Matthews and the Inspector

Hello everyone. Sorry about the inconsistent blogging, the Internet in Africa is giving us a few hassles! It has been really hard to upload posts, but hopefully we can get some consistency sooner rather than later. Also, we're off to paddle around Lake Tanganyika - but anyway, Enjoy the story of Matthews...

Matthews

After a long and dry thirty-eight hour journey, we eventually arrived at a very full Zambezi river that creates the border between Botswana and Zambia. Seeing water felt like a mirage as the Zambezi glistened proudly in its 500m plus, width. Having not bathed since South Africa, I took off my grey (once white) shirt, and brown-bummed pants and immersed myself in the dirty, but cool, water. The guards looked on tentatively as the ‘umzungu’ (white person in Bemba) crocodile fodder washed off the long journey in his lime-green boxers.

No sooner was I drip-drying when the ferry returned, and a huge truck begun to drive onto it, followed by passengers laden with goods for home. We checked in at the Zambian side where the offices smelt more like a barbel fish factory than a government building. Bright baby blue taxis holding eager drivers bombard you as they fight like bulldogs for bewildered passengers. We are not such and sit down to a cold Coke and Fanta. After asking around, we hear of a once busy campsite “not too far from here” that is now abandoned and inhabited by locals who used to work there.

A sandy 3km walk through Kazungula village turns into a swamp crossing with bags on backs and pants rolled high. Children play in wooden boats carved out of tree trunks and jump from branches into deeper parts of the swamp surrounded by green reeds as far as the eye can see. We pass communal baths as three or four kids enjoy each others company as they scrub themselves clean.

The old campsite we arrive at has simply been left to waste. Three young men; Mark, Alex and Gilbert, say we are more than welcome to claim a piece of grass as our temporary home. Rob and Jords immediately set up their fishing rods and cast some lines, the sound of the spinner relaxing in the quiet of the late afternoon. We begin to chat to the three young men and ask them how long they have been living here. “We don’t live here” they exclaim. How generous, I think, offering up someone else’s land - relaxed, hospitable Africa at it's best. Despite now being slightly unsure, we decide to stay. When the true owner comes, we’ll just pass him on to MAG (Mark, Alex and Gilbert) and they can explain their actions.

Unfortunately this simple plan in our heads was not as easy to implement in reality. The true owner, Matthews, arrived in a crisp blue and white pin-striped, collared shirt with the fabric left of the buttons tucked into his black boxers and the fabric on right of the buttons hanging out. We begin chatting but he doesn’t seem to believe a word of our perfectly normal story, even seeming suspect of the names we have given ourselves. Still shocked a little by his unfamiliar nature, he summons Jordan and I to his dilapidated cabin and tells Robbie to stay and watch the bags. He seems almost intent on splitting us up and does so successfully, as Robbie obeys.

In his cabin Jordan and I are told to sit on his messed up old couch after which he disappears for a moment. Whilst alone, I glance around and pick up a Christian hymn book. Slightly more at ease, Matthews returns to announce “I have brought you here to find the truth!”. With this little explanation, we are asked to give up our passports for examination.  Whilst examining our stamps he, rather badly, cross-questions us, simultaneously watching our every move. As weird as the situation may seem I cannot dispel the feeling of being a character in a comical detective story with it’s own quirky detective.

Despite his best attempts to impose himself as a powerful person, Matthews is a very un-scary human. With strong hand gestures I am sent back to fetch Robs. I later find out from Jords that during this time he was shown countless photos of Matthews as a police and army officer posing with many different guns, including one with an AK47 - his personal favourite.

When I return, Robs in tow, Matthews seems a different person. He happily invites us to camp on his lawn, posing as our new protector. Somehow I know it is more to keep his eye on us. We learn about the previous owner, Vans, who is now back in South Africa after being deported for illegal wild animal trading. Apparently he was found 'not-guilty' and is set to return soon. Matthews plays back a recording of a phone call between him and Vans, it is evident in his smile that he worships Vans, and suddenly seems rather small and lonely. 

Deciding Matthews is harmless we set up tent whilst he has some weird, perhaps staged we thought, phone call with “Inspector” about checking some documents or other. As we are about to head for bed a figure appears out of the dark, startling us all. He introduces himself as Chris. In whispers he says “Whoever is your leader must come and meet me at twenty-two hundred hours”. Wanting to sleep, Jordan bravely asks if we can not just come now, instead of the scheduled meeting two hours away. This is met with a simple “No” and the meeting becomes non-optional. 

Perplexed by our bizarre second summoning, our minds begin to wonder. After lying crammed for thirty-something minutes in our two man tent dreaming up the worst possible scenarios, we decide the whole situation is utterly ridiculous and why must we pander to these outlandish demands from people who are in fact squatters on a once magnificent fishing camp. Thus Jordan and Robs set off an hour and a half ahead of schedule to confront Chris and put an end to all this nonsense, as I stay and watch the bags. 

Content in my fate, good or bad, I drift off despite my worries. Whether I am woken by Jords and Robs’ laughter, screams, or Vans’ cannibal-slave Matthews, matters not as the journey overtakes my eyelids despite my best intentions of being a good friend and watchman.

