"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.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
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...
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...
Monday, April 21, 2008
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
ps. Despite spending an hour today at a different inet cafe, I'm no closer to having any of the pictures up. BOOOO
Sunday, April 20, 2008
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...
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...
Monday, April 14, 2008
And now it's time for a rant
This post is a product of my advanced travel weariness. I'm ready to lose my shit. So I apologize in advance if I say anything offensive.
I've been stuck in Dar es Salaam for the past 4 days, but it seems like 4 million. Now that wouldn't be so bad if this town wasn't both so paradoxically boring and high stress. And I still haven't figured out how my money is being siphoned out of my bank account so quickly here.
The rain: out of my 2 weeks in Tanzania, all of one day has passed without rain for between 1 and 18 hours. Walking down streets covered with more than a foot of water is just ridiculous. Obviously, it limited the beach experience in Zanzibar, and it prevents us from walking around Dar much. Not that there is anything to see but dirty, run-down streetscapes. Everything closed at 1pm on Saturday and was closed all day yesterday. Including every freaking tour company and airline.
The inefficiency: That meant that when Air Malawi finally picked up the phone at 9 this morning, I found out that today's only flight out of this black hole is at 10 am, despite the fact that the website lists it as leaving at 5:30 pm. Not nearly enough time to get to the airport, and the next flight is in 2 days. Casey is having much more of a struggle. She's trying to organize a trip to Rwanda to see the mountain gorillas with a possible stopover in the Serengeti to do a safari. Allow me to illustrate how the typical tour company here operates:
*** We walk into a shop labeled 'XYZ Travel and Tours'...
Casey: "Do you organize tours to the Serengeti?"
Automaton: *Speaks in Swahili to coworker* "No we don't do that"
Casey: "Do you organize flights?"
Automaton: *More Swahili* "No"
*** Silence...
*** Mike and Casey stare dumbfounded at each other...
*** Mike and Casey walk to the next tour company to repeat the same process
The pestering: Nanoseconds out of our hostel, a restaurant, a bar, an internet cafe or just crossing the street, multiple taxi drivers pounce: "Hello, excuse me, boss... Taxi?" I was standing on our balcony today 5 minutes after waking up and some guy across the street started waving at me then pointed to his taxi. We got out of a taxi the other day and a taxi driver asked us if we needed a taxi. I'm approaching the stage where I'm going to involuntarily unleash verbal fire and brimstone on these guys, and I hate that. I completely understand that they are trying to make a living, but the constant barrage of attention because of the colour of my skin is maddening. In the beginning, I thought it was really cool that every second person said 'Hello, how are you' to Casey and I. How friendly they are!!! When I'm greeted now, staring into space is the only option for my sanity.
The flies: Contrary to what the World Vision ads would have you believe, Africans are not always covered in flies. Actually, Africa has been pretty darn fly free for me. Until Zanzibar. Every time we sit down for dinner or lunch or a drink, the flies begin accumulating. It's normally not so bad that you have to move, but with creatures landing on you and your food every 5 seconds, you get to the point where you want to scream. And what are the restaurants doing about it? Not a damn thing. There is no hint that they are remotely apologetic. I'm convinced that all it would take to solve the problem is to wipe down the tables with some soap. I'm not even hoping for lysol, just break out some dish soap guys. Africaaaaaggggghhhhhhh!!!
Deep breath, count to ten...
I realize that my complaints are largely trivial compared to what millions of people suffer daily. I'm a product of a very comfortable upbringing in what I recognize more and more every day to be the greatest country in the world. I haven't yet learned how to prevent these things from stressing me. It's part and parcel of being sweaty and tired in an alien land and having no home or routine, so I don't feel unjustified for feeling this way. At the same time, I do feel guilty for losing perspective a bit...
Anyway, thanks for listening to the rant, it made me feel better (but no less sweaty). I'm off to Mbeya at 6:30 am on a 12 hour bus journey tomorrow, which is in the south of the country. Another barrel of laughs I'm sure. The day after I'm crossing into the promised land, MALAWI! where I'm going to be keeping my eyes out for volunteer opportunities and a place to settle down for the next few months. And I'm not sure if I mentioned before, but it's official now: Lesley quit her job and is joining me May 1st for our quest to save the world!
I've been stuck in Dar es Salaam for the past 4 days, but it seems like 4 million. Now that wouldn't be so bad if this town wasn't both so paradoxically boring and high stress. And I still haven't figured out how my money is being siphoned out of my bank account so quickly here.
The rain: out of my 2 weeks in Tanzania, all of one day has passed without rain for between 1 and 18 hours. Walking down streets covered with more than a foot of water is just ridiculous. Obviously, it limited the beach experience in Zanzibar, and it prevents us from walking around Dar much. Not that there is anything to see but dirty, run-down streetscapes. Everything closed at 1pm on Saturday and was closed all day yesterday. Including every freaking tour company and airline.
