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!

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 4

From Marsabit on, our only way forward seemed to be by 4x4 as the lorries were reluctant to carry tourists.  Thinking we were in for a nice, quick and easy version of the trip we proudly got in to our new Land Cruiser, an absolute beast of a vehicle, and settled in to the nice new seats. As usual, in a short space of time, it became grossly overcrowded and mine and Robbies leg room was cut in half by a huge bag of sugar. To make matters worse Jordan was moved and told that the bag of sugar was to be his new seat. Our already halved leg room was to be shared with ‘daddy-long legs’ himself.

The journey as a whole is difficult to explain. To merely say it was dusty and uncomfortable is a complete understatement. To put it in words will in itself be a weak attempt to do it justice, but I shall try nonetheless. The best way I can explain it is that it was like being on a painful, overcrowded, uncushioned roller-coaster in a dust storm for eight hours. You leave an experience like that feeling like you have reached a new level of mental strength and physical endurance. The corrugated gravel roads shake your entire body relentlessly and your  inability to hold onto anything means every bump causes your body to slam either against the person next to you or into the vehicle itself.  We got off in Moyale, Jordan and I each with a cracked rib and  Robbie suffering from severe back spasms. To make matters worse rain and dust had combined to create mud all over our bags and our hair had stiffened into one big dread.
 

Rob n Jords looking like dusty nomads at a midway stop during our 4x4 trip.

I must add that this particular section of the journey is known amongst travellers as the ‘bone cruncher’ and is considered the most hectic stretch of the entire 'Cape to Cairo'. Having said this, reaching Moyale alive had a triumphant feeling to it and we felt all-conquering ‘knowing’ that, theoretically, it shouldn’t get any worse as far as journeys go.  

Of course Africa was intent on teaching us a lesson and on arrival at the Ethiopian border we were told we had been misinformed about being able to attain a visa upon entry and had to go all the way back to Nairobi to get it. After arguing for thirty minutes to try find a way around, the very unhelpful border official loudly and rather rudely exclaimed “There is no option! You go Nairobi”. Moreover he proudly states that it is a common problem, as if the fact that it’s happened to many travellers should make us feel better about ourselves. Having lost all sense of humour by now I can only think that if its such a common problem, do something about it instead of just sitting there all smug-like and fat in your office with your stupid swivel chair (for me, being jobless, I detest swivel chairs as they symbolise office work and yet I admire them because we all know swiveling on chairs is  cool, especially if you’re on an international call talking about stocks and shares in a nice shiny suit, wearing shoes that have laces and socks that aren't secret). Nevertheless, I keep quiet and we humbly return to Kenya, tails between our legs.

The thought of repeating the ‘bone cruncher’ was eating away at our morale. Typical us; no one would ever dream of having to do this leg once, let alone twice and yet here we were about to do it three times, just for kicks. In fact we were so desperate not to do it again that we looked for alternative routes through Sudan and even Somalia; our logic being that we had more chance of survival in these countries than going back and forth along the terrible roads. Even these, however, meant a substantial amount of backtracking and even returning to Nairobi.

Just as all seemed lost. a life line was given when Chris, a local border hustler, told us of two Americans who phoned their embassy in Addis and managed to organise entry into Ethiopia without a visa. And so, we wasted no time in buying a sim card and dedicatedly began phoning the eight or so different numbers we found for the embassy. The response was typically South African and for the first day the phone just rang and rang. On the second day more of the same until about the one hundred and fiftieth call; an answer. Needless to say despite the best efforts of the very helpful Busi, our embassy obviously didn’t have the same sway as the Americans and we were sent packing, Africa had won the battle; Nairobi, round two.

Ten minutes later we found ourselves booking the one way bus ticket back to Nairobi. A “Twenty four hour” trip. Unfortunately all that was available was the back row and after being warned against taking these seats we niavely, or perhaps  ignorantly, ignored the advice, settling for seats fifty eight, fifty nine and sixty.

The trip back was worse than the trip before, the bus gave us an absolute beating; sitting behind the rear wheel created a see-saw effect, throwing you up and then slamming you down, as if the person on the other end just jumped off when you were at your highest. In fact, it was so bad that Jordan and I found ourselves standing for two hours at one point just to get some respite. Back spasms and cracked ribs flaring up again, we whimpered and whined the entire thousand kilometres back to Kenya’s capital, dehydrated, sore, needing to wee and unable to get a wink of sleep.

