The Bushwhackin' Index

Countries Visited: 14
Days Traveling: 206
Which is also... 6 months, 24 days
Number of Beds slept in: 64; (Tents: 3, Trains: 1, Other: 1)
Kilometers Traveled: 51,310 (yes, I calculated it)
Circumference of the Earth at its largest: 40,075 km
Currencies Used while traveling: 14
(US Dollar, British Pound, Euro, Moroccan Dirham, S. African Rand, Lesotho Loti, Swazi Lilangeni, Namibian Dollar, Botswanan Pula, Zambian Kwacha, Zimbabwean Dollar, Tanzanian Shilling, Malawian Kwacha, Mozambican Meticais.)
Languages in which I picked up at least 3 words: 7
(Spanish, Portuguese, Sosotho, Sotswana, Chichewa, Swahili, German)
Serious diseases picked up: 0 (thankfully)
Beers drunk: ~800
Unusual animals eaten: 5
(Zebra, Ostrich, Impala, Crocodile, Kudu)
Planes flown on: 12
Number of those I jumped out of: 1
Worst 3 hostels in Africa: Jambo Inn, Zanzibar; Youth Hostel, Casablanca; Shithole (name forgotten), Nkhata Bay. Honourable Mention: Kassuende Hotel, Tete
Best 3 Hostels in Africa: Mabuya Lodge, Lilongwe; Jollyboys, Livingstone; 1322 International, Pretoria

The Ghosts of my Back Yard

Being home is really strange. For a long time I haven't been in any kind of familiar environments, and now that I am, I'm not sure how to deal with it. I just went to sit in my backyard, and all these emotions and memories began to wash over me. I was looking at places where I used to run around pretending to be this or that, when I was a child, and I could almost see family members and friends who are no longer in my life. I saw spots where I know family pets, long gone now, are buried. I thought about various parties I hosted in my highschool years when parents were away, and remembered how I used to feel in those days, my beliefs and aspirations at the time. I saw my dad again. I felt the warm breeze wash over me and rustle through the trees. I felt incredibly lonely and so strange that I had to leave after a while.

The past and its memories are very comforting for a lot of people. For whatever reason, they make me feel, for lack of a better word, strange. Not good, not bad, just strange. I've had a good life and lots of good times on that patch of earth, which makes me wonder why the memories stored there are not purely 'good'. They say that change is one of the most difficult things for people to deal with - switching jobs, moving houses, death... Maybe being home, in a place that is a setting for so much of my past, is a stark reminder of how many things have changed over the years in my life.

I'm very happy to be home, and for the most part it's been very comforting. But without warning, sometimes I feel like a stranger and I hope it passes.

The ending of a story

Today is a huge day for me.

It's my last in Africa for who knows how long. I'm excited as hell to be going HOME after 7 months. I don't completely understand why yet, but I'm also terrified. My adrenaline has been pumping for the better part of the morning. Part of this is certainly anxiety over the hassle of traveling alone across 3 continents, on 5 flights (24 hours in the air), in 3 days. I'm so sick of the physical act of traveling - leaving the relative familiarity of a spot, being throw into foreign environments moment after moment, struggling to find your way, dealing with new people and alien languages, hustle and bustle, lack of sleep, uncomfortable seating, and having to keep your wits about you at all times on the off chance that someone wants to steal your bag or your wallet. I'm flying from Johannesburg to Zurich to Madrid to London to Glasgow (overnight there) to Toronto, all because airlines were not designed around the budget traveler.

However, this kind of stress I'm familiar with and have no problem overcoming. It's the unknown aspect of my return journey that I'm truly terrified about. I'm not the same person I was anymore. I've been immersed in cultures with totally different values and concerns from the society I'm returning to and I'm scared of what I'm going to find at home. I have no idea if I will be able to readjust, but I know already it will be difficult. South Africa is a cultural crossroads between Africa and the West. Being here for the last week has been a slow but somewhat alarming reintroduction to the life I used to live.

Believe it or not, watching TV again (I've been doing a lot of that) has been a traumatic experience for me. I cannot believe how mind-bogglingly asinine and offensive commercials are (text i'maconsumerwhore to 12345 for the latest cellphone ring tones!) Movies have not been so bad but reality TV and pop culture almost makes me want to cry. If people paid half as much attention to things that matter as they did to what Drew Barrymore wore last Wednesday, our world would be in a lot better shape. I want to scream and I'm not even back yet.

As my return date has been approaching, I've been getting more and more excited to be home among familiar faces and comforts. I just hope that those things are as comforting as I have been envisioning. Either way, I'm going to take my experience and use it to reshape the world for the better. See you all soon.

Maputo

The 7 hour trip from Tofo to Maputo was smooth - surprisingly no bus breakdowns involved. We checked into our hostel no problem, and headed out for dinner. 2 blocks down the road, we were stopped by 2 police officers with semi-automatic machine guns. "Show us your passports," the one said. Les produced hers while I silently said to myself "fuck, the travel guide said to carry your passport in this country," and I informed the officer that I didn't have it with me. "Oh no this is big trouble," he said. The law of our country is that tourists must always carry their passport - otherwise how would we know who is here illegally?" Clearly, yes, there is a big problem here with illegal immigrants, especially Canadian ones, in Mozambique. Always the quick thinker, Les offered to run back to the hostel and grab my ID, and took off before the police really had time to figure out another way to get a bribe out of us, and I stood there in virtual custody.

As she left, subtle threats entered the conversation. "You will have to come to the police station with us, this is a very big problem." As always, I just smiled, apologized profusely for being a dim witted tourist, and played the game. "No problem," I said, "I completely understand the law and I'm very sorry I forgot and of course I will be happy to come to the police station with you. Would you like a cigarette? What is your name? Ahh yes Mozambique is a beautiful country." By this time they probably figured I had no clue what was going on, so out came the bluntness. "My friend, I am very hungry. I have been working since 8 this morning and I finish again at 8 tomorrow morning. This job is shit... They only pay me $100 per month. Can't you please give me some money so I can eat?"

Stepping out of my shoes for a minute I realize how bizarre this was, a police officer pleading with me as if he were a beggar. I felt really bad for the guy and the state of the country as a whole; if a person with a government job is having a hard time, how bad is it for the multitudes of unemployed? Its the story of most of Africa, unfortunately.

Les came to my rescue, literally running down the street to meet us. The officer made the obligatory glance at the document, we shook hands, and were on our way. Dinner at a great Italian restaurant. Ahhh... we're getting closer and closer to those Western comforts I've done without for 6 months.

The next day we spent the morning on the net with some of the fastest internet I've been on in a long time (and believe me, fast is relative when you've been on the net in Malawi for 3 months. Home is so close I can feel it! In the afternoon we did a bit of sight seeing, walking over to an artists commune to see some really great sculptures and paintings. It inspired me to do some sculpture with a lot of metal and whatnot when I get home. We had lunch at an authentic (relative term!) Thai restaurant, which Les was ecstatic about, Thai being her favourite food, checked out a garden by the waterfront and arrived at the natural history museum in time for them to tell us it's closed. After dinner at a local place of authentic Mozambican hamburgers and fries, we broke out the cards and played drinking Texas-hold em' (poker) all night. All in all it was one of the best days I've had in a long time. Until of course Les and I had a conversation about 'things' and the next morning we decided we can't be together.

I still don't know how to treat this subject publicly - some of you may think its nobody's business, and maybe you're right. But I have never been a person to hide things about my life and I think life is richer when you're able to talk about these kind of things. I want to share this aspect of my experience here eventually because it has been an inextricable and beautiful part of my journey, but I want to do it in a way that is fair and accurate and of course I'll need Les to be comfortable with it. So if I can figure all that shit out, I'll talk about it eventually.

That brings us to the fancy hotel. As it was to be our last day together, I thought it would be as good a time as ever to get ourselves out of hostels and into a really nice hotel for a bit of splurging. So we checked into the Cardoso Hotel for $140 a night (a fortune in Africa) and enjoyed some amenities - a hot shower for example; more towels and pillows than I knew what to do with; a balcony overlooking the Bay; and of course, satellite TV!!!

Conveniently, we were across the street from the natural history museum so we took that in. The words grotesque and diabolical came to mind very quickly. The central atrium of the building was filled with stuffed animals - lions, elephants, a giraffes, etc. - all once living animals that have become sad victims of taxidermy. And filled with a musty smell reminiscent of the equally bizarre national museum of Namibia. The travel guide boasts that it is probably the only museum in southern Africa with a collection of elephant fetuses!

In the evening we again decided to splurge. We split a bottle of really good red wine on the balcony and watched the sun set. Then we went off to dinner at really nice restaurant on the waterfront (the name eludes me). While sitting at the bar for a quick cigarette, glass of wine in hand (you couldn't smoke at the table, which is unusual in Africa,) Les came to see me with a big devilish grin on her face, one that I will never in a million years forget, and said "Your dinner is served." The bartender just look at me with my big smile and said "You have a pretty nice life bro." He was right.

As an appetizer we had mussels in a garlic-cream sauce, I had Zambezian style chicken, which is surprisingly similar to Canadian barbecued chicken, prawns, calamari and a whitefish. Mmm, delicious. We managed to stumble home in time for a 3rd bottle of wine. I found it mostly un-consumed in the bathroom the next morning. Gooood times. We ordered room service, a first for both of us, and ate our omelets on the balcony, overlooking the city. Unfortunately it was now time to return to reality so we checked out and did some errands. As the universe would have it, bus timetables would see Les leaving the day after, so we managed one more day together. Like a couple of crazy kids, we just decided to have another great day, including another dinner at another fancy restaurant. Tonight was steak for me, and prawns for Les, with clams and seafood ravioli appetizers. Seriously, if you love cheap seafood, make the trek to this amazing country.

At 6:30am the next morning I put Les into a cab and that was that. We cried, a lot.