The inefficiency: That meant that when Air Malawi finally picked up the phone at 9 this morning, I found out that today's only flight out of this black hole is at 10 am, despite the fact that the website lists it as leaving at 5:30 pm. Not nearly enough time to get to the airport, and the next flight is in 2 days. Casey is having much more of a struggle. She's trying to organize a trip to Rwanda to see the mountain gorillas with a possible stopover in the Serengeti to do a safari. Allow me to illustrate how the typical tour company here operates:
*** We walk into a shop labeled 'XYZ Travel and Tours'...
Casey: "Do you organize tours to the Serengeti?"
Automaton: *Speaks in Swahili to coworker* "No we don't do that"
Casey: "Do you organize flights?"
Automaton: *More Swahili* "No"
*** Silence...
*** Mike and Casey stare dumbfounded at each other...
*** Mike and Casey walk to the next tour company to repeat the same process
The pestering: Nanoseconds out of our hostel, a restaurant, a bar, an internet cafe or just crossing the street, multiple taxi drivers pounce: "Hello, excuse me, boss... Taxi?" I was standing on our balcony today 5 minutes after waking up and some guy across the street started waving at me then pointed to his taxi. We got out of a taxi the other day and a taxi driver asked us if we needed a taxi. I'm approaching the stage where I'm going to involuntarily unleash verbal fire and brimstone on these guys, and I hate that. I completely understand that they are trying to make a living, but the constant barrage of attention because of the colour of my skin is maddening. In the beginning, I thought it was really cool that every second person said 'Hello, how are you' to Casey and I. How friendly they are!!! When I'm greeted now, staring into space is the only option for my sanity.
The flies: Contrary to what the World Vision ads would have you believe, Africans are not always covered in flies. Actually, Africa has been pretty darn fly free for me. Until Zanzibar. Every time we sit down for dinner or lunch or a drink, the flies begin accumulating. It's normally not so bad that you have to move, but with creatures landing on you and your food every 5 seconds, you get to the point where you want to scream. And what are the restaurants doing about it? Not a damn thing. There is no hint that they are remotely apologetic. I'm convinced that all it would take to solve the problem is to wipe down the tables with some soap. I'm not even hoping for lysol, just break out some dish soap guys. Africaaaaaggggghhhhhhh!!!
Deep breath, count to ten...
I realize that my complaints are largely trivial compared to what millions of people suffer daily. I'm a product of a very comfortable upbringing in what I recognize more and more every day to be the greatest country in the world. I haven't yet learned how to prevent these things from stressing me. It's part and parcel of being sweaty and tired in an alien land and having no home or routine, so I don't feel unjustified for feeling this way. At the same time, I do feel guilty for losing perspective a bit...
Anyway, thanks for listening to the rant, it made me feel better (but no less sweaty). I'm off to Mbeya at 6:30 am on a 12 hour bus journey tomorrow, which is in the south of the country. Another barrel of laughs I'm sure. The day after I'm crossing into the promised land, MALAWI! where I'm going to be keeping my eyes out for volunteer opportunities and a place to settle down for the next few months. And I'm not sure if I mentioned before, but it's official now: Lesley quit her job and is joining me May 1st for our quest to save the world!
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Mystery of the Missing Media - solved
Some of you will have noticed by now that my story about the Zimbabwe elections did not appear in the National Post last week. How embarrassing :) But I only heard back now from the editor as to why. Slightly unprofessional, but no hard feelings. He indicated that it was because there wasn't enough space, which is a perennial problem, and not because there was anything wrong with the story. There were 4 other Zimbabwe stories in the paper that day, all written by their staff writers, so as a little fish, I was punted.
But guess what! You lucky bastards get to see what was never printed! Enjoy...
March 29, 2008
Zimbabwe on the Brink of Violence
VICTORIA FALLS, ZIMBABWE -- It is clear that seventeen year old Akim is desperately struggling to make a living as he rushes down the street to greet me in hopes that I will buy the crafts that he is hawking. When I decline, his pleas shift to, "Please give me your sunglasses... your shoes... your trousers. Zimbabwe is an economic basket case after years of destructive leadership by long time President Robert Mugabe and the ZANU-PF party. The country's population is out of patience.
Despite his desperation, or perhaps because of it, Akim has developed a strong understanding of the issues defining Zimbabwe's upcoming elections on March 29th. "When you go to the shops, you can't buy many things. There is no cooking oil, no clothes right now. And what is there is very expensive." Today was the first in five that fruit was available in the market, and milk is still nowhere to be found. Malnourishment and even starvation is a reality for many children wandering the streets in cities across the country, begging for food. Up to eighty percent of Zimbabweans work outside of the formal economy, which suffers from the highest rate of inflation in the world. Doctors and teachers are attempting to do the impossible with limited resources and fuel shortages compound every aspect of this nation-wide crisis.
