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Sudan

It’s hot. My shirt would be soaking if it wasn’t for the sun. It sucks up every bit of moisture. My lips are chapped, my mouth sticky. We wait in the shade, our bags keeping our spot in the line outside the border offices. Next to me a donkey licks a dripping tap, and I share his disappointment knowing the sandiness of the water that never quenches.

The doors to the passport office opens, and all order is instantly lost. People push, shove, pull, and block, shouting in Arabic. Jordan is big. He blocks one side of the queue and I squeeze in and slip our passports under the less than bullet proof glass. In the background I hear Robs fighting with one of the locals. Neither one knows what the other is saying.

We fill in piles of useless documents, and hand the paper waste to the police. I’m first through and remember the young Swede we’d met the day before telling us to get on the boat early and book shade under one of the lifeboats on the upper deck. So I climb on the first Land Rover that’s leaving. An elderly man grabs my bag and stows it under his legs, allowing me to sit on a small piece of floor.

We rumble down the sand road, cliffs warn smooth staring at us on either side. Lake Nubia, as the Sudanese call it, looks out of place cradled in the desert’s arms. I jump off the landie, and returning the favour I carry the old man’s bags onto the boat.

At the door we hand in our passports and are given a single meal ticket in return. I walk past the expensive cabins below deck, past countless boxes and bags, through the eating area. I walk past a very black family sitting on the stairs. The four daughters, all at different ages, look exactly like the mother. A time warp. They all smile at me. Their teeth are very white.

Next door a goods ferry is being loaded. The crew sit against the coughing engine room waving instructions to the horde of porters below.  One man pulls out a broken chair from a pile of junk and leans it against the railing. He doesn’t sit.

I find my shade. The cold metal of the upper deck, like ice on my neck, pinches my breath. Down below, clear water laps and lulls. I hop over the railing, bypassing the stairs, onto the poorly lit bottom deck.  The smell of something boiling hangs stiff and heavy in the air. I push past people with large bags shuffling towards me, and head for the light of the doorway. The policeman grabs my arm and pulls me back. “No outside. Once give passport, no leave boat!”

I push back inside, slip streaming a fat man with neck rolls and a giant sweat patch down his back.  I branch off into the bathroom, a small stinking cubicle. I stick my head out the tight circular window, remembering my childhood days of climbing through burglar guards. Will my shoulders fit?

I strip down, hanging my clothes on a high tap away from the wet floor. I wonder whether to lose my underpants. Nudity in Arab countries is a punishable offence, so I keep them on and slide through the window. Lowering myself down I slip into the water. Like a sailor lured in by a mermaid. Before it totally wins me over I pull myself back up the copper pipes.

Wet footprints follow me as I swagger past the passport police and return to my shade. Looking out I see Robbie and Jordan hanging on the side of a rusty turquoise Land Rover. Their border passage obviously wasn’t as swift as mine.

A man selling burgundy hibiscus juice on the dock fills countless plastic bottles, “One shilling, one shilling”. Whistling, I put up two fingers and throw down a five shilling note which zigzags through the air. Two bottles are tossed up, followed by my change. The syrupy tea is sweet and I dilute it with water.

Midday turns to afternoon. Afternoon to evening. The heat subsides and people move out of the shade and begin to spread out mats and cloths to sit on. People from below decks join friends outside.

As the last of the sun sets, military lines are drawn and a man leads the neat rows in prayer. “Allahu akbar” is chanted in melancholy unison. The throaty Arabic, the smooth transition from raised hands to faces flat on the floor, is strangely haunting.

Next to us a North Sudanese accuses a South Sudanese of fleeing his country and abandoning his people. He denies it adamantly, and talks of his quest for education and desire to become a medical doctor at the University of Alexandria.

Later he shows pictures of his four year old son back in South Sudan. Nothing of the mother. Evening comes and I decide to save my single meal ticket for tomorrow’s breakfast.  Everyone spreads out, and my bag is commandeered as a pillow. Dodging someone’s feet, I lie down and cherish the chill of the wind as the boat moves swiftly across the empty water.

In the morning I wake early and walk around the boat. Sleeping bodies leave only enough space for a small footpath, and I thread my way, carefully dodging the sprawling limbs. The boat wakes quickly. Men play cards, settle scores from last night’s game.  Others sit and read the Koran or share tea and oven bread. Others, more devout, face the sun and pray. Soon they are joined by everyone. The golden silence is interrupted by the demanding speaker summoning all to pray. The military lines are redrawn.