The rest of the day I was pretty much in a daze but I didn't want to be at the hostel, so I decided to walk around the city snapping pictures. I came across the botanical gardens, which has fallen into an intermediate stage of disrepair. At the West end of the park is what I can only guess is an aviary, giant and dilapidated; a sad statement on decay and yet immensely beautiful. The walls and the ceiling have started to fall down, but the gardens inside are thriving and beautiful. You can see the city skyline through the rusting girders. Although I clearly wasn't supposed to be in there, I climbed through a wall and did a bit of exploring. I ended up sitting in there for almost an hour, contemplating life in solitude (something I haven't had in a long while). Unfortunately I reached no conclusions, came no closer to an understanding of the world, in the process.

After this I proceeded to city hall and the old Portuguese fort, two unremarkable buildings, before arriving at the real heart of Maputo - the shopping mall (thankfully, I'm kidding). The rest of the afternoon I just wandered the streets, stumbling upon the beautiful train station, and basking in the phenomenally dichotomous architecture of a city caught between African, European and Latin cultures.

Although I assure you my opinion is not shared by all, I love this city's beauty. I love that Portuguese is the primary language, and that Portuguese culture, including the ridiculously good bread, has stuck around. I love sidewalk cafes and restaurants in every neighbourhood and the fact that people drink coffee, a far cry from Malawi. That culture is reflected in the architecture, which is often European. The architecture is also reflective of the country's struggle for liberation from their oppressors. I freely admit to knowing nothing about the struggle, but my guess is that the communists were welcomed here with open arms during the Cold War. The street names - Ho Chi Minh, Mao Tse Tung, Vladimir Lenine and Salvador Allende betray that fact. Maybe its just because I'm a political scientist at heart, but I get excited being in a place that was caught up in the ideological struggle between East and West.

The reality of the language also means that Mozambique has close ties with Brazil. Now Africans are all freakin' good dancers to begin with, but when you pair them up with the Latin Americans, holy shit look out, you'll get a pretty good vibe in the city. Now this is the part where Les calls my bluff - we didn't actually do any dancing or see any dancers, but I know that 'Marabenta' is here and I like it.

On top of everything, the architecture is still what gets me most. Stately colonial European buildings share wide, straight street-fronts with new and modern Western-style buildings, while ugly, decrepit, Soviet-style egg-carton housing blocks towering over them in the background, complete with laundry hanging from every second window. What was really a perk for me is that I didn't feel like everyone was watching me all the time. Maputo is close enough to South Africa and filled with enough white Portuguese descendants that I didn't feel like it was risque to be white (compared to Lilongwe when I was eyeballed every day walking to work). The city took hold of me very quickly, and I love it, eyesores and all.

Alas, all good things come to an end and I jumped on the bus the next morning - although I very nearly didn't. Admittedly, there was some drowning of the sorrows the night before, complete with drinking games and my first experience with a ridiculous shot that involves snorting salt and squirting lemon juice in your eye. Maybe for that reason or maybe because my alarm sucks, I missed the wakeup call. For some reason I happened to open my eyes about 20 minutes before I was supposed to meet the bus. I packed in about 2 and whipped up a cab driver into a frenzy in order to get there in time to remember this is Africa and nothing happens on time.

10 minutes into the ride the bus started beeping, which is never a good thing, and we had to pull over. It took the driver about an hour to figure out that it was fine to drive so we just kept on truckin' to Pretoria, South Africa. That is until 30 k outside of Johannesburg. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is a major problem with the bus, we're leaking oil." So we sat by the side of the highway for 2 hours waiting for the bus from Pretoria to fetch us. We got there at 10pm, 15 hours after starting, and 7 hours behind schedule. Opening my bag, I found it was all wet because my body wash had exploded all over... but it smells great!!!

So I fly outta here in 3 days, and although I don't have a connection from Madrid to North America at the moment (working on it, while cursing airlines and the peak season), I'm confident I'll be back safe and sound on August 2nd latest. For the next few days I plan to do a whole lot of nothing except enjoying fast internet and maybe seeing a movie or two. Peace out.

A wealth of pictures

Don't say I don't love you. Here are 2 more picture albums:

Tofo Beach - Not a bad spot to get lost for a while
Maputo - Love this city!

A post on Maputo will follow in the next few days as I literally have just enough Mozambican currency to eat dinner tonight and take a taxi to the bus station tomorrow and I'm out of time. Then off to Pretoria, South Africa.

On another note, it has not been our finest day. Les and I, as some of you may know, have been having our problems for the last little while. And although things have drastically improved between us, we agreed it was best to part ways and she left this morning for South Africa. I'm hurting, but we are still on the best of terms. I'll leave it at that. Home in 8 days.

Mike

Indian Ocean beach life, continued...

Lots to catch up on, here we go...

Bazaruto Archipelago

Last week we were still in Vilankulo and we had just left Ricky's palace and checked back into a hostel. On our final day there, first thing in the morning we jumped into a 'dhow', a sail boat that has been used for 100s of years from Indonesia to India to Persia to Zanzibar, all the way down the coast of Africa. We were on our way to one of the biggest islands of the Bazaruto Archipelago, Ilha Benguerua (I think). As we got closer the water turned more and more blue and clear.

Landing on the island our guides told us just to walk the perimeter of the island. It seemed like a stupid idea at the time, but damn what a treat. The sand was white and powder-fine and stretched into the horizon. The dunes were peppered with low palm-like bushes, the green creating a really stunning contrast with the sand and sea. As we walked we came across washed up jellyfish, some white, some purple. The water was warm and shallow and on the side facing the mainland, barely disturbed by a ripple. On the ocean-facing side we came across what seemed like miles and miles of crabs running into the crashing surf, panicked by the vibrations of our footsteps. I felt like a kid chasing after them, laughing like a wild man. Les felt like a mother I'm sure ;) She was none too happy when I finally caught one, only to have its leg snap off. Sorry, crab. We came across sand dollar shells, which are very smooth white discs imprinted with a geometrical pattern on it. Never saw that before.

By the time we completed our circuit, the guides had cooked a very impressive meal, more so because they did it on an open fire in the boat. We sat on the beach eating bread, rice, salad, chicken, calamari, and whole crabs. Decent. After seconds we jumped in the water and did some snorkeling. I've tried this a few times in various places, but damn this was like nothing I'd ever seen. In the first 5 seconds I saw a stone/scorpion fish (the name is a matter of some debate), which is more regal looking than a peacock and will kill you with no regrets if you touch it. We saw schools of smaller fish, dozens of bigger, lone tuna-like fish, sea urchins, moray eels, blow fish and some big octopus. All in the span of about 20 minutes. We returned to the mainland before sunset, had dinner and went to bed in preparation for our onward journey.

Tofo Beach

The next morning we set out for Tofo, which involved another minibus ride to Maxixe (Ma-sheesh), crossing the strait by ferry to Inhambane, and another minibus to Tofo. What we found was a small town essentially entirely dependent on the tourist industry, which I didn't expect. Even in the low season there were a fair amount of 20-something backpackers. A great place to be if you have no purpose in the world, like me. Oddly enough we had dinner at a French restaurant where we spent way too much money - the story of our entire time in the country, come to think of it. Guess we were spoiled that way in Malawi.

Next morning we struck out for Tofinho, a 'suburb' of Tofo. In actual fact it was a 20 minute walk down the beach and consists of rich South Africans' beach homes. Incidentally, it's the unofficial surfing capital of Mozambique. I had a great time wandering down the dirt paths. At one point we climbed a hill to look at the 'Tofinho Monument', a broken-shackle-sporting-fist poking out of a concrete pyramid. Socialist Liberationists are not very original. Anyway I'm taking an obligatory photo of this when Les goes 'oh my God, look!' I turn around and what do I see, but a gigantic whale about 50 metres from the cliff we happen to be standing on. That was incredible. We spent the next 30 minutes or so watching them swim past, and in the distance Les could see one waving its tail for at least 20 minutes in the same spot. Mating ritual perhaps? WILD! On our way back we found a sushi restaurant (random?!) and had a bite and a beer watching whales in the blue yonder.

The next day we were absolutely determined to do some scuba diving. And that's exactly what we did because we are not people that mess around. In the morning we took a refresher course - it had been 12 years since I'd been diving and I have the picture on my diving license, which Les affectionately refers to as the 'little Mexican boy' picture to prove it. We both rocked it, obviously. In the afternoon we got into a speedboat and it immediately started raining, which meant we had to change dive sites from the 'chamber of secrets' to something else... 'chamber of fuck all' I think.

We had to push the boat out manually, against these metre and a half high waves. When the dive master shouted 'everyone' into the boat I took it seriously and ended up kicking Les in the head and coming down with all my weight on my finger, which to this day is now referred to as my 'sausage finger'. It only took 10 minutes to get out to the dive site, but the wind was kicking up a bit of a fuss and apparently that's all the time it takes for both Lesley and Mike to come to the brink of vomiting. We managed to avoid going over the edge by dropping into the water. At first I couldn't submerge - no clue why - then I couldn't equalize and very quickly my ear drums expanded to 100x their size. Pain. But we got sorted out and we managed to have a non-disastrous dive, despite being tossed around by the current like a ragdoll. We saw some interesting site, including some type of manta, but it was no Bazaruto.

After only about 25 minutes we had to come up because I was down to the 50 mark on my air tank. Somehow I had managed to use up my air twice as quickly as anyone else - probably because I'm huge - but I wasn't about to tell anyone that I was the reason for the short dive. We surfaced eventually, despite Les dropping like a stone into the murky depths at one point, with me watching (don't even do that to me again, hun). Oddly enough, I proceeded to puke my guts out with Les following suit momentarily. What a waste of a perfectly good lunch of bunny chow (half a loaf of bread hollowed out and filled with curry). In hindsight we probably should have had something lighter, like a hot pocket.

We finally managed to get into the boat, no mishaps this time, and although neither Les (who had the nausea worse) nor I were capable of arguing at this point, I was definitely not happy that we were going to crawl back to shore so the second dive shop person could do a few tests required for her dive master qualification, including a swim back to shore using only her legs. It took her 30 minutes total. But at least we were returning to a place that was reputed to have the hottest showers in town! AHA, foiled again! There was no water pressure! So looking like drowned rats, Captain Nemo and I hobbled back to the pad and changed into all our warmest clothes. The next day was a write off (the good kind), and the day after that we were on our way to Maputo, the nation's capital (Dun-dun dunhhhh)!!!