Zimbabwe is a country on the edge - its citizens overwhelmingly hopeful for political change, yet fully aware of the likelihood that this will come at the cost of bloodshed. "People are tired, we can't last another 5 years," says a visibly exhausted man who was hours ago released from jail, being put there for espousing his political views. Mr. Mugabe has remained president for twenty eight years, and while he began this career a liberation hero, his waning popularity has led to the use of vote rigging, intimidation and violence in recent years. People on the street laugh when asked if this election will be free or fair. And yet despite the risks of being politically active for the wrong side in this country, several strong opposition parties have mobilized and are fighting for change. Mr. Morgan Tsvangirai, leader of the Movement for Democratic Change party (MDC), is one of the leading opposition candidates. A target of 3 assassination attempts and a victim of brutal torture as recently as March 2007, the MDC leader is still facing harassment. Expected to attend a rally of7,000 supporters in the North-West last week, he was detained by police on trumped up charges.
A third colourful presidential candidate, running as an independent, but backed by a splinter faction of the MDC, is also making waves despite only announcing his intentions as recently as February 2008. Simba Makoni has already garnered a sizable following, yet many distrust his motives. As a long-time ZANU-PF member of cabinet, MDC members are united in their belief that his candidacy is simply a Mugabe-orchestrated ploy to split the opposition vote. "It's a trick to confuse people," claims Gift Mabhena, a hopeful for the Hwange West MP seat, who was also detained last week on trivial charges and without access to a lawyer. Mugabe has also sharply denounced his former Finance Minister and is railing against what he believes Mr. Makoni's candidacy to be: a British-led effort to sap support away from his party through vote splitting.
The tension around the country is palpable. Police and military leave has been canceled until further notice in preparation for violence. Officers in full riot gear are stationed every second block in Zimbabwe's second largest city, Bulawayo, and there is a police vehicle on every corner in the capital, Harare. Tear gas has allegedly been distributed. Every day, it seems fewer people are comfortable being outdoors - police now outnumber civilians. Their mission today: to chase down groups of street children. Locals claim that 'undesirables' like these are regularly beaten, suffering bruises and cuts to their feet and backsides - some being only ten years old.
These abuses are allowed to continue in part because freedom of speech is non-existent. Foreign journalists are at risk of physical harm. I have been warned several times, "be careful who you talk to." Interviews have to be handled discreetly. On one occasion I was instructed to lay down in the back of a pickup truck during the drive to interview MDC Vice-President Thokozani Khupe so as not to be seen -"there are police watching us." Had I been exposed as a journalist, I would certainly be detained or worse. Thankfully I give the appearance of a harmless tourist and kept my notepad out of sight; as I discovered later, undercover police were watching us from across the room. Instead of feeling fear, I could only think about how dire, even bizarre, Zimbabwe's situation is. Asked what will happen if this election is stolen again - as she believes it will be - Ms. Khupe responded that "things are different this time around... Zimbabweans have learned a lesson from Kenya," a reference to the violence that broke out late last year after electoral irregularities were observed in that country.
Despite concessions made by the Mugabe government in the name of openness on election day, several have been rescinded just days ago, indicating that those promises were made in bad faith. Police will now be stationed at polling places on the 29th, creating fears of voter intimidation, and ballot boxes for the presidential vote will be transported to Harare for the count, rather than being done on-site. And while the government assured voters sufficient fuel would be available to allow travel to the polls, areas of the country are still without gasoline.
Being here, one gets a clear sense that popular support has all but abandoned Mr. Mugabe. Although he enjoyed a base of rural support in the last election, this has dwindled as economic disaster spread beyond urban centres. Yet the ruling elite is not prepared to let power simply slip from its hands. Mugabe recently commented that out of twenty-eight ways he knows to win an election, he's only used two... so far. Out of this situation comes no easy solutions, only a question: not *whether* violence will break out after the 29th, but,"how bad will it be?"
But guess what! You lucky bastards get to see what was never printed! Enjoy...
March 29, 2008
Zimbabwe on the Brink of Violence
VICTORIA FALLS, ZIMBABWE -- It is clear that seventeen year old Akim is desperately struggling to make a living as he rushes down the street to greet me in hopes that I will buy the crafts that he is hawking. When I decline, his pleas shift to, "Please give me your sunglasses... your shoes... your trousers. Zimbabwe is an economic basket case after years of destructive leadership by long time President Robert Mugabe and the ZANU-PF party. The country's population is out of patience.
Despite his desperation, or perhaps because of it, Akim has developed a strong understanding of the issues defining Zimbabwe's upcoming elections on March 29th. "When you go to the shops, you can't buy many things. There is no cooking oil, no clothes right now. And what is there is very expensive." Today was the first in five that fruit was available in the market, and milk is still nowhere to be found. Malnourishment and even starvation is a reality for many children wandering the streets in cities across the country, begging for food. Up to eighty percent of Zimbabweans work outside of the formal economy, which suffers from the highest rate of inflation in the world. Doctors and teachers are attempting to do the impossible with limited resources and fuel shortages compound every aspect of this nation-wide crisis.