Not only had our budget taken a huge dent but our spirits had too. An extra R500 on doing the worst part of the journey three times instead of once was hard to swallow and we arrived in Nairobi battered and bruised, truly a sight for sore eyes.

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 1

Leaving Arusha, we literally bargained for a whole day to get a cheap bus into Kenya. This was, however, much easier said than done. Being a high tourist area, it is almost impossible to convince driver and conductor alike of our money shortage. Eventually we all just jump on a bus, produce half the fair requested saying "it's all we have" and try look poor; taking our cue from the ever familiar pro's found at every Durban traffic light. The conductor grumpily allows us to stay, much to the approval of the rest of the bus who seem amused and almost 'stoked' that there are three white guys in the world poorer than them.

Before we go, Jord's typical last minute hunger gets the better of him and he decides to quickly hop off and 'stealthily' grab a chapati, away from sight, still trying to live up to our self proclamation of poverty. Unfortunately the bus decides to leave early and Jordan is left scrambling into the already moving bus with two bulging cheeks and half a chapati in his left hand. 

The conductor turns and just says "money money, chapati chapati". We're caught out but he seems almost impressed that 'the tourists' managed to pull one over on him. He graciously, and now laughing, concedes defeat; us the worthy victors. As for the chapati incident, it wouldn't die as quickly as our financial victory and Swahili conversations containing the word "chapati" along with much laughter and glances in our direction were heard for hours to follow.

The conductor shouldn't mind too much anyway as the bus itself is the first semi-empty one we've been on and is apparently more for moving cargo than human beings. In fact, it's the first bus where there are no extra people, goats or chickens shoved into every little space available. It's a nice change and we spread out feeling like we've really landed with our bums in the butter.

Usually one is left feeling quite the opposite to how we are currently; hard done by, hot and bothered, squashed and frustrated. Looking around, I'm often filled with envy as Jords or Robs has more leg space, or a window with a priceless breeze whilst you sit hot and sweaty resembling something of a contortionist.

The reality is, however, that every seat comes with it's own set of problems. Sometimes it's just simply uncomfortable from overcrowding (and let me just explain overcrowding here: I mean where you think there's space for one person, three will squeeze). Sometimes it's a broken seat with no headrest or the person's chair in front, reclined so far back that it cramps your knees, their hair tickling your Adam's apple all the way. Other times you could land up with the classic 'inconsiderate neighbour' who takes up half your seat and uses you as a cushion. He or she may be smelly or perhaps it's something they can't even help like being short. Now this might seem harsh but being a young Caucasian male in Tanzania you're usually rather large in comparison to the rest of the bus and a short person will manage to sort of get underneath you; pushing your arms and shoulders forward with their elbow usually digging into your ribs, making for an extremely unpleasant journey. Other problems include the very common breast feeding mom and her soggy, biscuit-spraying baby or the over inquisitive kid who lifts your eyelids every time you're about to get some precious sleep. Also unless one of us is manning a window, they will all without a doubt, one hundred percent, be closed. African people's tolerance for heat is remarkable and often you'll see someone sitting in a full suit or sweater, the sun blazing with their window shut, totally content in their self-made sauna.

Thus today’s journey could be a lot more comfortable, the only challenge dodging the dripping water from the rain pelting against the vehicle. We did, however, have one more concern on our minds: traveling at night. Traveling by day can be scary enough, and the darkness of night adds considerably to the tension. As you sit staring forward, you witness some of the most hazardous driving on earth. Overtaking is so tight that you can feel the heat of the oncoming headlights. Blind rises and hair-pin bends seem to be viewed purely as occupational challenges and drivers use them to prove their bravery and valour, driving along like absolute madmen. Our only comfort is that it’s usually the biggest who rules the road and luckily we’re in a pretty large bus.

