape Town I had met a couple in the book store, who were surprised to see their resort on Pemba Island featured in a new book of ‘1001 places to visit before you die’. I told them about my trip and asked how I would get back to Cape Town on a tight budget from their neck of the woods. They said Kilifi was the place to hitch a ride home on a yacht, free!
At this stage I was in no hurry to go home, but thought it would be a good idea to investigate the possibilities anyway.
Many white Kenyans have yachts moored in the creek, and there are numerous beach houses belonging to artists, writers and adventurer from around the globe, just up my alley!
I checked into the Tushauriane Bar and Lodge for three days. It was a bright yellow building behind the old bus station and overlooking a massive mosque. The rooms were an incredible bargain at KSh 150 per night ($2). I strolled into town and found an authentic Italian Gelateria where I bought a Straciatela ice cream for KSh 160, more than a nights accommodation. This either showed how cheap my room was or how good/expensive the two scoops of ice cream were.
I found cheap fast internet where I took most of the day updating my blog and bulk-emailing friends & family.
The next two days were spent strolling along the never-ending beaches and taking tuc-tucs around the area.
I finally had some time alone for reflection, especially at 04:00 when the entire Mosque service was broadcast via megaphones, drastically influencing my dreams. I even managed to snorkel out in deep enough water to admire the fascinating coral reef. It was the best I had seen along the Kenyan and Tanzanian coastline.
One evening I went out for some local food and returned with a plastic bag filled with the most delicious goat pilau, which I devoured with my hands, legs crossed under my mosquito net. One pesky little mosquito made it inside the net and had a feast on my sweet blood!)
E-mail to friends and family: Yes, this is a bulk mail to everyone in my address book, but I don't have time for personalized messages, so if you want some personal stuff, either check out my blog at http://www.travelpod.com/members/dcm or simply reply to this mail and you'll get the individualized reply! I am now entering my fifth week of what Mzungus do: wonder around Africa - aimlessly!
It has had its ups and downs, but on the whole I have been absorbing my surroundings and enjoying the people I meet (locals and other Mzungus) and the cultures and sights I experience. My initial plan seems to be working out just fine; I am still exactly on target with my budget - having only done the arithmetic 2 days ago - for the first time. I am in Kilifi at present, after the previous week of travelling through Lamu Archipelago, Malindi and Watamu from the top to the bottom of the Kenyan coast. The weather is unbearable, and I still wake up hot and wet (unfortunately not from steamy sex) even when sleeping naked, outside, under a mosquito net and with a slight breeze! I recently had the luxury of air conditioning, which was great initially, but now I am sick as a dog, coughing up yellow/green stuff, constantly sniffing and I can't dive as my sinus' are closed! At least the diarrhea has abated, for now, the morning sickness has disappeared and I am no longer sun burnt. My beard is now gone, I have cornrows (braids) and I'm back to travelling solo. 10 more days on the coast and then I'll be heading inland - where it will hopefully be cooler, less touristy and more African. Merry Xmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy New Year and Happy Days to everyone (please pass this message on to everyone you know - who knows me). Wishing you a sweet, prosperous new year, with all your hopes and dreams coming true.
Love David

Watamu and Kilifi remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Malindi

2007-05-14T00:35:16Z

23rd – 26th December 2006

I found this memoir in one of my journals:

It’s 12:30 on a Saturday afternoon and I’m lying under a 16 wheel, 10 ton truck, escaping from the scorching Kenyan midday sun. My weathered nose is peeling profusely and my body is not and wet (unfortunately not from a raunchy romp on the beach!).
I’m en route to Malindi, after spending 5 days on the Lamu archipelago. The overloaded Tawakal bus continues to idle after an hour of waiting for a dozen vehicles to get ‘un-stuck-in-the-mud’!
The roads are horrendous after heavy rains and even the tractors and luxury 4x4s are deep in the marshy verges where they have attempted to get by the 2 huge trucks blocking the road.
I’ve got my kikoi spread out and my head is being propped up by my duck down Woolworth’s pillow.
I hope I have more experiences like this, so I can catch up on my writing and ignore the inevitable African transport inequities. Whoops, the truck just started and pulled away, time 2 vamos...

Saturday 23rd
I arrived in Malindi in one piece, only two hours late, where Uri collected me at a gas station.
I stepped into his fridge (the car) and he whisked me away to a coffee bar called Karen Blixen, a fine Italian terrace restaurant hinting at Art Deco style. The menu included a dose of Chinese as well as crocodile and warthog.
I opted for an espresso and caught up with Uri.