Taking our food tokens we head down for breakfast, trusting it’ll be good after passing on last night’s chicken. It isn’t. The boiled eggs are rubbery; the pickled vegetables aren’t too tantalising either. At least the tea is hot, but it burns my tongue making everything rough.

I return my eating tray to the busy kitchen. A friendly conversation with the chef results in free bread, jam and tea. The sweetness of it takes away the sour pickle taste. On the top deck we share it. Everyone breaks off pieces of bread, dips them in jam and washes it down with tea.

We continue our conversations of religion, politics and education. We pass the famous golden temple carved into a cliff face and a Zambian joins us, speaking French to the bikers we met at the passport office. A young Egyptian boy asks to join us on our travels. We give him our sun glasses and he takes a photo with us on his dad’s phone. Loois, one of the French bikers, gives me the book he’s reading, saying he’ll be home soon. Once I’m finished I must leave it at a backpackers or pass it on to someone else.

The Hibiscus Salesman

Egypt side

Brother Isaac

“Hey brother”, he sits on his haunches, “you looking for weed? Ganja? Hash?”

He lights a half-smoked cigarette. “I make good price for you brother, no problem”.

We stand at the end of the pavement waiting for the latest wave of traffic to pass.

“I know many tourist. they like making fun fun. Me I get you anything. I am working with tourist many years”.

He stands up, hand out. “I’m Isaac”. He pulls out a soft pack of cigarettes. “You want smoke?”

“Actually, we’re looking for a bus or something. To the Sudan border.”

“Sure? You go that country? Man, that place is fucked up.” He throws down his hands. Nearly every finger has a ring on it. “Come I take you rather somewhere. I know good place”

We pause. Look at one another.

“Is cheap cheap man brothers, come” .

We follow.

Isaac is big for an Ethiopian. Not tall, but solid, thick like his American accent. His teeth are nearly as yellow as the end of his peroxided dreads. We walk through a small market selling touristy things, Isaac tugs at my hair. “You surfer?”

He’s the first African to ever ask me this.

“I can see. Was in Cali, man, 2008”

I smile and nod.

“Isaac can spot a surfer from miles. I saw many of your type. Travelled around with some. Many drugs”.

He grabs six bananas from a man selling them in a wheel barrow, dishes them out, doesn’t pay.

“Cool dude,” he says passing me mine.

I’m still wondering who the sixth one is for when a short man in a brown shirt that is too big for him, joins us. Isaac hands him the last banana. A sidekick of some sort. We jump on a taxi and they chat frantically in Amharic.

I turn to Jordan and in my pathetic Afrikaans: “Heirdie ou is nie so lekker nie”.

“Ja, ja, ek weet. Mar ons kan sien waar ons gaan.”

FP laughs at Afrikaans, he and Rob are fluent. They agree with Jordan. Let’s see where it goes.

The sidekick doesn’t say a word to us. Isaac breaks the silence, “So you’re Afrikaans?”

I swallow hard, caught out.
Flustered, I fumble out a lame resurrection plan. “Not really, Jordan went to an Afrikaans school though.” Still hot under the collar I ask Isaac if he can speak the language.

“No, not speaking, only hearing. You know, many South Africans here. Sounds like Dutch.”

I swallow hard, relieved. “Ons moet pasop. Hy is baaie slim.”

I’m relieved our secret code remains intact. Communication is priceless, and if he isn’t aware that we’re onto him, we have a huge advantage.

Our trip seems never ending; it begins to turn into a makeshift tour. We talk about Fidel Castro. “He is like big celebrity here. Helped for freedom. Even Mandela, he train in secret camps here in Ethiopia”. We nod ,every Ethiopian has told us this when they find out we’re from South Africa. About Haile Selassie. “He isn’t a god, we rastas know that. But we believe he has some power. He can do kinds of miracles.”

We say we’re not convinced and ask where we are. “Marketo Subcity”. Our destination is apparently around the corner for the third time.

“I think. You think. Either way,” Isaac says, “Selassie is good man. Once he give a street child a house. Always giving pretty women jobs”.

“I bet he is,” I say.

Isaac finds that very funny. “No no” he laughs, “In airport, properly, not personal.”

We push through more crowded streets, a few tight alleys. On into a residential area. A herd of goats clatter past. A big billboard with the president and the flag on it stares at the houses.