Zimbabwe is a country on the edge - its citizens overwhelmingly hopeful for political change, yet fully aware of the likelihood that this will come at the cost of bloodshed. "People are tired, we can't last another 5 years," says a visibly exhausted man who was hours ago released from jail, being put there for espousing his political views. Mr. Mugabe has remained president for twenty eight years, and while he began this career a liberation hero, his waning popularity has led to the use of vote rigging, intimidation and violence in recent years. People on the street laugh when asked if this election will be free or fair. And yet despite the risks of being politically active for the wrong side in this country, several strong opposition parties have mobilized and are fighting for change. Mr. Morgan Tsvangirai, leader of the Movement for Democratic Change party (MDC), is one of the leading opposition candidates. A target of 3 assassination attempts and a victim of brutal torture as recently as March 2007, the MDC leader is still facing harassment. Expected to attend a rally of7,000 supporters in the North-West last week, he was detained by police on trumped up charges.
A third colourful presidential candidate, running as an independent, but backed by a splinter faction of the MDC, is also making waves despite only announcing his intentions as recently as February 2008. Simba Makoni has already garnered a sizable following, yet many distrust his motives. As a long-time ZANU-PF member of cabinet, MDC members are united in their belief that his candidacy is simply a Mugabe-orchestrated ploy to split the opposition vote. "It's a trick to confuse people," claims Gift Mabhena, a hopeful for the Hwange West MP seat, who was also detained last week on trivial charges and without access to a lawyer. Mugabe has also sharply denounced his former Finance Minister and is railing against what he believes Mr. Makoni's candidacy to be: a British-led effort to sap support away from his party through vote splitting.
The tension around the country is palpable. Police and military leave has been canceled until further notice in preparation for violence. Officers in full riot gear are stationed every second block in Zimbabwe's second largest city, Bulawayo, and there is a police vehicle on every corner in the capital, Harare. Tear gas has allegedly been distributed. Every day, it seems fewer people are comfortable being outdoors - police now outnumber civilians. Their mission today: to chase down groups of street children. Locals claim that 'undesirables' like these are regularly beaten, suffering bruises and cuts to their feet and backsides - some being only ten years old.
These abuses are allowed to continue in part because freedom of speech is non-existent. Foreign journalists are at risk of physical harm. I have been warned several times, "be careful who you talk to." Interviews have to be handled discreetly. On one occasion I was instructed to lay down in the back of a pickup truck during the drive to interview MDC Vice-President Thokozani Khupe so as not to be seen -"there are police watching us." Had I been exposed as a journalist, I would certainly be detained or worse. Thankfully I give the appearance of a harmless tourist and kept my notepad out of sight; as I discovered later, undercover police were watching us from across the room. Instead of feeling fear, I could only think about how dire, even bizarre, Zimbabwe's situation is. Asked what will happen if this election is stolen again - as she believes it will be - Ms. Khupe responded that "things are different this time around... Zimbabweans have learned a lesson from Kenya," a reference to the violence that broke out late last year after electoral irregularities were observed in that country.
Despite concessions made by the Mugabe government in the name of openness on election day, several have been rescinded just days ago, indicating that those promises were made in bad faith. Police will now be stationed at polling places on the 29th, creating fears of voter intimidation, and ballot boxes for the presidential vote will be transported to Harare for the count, rather than being done on-site. And while the government assured voters sufficient fuel would be available to allow travel to the polls, areas of the country are still without gasoline.
Being here, one gets a clear sense that popular support has all but abandoned Mr. Mugabe. Although he enjoyed a base of rural support in the last election, this has dwindled as economic disaster spread beyond urban centres. Yet the ruling elite is not prepared to let power simply slip from its hands. Mugabe recently commented that out of twenty-eight ways he knows to win an election, he's only used two... so far. Out of this situation comes no easy solutions, only a question: not *whether* violence will break out after the 29th, but,"how bad will it be?"
Monday, April 7, 2008
Sage advice for tourists
2 new photo albums are up!
While I was looking through them, this picture reminded me of something I feel needs to be said, in hopes that fewer travelers will stick out like khaki-coloured sore thumbs. Please, when you are on vacation, avoid common tourist pitfalls - those that this gentleman is aptly demonstrating for us.
1) Do not wear a tilly hat, even if you burn easily
2) Do not wear khaki shorts
3) Do not wear a giant SLR camera around your neck
4) Do not carry a gigantic bag to the beach
5) Do not wear hiking boots on the beach
For if you do, you will attract every kid on the beach selling CDs and sunglasses like this guy did. I don't have many pet peeves, but man, your 'typical tourist' is up there.
While I was looking through them, this picture reminded me of something I feel needs to be said, in hopes that fewer travelers will stick out like khaki-coloured sore thumbs. Please, when you are on vacation, avoid common tourist pitfalls - those that this gentleman is aptly demonstrating for us.