It was amazing, I had been teleported from poverty stricken, dusty Africa straight into Italy. Sick, twisted and old Italian men were accompanied by the local whores, and there wasn’t a word of Swahili or English to be heard!
Uri was a friend living in Cape Town, who came from Malindi and was visiting his family for the holidays and attending a wedding. His parents owned and manage the plush Woburn Residence Club, a swish complex with giant marble bathrooms.

We went by to visit and meet his parents after which I was taken to the guest suite at the Esposito Family Residence.
I was in heaven, and soaked my exhausted, battered, dirty body in a hot bath. It was the first bath in over a month, and I really saw how dirty I was when I pulled the plug out and had to scrub off the grimy residue left behind.
The Esposito family took me in to their home, washed my clothes, housed me in their outside cottage, and fed me gourmet food for the next three days.

I was treated to breakfast every morning around the pool, set in their own private botanical garden, complete with a range of poultry and massive aviary. Attila, their Great Dane, was the biggest dog I’ve every encountered, approaching the size of a small Shetland pony!
We went out that evening for Nyama Choma, goat meat cooked on an outside fire, accompanied by chapattis, BBQ chicken, chillies and a sweet omelet/quiche thingy.
Our group of 15 included 12 Frenchman. Uri’s best friend/brother, a Kenyan/Swiss guy called Dominique had just got married to Sophie, a gorgeous French journalist. The whole troop of them arrived in three tuc-tucs, five crammed in each one. The restaurant had never accommodated so many Mzungus at once.

Sunday 24th
I woke up early, too early to venture out into the grounds with the giant Attila roaming free, and decided to work out all my finances. I counted all my cash in my wallet and various other hiding places (fake wallet, camera bag, backpack) and converted it all into Rands. I had to include the cash withdrawals, US dollars, South African Rand, Zambian Kwacha, Tanzanian Shillings and Kenyan Shillings, and then do the math. I was bang on target, R140 or US$20 per day, without even looking or planning anything over the previous 26 days! I was so proud of myself, until I looked at the state of my backpack and the contents thereof. I was still carrying too much, including food (coconuts). All my belongings, especially my clothes, were caked in good old African dust.
The morning sickness arrived like clockwork, and 30 minutes later it disappeared, also like clockwork.
The air conditioning in my room was faulty, and I slept with the windows open, resulting in loads of mosquitoes. Uri had explained to me that their method of evading mosquito bites was quite simple, live in a fridge. The mosquitoes were too lethargic to search for your sweet blood. Their house hovered around the 18 degree Celsius mark, which was the case in their cars and offices! I though it was both unhealthy and a big price to pay to avoid anti-malarial medication.

Franco and Elly had arranged a regal breakfast around the magnificent swimming pool, and I joined them to discuss my trip, Uri, and my morning-sickness-inducing-anti-malarial-medication. The Doxycycline I was taking was clearly the cause, and the fact that I was taking it first thing in the morning, on an empty stomach, was part of the problem. The reason I took it early in the morning, was because I was already in the habit of swallowing my two pills of Lamictin, so it made sense to take the Doxy at the same time, lest I forget.

Enough people, both locals and foreigners, had told me not to continue with the prophylactics, and simply keep the emergency course of three pills if I get malaria. Their stories about the cerebral malaria that they and their friends had all succumbed to were frightening.
I stopped the Doxycycline and voila, the morning sickness vanished!
Breakfast was a rare event in their own private botanical garden, as the Esposito’s hardly ever ate home – always preferring to dine at the Two Dolphins Restaurant at Woburn Residence Club.

We went shopping in town at a supermarket filled with Italian products. It just seemed so misplaced in this part of Africa, and it wasn’t aimed at the tourists either. The local Mzungus were almost exclusively Italian, most of them 2nd or 3rd generation immigrants. The goods were way too expensive for my budget, so I bought the essentials, moisturizer for my peeling nose and imported cigarettes.

We went to Woburn, and spent the first half hour in the Server room (computers, satellite decoders and other electronics were stored there), looking at wedding pictures from the night before. It was freezing in the tiny room, 16 degrees Celsius! I quickly used their internet and downloaded and printed ALL of my blog, with the aim of finally editing it, now that I had some time to spare, in luxury. We were summoned to lunch, grilled fresh line fish. I was ecstatic and loving it.

