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.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, July 25, 2008
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
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)!!!
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)!!!
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
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
Independence Day - Malawi's 44th celebration of kickin' out the colonists
Vilankulo - Finally, the sea
Bazaruto Archipelago - paradise just off the coast of Vilankulo
Saturday, July 19, 2008
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
----------------------
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
- Mike
----------------------
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
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
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
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
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
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...
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...
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
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.
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.
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