Enter the Mozambique

Les finished her post by recalling that we were offered a lift by a 50-something South African guy and his local sidekick in a 4x4 on our way to the hostel. Having no desire to struggle with our bags, we accepted, and pretty much as soon as we got in he offered us a place to stay. "My boss owns a house on the beach here and we're up doing some work for the weekend. There's lots of extra space." Naturally we were skeptical. I'm very careful when on the road, because really if I had to choose, Africa is the last place I would want to be abducted and/or chopped to pieces.


We bought the guys a beer, and Ricky - let's call him Ricky so he doesn't get fired if his boss reads this - proceeded to talk our ears off, while his Mozambiquan sidekick, 'Bob' lurked in the background (this guy said about 10 words the whole trip). After 10 minutes we were really getting along and thought it was worth at least going to see the place. Back we hopped into the jeep and started driving... and driving... It wasn't exactly a long drive, but it was getting to be the kind of walk where we were no longer in town and the roads turned from pavement to sand.


Our skepticism was quickly obliterated when we entered the compound where about 2 dozen of these houses, built by Ricky's boss - who by the way is a billionaire - are located, all on secluded lots, the roads to each lined with conch shells every 6 inches. Seeing the house was a bit of a surprise. It was a 4 bedroom bungalow overlooking the ocean, complete with housekeeper/gardener, satellite TV, a kitchen I would kill for, air conditioning and a pool. And it looked pretty much brand new. "You can have this room," said Ricky. Les and I poked our heads in to find a giant 4 post king sized bed with white sheets, ensuite bathroom (bathtub and shower). The place was a palace, and we were going to stay the weekend for free. Didn't take us long to accept the offer.


After unpacking and changing we took a tour down the beach, taking note of some of the palaces on the cliffs, and with Les going crazy over the sheer number of conch shells strewn across the sand. Hunger soon set in and we 4 drove back to town to hit the market. We were approached by some teenagers with one of the most ridiculous sights I've seen - a gigantic potato sack full of the most gigantic crabs known to man. Obviously I'm exaggerating but this seems like a good time for a side note - did you know that there's something called a coconut crab that lives in Mozambique which is about a foot and a half across that climbs coconut trees and opens the fruit with its claws? Nature is scary.


Anyhow, the crabs were were haggling over were massive, and of course alive. Our 3 picks were hilarious to watch, squirming around in the back of the jeep. We went back home, and long story short, they were delicious. For the next few days we ate good food, drank a lot of brandy, enjoyed the weather, a few sleep-ins and may have watched Jumanji. We also got to hear some amazing stories from an extraordinary man, Ricky. In his younger years, apparently he worked driving a bulldozer in Mozambique... clearing landmines. He would drive the dozer all day, stoned, hitting an average of 4-5 mines a day.


"The little antipersonnel ones would just go pop, but every once in a while you hit an anti tank mine and the dozer gets lifted off the ground a bit. One time, I hit one of these mines and the front blade came clean off the thing. When I recovered I look around and couldn't figure out where it went. A few seconds later this giant piece of metal came flying out of the sky and drover itself into the ground just a few feet behind me." Wild.


As a South African of a certain generation, Ricky was forced to perform quite active military service. He served in the navy for 20 years, part of it on a submarine traveling the world. On ships, he told us that when the government suspected a village of harbouring or aiding insurgents, a landing party of marines would call in a ship to shore bombardment and obliterate it. "Marines walking through that village after, as teenagers, you would get sick. There would be absolutely nothing left. Nothing. Except maybe an arm here and a foot there. Not a single thing was left living." Nowadays Ricky is in a much more civilized line of work and enjoys being sent up to Vilanculo at his billionaire boss's bidding to take care of a few projects. Ricky, you're an amazing guy and we thank you for your hospitality.


After the weekend we said our goodbyes and returned to the realities of hostel living. Cold showers and drab accommodation.

This is where I curse fancy hotels and their shitty internet connections, cause I had written several more paragraphs but it crashed. Unfortunately I have to leave it here. We're in Maputo, the capital, and having a great time. Off to South Africa soon and I'll be home in about a week. Why are we in a fancy hotel, you might ask? I'll leave that for next time. Peace.

3 new photo albums

These ones are decent. Enjoy

Independence Day - Malawi's 44th celebration of kickin' out the colonists
Vilankulo - Finally, the sea
Bazaruto Archipelago - paradise just off the coast of Vilankulo

Lesley's Inaugural Post!

I've been pestering Lesley, my partner in crime, for ages now to write a guest blog. To my surprise, she actually agreed to do it today. Here is her masterpiece!!!

- Mike

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From Malawi to Mozambique
(How it took 3 days to travel 1000km)


Looking at maps of Africa, things look deceptively simple. There is a nice, big-looking road that takes you from Lilongwe (Malawi) to the border crossing at Zobue (Mozambique), and down to Tete. From there, there is yet another nice, big-looking road that takes you straight to Chimoio, which is a good 2/3rds of the way to where we are headed: a small ocean-side village called Vilanculos, where we plan to be beach bums and not much else. "We can make it to Chimoio in a day!" says Mike, eternally an optimist. "Then half a day to Vilanculos... we'll be on the beach eating crab in 2 days baby! I promise!"

No such luck. What the maps don't show you are potholes. Nor do they warn you about the reliability of African minibuses.

So, full of the aforementioned optimism, we set off bright and early. We packed ourselves onto a minibus heading from Lilongwe to some town (name forgotten), where we could transfer to another minibus that would take us to the border, where we could catch another minibus to Tete, where we could catch another minibus to Chimoio. Easy.

Minibus # 1 picked its way for hours along the 'big-looking' road, swerving perilously around the man-sized potholes (I exaggerate, but only a bit) - when suddenly there is a loud beep sound coming from the bus, and it grinds to a halt at the side of the road. This is breakdown #1. We all pile off the bus, the bus driver calls for a new minibus to come get us, and we sit in the scorching sun and wait. At long last, minibus #2 comes and rescues us, and we're on the road again. We stop and hop into Minibus #3 (where some guys tried to convince me to give them my camera... uh... no thanks) and we set our sites on the border, more than few hours behind schedule.

We cross the border without too much fuss, and hop into Minibus #4, which unexpectedly stops and transfers us to Minibus #5, which again makes slow progress along the beaten-up roads. Mike and I are dozing in the back (with someone else's children on our laps) when we are roused by that foreboding beeping sound again. Breakdown #2; we are out of petrol. A bicycle emerges out of nowhere, and someone hops on to cycle to the nearest gas station, plastic jug in hand. Sitting on the side of the road in the pitch dark, Mike and I decided that Chimoio is no longer looking like an option, so we start looking though our guidebook for places to stay in Tete. It sounds like the armpit of Africa, and so it is. We arrive eventually, and make our way through the concrete city to a place to rest for the night. The room consisted of 2 horribly uncomfortable metal cots, 1 broken sink that flooded the bathroom, one seatless toilet, and one giant giant cockroach. Mmmm.

The next morning we got up at 5 and headed to the bus station, where we discovered that the only bus to Chimoio had left 2 hours earlier. Not relishing the idea of staying in the lovely Tete for a moment longer, we opted for some hitchhiking. We lucked out and found an 18 wheeler willing to give us a lift, so we climbed up and made ourselves comfortable in the back of the cab, perching on the driver's bed. We spent the rest of the day picking our way along the road at a maximum speed of 60 mph, but at an average speed of about 5. But sitting on a bed is significantly more comfortable than sitting on a Minibus, so I'm not complaining.

Eventually we made it to Chimoio, where we slept for a few hours. At this point I am wondering, "Where is my beach?! Where are the promised crabs?! Damn you and your optimism Mr. Pietrzak!!!" We awake at 2 am to catch bus #6, which leaves at 3am for Vilanculo. Cue breakdown #3. Sitting on the side of the road, again, listening to the beeping sound, again, we watched as our bus driver disappeared under the bus to locate the problem. "We'll be sleeping here tonight" one of the passengers said to me. Looking down the stretch of highway and seeing nothing in either direction, I found myself wishing that I had brought my tent.

20 minutes later, the bus driver emerges from under the bus, oil covered, and orders everyone to return to their seats. "What happened?" I ask, to which he responds something about a broken pipe that carries the diesel. The work of potholes, I assume. He says he thinks he's got it fixed. "Will it hold?" I ask. "Let's find out." Clearly I look skeptical, so he says "Do you know how to fix a bus?" Point taken, so I sit down and shut up.

The trip continues without incident, when without warning the bus stops at the side of the road, and Mike and I are ordered off. The bus driver points at a pickup truck and informs us that it will take us the rest of the way to Vilanculo. So, we pile on in and arrive - tired, dirty, and windswept - in Vilanculo. And it only took 6 minibuses, an 18 wheeler, and a pickup truck. And 3 very long days.

Throwing our packs on our backs, we start the walk under the afternoon sun to our hostel, when a 4x4 stops and offers us a lift to our hostel. And so begins our next adventure, but I'll leave that one for Mike.

- Les

Hittin' the ground running in Mozambique

Ahhhh... another country off my checklist. Mozambique is absolute paradise and already well on its way to becoming my favourite in Africa so far. The mix of Portuguese and African, the beaches, the seafood. What a change from bland ole' Malawi.

Les and I are having an absolute blast here. Net access is limited, and coupled with a desire to spend our time on the beach, I'm going to cut this short. I just wanted to say, "we're alive."

Talk to you all soon.

Mike

End of an era... on the road again

Last Thursday was my final day at the UNHCR and today is Lesley's - we're on the move again! I wasn't set to finish over there until the end of next week, but basically I just ran out of steam. Early tomorrow morning we're cramming ourselves onto a minibus and pushing forward to Chimoio in Mozambique. The day after hopefully we can make it to the Bazaruto Archipelago on the coast of the Indian Ocean for some beach cocktails, crab, sunsets and dancing.