We went home for a mandatory siesta (it was too hot for white people to be active). I spent three hours working on my blog and reading a Kenyan Tourist guide. I realized that I wanted to see much more of Kenya than I had originally planned. I might like Nairobi or Kampala and decide to stay, in which case I’ll have plenty of time to explore the region.
When Franco was informed about my aircon, or the lack thereof, a technician was rushed to the scene, despite my protestations that I didn’t need it and would happily use my mosquito net instead. He repaired it while I was asleep and I woke up shivering in what had become an igloo! I was surprised to see four staff members (all males) dressed in blue safari suits, straight out of a colonial African home. They ran around like worker ants, ironing, gardening, cleaning the gigantic pool and constantly putting things back into place, all of this on a Sunday before Christmas. I took advantage of the situation and gave them my grubby clothing. I thoroughly enjoyed the tranquility of their palatial sprawling garden.

Christmas Eve was spent at, you guessed it, Woburn. Uri and I had special plates made up for us, sans alcohol, which I thought was very considerate. I tucked into a five course meal under the trees, surrounded by the biggest cascading pools I’ve ever seen. We went to the casino afterwards, which was teeming with Italians, from young trendy kids with Maasai type holes in their ear lobes, to the real authentic fat Mafia bosses (I swear the large man who was glued to a sofa, filling his massive belly with a giant plate of pasta, was a Mafia Don). Even the staff spoke Italian, and my limited Swahili didn’t get me very far.

I decided to blow my daily allowance on the slots and had great fun in the process. I didn’t know then that this was the first of many more casinos to come on my scramble through Africa. A waiter wheeled a freshly roasted suckling pig past me, apple in the mouth and all, which I followed like it was a sexy blonde. They refused to let me take a picture, and Uri only told me the following day that the pig was free to eat, DAMN!
I got to bed at 04:30 and enjoyed my sleep in the fridge.

Monday 25th
I woke up at 10:00 – no Doxy, no morning sickness, yay!
Breakfast was waiting for me around the pool, soon after which we tucked into a lunch of leftover Christmas dinner at Woburn. We returned home to swim and snorkel in the pool, and I used the siesta time to catch up with more of my blog.
We went for an Espresso at Karen Blixen, again surrounded by the sick, twisted, old Italian men and their prostitutes.
I returned home and started packing my things, not at all happy with cramming my beautifully washed (Elly insisted it was hand washed a second time), ironed clothes into my filthy old back pack.
I treated Uri to dinner at the I Love Pizza restaurant where they served authentic Italian Pizza (where was Yurt now– the Swedish man looking for pizza in Dar es Salaam?)
My dad called from South Africa and I was pleased to hear a familiar voice from home but felt bad that he had started smoking again.
We went back to the casino again and bumped into Uri’s dad Franco, who looked very at home at the blackjack table. There was no suckling pig this time, so we returned home for an early night.

As I was opening the security gate into my suite,
Attila was waiting at my door and practically took my head off!

Tuesday 26th
I woke up at 06:00 and strolled around the garden to pick pretty flowers as a gift for Famiglia Esposito. I didn’t think the flowers were enough of a ‘thank you’, so I left two matching his & hers Zambian Chitengas and a Tanzanian Kanga as gifts for my very accommodating hosts. We went to Woburn for a final Espresso and farewell and then I jumped into a tuc-tuc which dropped me in town to catch a Matatu to Watamu.