1) Do not wear a tilly hat, even if you burn easily
2) Do not wear khaki shorts
3) Do not wear a giant SLR camera around your neck
4) Do not carry a gigantic bag to the beach
5) Do not wear hiking boots on the beach
For if you do, you will attract every kid on the beach selling CDs and sunglasses like this guy did. I don't have many pet peeves, but man, your 'typical tourist' is up there.
Zanzibar'in it
Just got back from the South West coast of the island. We had hitched a ride out there with James and Rob, the two guys we met at the restaurant the other night. They're both here in semi-long term capacities (Rob is an engineer overseeing the redevelopment of the StoneTown waterfront, which has had no maintenance since the 60's, and James is here from England looking for a place to build a hotel), so they are pretty good guides. We stayed at a beach resort overlooking a white sandy beach and the blue-est of blue waters I've ever seen. I'm uploading pictures now but here's the thing about internet in Africa: it's damn slow at the best of times. When you travel to an island off the coast of Africa, things get markedly worse. So take what you can get!
While I remember, I have a working cell phone now (And the number will be the same for AT LEAST 2 days!!!). So by all means, call me to chat. Just remember that I'm 7 hours ahead of Ontario time. Country code 255-(there may be a zero here) 783-571-859.
We're now just waiting for my photos to upload, then will hit up some lunch, then we're off to the North coast for a few days to spend some quality time playing with crabs on the beach.
ps. I've ticked off octopus on my 'things I've eaten' list. Pretty tasty with a nice garlic-olive oil dip.
While I remember, I have a working cell phone now (And the number will be the same for AT LEAST 2 days!!!). So by all means, call me to chat. Just remember that I'm 7 hours ahead of Ontario time. Country code 255-(there may be a zero here) 783-571-859.
We're now just waiting for my photos to upload, then will hit up some lunch, then we're off to the North coast for a few days to spend some quality time playing with crabs on the beach.
ps. I've ticked off octopus on my 'things I've eaten' list. Pretty tasty with a nice garlic-olive oil dip.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
3 days on a train and ZANZIBAR!
Hmmm... I could have sworn I wrote a post when I was in Lusaka, but I guess I'm mistaken. My bad for keeping you waiting. Alright, where to start?!?! We have a lot of ground to cover, so keep up. The hostel in Livingstone, Zambia was a freakin' paradise! Most definitely the nicest I've been to. And of course that didn't have anything to do with the fact that I was one of the only guys there, surrounded by dozens of girls in bikinis.
After the stress of Zimbabwe I decided just to do a whole lot of nothing for a few days except have a few beers by the pool. Surprise, surprise, I ran into Casey from the Namibia tour at the same place and a very good guy, a retired Brit by the name of Gary, so we three hung out for a few days. I was happy to get to a restaurant the first night where we were the only white people. The music was a lot of fun, with the very drunk band playing covers of Elvis and Bob Marley to an island rhythm. We took a taxi back 'home' because it's not advisable to walk around town at night (or anywhere in Africa really), but as I was getting into bed I had a panic attack: I had left my bag at the restaurant. Why I brought my passport, Ipod, cell phone, and traveler's cheques out with me remains a mystery. So, thankfully a Dutch guy who also joined us for dinner offered to walk (run, actually) with me back to rescue my shit, and aside from virtually breaking my toe on an uneven part of pavement, it all turned out fine.
While in town we took a gander at the Vic Falls from the other side of the Zambezi river. I didn't think it was possible, but the spray was about twice as heavy on this side - it was like being in a hurricane, but without the winds. I got very few pictures because I feared for my camera's life (kudos to the inventor of the zip loc bag, and a pat on the back to me for wearing my bathing suit). The morning I left town, I did a flight in a microlight plane - a kind of hang glider with a propellor attached - over the falls. Despite the great things I heard about the experience, I was not all that impressed. But I did get some cool pictures from the left wing ;)
Later that day I jumped on a 7 hour bus to Lusaka, the country's capital. Passing by a pickup truck packed half full of men and half full of baby goats was a highlight of the trip, as was avoiding potholes at 100kph in a huge coach in the pitch black of rural Zambia. Zimbabwe's run-down exterior, with its lack of activity and feeling of hopelessness was in stark contrast to the upbeat, thriving towns with shops that have brightly painted facades that I noticed traveling Zambia. Or at least that's what I thought until I got to Soviet Lusaka. What a really weird place. That's the only way to put it. There was clearly some communist style central planning going on here. The East Berlin style housing compounds looked bleak and the bizarro architecture was trying to be modern but succeeded only in looking childish. Walking the main drag on a Sunday, not a damn thing was open except a string of about 4 restaurants, including a Subway! They only had one kind of bread, used about half the toppings I'm used to, took half an hour to make my cold cut trio and claimed that the watery sludge out of the tube was mustard, but it was nice to get a bit of home on the other side of the world.
I'm not exactly sure why I spent 3 nights in this excitement abyss, but it was good to be in a place that hasn't yet been Westernized (yet). Walking through the market on the last day was a freakin' experience. Every five minutes, someone shouted at me "Hey white man!" (or in the local language, 'Umazungu'). The first time this happened I was stunned. All I could think to say back was "Hey black man!" Hah. I was offended until I realized there was no racism intended here; we white folk are just a novelty in these backwaters.