This past weekend, Les and I and 3 of our coworkers drove up to Kande Beach again, my favourite spot on the lake. On Sunday was the 44th anniversary of Malawi's independence and you could tell that the whole country was in a good mood. The drunkenness was rampant which meant a lot of unwanted hand shaking, hands on shoulders, claims that I am someone's best friend and invasion of personal space, including 'close talking'. Nevertheless we had a stellar time barbequing at our stone cottage, playing pool, swimming and cliff jumping. We even managed to head into the village for a traditional dinner at a local's house. And now that I'm on the way home, my iron will against buying crafts and trinkets has disappated, so I bought a few cool prints. Today, I even spent 40 bucks on a really nice 'bao' board, which is kind of like African chess.

On the Sunday, we drove the hour and a half from Kande to Mzuzu, Malawi's 3rd largest city, and this year's host to the independence day celebrations. The demonstrations at the local soccer stadium were surprisingly impressing. By some freak luck we didn't have to wait in line to get it - a police officer just pointed to the 5 of us and told us to follow. He led us to a back door and there we were. The first activity on the field was a chance for the Malawi Defense Force to show its stuff. A few 'bad guys' were unloaded onto the field with a few makeshift buildings, after which 3 armoured personnel carriers rolled out and started firing blanks with their machine guns at the 'enemy'. A few minutes into the gunfight, a helicoptor flew overhead and 4 elite rangers abseiled down to the field on ropes. Explosions began to go off just outside the stadium wall to which everyone cheered. For a second I thought maybe we were actually under attacked. With the foes driven from the arena, everyone left, the helicoptor landing to pick up the rangers. When the field was clear, the building that the bad guys unloaded unexpectedly exploded into a fragment of twisted wood. Freaking cool. I considered myself lucky to see something like this, as there's no way you could start blowing stuff up inside a stadium anywhere in the West. Later, 5 paratroopers started falling from the sky. Embarrassing for the last 2 guys, they caught a bad wind and had to land outside the stadium. Everyone was supremely impressed with the show.

Tonight we're having a farewell dinner (Ethiopian food) with our coworkers, and after that a few drinks with the hostel owners and some of the regulars who also happen to be leaving tomorrow. I'm definitely going to be sad to leave Malawi, which has been my home for nearly 3 months, but sometimes you just know when it's time to move on. And I can't tell you how good it's going feel when I'm safe and sound in Canada. Until the next post...

Latest from the camp

We've been spending more time in the camp lately and it's been a very eye opening experience for both of us. Last week we completed a fairly big project involving finding out why Rwandan refugees don't want to go home. The international community's position is that the country is safe for repatriation. The picture we got from interviewing camp residents was completely the opposite.

UNHCR headquarters in Geneva asked our office to go ahead with the task as a fairly routine exercise. We were told that high fives are generally doled out when any office succeeds in convincing people to go home and our bosses felt that Malawi shouldn't be left by the wayside. By the way, the decision to return is voluntary - at least until the country in question is so 'safe' that the world believes people who fled no longer require international protection. So Les and I spent the week before last randomly selecting 16 groups of 14 individuals, broken down by sex, age, ethnicity, and so on. Then we sat down for 3 days and listened to horror stories.

Some of you may know Rwanda for what it's most famous for - a genocide that by some estimates saw 1 million people killed with machetes and screwdrivers in just a few months. A rate significantly more terrifying than the WWII genocide. As is often the case, the problem was because ethic group A couldn't get along with ethnic group B. The Hutus began killing the minority Tutsis that held all the political and economic power in 1994. Kind of ludicrous when you learn that Hutus and Tutsis have been intermarrying for hundreds of years and the only reason the divisions still exist is because the German and Belgian colonial masters divided them up according to height and the length of their noses. Phrenology sounds only slightly less scientific. I digress. The Tutsis eventually took back the country after a civil war and millions of Hutus fled, hence our camp's existence.

So we're in the camp listening to these people's reasons for not wanting to return, and if half the stuff they claim is true, I really don't blame them. They're scared witless. Certain issues were raised repeatedly and I have no doubt that this was because these randomly selected individuals were coached by the community leadership. Nonetheless they're valid points. The first one is one that I was already aware of: 'Gacaca' or grassroots/community courts. The idea for setting these up was to promote reconciliation between Hutus and Tutsis and some of the people we spoke with acknowledged it was a great idea in theory. In practice, the courts have absolutely nothing to do with reconciliation, justice or even the rule of law. In practice, joe blow Tutsi can rock up to the village Gacaca and point a finger at joe schmoe Hutu and claim that he killed Mr. XYZ during the genocide. Sentences of 20+ years are routinely and summarily dispensed. By the way, if I seem flippant or sarcastic, it's because that's how I deal with my outrage.

After you're unfortunate enough to pass through this kangaroo court, you're sent to jail. In jail, torture is allegedly the order of the day. In vogue recently is where they put a plastic bag over your face and light it on fire, essentially melting your face off and horribly disfiguring you for life. My coworker Sebastien took a meeting with a guy who had red spots all over his face from where drops of molten plastic was dripped on him repeatedly. The wives of these men don't have it much better. A few people mentioned that when their partners came to bring them provisions, the guards raped them. One poor lady was carrying a baby on her back as African women do, which fell on its head when she was beaten. This should never, never happen.

Another injustice that I was totally oblivious to - which is strange because Rwanda was one of the countries I studied for my Masters thesis - is the 'Ibuka' or remembrance ceremony. I'm a bit hazy on the details (this was all done through a not so professional translator), but every April during this one week, Rwandans 'remember' the genocide. In practice this means that Hutus are forced to dig up the bones of dead Tutsis, then take them to the river to 'cleanse' (wash) them. God forbid that you drop one of the bones while washing them, because that's an offense akin to killing the person a second time, and you will be beaten to death. Only the losers of the war, the Hutus, are forced to perform this ritual.

Why else would Rwandans not want to return? Oh yes, because your former house is currently occupied by the people that killed your entire family. I heard far too many stories about people returning home to claim their property, only to have the police abduct them in the middle of the night and making them disappear for daring to seek justice. These clandestine abductions seemed to be the main fear. Don't think I need to belabour this point.

Several refugees have also claimed that the current president made a speech last year (Although I can find no record of it despite my google skillz) in which he promised his Tutsis brethren that he would wipe out the Hutus through attrition, e.g. the night time disappearances.

And although the Rwandan government has an official policy of providing returnees with support should they choose to come home, nobody we spoke with believed it exists.

I don't know what to believe. Perhaps the refugees we spoke with were exaggerating, maybe they were lying for some unknown purpose, maybe they were simply misinformed. Certainly some anecdotes or urban legends have been taken and been blown out of proportion. But undoubtedly there are still major problems, and I'd go so far as to say atrocities, ongoing in the country. What an eye opening experience - just another that makes me thankful to live in a safe country.

We have more photos.

From last weekend's trip to the rain forest at Ntchisi. Enjoy.

Pictures

2 new photo albums are up. I'm working on a post to let y'all know what the latest is in the camp. It involves Rwandan torture.

Fun Malawi Facts

Malawi is a hella-intriguing country when you start to peel back a few layers. It makes me wonder what else I would have discovered in my travels had I spent longer in one place.

Fact: A few weeks after I arrived in the country, a coup plot was foiled. If Malawians weren't so darn nice the country might have descended into anarchy! OK perhaps that's an exaggeration. The papers are accusing the former president of orchestrating the government's demise, but more probably than not it was just a ploy to throw the guy in jail, eliminating some uncertainty in the next election.

Fact: "It's not uncommon for Malawi to go 8 months without rain." I stole that from the water conservation note posted above all the sinks at our hostel, but I'm assuming its true. I've been here for 2 months now and I haven't seen a drop, even though the sky has assumed biblical posture on several occasions lately, so it's only a matter of time.

Fact: Speaking of the weather, who knew Africa could get so freaking cold? Because we're in the Southern hemisphere, Malawi's in the dead of winter now. Mind you that doesn't kill off the palm trees, but this morning at 6:30 when I was shaving, there was steam pouring off my face it was so cold. Lesley hasn't taken off her winter jacket for a week. In all fairness it's warm during the day in the sun; but it gets down to about 5 degrees at night.

Fact: sweet Jesus this place is polluted. I swear there are zero emissions controls on any of the vehicles here, which causes a nice blueish haze to sit over the city. Sometimes the trucks are so decrepit that Les and I get engulfed in a noxious cloud during the walk to work. It must be funny to watch Les and I turn to each other on the street, one of these behemoths barreling down on us, while we yell in unison "ahhh shit not again!" One day a few weeks ago our eyes were burning all day. Those carcinogens are combined with the fires burning everywhere. Drainage ditch getting a little clogged? Light it up. Grass too long for your taste? Fire is the answer. "Hmm, how are we going to empty this dumpster?" Set that mother on fire, baby. It leads to some pretty rank smells in the morning and I'm glad I don't eat a big breakfast anymore.

Fact: I don't know how to put this tactfully. Many of the locals smell bad. Real bad. Sometimes its so bad that, strangely, it almost smells delicious. From time to time you are stuck next to them on the bus. And you can't blame anybody - some people literally can't afford soap.

Fact: Malawi is one of the poorest countries in the world (12th poorest per capita on purchasing power parity). Per capita income is $600 per year, or about 4 trips to the ATM for me, which means I generally have way too much money in my wallet at any given time, and I feel pretty guilty about it sometimes. At the same time, my own experience tells me that Malawi has to be one of the countries most saturated with humanitarian organizations.

Fact: The first recorded naval victory of World War I came out of Malawi. How is that possible in a landlocked country? Well before the war the area was a British protectorate, whereas the area that is now Tanzania was in German hands, and Mozambique under Portuguese control. The Brits, in 1899, decided it would be a good idea to put up a show of force in the region and decided to send a 340 ton warship, in parts, from Scotland to Malawi and put it together here so it could patrol the lake. The Germans did the same shortly after. I'm going to steal someone else's paragraph to explain the rest as I'm lazy.