Malindi remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Lamu

2007-05-14T00:39:05Z

19th - 23rd December 2006

Tuesday 19th
Jenn and I decided to ‘take the day off’ and recuperate from the two energy-sapping bus journeys we had endured.
Kenyan roads are some of the worst in Africa. Asphalt (tar) roads are all well and good, but not when the axle-breaking potholes are big enough to swallow small domestic animals (like those goats who inevitably escape from their roadside verges in search of something green). The plan was to spend five days on the captivating island that is Lamu, soaking up the culture, getting lost in stone town and savouring the abundance of fresh seafood.
While walking on the beach, I was offered two of the biggest crabs I’ve ever seen, their claws (pincers) holding more meat than the average crayfish (lobster) tail! I didn’t have any cash on me, so I improvised and took a picture of the crab seller which I showed to the boy who was looking after us at the guest house. I later told him what to do if the man in the picture delivered the crabs, “tell him you are paying for it, so we can get a normal price”. We had access to a kitchen, and splurged at the local supermarket on peanut butter, jam, processed cheese and other expensive imported goods.
As a Muslim town, Lamu caters very poorly for drinkers, and there are only two plush establishments where one can sink a cold beer or three.
Lamu, like most other East African coastal towns, is filled with ‘beach boys’. These are usually wannabee Rastafarians in search of a quick fuck from naive young girls who actually believe these boys are sincere. I met a few who had proudly accomplished their mission: to get married to a Mzungu girl who would whisk them away to the land of milk and honey. Guide books warn woman who are travelling alone to ‘run for cover’.
For everyone else (tourists in general) the primary nuisance are the beach boys who pursue you everywhere, offering dhow trips, marijuana and other ‘services’. Their favourite ploy is to offer you a snorkeling trip with food, equipment and fishing. They arrange it for the following day and insist on a payment (essentially half of their quoted price) to purchase supplies, a list of which they scribble on a scrap of cardboard. Once you’ve parted with your money, that’s the last you’ll see of them! I almost fell for this scam and saved a few other tourists from being caught out.
In 2001 Lamu was added to Unesco’s list of World Heritage Sites. The winding streets, carved wooden doors and traditional houses surrounding you are simply captivating. It’s a different world wandering around the narrow lanes immersed in the sights, aromas, sounds and energy of a bygone era that seems to have stood still.
The only motorized transport on the island is a white Land Rover, owned by the district commissioner, and two motorcycles used by the post office. The locals get around, using and abusing the 3,000 donkeys living on Lamu.

While drinking my spiced Chai (the Swahili word for Tea) on the waterfront, I met two Chinese businessmen. We exchanged cigarettes (we both enjoyed the taste of each others) after which they bid me farewell as they were going on a ‘quick boat ride to an island’. A beach boy and boat ‘captain’ came to collect them, and I smelled a rat, but was very excited when they agreed to let me join them.
Their quick boat ride turned into a five hour kidney-bruising adventure on rough seas, getting soaked by the spray and freak thunderstorms. I loved the whole experience, especially the look on the faces of the other passengers. Two of them were Nairobi businessman, who, like so many other Africans, couldn’t or wouldn’t swim for various reasons. They were terrified and sea sick and their drenched black suits were sticking to their shivering bodies.
The reason for the trip to Faza, the northern most town on Pate Island and some 200km from the Somalian border, was to do a feasibility study into upgrading the cell phone tower and telecoms infrastructure for Safaricom, Kenya’s primary mobile telecommunications operator. We encountered several Somali dhows on the way, and even docked next to one of them to pick up a passenger hanging off the side. The boats were packed to the brim, with dozens of refugees and their household belongings. I have to admit that I was pretty scared at the time, having all sorts of conspiracy theories as to the motives of our boat captain. Would the Chinese, British or South African governments care about three worthless citizens held hostage? I played out the scene in the back of mind, planning to swim ashore (it was only a few hundred metres) and hide from the bandits in the mangrove swamps which hugged the coastline. All I had with me was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I was calculating how I would hide under the water, breathing through a reed straw, waiting for the bandits to give up their search thinking I’d drowned. Images of Steve Irwin, the Australian ‘crocodile hunter’ who had recently been killed in a stingray attack, sort of blotted out that idea.
While the technicians took care of business, a young man volunteered to show me around Faza. Even though everyone I met in that village wanted something from me, he didn’t ask for anything in return. All I had was cigarettes and a lighter, and he wasn’t a smoker. I left him with my cell number, which was a big mistake. (He called me several times a day, every day, for the next three weeks. He didn’t have any credit, and the weak signal on the island would force him to climb up a hill and stand on a tower to make a call. He only let my phone ring once, before hanging up. It was very annoying, until one day I picked it up before he could end the call. This cost him money and eventually he gave up trying. Out of the hundred calls, I did speak to him three times, and he hinted that I owed him a great deal for his ‘hospitality’. In the future I tried to remember not to give my number to his type.

Wednesday 20th
Jenn was stressed about how she was going to get off the island, as she wasn’t prepared to endure another mad max bus trip. I found her a (relatively) cheap flight to Nairobi. She was unhappy spending $170 but relieved to escape the bus.
It was an hour walk at low tide from Lamu, and the alternative dhow trip was too expensive, so we did the trek every day and became very proficient in fending of beach boys (either I’d ignore them completely, which rarely worked, or I would perform my ‘deaf and dumb freak out’ routine which always worked).
Sarah the American student arrived back from a trip to Mombassa. She and her friend Tom had just invested in a video camera, tripod, film and everything else required to take to a project in Uganda. They had raised the money themselves and were heading to Kampala to donate the camera and train the locals how to use it. Their aim was to create awareness of the poverty, as experienced by the sufferers, and thereby attract more aid.