All’s well that ends well, something you truly learn in Africa, and we arrive safely in Nairobi at about one in the morning. The driver allows us to sleep the rest of the night in the bus and so Robbie settles down as Jordan and I set off to quieten the rumbling stomachs. We manage to find a 24hr Chicken and Chips joint, with a massive portion of chips for only R 6. We each eat two. Belly’s warm and full, we set back to the bus, content. The driver has pulled rank and taken the back seat, and we are left to try sleeping across the two sets of chairs either side of the aisle in the middle. It’s uncomfortable but the levitating act is probably good exercise for our fattened ‘boeps’. Either way, a free night is welcome and we drift off to sleep unsure of what adventures tomorrow’s passage to Ethiopia will hold.

The breast feeder and biscuit sprayer, guilty as charged.

The Budget Breakdown

Many have been asking about the 'dental-floss' budget Robdog wrote about, so we decided to clarify a bit...

Traveling is something that we've talked about for many years, and more intensely so over the last while as we begin to make our own ways in life. The idea to do a full 'Cape to Cairo' came into being after Jordan had gone to Zanzibar and back with his brother, Dave. Stories from that trip fueled our desire to do 'The Full Monty' and being proud Durbanites, Durbs to Cairo was born.

The predicament of a student is a profound thing; you have time but no money, yet realise that later you'll have money but no time. Thus we were determined not let the 'financial' side of things hinder us by any means and in all honesty, if anyone knows the Lovemores, being 'hobos' is quite up our alley anyway. So we scraped together all of our life savings; a grand total of R12 000 each.

After looking at flights back from Egypt we set aside R4000 for a ticket, and R2000 for the different visas, leaving us with a mere R6000 budget. Now there are many different ways to look at this:

It could be seen as R 666 per country, as our route would take us through nine countries: SA, Botswana, Zambia, Tanzania, Zanzibar, Kenya, Ethiopia, Sudan and Egypt. Not to mention that Israel is still very much in the plan. On a distance scale this would be 48 cents per kilometre on our 12 500km trek, something that has already increased to 15 500km with detours; both expected and unexpected. All in all we're currently on 38 cents per kilometre.

On a more ridiculous scale it could be six thousand bags of 10 Kenyan-Shilling peanuts, or twenty-four thousand South African Chappies, a currency I use to distinguish the value of anything I do or buy. More realistically, on an estimated hundred day trip, probably more, but for simple math, it equals R60 a day. Now on one hand this may seem a lot, as we realise that many people in Africa would kill to earn such 'good' money and so we are, to some degree, still very well off in our surroundings. Not only this, but it is by no means the most hectic version of 'roughing it' as in a fit of madness Jordan and Dave made it back from Zanzibar to Nelspruit on R750 (4 countries, 5 500km, 10 days).

On the other hand, if you look at the overall expenses, you'll see that the R60 disappears fairly quickly through transport and accommodation costs. In terms of a food budget, we are often left with just enough money for two R10 meals a day with a snack of peanuts or a samosa in between. As for the meals themselves, they are often less than impressive and there is usually a limited choice of one or two standard meals, country wide. Thus our travel mode has been mainly hitching with the trucks, a service you pay for, or using the cheapest local transport; usually an overcrowded bus. Our accommodation has mainly been cheap motels, usually turning out to be shebeens or brothels, at about R10 a night, the equivalent of a night at a homeless shelter back in SA. Other than this, we've camped or slept at borders and petrol stations or on beaches and in buses. We've scooped some nights with sympathetic truck drivers or locals, being taken back to their humble homes, often highlights of the trip. On occasion, we've also stayed with South African ex-pat hosts, in the lap of luxury, often a much needed break.

Needless to say our entertainment budget has been less than minimal, although in some ways our budget has created that very entertainment itself. All in all it has added an interesting dynamic to our trip. Something like the wrong R250 bus trip eats into four days of the R60 budget, yet a free lift can mean a night of indulging in excess food or a comfy bed and not the concrete floor. Slops breaking, teeth falling out (Robbie) or cut fingers requiring stitches (Jordan) can create an interesting thought or choice process as one ways up the pros and cons of possibly losing a finger versus filling a more than often empty belly.

Shaun Tait

So we recieved this message from our legendary mate Taitus the 'Snubnose-Grunter' himself, and decided to share the humour with all of you...

The man himself, in all his splendour!