"The Germans also had a gunboat on the lake, the Hermon von Wisseman, and the two captains were reportedly the best of friends, often meeting up somewhere around the lake for a drink. In 1914 when war was declared the Guendolin was ordered to destroy the Wisseman. The British captain knew were the Wisseman would be because the two captains had arranged to meet for one of their regular drinks. The German captain was unaware that war had been declared and was completely caught by surprise as the Guendolin steamed up and opened fire, putting the German ship out of action and taking the crew as prisoners of war. The Guendolin remained in government service until 1940 when she was sold to Nyasaland Railways and converted to a passenger ship; she was broken up for scrap four years later."

Other 'smack you in the face' extreme stats:
- Malawi's main exports are tobacco, tea and sugar. Which finally explains why I've been using those 3 products so frequently
- There's this inexplicable tendency for Malawian professional men to wear their ties incredibly short. Halfway-down-the-chest short. It's hilarious.
- Madonna's new adopted child is from Malawi and she currently holds an honourary citizenship from the government.
- And not to end on a depressing note: Malawi suffered a famine a couple years ago. This is largely because the first president had exclusive control over the country, and he made everyone plant maize (corn - which incidentally is not native to Africa but comes from South America). Not the most stable crop, this is changing now. Don't worry, we're doin fine down here.

I'm off to the bar!!

A Non-post

You're right, I haven't posted in a while. I'm lacking the inspiration. But something is coming soon. It's come to my attention that the last 3 photo albums were linked incorrectly so were not loading. They're working now. Peace.

Latest haps...

June 1st already... where does the time go? Life in Malawi has been a little hectic since starting work and unfortunately it means I don't blog as much as I'd like. 9 hours a day of 'refugeeing' plus an hour commute each way doesn't leave much energy for writing. Alas, it's the weekend, and here i am sitting by the pool, enjoying the sun and blue sky with a laptop and wifi, and a plan to make up for my writing lapse.

Last weekend was one to remember. After a month in the country Les still hadn't seen the lake, the country's greatest attraction according to the Mike travel guide. So Friday after work she and I teamed up with one of our new coworkers and headed down to what is by far the best strip of beach I've seen in Malawi. Martina, our Texan lawyer friend who is completing a quasi-internship here, is a lot of fun and we three have in common a love of beaches, drinking into the wee hours, and hangin with the locals. We had no trouble getting along.

One of the upsides of living in a hostel is that you can pick up and leave literally any time you want. Some people find the lack of a home base disconcerting. Others embrace impermanence and find that kind of freedom liberating in a way that I don't believe most people ever find. Take our British friend Aoife (E-fa), for example, who is sitting across the pool from me. She realized yesterday that she doesn't own a pair of shoes in the entire world (only sandals), and she feels great about it. I've had mini bouts of unease when thinking about my lack of an anchor, but for the most part I just bask in the freedom.

I'm not quite sure whether this is fact or I stole it from Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road', but apparently, there is a significant population of people in North America who spend their entire life just traveling the continent in railroad box cars and hitching rides with bored truck drivers. Statements like "today I want to go to St. Louis" embody their creed. I think the politically incorrect anacrhonism for these people is 'hobos'. Rumour has is they choose the lifestyle because they crave that liberty. I'm not quite ready to throw my lot in with those folk just yet (although I DO tend to shower less than I should so I'm halfway there), but I relate to the philosophy.

In the spirit of hoboism we packed up our gear, checked out of Mabuya Camp and Friday afternoon (it's always a half day) piled into Martina's car and started driving East to the lake. Now when I say car what I actually mean is tin-can-on-wheels. No disrepect to Martina's car is intended whatsoever, especially since that beast got us back and forth safely (awww... I killed the suspense.) That's not to say we didn't lose a few hubcaps along the way. About 30 minutes into the drive, we came up behind a flatbed truck with two guys hanging onto back of the cab. Incredibly unsafe and stupid transportation safety standards are the norm in Malawi. It's not uncommon to see 50 guys piled into the back of a pickup truck. In fact, on a daily basis we hear or see what I only guess are highschool kids going to school past our hostel, all sitting around the edge of these flatbed trucks. While they do this, they sing like a professional choir. Every second movie about Africa played in the west features a group of average people singing these beautiful songs. Only when I got to Malawi did I realize that it's true, every African has a singing voice. Stereotype vindicated!

Anyway we came up to this flatbed truck and the guys on the back started waving and hollering at us. At first I was convinced that it was simply because two white women were sitting in the front of the car and they were getting excited. So we passed them, but they quickly caught up with us and passed us again, intensifying their waving and making cryptic gestures and pointing at the car. Living in Africa as a Mzungu, it's only wise to keep a certain level of guard up in these situations. If we pulled over, which I assumed was what they wanted, were we going to be robbed on a desolate stretch of road? It's a shame to think the worst of people, but better safe than sorry.

Martina floored it and we again blew past these guys, which was about the time I decided to poke my head out the window. The hubcap was hanging on by a thread. So it turns out these guys were just genuinely concerned for both our car and the lives of the random walkers on the side of the road. Although the car didn't have a functioning speedometer, I figured we were getting up to around 120 kph at times, and a flying hubcap at this speed could easily take someone out. So we made a quick stop while I jumped out and kicked the cover back into place.

After and hour and a half of East, we turned sharply North. Around this time the sun set, which kind of sucked since we knew parts of the road were riddled with severe potholes, and there is not a streetlight in all of Malawi. Strangely enough, this was the first time I had really traveled in rural African at night. It was strange being consumed by complete darkness save the light of a full moon. Yep, pretty foreboding. For the first little while we traveled through village after village. It was unbelievable how happening these places can be on a Friday night. People were walking everywhere, although I have no clue how they could see where they were going. Once in a while we passed by random bush fires, started deliberately I think just to clear away brush. I will never forget one scene I caught a glimpse of as we sped past. A lady was standing outside the door of her hut, while a ring of fire encircled her house. It was like something out of the videogame Diablo. My imagination pictured her as a witch cackling maniacally as she summoned demons from beyond.

At one point I decided to check the hubcap, which again was ready to fling itself into the night. So we made an emergency stop. I jumped out and noted that it was hanging on only with a plastic tie, the kind police use as handcuffs when arresting 18 year old hippie protesters outside of WTO conventions. Immediately some locals came over to check out the action and practice their English. I'm not sure what they thought of a car full of Mzungus appearing out of the darkness, me hacking away at a tire with a swiss army knife, leaving as quickly as we appeared, but I'm sure I was the talk of town for at least a little while.

As we drove on the distance between towns became greater and the potholes deeper. To her credit, Martina is a phenomenal driver. But no matter what the driver's skill level, a gaping scar in the tarmac doesn't announce itself very well when traveling at 90 kph in the dark, and we were bounced around a bit.

The 5 hour trip was worth it. Kande Beach and the camp there turned out to be paradise. The resorts I stayed at in Cuba and the Dominican didn't compare. And we payed 10 bucks a night each for the room. Because we arrived around 9:30 the restaurant was closed so we had a dinner of peanuts and chocolate. We stayed up until 4 in the morning talking about whatever and having shots of springboks (Creme de Menthe and Amarula - delicious). The next day in the sunlight we got to appreciate just how amazing and laid back this place was. The first stop was the beach for some tanning and swimming. The next order of business was to call our boss and get permission to take Monday morning off. In the afternoon Les and I walked into Kande village. We were immediately adopted by the local 'tour guides' hanging out right outside the camp gate, 17 year olds looking to make a living in the off season. As a rule I hate this kind of attention, because the relationship is premised on them trying to get money out of us. It's unfortunate. But after 5 months of Rastafarians trying to sell you wood carvings of elephants every place you go, you tend to develop a shield.

That shield was broken down somewhat because truly, the guys were immensely friendly. Malawians as a group are the most friendly people I've met since traveling, along with Botswanans. But as in any country, rural folk are more hospitable than city dwellers and these guys didn't push too hard for us to empty our pockets. After scoping out the bars we made a plan to return later with Martina. Every Malawian has a ridiculous name that they're given in childhood and keep pretty much forever. Our guard at work, for example, is called something like McDonalds with Cheese. The guys in Kande were Georgie-Porgie, Winston Churchill, Mr. Smooth (aka Julius Caesar) and others I've forgotten.

After dinner we met them on the beach for a bonfire and a drumming lesson. Then they took us the 30 min walk in the dark through the cassava, maize and sugarcane fields into the village, which was absolutely packed with people in the daytime, but was now a ghost town. Our group didn't see a single person. WEIRD. The bar selected was a single roomed brick structure with a doorway I had to duck to get through and a single lightbulb. Seemingly out of place, it had a pool table and a speaker system that could project Malawian reggae into the upper earth's atmosphere. I made the mistake of leaving an empty beer bottle on top of one of the speakers which was promptly vibrated across the room and shattered. We had to leave the room on several occasions to save what little hearing we had left. So the night was spent playing pool and keeping an eye on Martina to make sure none of her dozens of prospective suitors got too friendly. I've never seen anyone look so uncomfortable. The pictures are priceless. I was supremely proud of Les who kicked some major ass on the pool table. The guy who lost twice in a row was mortified to be beaten by a girl. Unfortunately, while white women are exempt, mphipa (black) women are not allowed to go to bars without being considered prostitutes, and they certainly don't play pool. Sadly, it's a man's world here. So I'm proud of Les for taking them out of their comfort zone, and later arguing with them that just because it's tradition, that's not a good enough reason to put up with institutionalized sexism.