“You see the star in the middle?”  Isaac says pointing at the flag. “You remember it was a lion?” We all nod.

“The lion was sign of monarch. Star is communist.” We nod again, this time showing our enlightenment.

“Ethiopia is big communism man. But people don’t realise”. We say nothing.

“I you’re caught with that old flag, big sheet man”. We turn another corner. “You will see suddenly. One day you will be at home and six men with guns will come to your house. Four will come to get you, two will wait outside if you run.”

We jump into a taxi. “You pay this time,” he says, then continues. “When they get you they blindfold you and put a bag on your head. Then they throw you in the back of an army van and drive you like this”, he holds an invisible steering wheel and swerves left and right like a madman.

He looks funny. I laugh. The whole idea of it.

“Is no funny man, beeg sheet. The soldiers take you to a secret base, maybe in the forest. They put you inside a room. They grab you and rip off the blindfold”.

He tells a story well and lets it hang a short while in anticipation.

I give a high five to a school kid as we pass a mosque with big marble arches.

“Then they shake you,” like this – Isaac wrestles my shoulders. “They put gun to your head. Then, give you the new flag and tell you, ‘Now hang this in your room!’”

We can’t stop laughing. “That’s it?”

 Isaac nods, unhappy with our reaction. We advise him to change the ending of his story, especially when he’s telling tourists. We share some violent South African stories and have him eating out our hand. We’re back in control, I don’t even need Afrikaans.

“Surely brother? Is true man? Sheet!”

“How far?” Jordan asks.

“Close. Around the corner, brother.”

“Isaac, if we turn one more corner we’ll beat you like the police in South Africa, I swear!”

Isaac laughs. We turn three more corners and stop at a door with stairs that go down below street level.

“Is here brothers!”

The doorway is dark. The smell of weed wafts up so strongly my head feels light.

Two days earlier we’d been arrested at a cheap, brothel-like place for staying in an area that was ‘too cheap’ for tourists. We had walked for five kilometers with the police to reach the station. Our bags were searched and our motives questioned by an English speaking commander who his juniors took hours to find. Eventually the police called a hotel and booked us in themselves. We didn’t stay. We’d climbed through the window and caught a taxi to the other side of Addis.

Now a similar feeling was welling up inside my stomach.

“Isaac,” I say, “there’s no ways we’re going in there”.

His stubbly moustache highlights his smile.

“I dunno what your plan is, but we’re not falling for it”.

He smiles harder.

“Do you know what we call this in South Africa?”

“What?”

“A wild goose chase.”

“I wild goose chase?” He thinks, “I like that.” And nods, impressed. “It’s OK man. If  I can’t get you then let’s be friends?”

Friends are good, we all agree. He hasn’t been bad company by any means. He suggests breakfast. Of course he knows a good place.

We cross the road, turn a few more corners, and the smell of coffee replaces the smell of weed.

“We eat Ethiopian. I order.” Isaac is back in charge, talking to the owner with waving arms in a loud magnetic voice.

 Later, behind Isaac’s back, the owner signals me to the kitchen. “This is not good man. He bring you trouble. Even police trouble. Many big problem”.

I tell him it’s okay, we know. He looks less than convinced and shakes his head every time we meet eyes.

 Black coffee comes with njeera, a sour pancake. I push it down with water. Isaac introduces his sidekick who still hasn’t said a word.

“This is Benjamin, he has no English. He is good for my plan. I catch many tourists man”.

Benjamin smiles. Like a puppet on a string. Poor guy. He doesn’t know the game has turned, that we’re all just friends now, not con and dupe. He sits there, still thinking they’re about to pull a scam on the nice guys buying them breakfast. Wondering when. His conscience is working overtime, his face is guilt-ridden. He can barely eat.

We’ve been caught in so many scam’s we’re not even interested in what Isaac’s plan was. Whether it was bribery, cops, theft, a drug scam, or worse. He wouldn’t tell us anyway, so we eat breakfast without any interrogation. There’s no point.

“Perhaps I visit you in SA man?” Isaac says, enjoying the last of the njeera. “Surfing?”

“Yes,” I say, “and perhaps we’ll help you find a bus”.

Isaac laughs. “Good men, clever men” he says, lifting his coffee in a friendly toast.