Thursday 21st
I had my sandals repaired for the third time in as many countries, and I was thinking of making a story out of it. Katana (like the Suzuki motorbike model) was a dive instructor and I found him on one of Shella’s mazelike alleyways, mending all of the villagers’ sandals. This time he fixed my sandals properly, ensuring that I wouldn’t need to repair them again, ever. I paid him ten times what he was asking, took pictures and then left, a very happy camper, after he found some wire for me to fix my broken fins (flippers). I was exhausted, famished, parched and sun burnt, after spending the day snorkeling. I decided to do it on my own as the dhow captains were asking $50 dollars for a half-day excursion, and I could do the same thing for free. I swam across a channel that initially seemed to be only a few hundred metres wide, but actually turned out to be over a kilometer and with serious currents taking me out to see.
I learned very quickly to swim with mask and snorkel looking down, as my neck was aching after the first 10 minutes. It took 30 minutes to get across to the coral, which was well worth the effort. I was eager for more and walked the 3km to another channel, amongst the mangroves, to explore further. I ran into some fishermen who were on a windsurfer board. In my broken Swahili, I persuaded them to quit fishing and row back to Lamu. The deal was that they would row beside me, because they promised me the waters were infested with sharks. I couldn’t keep up and sneakily held on to the back of the board, kicking my fins like an outboard motor. This continued for almost an hour before we reached the other side!

Friday 22nd
On my last day, Claus, Katya and Lee arrived and I took them to the Talking Trees Campsite. We had the place to ourselves and slept under our mosquito nets on top of one of their incomplete villas. Claus was the Dane with seven toes that I had met in Zanzibar and again in Dar. Katya and Lee were American Dykes that jumped into Claus’ car in Zambia. For two months he couldn’t get rid of them and was too scared to try. Although they were paying their share of the petrol, they were complete female misogynist pigs! We had a seafood cookout of note, with giant crabs and lobster, which we slapped up with borrowed pots and pans, cooking in the dark. The food was orgasmic!

Saturday 23rd
I woke up full of seafood, my body suggesting I urgently empty my bowels, which I did with the greatest of pleasure. I then filled the subsequent void with gigantic perfectly ripe avocados, pineapple and coconut, all local produce.
I packed up my belongings and rushed to the ferry, on foot, with all my gear firmly attached to my back, refusing offers of assistance from the beach boys. The free ferry operated by Tawakal, the bus company that promised to be much better than the Falcon experience. I jumped on the ferry as it was pulling away, pink and sweating like a pig. I really enjoyed that cigarette amongst the 50 people crammed on the boat, the diesel fumes permeating from below, and the old man constantly scooping out water from the hull to stop us from sinking.

Lamu remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Mombassa to Lamu

2007-05-14T00:39:40Z

Monday 18th
We woke up at 05:00 and ran down to the office to pay for our bus tickets. The early bus had already left, so we had some time to kill before the next one left. I didn’t have any Kenyan Shillings and Jenn had paid for the hotel and bus, so we went in search for an ATM which would hopefully accept my VISA Electron debit card.
Two ATM’s later I still had no money, and my regular bout of morning sickness (like clockwork) came on, just before we had to board the bus. I did my usual ‘fake vomit three times’ routine and then jumped on the Falcon Bus.
It’s supposed to be a six hour journey, getting us to Lamu by midday, but it ended up taking 13!
The bus was a death-trap, despite its shiny outwards appearance. All the busses were emblazoned from top to bottom in full Manchester United and Liverpool regalia.
The Falcon bus had a massive “you’ll never walk alone” slogan on the front and rear.
Later I thought a more appropriate slogan would have been “you’ll never walk again!”
The first section of the journey was uneventful, unless you count the stop where burnt corn-on-the-cob and rotten meat skewers were shoved six feet up through my window and literally into my mouth. I bought some boiled eggs instead, having already had the pleasure of bush-meat-sickness and unpalatable tasteless rubbery corn. The floor ended up as usual - a medley of egg shells, corn cobs, toothpicks, bottles and greasy newspapers. They wrap all food in newspaper, except for the very moist stuff, which comes in a plastic bag.
The bus stopped in Malindi so that the passengers could empty and then refill their bladders and bowels, while I took the opportunity to get some money, as there were no banks on Lamu, according to the trustworthy Lonely Planet. I was proud of myself for finding a bank, drawing money and buying a ‘line’ (a pay as you go SIM card), all in under 17 minutes, which included a kilometer sprint and two frantic Tuc-Tuc rides. My new Celtel number works in Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda, without the need to pay any roaming fees! I immediately understood why their slogan was “making life better”. The bus was driving like the one in the movie Speed (with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves), except that it didn’t have a bomb on it (as far as I knew), it was not shiny and new, and the road resembled the surface of the moon, or more accurately, a moldy strip of Emmenthaler cheese that was melting in the sun!
Inevitably, the shit hit the fan, and we were forced to stop in a little town called Garsen, to repair a burst tire. Garsen is a frontier town, filled with Somali refugees. Surrounding Garsen live hundreds of AK47-wielding bandits, notorious for ambushing vehicles and killing their occupants after stripping them of their belongings.
I strolled around town with the aim of getting lost and maybe taking some good portrait shots. I did both.
Having had enough of the destitute Somali’s begging for money, I was lured into the cool shade of a local canteen.
They brought me a plate full of food and gestured that I wash my hands. I was so starving that I happily tucked into the grey rubbery flesh garnishing my Ugali (maize meal). I think it was tripe/stomach/offal (the cheap inside bits of a goat or cow that few Mzungus eat). It was delicious and cost all of KSh 50 (under $1). I paid them KSh 20 in cash and a KSh 40 Celtel voucher – they were jumping up and down with joy!