All in all it was a fun night. The next day Les and I went for a 2 hour horse ride. I'm really starting to enjoy it. The animals we got to ride, unlike those in Swaziland and South Africa, were not just tourist-conveyors. They were ex-race horses from Zimbabwe. As soon as I went up to mine she started rubbing her face on my body, a great sign that we were going to get along just fine. This beast had some power, and yet was extremely well behaved. Our guide was awesome and had no problems letting Les and I trot, canter and even gallop even though it's against company policy. I'm not a very experienced rider like Les, so I was in a lot of pain the next day from bouncing up and down and using kung fu grip on the saddle, but shit was it worth it. After the first hour we came upon these dry floodplains perfect for really turning on the speed. The horse and I started at a good clip, faster than I was used to, with me hanging on for dear life. But when I got into a rhythm and was no longer smacking the saddle, which hinders the horse, she really started to give'er and I started to appreciate the raw power and the wind rushing past us. Great day.

Ready to head back to the city on Monday, we noticed one of our tires had gone flat. The spare was in the same condition. Thankfully it turns out that scuba tanks attach perfectly to tires, so we were on our way to a 'service station' pretty quick. I've never seen anyone fix a leak with a hammer, but by god it worked. I've also never seen a guy pick up a car by himself, but apparently it's possible when you have tree trunk arms. I've also never seen anyone use a grinder without protective goggles before, and still don't believe it's a good idea to shoot sparks at your coworker, your radio and a gas can.

Anyway, we got home safe and had a pretty uneventful week at work. We didn't make it to the camp because as interns, we were given a lot of filing which we almost have out of the way. Another post coming soon, hopefully. Talk soon.

Magic is a big problem in Malawi

I couldn't NOT share this little tidbit of African culture with the world. So ladies and gentlemen, let's turn the conversation to magic.

In the last 4 months I have overheard here and there talk of black magic; people trying to explain away bizarre occurrences as the work of some nefarious individual with supernatural powers. I wrote it off. Only in the last few days did I realize how fully society at large, at least in Malawi, has incorporated this into their belief system.

Read on, and you'll discover that what you actually believed was a myth your whole if is reality. Magic does actually exist!

Today was the first day that I struck out on my own in the refugee camp. I've decided that I want to see people face to face much more often instead of just poring over their case files in my 7th floor Lilongwe office (where office = broom closet, of course). Halfway through the afternoon I ended up in a pastor's house, packed wall to wall with 4 other people and, of course, pitch black (weird!!!) Through an interpreter he began to tell me about the problems his wife was having with her health. "She's a cripple," he said. "We've been to the doctor and have tried traditional medicine but nothing works." And then without batting an eye, he explained that clearly the cause of her "handicap" (which the medical report listed as arthritis) was the use of black magic by assailants unknown. Looking up, my smile was met by... perfectly normal expressions on everyone else's faces, not the mischevious grins of good humoured refugees I was expecting. "Wait a minute, is he serious?", I thought. Yes, he was. About a minute passed in which I tried to divert the conversation away from spells and black magic. Failing that, I admitted that "Mzungus don't believe in magic," to which they laughed and laughed... Oh how they laughed!!! "Of course you don't believe in magic," said the pastor in a manner that was a mix of pity and all-knowing-ness. "You are a white man." Poor, uninformed me.

Later that afternoon at the office my supervisor offloaded onto me what was surely not one of his favourite cases. I still have no idea what to do about this one so input is welcome. The gentleman in question and his wife showed up at our door unannounced with a rather large problem: he was being accused of witchcraft. And although nobody is burnt at the stake in Malawi, suspected witches are from time to time murdered by an angry mob. Fascinating for me and you as readers, but not exactly the best news for the witches.

The details of this case are pretty straightforward really. Refugee living in another town has a thriving business. But of course that has nothing to do with his business acumen, don't be ridiculous. It's obviously because he's using a spell to draw cash directly out of the surrounding shops, GOD, it's obvious! This would be quirky and funny if it was just a few jealous shopkeers and their shenanigans. But this belief is so widespread that not only did the local newspaper print the 'facts' of the story, but the city council passed a decree that he had to leave the area by June 30th. Get outta Dodge, sucka! Now this guy can't live anywhere in Malawi because the whole country knows about his dark secret.

Finally, the best for last... Today Les and I noticed a newspaper clipping on the wall of the office we're stealing this week. The headline reads: 'Man gets 5 years for using magic plane'. Haha wait let me take a minute to laugh again.... HAHA... ok, done. This cheeky character tried to beat the system, but as in all happily ending stories, a group of drunk people saved the day. The accused (picture in the article naked, sitting on a curb and covered in dust), was apparently traveling from point A to point C, but while at point B ran out of money. So unable to pay for public transportation, he decided it would be a good idea to whip out his magic plane. In a crushing twist of fate, however, he just so happened to fly over a house that had strong magical protection and he fell out of the magic plane. Thankfully he landed basically in front of a gaggle of drunks who promptly reported to the police this outrage and the man was sent to jail for 5 years. No, the newspaper was not running a satire; magic is treated with the gravest of seriousness in this country, even by the courts!

I've never believed in magic until now. You learn something new every day! Now if you'll excuse me, I have a magic bed to jump into.

Comments

Comments on my posts are always welcomed and appreciated. I do read all of them. I just figured out how to allow the posting of anonymous comments and have enable that setting, which means you don't need a gmail account to post.

Now that it's so easy I expect a flood of comments!

Today's events

I'm happy to report that new photos are up (sorry, I know it's been a while).

Today we spent the day sorting through files and intervieved two new cases here at the office. Friday is a half day so we don't go to the camp. The first man brought in his daughter, a beautiful little eight year old who was all smiles as she bounced around in her chair in the conference room. He told us in half broken English and half French that his little girl had been raped by a 23 year old local man who has now fled the country, and whose family continues to harrass him. Later in the day I had the responsibility of telling a single mother with 8 children (4 of whom are orphans) that she has essentially no chance of being resettled to a new country, which means she will be stuck in limbo in the camp for who knows how long. These meetings are not pleasant, but I'll keep doing this work as long as I think i'm improving someone's life.

First days at camp

Three days on the job down, and they have been more than eye opening. On Monday Les and I 'rocked up' (my new fav term) to the Kang'ombe building, the tallest in Lilongwe, at about 12 stories. Being back at work after 6 months of doing 'nothing' is a strange adjustment for me, although it feels great to again have a bit of routine and structure, and of course a purpose. The day started around 8:15 by settling into 'our' new office (yes, i'm using a lot of single quotations - the frequency of things not being what they seem justifies it), which is actually an office we are borrowing while some guy is on holiday. Of course we were only told that after we completely rearranged his office.

Half of the agenda that morning involved trying to communicate with the office manager whose personality you might say is intriguing. Instead of creating our computer accounts the week before, which I mistakenly assumed would have been the logical thing to do, I was told that I needed some sort of form, that of course this individual didn't have, and the only way I could get it would be to bother the head of the mission (aka the top guy in the office, who recruited me.) Thankfully this gentleman is a great guy and didn't hesitate to email off the document to the secretary who then informed us that it was the wrong form. To make a long story shorter the rest of the interaction involved her arguing with the boss, proceeding to tell us that we now didn't actually need the form (which I asked her to repeat twice), later returning to our office to again ask for the form. Her other notable feats in the last few days include maintaing a 100% initial refusal rate to each of my requests, sending me through 5 different people to get the requisition form to borrow a laptop, ultimately producing the form when the boss forced her to, and disappearing for at least 50% of the day.

Around 11am on day one we headed to the Dzaleka refugee camp, which is about a 45 mins drive outside of the city. Things were pretty lively. People that weren't just hanging out were lined up for either food rations or identification cards. Being the only whites in the area, we got a lot of attention from the very friendly residents, all of it cheery and positive. What struck Lesley and I about the camp was its permanence. I went with an idea of plastic sheeting and tents and chaotic rushing about. Nope - none of that. The camp looks a lot like any other rural African village. Brick houses with thatched or metal roofs, a market with fresh fruit and vegetables, a hospital and a police station. And just about everyone is smiling! Although in a way this was a nice surprise, it paints a bit of a grim picture - there can only be this kind of permanence if the refugees are there for a damn long time. While some leave after a matter of weeks on their way to greener pastures, many we spoke with had been camp dwellers for 2, 4, 7 and even almost 20 years.

As we got to dig a bit deeper, however, we started hearing about unspeakable atrocities. The first gentleman we interviewed fled from Burundi after being persecuted because he refused to join a political party that was responsible for trying to exterminate an ethnic group. He was kidnapped and taken with 200 other prisoners from his home. While in transit, the soldier-kidnappers surrounded the group and opened fire, killing pretty much everyone. He escaped only by lying still for 3 hours until the coast was clear. Now in the refugee camp, he fears for his and his family's safety because he is among members of that same political party, and his wife is an ethnic Tutsi, the group the party was trying to exterminate. His wife was raped 3 weeks ago and Lesley and I were the first people he has told since then. She hasn't been to the doctor for an HIV test or the police to report the incident. Outrageously, there is a stigma associated with being raped that somehow translates into the community looking down on this woman, and even blaming her for what happened. Not to mention the police are corrupt. So what do you do?

We spoke with a woman who laughed and joked with us for a few minutes before telling us that her whole family was killed in the Congo. Yesterday we interviewed a man whose relatives were beheaded and who showed us the scar from where he was attacked with a bayonet. This morning had to make a stop so that the Red Cross guy in our truck could check up on one of his cases. Walking up to the house, we met a woman of about my age sitting on a blanket, with a baby and a 6 year old boy lying next to her. The woman made no eye contact with anyone but it's clear that she's given up hope. She is infected with HIV and now has tuberculosis. Her baby is not eating well because she can only have formula. Breast feeding is too dangerous if you're positive. Her son stared off into space and moved little as we were told that he was sick with malaria. He hasn't been to the hospital for treatment yet because his mother can't walk anymore. Their house is bare.

All I wanted to do was pick that kid up and take him to the hospital. But I was told by the Red Cross guy to forget it - he would call for a car to pick him up and take him in today. I didn't see him make the call. And besides, you can't take a kid into the hospital unless he's given a bath.

Heavy.