ARRIVALS

Kipanga                        Tanzania, Lake Tanganyika                    Population:  100   

      

We arrive, like ancient travellers, in a handmade wooden boat. The guys paddle as I scoop out water that is leaking through holes plugged with thread.  Men and women come down to greet us. Children scatter in all directions, terrified by our ‘umzungu’ faces. The fishing rods cause much confusion, and are examined closely. Spotting a hook one man realises their use, his face lights up and he excitedly tells the rest. Hand gestures, touching, ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’; the fishermen are thoroughly impressed.

The village itself has nothing. Just a shop with spares for boat motors.  Asking for food, we’re pointed back to the village we just came from. Too tired to paddle back we decide we’ll rather starve and set up camp on the pebbly beach.

Kipanga means ‘Hawk’ in Swahili.

Nairobi                         Kenya, Capital City                   Population 3.2 million (2009 census)

We bundle off the bus onto littered streets. 2am. Starving. Cold. We walk and find a 24hour Chicken & Chips joint. A huge portion of chips is only 55 Kenyan Shillings, about six bucks. We each have two.

Back to the bus, and the driver allows us to spend the night in it. He takes the prime five-seater back row and stretches out. We’re left uncomfortable, crammed on double seats, but at least off the street. In the morning we wake to a completely different city, except for the bustling Chicken & Chips joint. Business as usual.

The name "Nairobi" comes from the Masai phrase Enkare Nyrobi, which translates to "cold water".

Sumbawanga     Tanzania, capital of the Rukwa Region    Population: 150 000 (2002 census)

                        

It’s a mission. Not merely a manner of speaking, but literally. We’re directed by an over excited receptionist to the head nun’s office. Slipping away the empty beer bottles the Sister gives us a triple room for the price of a single.

Jordan’s slops break. His bare feet create a scene. Being barefoot here is a sign of poverty and madness. Trying to preserve his dignity, everyone in the town rushes to get him shoes, mainly slops... bright green, red, yellow, pink or orange. One or two offer him closed shoes, even some nice leather ones. We’ve learnt on our travels that closed shoes are useless. His refusal creates pandemonium, so he settles on a pair of red slops.

Sumbawanga literally translates to “through a way you are witches”. It stems from local superstitions and practices relating to spiritual healers in the surrounding smaller.

Giza                   Egypt, Pyramid City                Population 2.5 million (2006 census)

Tourist central. We’re hustled into a Lebanese restaurant and seated at a laden table. Breads of all kind, towers of grapes and other fruits I’ve never seen. Dates, olives, jams, cheeses, wine bottles, even Champagne. Our waitress is a Lebanese girl in skimpy clothing. I pull out my wallet. Empty. Say, “We have no money” and we’re hustled out onto the street.

Back to the train station we each find a concrete bench to spend the night on. In the morning we’re taken for breakfast by two young policemen. Chickpea falafels in pita bread with cucumber and sweet tea. They’re fascinated by us and want us to meet their families. We have a train to catch and regret our leaving.

“When the Muslims opened Egypt, they crossed the Nile to the other side from this area so they called it ‘giza mubaraka’. A blessed crossing of the Nile. Since then the area is called Al Giza” – Ahmed (Our host who robbed us.)

Dar es Salaam       Tanzania, formerly Mzizima        Population 1.3 million (1988 census)

We are stranded. We sit and talk to truck drivers at the Tunduma border. They club together and buy us bus tickets to Dar.

“We are all men here,” says Ali, “sometimes we have financial tightness. We are pleased to help you; some day you will do the same.”

We’ve organised to meet Charl, who’s somehow connected to a friend back home. He’s a South African expat working in the mines, settled in the exclusive Peninsula area near the well known Holiday Inn. The trip has taken thirty two hours and we arrive smelly and dirty in our holey shirts.

 Jordan and Robs try to surreptitiously change their clothes on the lush lawn outside the Holiday Inn. We’re so out of place. They have wet wipe baths and drown themselves in deodorant. I decide against it. I don’t want to make a scene in front of the hotel, and think a hardcore Afrikaner working on the mines will be impressed with our roughing it anyway. He’s an accountant and I feel sheepish as I climb into his impeccably clean Land Rover, and slide along its smooth leather seats.

Dar es Salaam is an Arabic phrase meaning ‘haven of peace’.

Addis Ababa                Ethiopia, Capital          Population estimate 4.1 million (2013)

A sprawling metropolitan slum. Marketo Sub city bus rank. A seething mass of outstretched limbs reach up to the bus. Coffee, mealies, fruit, pens, handkerchiefs.

Outside the bus a porter tells us we should not be here. We pull our rain covers over our bags, protection against opportunistic thieves, and go get some lentil samoosas.