It was a starry night, fire crackling in the distant wood, radiating heat from 1000 miles away. Suddenly, with a thunderous echo across the land, began a strange chanting in the air. "Ki Ki-ya, Ki Ki-ya, Jambo!"

Louder and louder, the sound grew with crescendos and musical notes dancing in the night sky. With sticks snapping and leaves, leafing...I was carried towards the fire at the heart of the dock(?) and thrown into a large cauldron. A deliciously scented aroma penetrated my nasal passages as the lid was secured shut!

Hours, possibly days before, (but we know it was split seconds) I was feeding the pelicans and seals at Sodwana Bay dive resort at the OR Tambo airport in Durban, when disaster struck! The pelican bit my finger off just as Jordan landed the plane from their return trip through Africa. With all passengers and cabin crew dead, eaten alive by the Lovemores, THE CANNIBALS - Robbie, Luke and Jords, disembarked to a glorious day in Mississippi! They attacked me, repeatedly hitting me on the head with rocks from their loincloth satchels - but I didn't bleed, not a drop! I ran, ran through the woods as day passed into night (I have high stamina) but the savages kept coming. Out of nowhere they tackled me to the ground. Punches, more rocks, no blood, a pelican! More punches, less rocks, still no blood, another pelican!!! Shaun screaming, Luke laughing, Robbie rocking and Jords, well he's just picking his nose!

I'm tied up, there's a fire, that strange chanting again and a pot!

I started choking, breathing was difficult but tickellish, and my nose, the skin was being peeled off in a monotonous routine! Breathe, I can't, they're eating me! Breathe. Dead.

So that's what I dreamt last night, you bitches ate me! Haha.

I woke suddenly, not being able to breathe only to find my cat had decided to sleep on my face and is cleaning my nose!!!

You come back from Africa and you're Cannibals! What a life story!!!

Zanzibar

People speak of travelling on a shoestring budget; well we must be on the dental floss budget. We realized this earlier on our trip when we were at Lake Tanganyika. Luke, Jords and I had refused to buy drinking water and decided instead to get water from a nearby river, using our chlorine tablets to purify it.

Immediately a group of local villagers, watching from nearby, start up in frantic chitchat; the only word we can make out: ‘Umzungu’. This word is undoubtedly the first word any white tourist or traveller will learn. From the moment you set foot in Africa till the moment you leave you will be, ‘umzungu’! It is the word with which older people will endearingly replace your name; the word screeched out by kids to attract your gaze; it is the word that you hear before many bouts of lengthy laughter or time after time during a conversation in Swahili; it is this word that now drew our attention to the group of villagers watching us.

The most courageous of the bunch pipes up using the best English he can muster and laughingly says “Umzungu, we have agreed, you have a poverty mind! haha”

All I could think in the stark irony of the situation was that this man, with seemingly nothing to his name, was to a certain extent very much correct. We were the ‘Umzungus’ with a poverty mindset, the ‘Umzungus’ on a dental floss budget. Not only was he spot on, but this truth also meant we were about to experience a very different Zanzibar to the Zanzibar of lavish spending, exotic food, five star hotels, dolphin rides and foot massages.

Our Zanzibar adventure started way back at the mainland ferry station. After dispersing all the hustlers with irritated and gruff statements like “My man, we know what we're doing. We have been here plenty times before” we set off away from the traditional ferry station toward the main harbour in Dar to try find the boat Jords had taken two years previously. It was after all far cheaper than the customary $20 wallet assassin, known to many as the flying horse.

We ambled along in the direction of the harbour, Jords leading the way to the ticket office as confidently as if he were leading us to his very own home. When we finally got there Jords had his typical puzzled look on his face, pointing to an old shell of a ticket office he says, almost humorously, “It must have moved o’s, cause this hole is definitely the place”. After asking around we discovered that the boat we were searching for had in fact sunk. And according to the helpful local it was on these grounds that he could say, without reservation, that our ferry would not be fetching us from this dock today (or ever again for that matter). Stuff!! Firstly we’re going to get crooked $20 each to reach Zanzi, and secondly we’re going back to the very same hustlers we so confidently blew off.