Ok, on a lighter note, today at the camp was an 'open day', which involved presentations to build awareness and education about rape, HIV/AIDS, hygiene, to give out awards, etc. It was all done on the very traditional African model with drums and dancing and some pretty hilarious skits, including African Jerry Springer. Les and I were given honourary seating and got to hit the microphone a few times and hand out some prizes (umbrellas, thermoses, shirts). Although we didn't get any interviews done today, which was our purpose for going to the camp, we did have about 1,000 people learn who we were and we're getting a pretty good orientation to how things work. So far we haven't done much that I would say is truly productive, except for maybe some filing back at the office, but we're learning quickly what the needs are and who to speak with about various problems the refugees have. I'm absolutely sure that in the next few days we'll be able to do something really meaningful. I'll speak about it then!

Best news I've heard all day

Well I'm in a shit-eating-grin kind of good mood today on account of the news Lesley and I got this morning. We had a meeting with the head of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees in Malawi yesterday, and some of his staff. It was a meeting to 'get to know us', to talk about what the organization does, and to see if we would 'fit' into a role.

It didn't seem to hurt our chances that everyone at the office was in business attire and I was sporting sandals, jeans, a shirt that showed off my 14 chest hairs and a 5 day beard. It turns out that because we're both so lovable, they want us. Sweeeet. What does this mean? Essentially, we're both working in a refugee camp of over 8,000, mainly Rwandans and Congolese. In all of the possible scenarios that I imagined vis-a-vis volunteer work, I could not have envisioned a better outcome. I am ridiculously excited to have the opportunity to do something that matters greatly to me.

Although we're likely going to be flying by the seat of our pants, working wherever the need for that day is, in general I will be doing case work, interacting directly with the camp residents. Tasks like investigating alleged cases of say, a Hutu harrassing a Tutsi (the two main ethnic groups in Rwanda that don't like each other very much) or seeking out people that might be eligible for scholarships in the US. Lesley will also be working in the camp, working with committees of refugees that deal with women's issues. For example HIV/AIDS education and teaching job skills. Did I mention I'm excited? I was born for this shit.

Well, we're off to sign the paperwork now, and to find a place to rent. Tomorrow, it's off to the lake for a weekend of fun in the sun; one last getaway before we get knee-deep into the chaos. Love it.

Random musings

"Enemy spotted... we caught em' napping, control."
"This is control. Buzz 2-9'er, you are cleared to attack."
"Roger, we are beginning our descent. Malaria cannons armed and... firing."
In my mind it's perfectly realistic that this is what mosquito 'radio chatter' sounds like... What do we as humans really know about mosquitos? Hell, we haven't been able to wipe out malaria in Africa yet.

These were some of the bizarre thoughts running through my head last night between bouts of smacking myself across the head trying to kill the mosquitos swarming me. My mozzie net had big holes in it. I emerged victorious in the end, with a body count of about 14, and 30 minutes wasted. I can't tell you how evil 2 African-sized mosquitos buzzing around your head in stereo sounds.

What was the point of that story?
...
So anyway, after getting all riled up, I couldn't sleep. So I read. Like I've been doing non-stop for the past few days while I get over my cold. I finished a book called 'Road Fever' by Tim Cahill, which is about his Guiness-Book record making road trip from Argentina to Alaska in 25 days. What an amazing book and an amazing writer. I found myself identifying very closely with this guy, his co-driver and their excruciatingly hilarious and moving experiences along the way. What the book gave me was a deeper understanding of just how remarkable (and sometimes similar) my adventures have been, even if I haven't been able to fully get that across in my blog - when you're working with African computers and limited time, you can't refine things as well as you'd like. Which brings me to my next point.

I once heard somewhere that if you want a project to be successful, you shouldn't tell the world about it until it's too late for you to turn back. The rationale behind this is that the vast majority of people in the world love telling you that you can't do something (normally because they don't beleive THEY can), and ultimately you'll succumb to the barrage of naysaying. My homeys Richard Branson and Robert Kiyosaki know what I'm talking about. However, as I get older, I care less and less what people think of my abilities, because I know my potential is literally limitless (either that, or the size of my ego), and failure is NOT the end of the world; in fact, it's a hallmark of all successful peoples' pasts. I've reevaluated the necessity of remaining tight-lipped.

So I've decided that now is as good a time as any to unveil my latest 'project'. Thankfully this time, it won't involve ducking the police in Zimbabwe. No, it's something far more cutthroat, if I can believe what I've heard of the industry. I'm going to publish a book about my experiences. This brainchild came to me a few months ago, sitting on a standing-room-only coach bus through Botswana while the driver was dodging sheep and donkeys on the highway at 90 kph. I may be wrong, but I think I've already banked enough experiences this trip to warrant sharing it with my wider, and, although they don't know it yet, adoring public (and if I'm wrong, I don't want to hear about it, you filthy naysayers!) In my humble opinion, I can do this in a writing style that's much more entertaining than hundreds of books I've picked up (and quickly put down) in my lifetime. You wouldn't believe some of the shit they publish - and hey, that just might work to my advantage!

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what I'm going to do when I get home. I've discovered though talking to other travelers that around the 3 month mark is when just about everybody starts getting homesick, sick of living out of a bag, sick of being crammed into overcrowded dorms and overcrowded buses. My brother Rob, who sent me an email today that made me feel better, went through it in South America last year. While I'm a firm believer in creating your own happiness and that seeking it elsewhere is a temporary fix at best, I'm really looking forward to seeing Lesley on Thursday. For many reasons, but specifically in this case to distract me from brooding about the comforts I'm missing out on, and dwelling in the future, which can be as destructive as dwelling in the past.

But let's be honest, I'm not one to waste an opportunity to bitch and moan. On that note, may I present, a homage to the little things:

I miss my hometown, Sarnia (never thought I would say that). I miss my family house. I miss raiding the fridge to make a sandwich in a dark kitchen when mom has long gone to bed and Rob is on the computer. I miss watching 10 minutes of bad TV while I scarf my food down before going to bed. I miss random Tuesday night dinners at John's restaurant and running into acquiaintances. I miss playing guitar alone in the living room.

I miss the cold - again, an unexpected revelation to myself. I look forward to walking around snow covered landscapes of frost encrusted tree branches on a crisp afternoon when you can see your breath. I miss the peace and quiet that comes with a windless January afternoon in semi-rural Ontario. Surprisingly, I miss virtually nothing about Toronto, except maybe the freedom of living in a bachelor pad and having a purpose (aka a job). Shocking, considering I had become a fully converted Toronto enthusiast in the last few years.

Why I haven't been able to find the same peace in Africa, a continent with abundant, empty wilderness, still eludes me. Maybe it's not even about the peace or solitude. Maybe what I actually miss is familiarity. It disturbs me a little bit. That, and something else has been bothering me lately. I feel guilty saying this, let alone thinking it, so bear with me.

Am I the only guy in the world that has not been able to find the suffering in Africa?

Ten African countries now, and I truly believe that things are really not that bad. Of course I've encountered pockets of desperation - the guys who swarmed our minibus taxi in Tanzania, shoving bunches of onions to sell through the windows; the beggars on the streets in Cape Town. But hell, we have worse urban poverty in downtown Toronto. Africa is not the broken, hopeless continent I expected it to be.

Near the start of my trip, a good friend of mine who is traveling South East Asia emailed me and recounted a personal story. Passing a streetside cafe in either Thailand or Cambodia where white tourists were comfortably enjoying their pad thai, my friend noticed a naked girl of no more than 5 years old wandering the streets, obviously homeless and hungry, maybe abandoned. Ignoring what was right in front of their eyes, not one of those tourists lifted a finger to do something. How? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE? Because they're on vacation and don't want to deal with this shit? What kind of a world are we living in? I don't get mad easily, but this still enrages me. On behalf of humanity, thank you, Erin, for buying that little girl something to eat.

It's that kind of madness, and a belief that I as a human being can do something about it, that brought me to Africa. But In 3 and a half months here, nothing I've seen has moved me, emotionally, like that email. I thought I would be tripping over causes, yet I haven't found one. Is something wrong with me? I don't doubt that there's a whole lot that I'm not seeing. And statistically, intellectually, I know that things are grim: this many people have AIDS, the average life expectancy in this country is 40, people in xyz province live on less than a dollar a day. And yet virtually everywhere I go, life goes on. People are happy, smiling and friendly. Families actually spend time with each other, and interact with their neighbours. A random traveler told me a story the other day. A lady she met in a remote rural village commented, "I feel sorry for the people of the city, because they are always frowning. Here in the village we have the best life." Will giving Africans access to TVs, cars, and a new flavour of Coke improve their lives one damn iota?

What I've learned from this, is that we in the west have to be very careful about how we handle development and aid. Alleviating suffering = good. Improving health and education = always good. Annihilating HIV/AIDS = imperative. It is not as clear that development for the sake of development, is always good. Molding 'these savages' in our image is not going to make for a better world or raise universal happiness levels. I think that often, governments especially and Non-Governmental Organizations secondarily, fall into the trap of thinking 'development = good'. And I acknowledge that such an erroneous belief is slowly disappearing after the failed World Bank mega-projects of earlier decades. But allow me to put forth a humble proposition: If Africans live in mud huts, live out their days as subsistence farmers and lack access to the Internet; as long as they are happy and have the same opportunities as everyone else (health, education, etc.), that is OK. We don't need a Westernized world, thank you very much.

Many of you know I want to run for political office some day. Whenever I write a blog entry in the back of my mind I wonder if the things that I say here are going to come back to haunt me someday in a world that is often far too sensitive, that misinterprets. I know some of what I'm saying here is highly philisophical and radical, but I hope it's not misinterpreted. Those of you that know me, know that whatever I do is motivated by a desire to see a better world for everyone. Talk to you all soon.

Faux-toes posted

2 new photo albums are up.