Addis Ababa means "New Flower" in the African language of Amharic.

Isiolo            Kenya, Eastern Province, Isiolo county         Population 140 000 (2009 census)

We’re having a taxi swap over. The drivers stand in a huge circle and pray for protection on the road.  The prayer is led by a man in a fancy suit with a fat Bible. It’s loud and in some local dialect. We agree with Amen’s.

Meaning of Isiolo unknown.

Kapiri Mposhi          Zambia, close to the DRC border           Population: 200 at a guess

We’re dropped at a petrol station where trucks often refuel. A crossroad where we can get lifts to our next destination.  Inside, there’s a TV and we watch the last 20 minutes of Tottenham vs QPR. It feels like home. We also watch the chickens. All in a row, brown and glistening, turning slowly on the rotisserie.

Outside we dodge the oily patches on the ground and prop ourselves up against a wall, out of the wind. We pull out our sleeping bags for warmth. Africa is big and it’s sky wide. The petrol station is small and I’m small in the petrol station.

Women nearby are selling bananas and peanuts, still dirty in their sandy shells. They give us some. Thank you. For supper.

I don’t know the meaning of Kapiri Mposhi. But it sounds kind.

Wadi Alfa      North Sudan, on the shores of Lake Nubia       Population: next to nothing

The old Jackie Chan film ends in perfect unison with our journey. It’s subtitles told a different story. The doors open, heat rushes in. I’ve lost my sun glasses and the glare of the white sand hurts my eyes. It’s not quite what we expected. Jackie Chan doesn’t get the princess and she’s stolen by his nemesis. I’m so thirsty and the cold water tastes like sand.

A wadi is a river in North Africa or Arabia. A river which is dry except in the rainy season. Alfa I don’t know. Perhaps it is the name of a famous local.

Awassa              Ethiopia, The Great Rift Valley                 Popluation 150 000 (2007 census)

Everywhere is expensive, except one place.

The women at the door look excited to see us.

 It doesn’t last long. 

We do not seek companionship.

Meaning unknown.

Marsabit                     Kenya, southeast of the Chalbi Desert        Population: minimal

It’s pouring and I need to pee. I climb out the back of the truck, my back stiff from sleeping against its cold metal sides. The roads potholes are filled with water and reflect the lights of nearby buildings. A hand gestures from a nearby hotel.

I watch TV with Peter for half an hour. I must call him when I’m home, he says.

What I learnt from Google, Wikipedia:

 Originally, Marsabit was popularly known as Sokorte. The name Marsabit was given by English explorers who went through the area using landrovers. Popular inhabitants, the Rendille, used to call it Sokorte or Haali dayan. Trekking across the drylands, white explorers describe where they were coming from by pointing fingers to the mountains saying 'Mars a bit" which means high and cool - an old English word. The local residents didn’t pronounce it well, and hence 'Marsabit' was picked up from there. Others claim the name is from the Amharic word 'Marsa bet'; Meaning Marsa's home/house. Marsa was a farmer brought to Marsabit from Mega, in Ethiopia, by the Consul to assist in the consolidation of farming and permanent settlement on the slopes of the mountain.

Kiwengwa                   Zanzibar                       Population: 10 people

Jordan is excited. He’s going to see Shaka, a guy he met on last trip. We walk down the path Jordan remembers, turn around the corner and are greeted by a plot of over grown weeds. Shaka’s hut is gone.

A bunch of high Rastas smoke under a palm roof shelter. They invite us in. They say we can stay wherever we like. Montera, the one with a glorious mane of dreads, recognises Jordan and says he knows where Shaka stays. He’ll call him. His wife left him after the fire and he makes curios on the beach. He’s a beach boy now. They’re famous for sleeping with foreigners, especially the Italians. Montera actually has a kid in Italy who he’s going to visit soon. Shaka says he’s looking for a white lady too now.

The meaning of Kiwengwa went up in smoke.

Chuma                    Zambia, Large informal settlement of about 2000 people

MacNully had picked us up, and after an eight hour journey we were considered friends, so we had to stay over at his house. He laughs at how poor we are. We fetch his son and daughter from school. Chando’s big brown eyes watch our every move. Mbulelo is told by her father to practice her English with us. “Hello, ‘ow are you?”, “Mayi name is Mbulelo. I am nian years old”, ”My fayvorite subject is Science”, “You arah welcome in owah place”.