The first night at the hostel, Casey and I had an interesting conversation with a very nice, UK educated Zambian couple. I'm still not sure how to interpret this experience, but it seemed to me that they were trying desperately to shrug off their 'Africanism' and impress us with how posh they've become. Regrettably, I fell into that trap and started minding my grammar more closely and using vocab I usually don't. Their views on tourism was mind openening: Casey and I agreed that the potholes, the delays, the power outages were all part of the charm of Africa and the reason we chose to come here and not somewhere like Western Europe. Their master plan was to dismantle this authenticity and replace it with five star hotels and great infrastructure. But I could understand that their prime goal was to eliminate poverty and that my hope to keep things 'real' was a product of where I was raised.
While in town, Casey somehow convinced me to take a 2 night, 3 day train to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania with her, eventually going on to the tropical paradise island of Zanzibar. To prepare for the trip, we had to grab some groceries. In one of the most surreal moments so far, our taxi driver said to us "Could you please wait here for one minute, we [the other drivers] have just bought a communal drink and I haven't had my share yet." To translate, he had to take a big swig of beer before driving us across town.
For some backwards reason, the train doesn't leave from Lusaka and we had to take a bus from Lusaka to Kapiri Mposhi, about 200 k north. That bus station was the most chaos I've ever seen in one place. 50 people in my face trying to sell me transport to Livingstone, buses intent on running me over, horns blaring. A lot like what I imagine urban India to be like. Kapiri - what a dismal town - it's essentially a village of mud huts with a ginormous communist style train station in the middle. I made a friend outside the station who offered me some salted fish. It took a few days to get that taste out of my mouth.
At the station we ran into a bit of an inconvenience. Tanzania is a Muslim country, so men and women are not allowed in the same train compartment unless they're family or they can get a compartment with nobody else in it. The prospect of Casey and I being separated the whole time wasn't appealling, so I spent the whole time trying to convince the ticket guy that we were married and needed our own caibn, and when that failed, talking to other tourists and seeing if they wanted to book a cabin together. Foiled in the end, but that wasnt' much of a big deal. We got compartments next to each other and spent most of our time in the bar and dining cars anyway. Speaking of which, I'm very happy we brough a bottle of gin and a few of wine. It made time fly quicker ;) Ditto for my Ipod. All in all, I can't really complain about the trip. While it was hot and bumpy and smelly and Casey and I were both not very talkative, the scenery was amazing. The tracks took us through a remote region of Zambia and Tanzania that you just can't access by road.
One of the greatest experiences (and photo-ops) was whenever the train stopped. From the surrounding rural villages, dozens or even hundreds of kids would rush to meet us to beg for whatever we wanted to throw out the window (plastic bottles seemed to be a hot item), sell potatos, carrots, nuts and other stuff, or to just wave at us and stare in awe at my white-ness. When I tried to take pictures, the kids would scramble like I was pointing a gun at them. As we got farther into Tanzania, things really started to change. The weather for one - it's damn (i mean damn,) hot here owing to the ridiculous humidity. Also the people - although most of the rural kids were absolutely filthy, most of the adults would wear clothes with beautiful bright patterns. Nobody here spoke much English. Laundry would be laid out on the grass to dry. The last day, the train took us through the tip of a game reserve, so we saw wild zebra, giraffe, elephants, impala, etc... But probably the most extraordinary experience for me was the stand up shitting! Yes, you heard right! While this rickety train was rocking back and forth and bumping around, you would have to squat over a toilet bowl with no seat, all while holding onto nothing but the walls, and pray you have good aim. Wiping was another story. My quads still hurt.
And now, we're just kickin' it in Zanzibar, an island famous for it's beautiful beaches, seafood and intriguing history as a source of wealth for several empires - Arab, British, Portuguese... We're staying in a part of Zanzibar Town called 'Stone Town', a beautiful, if run down place that looks way too much like the old parts of cities in Morocco. The only problem is that until last night it was raining literally non-stop in torrential downpours. We arrived off the ferry from Dar-es-Salaam (Tanzania's capital, opposite Zanzibar) two days ago. Getting to our hostel (which smells damp, and is damp), we had to wade through water rushing down the streets that was 2 feet deep at some points. Thankfully it stopped last night and hasn't started, but the skies are grey. I want to go to the beach, dammit!
Last night was a blast and a half - we had dinner at a cool (if touristy) restaurant on the beach, and a live band started playing at 10. Pretty quick the dance floor was packed and everyone was having the time of their life, including us. Uncharacteristically, I danced all night, and have never sweated so much. Around 11 we left there with some Brits that were trying to pickup Casey and after making a few stops around town, driving with the driver's door open because the switches for his power windows had been stolen (yes you read that correctly) and we were fogging up like mad, we stopped at a local 'Umuzunga' club for more dancing. By this point I was on my 15th gin and tonic, so I wasn't thinking all that clearly, which may explain why I suspected one of the girls I danced with was a transvestite. This morning I realize I have no valid reason to believe she was, but at the time I was convinced. Oh Africa, you crazy bastard.