Right now I'm hanging out in Malawi's capital city, Lilongwe. So far I haven't come across a building that's more than 2 stories high. If you read between the lines, you may get that I'm hinting at a general lack of excitement here. Although I'm not discouraged yet, I'm having a bit of trouble finding some suitable volunteer work. Although there's lots of volunteer activity, the groups are either hard to get into (US Peace Corps), uber-religious (I'm not into proselytization) or maddeningly disorganized. If I'm going to last for another 3 months, I'm going to have to do something that acually makes a difference and that I'm passionate about. Hopefully in the next few days I have some leads...

addendum to last post

Ya so my mind must be going. I forgot to complete one of my paragraphs from the last post, the one about Mdokera needing perfume for the dead mother ritual. Because he was fresh out and all the shops were closed, he asked me if I had any. All I had was a roll-on axe deodorant. To my surprise he accepted it, so as bizarre as it may be, my armpit deodorant was used in a funeral ceremony. Only in Africa.

ps. Despite spending an hour today at a different inet cafe, I'm no closer to having any of the pictures up. BOOOO

Weirdest experience of my life... makes for good blog post!

Safe and sound in Malawi, where I'm planning to settle down for a bit and find some volunteer work. Of course safe and sound didn't prevent me from having by far the strangest experience of my trip so far. I'll get to that.

Out of Tanzania...

Let's see.. last I posted I was wasting away in 'Shit-es-Salaam', as Casey refers to it. I hopped on a 12 hour bus ride the next day to Mbeya, in South-West Tanzania. I ended up sitting beside an American doctor who was off to do some volunteer work and deliver $50,000 worth of antibiotics to a rural hospital. It was an uneventful ride (thank God for a full iPod charge) until we got dropped off. Doctor Danielle went first thing to book her onward transportation with another bus company, and 5 minutes later, when she got back, the bus had already taken off with her luggage. SHIT! Thankfully, it had only gone across town to get washed and a local guy jumped in a cab with us to rescue her precious cargo. In the end all was well and we found a decent (barely) hostel to have a much needed sleep and some dinner (rice and chicken).

The next day I managed to get my ass out of bed and barely communicate with the hostel staff to find a minibus taxi (English is not very common in S-W Tanz), which took me to the place where I was supposed to get... another minibus taxi. Already by this point I have no idea where on the planet I am. There was a very good likelihood that I was the first white person in history to be in this spot. When I stepped out of the first bus, I looked around and literally over a hundred people were staring at me and making no bones about their intrigue. I took a puff on my cigarette and stared right back until they again went about their business.

Although I've been in a fair number of minibus taxis over the last few months, these took chaos to a whole new level. Everywhere I went, TVs and radios and car stereos were turned up to full blast, so that the speakers were popping. Nobody seemed to mind, not even the fragile octogenarian sitting beside me on the bus to the Malawi border. I think we set a new world record for the amount of people you can squash into a bus. We had roughly 20 seats in the last one, with about 55 passengers, sitting on top of each other and standing in the vacant spaces. At one of the ubiquitous police checkpoints, they stopped the bus and had about 20 people get out. So what did our driver do? He drove 50 metres down the road and waited for the others to catch up on foot, who then got back on the bus and we continued on our way.

...and Into Malawi

Crossing the border into Malawi was fine. The bus dropped me about 1 km away. As usual, I was swarmed by locals trying to get money out of the stupid tourist. I didn't have any Malawi currency (Kwacha) so against my better judgment I decided to get rid of my Tanzanian Schillings and try my hand at the black market. At first, the 16 year old entrepreneur-slash-swindler I was dealing with tried to give me a rate that was at least 1/3 below what it should have been. Then, when I argued a better rate, he gave me the cash, and to his chagrin, I started counting it in front of him. Halfway through the first stack he took it back from me and told me "Oh sorry those are small notes," and replaced them with others from his pocket. What he had done was pre-package stacks of 500 Kwacha and tried to pass them off as 1000 Kwacha. What a little shit! Once we sorted that garbage out I settled on a price for the same guy (who knows why) to take me to the border. His 'taxi' turned out to be a bicycle. Picture me, with my massive backpack, sitting on the back of a bike that's being pedaled by a 16 year old. Wild times.

Across the border I found a real taxi that took me the 50 km or so to a place called Karonga, where I stayed for the night. Although we had settled on a price of 500 Kwacha, when I got out he tried to say it should be 700. Well, having been nearly ripped off far too many times in one day, I kind of flipped on this guy and went into a big lecture about how not all Mzungus are made of money and when you agree on a price, that's the price and so on. I think he was really sorry he even bothered.

On a completely different note, the hostel was in a beautiful spot where I got to catch my first glimpse of Lake Malawi, something I've been looking forward to for a long time. Unfortunately, because it had rained, the rice paddies between the hostel and the shore were completely flooded and I couldn't get close enough to swim. Instead I took a walk into town and hit the local dinosaur museum. On the way another kid adopted me in hopes that he could direct me to his craft shop. Surprisingly, he waited outside the museum for an hour and a half for me. Even more shocking, I actually bought something. Also on the way I remarked on a very significant difference between Malawian and Canadian police stations: ours don't have cows grazing within the fences.

Pushing on the next day, I arrive in another small and even more rural town called Chitimba, another 70 km south. What a gorgeous spot. The lake, with sandy beaches on one side, and the lush mountains of the Nyika Plateau on the other. It sucked, but I was dropped about 5 km from the campsite I wanted (I was told it had a bed in a tree!), so I decided to walk. It took me about an hour in the blazing sun with a 80 pound backpack on me. And every man, woman and child along the way decided to say 'Hi' to me and for good measure call me a Mzungu. Arriving there, the owner came rushing out into the road to greet me. At first I thought it was just some crazy guy trying to give me a hug. But he was very welcoming and hospitable and insisted that I peruse his guestbooks from the last 12 years. After this I was thankfully left to my own devices - for a time - to swim and suntan and read on the beach. And of course to joke around with Mdokera's nephew, Joni, who was mentally challenged but had the biggest smile I've even seen. But after a little while, Mr. Mdokera came by and asked me a question.

Here's where it starts to get weird...

Mdokera: "Would you like to visit my mother? She is very sick."
Me thinking: *umm... that's kind of a weird request*
Me: "Umm... are you sure she wants to be bothered?"

Of course he insisted and I didn't say no. So we went over to the hut where she was laid up in bed. This tiny lady was covered entirely by a blanket with 3 other ladies sitting on the bed beside her. I was given a chair and told to sit, and as soon as I did I was asked to get up and come over to the mother to say hi. Mdokera lifted the blanket briefly and I saw her hands. One of the ladies on the bed said something in a foreign language and Mdokera just got very silent. I immediately knew what happened from the way all the ladies had lowered their heads and avoided eye contact with everyone else. Mdokera turned to me, and I will never forget what he said:

"I'm sorry Mike, but my mother is dead."

What. The. Hell. Did this just happen? I didn't know what to do so I went over and gave the guy a hug and told him how sorry I was. ASAP I got out of the hut and sat down on the beach to process what might have been the strangest thing that's ever happened in my life. "Was this a scam to get money out of me," I wondered? "Oh don't be so cynical, Mike." Well one thing was clear, I couldn't stay there for the night. A) I didn't want to be a burden, and b) I personally didn't want to deal with this drama. So I started to pack up my gear with the plan to walk back to another campsite I passed.

Of course as I was walking over to tell Mdokera my plan, a friend of his brought my lunch, which I couldn't let go to waste. Long story short, the owner convinced me to stay with the argument that his sister, brother-in-law, father, etc. had passed away in recent years and business still goes on because his extended family takes care of the guests. Again, against my better judgment, I stayed. In another cultural intrigue, Mdokera asked me not to tell anyone that his mother had passed away. "In our culture, we need to first take the body to the chief and let other elders know before anyone else."

Despite assurances that I would be taken care of, for dinner I had only a piece of uncooked corn (plain corn, not sweet corn), and I didn't get to sleep in the tree because nobody prepared it. After 'dinner', Mdokera materialized again with a crisis. In his culture, when someone dies, you need to use perfume to perform whatever ritual it was that is performed when someone dies.

And the marathon walk of hell...

Next day, I climbed a mountain. What drew me to Chitimba in the first place was the possibility of walking from there up the mountains to Livingstonia, a town founded in honour of19th century explorer and missionary David Livingstone (where the term 'Dr. Livingstone, I presume' originated,) and to see a waterfall. Have to say that I was not truly prepared for what 50 kms, half uphill, half in torrential rain and mud, meant. My feet are blistered and my hips, quads and hamstrings are still killing me. About halfway up the mountain I caught up to a group of 7 travelers who were on an overland tour from Nairobi, Kenya, to Cape Town S. Africa. They turned out to be good fun and we had some laughs along the way. The town itself was interesting, as it looked like a very proper British Victorian village. At one point I thought I might be in a scene out of 'Anne of Green Gables'.

because I can't stop ramblin'!!!!

So where am I now? In another little piece of paradise and backpacker haven called Nkhata bay, another 100 km or so south of Chitimba. The view is stunning, but alas because the internet here is worthless, I'm going to have to wait until at least tomorrow to get pictures up. Last night I stayed in a dive that topped even the Youth Hostel in Casablanca and the Jambo Guest House in Zanzibar, which I didn't think was possible. The room and sheets were so musty and covered with sand that I couldn't sleep on my side, lest my head gets too close to the pillow and I start gagging. Thank God for a sleeping bag liner. Needless to say, I got out of there first thing this morning and am staying in a much nicer place!

Life is good. I've read some amazing books lately, including Richard Branson's (Head of the Virgin Group) autobiography. This guy is my new hero - he's a man of incredibly integrity, and who does what's right and not expedient, but who still makes mistakes and admits it. Someone who came from humble beginnings but who has had more experiences in his lifetime than most people have in 10. Someone who is incredibly successful because he was driven by a passion and wasn't afraid to take big risks. The man loves life and his family and hasn't lost sight of that by taking business too serious or becoming greedy. All qualities that I admire and desire and if I live my life half as well as him I will be happy. If you haven't figured it out, I highly recommend his book.

Finally, I'm getting very excited that Lesley will be on a plane to join me in about 11 days. I can't wait to see her...