We’re given bread and tea for supper. A new margarine is brought and opened especially for us. Chando and Mac each have four table spoons of sugar in their tea. Only men sit at the table. Chando is clearly Mac’s favourite child.

In the morning a chicken is thrown in our room to wake us up, and once we’re up, we’re proudly paraded around the dusty streets of Mac’s village, taking the long route back to where his truck is parked.

Chuma. A place where the streets have no names.

Desert Life

For some reason when we arrived at Wadi Halfa, I expected a lot more than just a few houses, small businesses, home restaurants and one abandoned looking hotel next to to a random road in the middle of the desert. Perhaps it was because, as a harbour town, I thought it would have some sort of trade and development. I was wrong.

For us Wadi Halfa will forever be a turning point in our 'hoboness'. Having been caught out by a hidden registration fee of $50 (on top of a $100 two week transit visa), we quite literally had zero money to our name after paying for the ferry to Egypt. it was the perfect time to whip out the survival food and get exactly that on; survival.

After waiting in the shade the entire afternoon, and stocking up on the free cold water at the derelict hotel we set for the desert to find a place to sleep. We settled behind a 'koppie' and watched the sun drop as it pulled the days heat around the earth with it. We each cooked up our various meals; Jordan his noodles and FP his chicken soup whilst robs ate his pronutro-muesli combo and I indulged in a large helping of sand tasting water, deciding I'd keep my chocolate future life for tomorrows breakfast. I also thought how this would make a far better future life ad than Chad le Clos' one, and dozed off thinking how cheap an Olympic gold medal seemed in the vastness of this huge desert sand pit.

Making a ring around our bags we got comfortable, each using our own sleeping methods we'd developed during the trip. The slight breeze was a welcome respite to the heat, and the little bits of stinging sand were a worthwhile trade for the coolness it brought.

Above us stars sat like icing on top of a cake. It was so clear we saw aliens and some other characters from 'starwars'. Chubakka smiled at us and gave us a thumbs up, asking us to greet his relative Dillon Nuss on earth.

In the early hours of the morning, the stinging sand began to hurt. Our air-con has been switched to setting 'Gale force' and we couldn't find the remote to turn it down. Sand flying across the grounds surface, I stood up to get a scarf out my bag, only  to realise the the wind only blew to about knee height. Unfortunately I hadn't learnt to sleep standing up yet, despite coming close on a few bus journeys, and so lay back down, wrapped up my head, and turned my back to the wind.

In the morning we shook off the sand like dogs do with water, and headed back to the town. With the rest creating a diversion, Jords and I managed to slip a free shower disguised as a long toilet visit in the hotel. The day followed the same as yesterday; a search for shade, sleeping and communicating not in English to everyone.

Our next night was very restless. After being too lazy to walk to our previous nights camp, we settled closer to the village in a ditch, hoping to escape the wind. unfortunately, the scorpions had decided to do the same, and seemed to have called a meeting there. After seeing three in the space of ten minutes we were faced with a classic Africa decision: sleep in the desert with scorpions, or find shelter in the town and risk being arrested.

After remembering what the French bikers had said earlier in the day; "ze green ones will kill in sree hours", we decided that had it been three black mambas we would definitely have left and  although not as scary, these scorpions could do the same. thus it became clear, we needed to find another spot.

We picked up camp walked across the desert of dry bones (quite literally: dead camels everywhere) to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Our stealth was completely ruined when one territorial dog barked, only to be joined by every other dog in the whole of Wadi Alfa, if not North Sudan and possibly even the South. Worst of all when they all stopped, one single dog remained barking, like the cymbal player in a marching band determined to be recognised. Comically, it was actually barking at it's own echo bouncing off the distant 'koppie'

We rose the next morning not arrested and laughed as Jordan pointed out that our closest equals in the little nothing town were the stray dogs who, threatened by a possible take over, had barked at us the entire night.

Sneaking another shower, this time dodging the suspicious owner, I even managed to fill up my bottles with some cold fridge water whilst no one was looking. After trading avoidance tactics with the rest and hearing how Jordan had scooped a free breakfast, I realised in my gleeful feeling of victory at a cold shower we'd gone full hobo and the travelling had truly begun to take its toll.

FP Looking over Lake Nassa

 Finding an old blue truck

 Climbing into the old blue truck

 Stealing the old blue truck

 The Rob, plotting...

Our second night taking refuge from the scorpions

 

waking... unarrested!