By the time we got to the THIRD bar I was really ready to go home. I had resorted to drinking water and was exhausted. Being the only white people there, it was clear that we were not welcome. I was surprised the music didn't stop when we walked in the door like it does in the movies. The black dude I was with decided it would be safer if he walked with me to the washroom, and I'm glad he did. From there we went to a reggae bar around the corner which was much more welcoming, but I seemed to be the only one enjoying it, so everyone wanted to go back to the last place. However, it was 5am and I put my foot down so Casey and I jumped in a cab, getting into the hostel just as other people were waking up. We woke up at 12 today, and plan to do nothing! Hopefully will move over to the East side of the island tomorrow where the weather and beaches are better. Then from here it's off to Malawi to settle for a few months and do some volunteering! Until next time...
After the stress of Zimbabwe I decided just to do a whole lot of nothing for a few days except have a few beers by the pool. Surprise, surprise, I ran into Casey from the Namibia tour at the same place and a very good guy, a retired Brit by the name of Gary, so we three hung out for a few days. I was happy to get to a restaurant the first night where we were the only white people. The music was a lot of fun, with the very drunk band playing covers of Elvis and Bob Marley to an island rhythm. We took a taxi back 'home' because it's not advisable to walk around town at night (or anywhere in Africa really), but as I was getting into bed I had a panic attack: I had left my bag at the restaurant. Why I brought my passport, Ipod, cell phone, and traveler's cheques out with me remains a mystery. So, thankfully a Dutch guy who also joined us for dinner offered to walk (run, actually) with me back to rescue my shit, and aside from virtually breaking my toe on an uneven part of pavement, it all turned out fine.
While in town we took a gander at the Vic Falls from the other side of the Zambezi river. I didn't think it was possible, but the spray was about twice as heavy on this side - it was like being in a hurricane, but without the winds. I got very few pictures because I feared for my camera's life (kudos to the inventor of the zip loc bag, and a pat on the back to me for wearing my bathing suit). The morning I left town, I did a flight in a microlight plane - a kind of hang glider with a propellor attached - over the falls. Despite the great things I heard about the experience, I was not all that impressed. But I did get some cool pictures from the left wing ;)
Later that day I jumped on a 7 hour bus to Lusaka, the country's capital. Passing by a pickup truck packed half full of men and half full of baby goats was a highlight of the trip, as was avoiding potholes at 100kph in a huge coach in the pitch black of rural Zambia. Zimbabwe's run-down exterior, with its lack of activity and feeling of hopelessness was in stark contrast to the upbeat, thriving towns with shops that have brightly painted facades that I noticed traveling Zambia. Or at least that's what I thought until I got to Soviet Lusaka. What a really weird place. That's the only way to put it. There was clearly some communist style central planning going on here. The East Berlin style housing compounds looked bleak and the bizarro architecture was trying to be modern but succeeded only in looking childish. Walking the main drag on a Sunday, not a damn thing was open except a string of about 4 restaurants, including a Subway! They only had one kind of bread, used about half the toppings I'm used to, took half an hour to make my cold cut trio and claimed that the watery sludge out of the tube was mustard, but it was nice to get a bit of home on the other side of the world.
I'm not exactly sure why I spent 3 nights in this excitement abyss, but it was good to be in a place that hasn't yet been Westernized (yet). Walking through the market on the last day was a freakin' experience. Every five minutes, someone shouted at me "Hey white man!" (or in the local language, 'Umazungu'). The first time this happened I was stunned. All I could think to say back was "Hey black man!" Hah. I was offended until I realized there was no racism intended here; we white folk are just a novelty in these backwaters.
The first night at the hostel, Casey and I had an interesting conversation with a very nice, UK educated Zambian couple. I'm still not sure how to interpret this experience, but it seemed to me that they were trying desperately to shrug off their 'Africanism' and impress us with how posh they've become. Regrettably, I fell into that trap and started minding my grammar more closely and using vocab I usually don't. Their views on tourism was mind openening: Casey and I agreed that the potholes, the delays, the power outages were all part of the charm of Africa and the reason we chose to come here and not somewhere like Western Europe. Their master plan was to dismantle this authenticity and replace it with five star hotels and great infrastructure. But I could understand that their prime goal was to eliminate poverty and that my hope to keep things 'real' was a product of where I was raised.
While in town, Casey somehow convinced me to take a 2 night, 3 day train to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania with her, eventually going on to the tropical paradise island of Zanzibar. To prepare for the trip, we had to grab some groceries. In one of the most surreal moments so far, our taxi driver said to us "Could you please wait here for one minute, we [the other drivers] have just bought a communal drink and I haven't had my share yet." To translate, he had to take a big swig of beer before driving us across town.