After my meal I saw the source of that grey rubbery flesh, hanging from a rafter in the sun, the flies having the time of their lives all over it! I didn’t know that offal/tripe could taste that good, but seeing it in that state negated my culinary experience.
After Garsen, an AK47-wielding Ascari (security guard or soldier) hopped aboard the bus. This was a legal requirement and no vehicle was permitted to continue without one. Hundreds of soldiers were based in a small village, taking turns to escort the vehicles through the 50km of ‘bandit territory’. At the end of the road, the Ascari would hop into one of the returning vehicles. No attacks had happened in years, but the government wasn’t prepared to risk another tourist tragedy.
There were serious floods in the area three weeks before, and scores of shimmering silver makeshift tents had been erected (donated by the UN) on the verges of the road that were on high ground. The Japanese Red Cross was around, dealing with the aftermath of the flood which displaced thousands of already desperate refugees.
As I write this, I realize that they are probably better off there than in Somalia, as ‘Dubya’ Bush, the Shmuck, decided to go back and take care of unfinished business by bombing the shit out of (terrorizing) yet another defenseless nation.
The heavens opened up and bouts of rain came down in buckets. My window was the only one on the bus that couldn’t close. The passengers behind me, who were getting soaked, couldn’t understand why I refused to close it. The reality was quite simple, there was no window at all. So I got properly soaked and enjoyed every refreshing minute of it. They told me the bus was a direct six hour service to Lamu, without picking up or dropping off any passengers. They lied.
Eight hours after leaving Mombassa the bus was still full. Everyone was seated by now, even after more than 50 people had got on and off. I was pretty sure that all the revenue generated was going directly into the drivers’ deep pockets.
Jenn was terrified, especially after I shared the whole ‘MHM Islamic Jihad’ episode and told her the history about the bandits etc. She later refused to take the bus back to Mombassa and opted to fly from Lamu directly to Nairobi.
Eventually we arrived at the ferry terminal in one piece. I wasn’t expecting to see a giant piece of concrete to which several small fishing dhows were attached. I asked Jenn “Where’s the ferry?” All the ‘captains’ started tugging at our luggage, in order to get our business. We were ushered into a small boat which ferried us, and about 40 other weary passengers, down the channel. The dhow took 30 diesel-spluttering minutes to reach Lamu.
While we were stuck in Garsen, I had sent an SMS to Sarah, the American girl whose number I got from the two other yanks in a Dar es Salaam internet café. She sent back messages in Swahili saying that she was working, but had arranged for Mohammed to pick us up from the ferry and take us to our accommodation! We were four hours late and trusty Mohammed was still waiting. I felt so special when I spotted the short innocent man giving me a look of “I know who you are and I’m here to help you” (and for a change not take advantage of you). He lead us through a maze of streets and old buildings that were way more spectacular than Zanzibar. We stayed at Milimani, the Swahili word for hill. It was a huge four story house on top of the hill, with 360 degree views of Lamu and surrounds. The house was part of a cultural exchange program. American students lived with local families and learnt about ancient Swahili customs. Lamu was the quintessential model village.

Mombassa to Lamu remains copyright of the author ManicDave, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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