Luckily it is Jords and Robs’ semi-worried amusement that wakes me. It turns out we were pretty accurate in our assumptions all along. Chris is in fact “Inspector”, a ridiculous name he says Matthews insists on calling him. The earlier phone call was in fact a coded message that he was holding us three on his property, intent on calling an immigration officer in the morning. Chris’ whispering visit was merely to get us, unnoticed, away from Matthews to tell us his plan. Jords retells of their supper of peanuts with the rest of Chris’ most hospitable homestead where the word ‘harmless’ was repeatedly used to describe Sam Matthews. Sam was the name we decided to give him. 

The next day all is well that ends well, as Matthews' attempt to relive his investigative past seems merely an act of paranoia caused either by his past army experiences, or multiple bouts of malaria, we decide. Biding him farewell, we present a Bob Marley CD as a peace offering. He is only too stoked, and immediately puts it on as he changes for work. He comes out in suit and tie, yet still in boxers, with his pants and shoes neatly folded in his hands. I now realise that his permanent attire of boxers is due to the crossing of the swamp, and not his craziness. Our final handshakes are interrupted by, no doubt, another secret phone call and Sam rushes off to tackle another day and catch some more innocent criminals.

A little taste of Zambia

Botswana - Zambia

As we crossed the border at Derde Poort from South Africa into Botswana, our first ride was with a man named Soka, he is a reverend and farmer in his local town. He invited us into his home for breakfast, and hosted us with a generosity that was incredibly humbling.
This is Soka and his family.

Luke and Robs with the man of the moment Raphael who took us in his truck for the larger part of the Botswana leg of the journey. He took us all the way to kazungula border crossing into Zambia, a journey lasting almost 24hours

A view from the back of an empty brick carrier, another lift we got in Botswana

Madikwe Game Reserve

This is where our journey or 'touring' (as many africans seem to think we are doing) began.

This is madikwe game reserve, providing a welcome reprieve for us before we entered harshest Africa.

Jozi

You don’t have to travel far in South Africa to be out of your comfort zone. In fact, for most people, a few hundred metres would take them into a world that they’ve never experienced before. For us, Park Station in Johannesburg was one such area we had never encountered. And while we can safely say we’re not the kind of people that have never been into town, it’s definitely not the first place you’ll find us.

On a trip like the one Rob, Jordz and myself find ourselves on, you catch yourself thinking that the adventure will start as soon as you cross the border out of South Africa. Sitting in the train in Joburg I found myself immediately thinking of the subways in London, where people were getting agro if they waited for more than five minutes for a train.

Here in Joburg it’s 4:15 pm and our 3:50 pm train to Boksberg is as still as the building in which it stands. Africa time! It’s loud and we’re a little but unsure of what’s actually happening, our only other train experience coming from our overnight train trip from Durbs to Joburg way back in 2010, where we nearly froze ourselves to death.

This train is filled with work commuters at the end of their long, tiring day. Hawkers walk up and down with an air of everydayness that is hard to explain. Ice lollies R2, five plums R2, two pineapples R4, five little red apples R4, grapes R2,50. Even the Daily Star newspaper, marked down a Rand from the customary seven. Then there’s also the non-food hawkers; Vicks, Zambuk, earbuds, nail clippers, ID holders, ear phones, pens, the list is endless. Everyone is selling the same thing and they all know each other, creating a friendly competition.

A young school boy only two bricks high walks with a gangster limp, shouting at all the grownups “make space!” which later just becomes “space!”.

We stop at about ten small platforms along the way to Boksberg East. At each point more and more people clamber on, until we’re all shoved together like too much stationary in an over eager school kids space case, where the zips won’t shut. Neither will ours. The doors are stopped from closing by whoevers feet are closest. The total disregard for safety in South Africa is one of my favourite things.

As more bodies clamber on my eyes are drawn towards an elderly man. I’m tempted to give up my seat, but I’m semi-stuck with all the bodies and my big bag against me. The old man is wearing a white knitted shirt with a zip that he has left open, creating a v-neck like collar. He’s wearing silky navy pants, light-brown leather shoes and a similarly coloured leather belt. His white knitted shirt neatly tucked around his ‘mkhaba’ (his boep). The open v-neck shows a red and white beaded necklace strung around his neck. He’s also wearing a brown hat with a reddish orange feather in it. He has a very short, almost stubbly beard, greying slightly with dead yet kind eyes. He reminds me of an old 'Drum' era writer.

As anyone who has travelled the third world will tell you, the contentment and joy poor people show is truly challenging and heart-warming. This beauty of poverty is something I cherish most deeply as someone growing up in Africa.

Of course this is true, yet in isolation, the naive idea is short lived and the harshness of poverty is quickly shown. A middle aged cripple man drags himself along the floor with his arms, pushing a tray ahead of him collecting coins and pieces of fruit from whoever is willing. I am reminded of India and the similarities shared between the two places.

We get out at Boksburg expecting a busy platform, but are instead greeted by remains of what could have once been a busy station. It is quiet, empty and completely unmarked. We pick a direction and walk confidently, agreeing that such people don’t get robbed.

Pantsless!

We were so excited to leave Jozi, we forgot to put our pants on!!!!!