For some backwards reason, the train doesn't leave from Lusaka and we had to take a bus from Lusaka to Kapiri Mposhi, about 200 k north. That bus station was the most chaos I've ever seen in one place. 50 people in my face trying to sell me transport to Livingstone, buses intent on running me over, horns blaring. A lot like what I imagine urban India to be like. Kapiri - what a dismal town - it's essentially a village of mud huts with a ginormous communist style train station in the middle. I made a friend outside the station who offered me some salted fish. It took a few days to get that taste out of my mouth.
At the station we ran into a bit of an inconvenience. Tanzania is a Muslim country, so men and women are not allowed in the same train compartment unless they're family or they can get a compartment with nobody else in it. The prospect of Casey and I being separated the whole time wasn't appealling, so I spent the whole time trying to convince the ticket guy that we were married and needed our own caibn, and when that failed, talking to other tourists and seeing if they wanted to book a cabin together. Foiled in the end, but that wasnt' much of a big deal. We got compartments next to each other and spent most of our time in the bar and dining cars anyway. Speaking of which, I'm very happy we brough a bottle of gin and a few of wine. It made time fly quicker ;) Ditto for my Ipod. All in all, I can't really complain about the trip. While it was hot and bumpy and smelly and Casey and I were both not very talkative, the scenery was amazing. The tracks took us through a remote region of Zambia and Tanzania that you just can't access by road.
One of the greatest experiences (and photo-ops) was whenever the train stopped. From the surrounding rural villages, dozens or even hundreds of kids would rush to meet us to beg for whatever we wanted to throw out the window (plastic bottles seemed to be a hot item), sell potatos, carrots, nuts and other stuff, or to just wave at us and stare in awe at my white-ness. When I tried to take pictures, the kids would scramble like I was pointing a gun at them. As we got farther into Tanzania, things really started to change. The weather for one - it's damn (i mean damn,) hot here owing to the ridiculous humidity. Also the people - although most of the rural kids were absolutely filthy, most of the adults would wear clothes with beautiful bright patterns. Nobody here spoke much English. Laundry would be laid out on the grass to dry. The last day, the train took us through the tip of a game reserve, so we saw wild zebra, giraffe, elephants, impala, etc... But probably the most extraordinary experience for me was the stand up shitting! Yes, you heard right! While this rickety train was rocking back and forth and bumping around, you would have to squat over a toilet bowl with no seat, all while holding onto nothing but the walls, and pray you have good aim. Wiping was another story. My quads still hurt.
And now, we're just kickin' it in Zanzibar, an island famous for it's beautiful beaches, seafood and intriguing history as a source of wealth for several empires - Arab, British, Portuguese... We're staying in a part of Zanzibar Town called 'Stone Town', a beautiful, if run down place that looks way too much like the old parts of cities in Morocco. The only problem is that until last night it was raining literally non-stop in torrential downpours. We arrived off the ferry from Dar-es-Salaam (Tanzania's capital, opposite Zanzibar) two days ago. Getting to our hostel (which smells damp, and is damp), we had to wade through water rushing down the streets that was 2 feet deep at some points. Thankfully it stopped last night and hasn't started, but the skies are grey. I want to go to the beach, dammit!
Last night was a blast and a half - we had dinner at a cool (if touristy) restaurant on the beach, and a live band started playing at 10. Pretty quick the dance floor was packed and everyone was having the time of their life, including us. Uncharacteristically, I danced all night, and have never sweated so much. Around 11 we left there with some Brits that were trying to pickup Casey and after making a few stops around town, driving with the driver's door open because the switches for his power windows had been stolen (yes you read that correctly) and we were fogging up like mad, we stopped at a local 'Umuzunga' club for more dancing. By this point I was on my 15th gin and tonic, so I wasn't thinking all that clearly, which may explain why I suspected one of the girls I danced with was a transvestite. This morning I realize I have no valid reason to believe she was, but at the time I was convinced. Oh Africa, you crazy bastard.
By the time we got to the THIRD bar I was really ready to go home. I had resorted to drinking water and was exhausted. Being the only white people there, it was clear that we were not welcome. I was surprised the music didn't stop when we walked in the door like it does in the movies. The black dude I was with decided it would be safer if he walked with me to the washroom, and I'm glad he did. From there we went to a reggae bar around the corner which was much more welcoming, but I seemed to be the only one enjoying it, so everyone wanted to go back to the last place. However, it was 5am and I put my foot down so Casey and I jumped in a cab, getting into the hostel just as other people were waking up. We woke up at 12 today, and plan to do nothing! Hopefully will move over to the East side of the island tomorrow where the weather and beaches are better. Then from here it's off to Malawi to settle for a few months and do some volunteering! Until next time...
Friday, April 4, 2008
Quick post
Literally seconds left of internet time but just wanted to say i'm safe and sound in Zanzibar, Tanzania after a very sweaty 3 day train ride from Lusaka. Big post coming soon!
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