When the ferry arrives in Zanzibar we are greeted with the awesome that is Stone town. It has a combo that screams such depth of history and culture, but furthermore has an underlying soul that is just plain down impressive. The old buildings and stone roads roll seamlessly onto the warm crystal clear green ocean; it is a sight for any eyes (even for the most travelled of them).

We grab some lunch at the market and then head to Kiwengwa on the east coast of the island. Jords has a local friend living there, who let him camp on his land during his last trip to Zanzibar. Free accommodation is always a treat and agrees with our motto: “Free stuff is life. And if you miss out on free stuff, you miss out on life”.

We arrive to another handsome looking ocean with a brawny looking outer reef and paper white sands, vacant of life. A leisurely stroll down to Obama Beach Bar leaves us within a stones throw of Shaka’s (Jordan’s friend) house, or lack thereof. There are now only lush impenetrable weeds where the village, and Shaka’s house, once stood.

‘Our’ Zanzibar lies in ruins. Everything that once was is no longer and the rest of commercial Zanzibar lies beyond our financial reach. My mind starts gallivanting on its own mission to who knows where, trying to solve the mystery of the missing village. In due course we find out from another local, a blazing rasta named Montera, that the village actually burnt down not long after Jordan left two years ago.  

(Laughter everywhere and all over my soul) So within the space of one day we discovered that Jords has such bad luck that not only did he cause a ship to sink but also allowed for an entire village to burn down. Watch out the rest of Africa Jordan’s coming and he’s bringing his “luck” too.

We ended up spending a few days with Shaka and Nathi despite the lack of a village, sleeping under a rickety tin shelter; much to the glee of Shaka: “Jordan’ee o my God’ee it is really you’ee. No I can’t baleef it. O my God’ee it is really really you. Jordan’ee, o my God’ee, I am so happy to see you after these three or two years”. These two guys are absolute legends. Nathi is a proper Rasta man, firm in his weed smoking beliefs, while, Shaka is just a genuine, unadulterated, and simply fantastic person; a beach boy by trade. It was a delight to meet and spend time with them, united in our ‘poverty mind’. Shaka touchingly says how we are the first white people he has not felt inferior to; mission accomplished.

And so, in our state of blissful contentment, the time in Zanzi flew by and Shaka’s concrete floor became a little too comfy and the mosquitoes a little too familiar. Thus we decided to wrap things up in paradise and settled on spending one last night in Nungwi for the full moon party before heading back to Dar in our $20 ferry,

The party itself was probably the biggest anti-climax of all time, EVER. It had been hyped up by every local in Zanzibar to be the greatest night of our lives. But regrettably, when the time came it was far from it, there were just not enough tourists to keep the party hip and happening. Unimpressed we settled for an early night on the beach, feigning drunkenness to bypass the Hotel’s attentive guards.

As for myself, the night’s events only went from bad to worse. I woke up in the middle of the night, my tummy brewing a storm that could and would rival Katrina. I hopped up, clinched and power waddled my way up the beach.  After the required distance from my sleeping companions complete, I ripped off my pants and set my sights on the eye of the storm. Me, my tummy and I were in an abysmal way, but even through all the discomfort I could not help pondering “At least I’m leaving my mark on possibly the most beautiful beach in the world, full moon glimmering fiercely off the slick now oily looking water”. The beauty helped, and I thanked the man upstairs for giving me such a glorious landscape in which I could get my reprieve. It is probably not a story I’ll be telling the nephews but it is, never-the-less, a memory that will keep me chuckling if I ever return to that stunning beach in Zanzibar.  Needless to say Luke wasn’t chuckling when I graciously passed my ailments on to him.

All in all Zanzibar was an utter pleasure, draped either side by extraordinary stays with Charl and Este (our hosts in Dar) who treated us to a time we shall surely never forget. From yacht club sunsets; to Super rugby braais and touchies tournaments with the Mexico 7’s captain; to wakeboarding and warm comfy beds; to boys nights and food that would make your mouth salivate endlessly... All things considered, poverty mind or not, we made memories like monsters (and that’s what it’s all about… dah dum). 

Zanzi You were EPIC (F.U.L.L.S.T.O.P)

A little bit of Stone Town in our life...

....and a little more of ST

Obama beach bar in its prime, the home of Shaka and his Rasta mates