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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

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 3

Hoisting my backpack up the lorries ladder, I dodge the red mud left by the pair of huge boots two steps ahead of me. Behind me Jords, Robs and a few others follow suit.

The lorries are of course meant for carrying goods and as a passenger you simply find your place a midst whatever cargo is being carried. Today's choice is a lorry full of various vegetables. Thousands of loose cabbages lie at the rear end of the the lorry and in front of them sit large bags of carrots followed by even larger (about 200kg) bags of potatoes. Of course it's no 'Woolworths' van and all the vegetables are still unwashed and extremely sandy, making for a rather dirty setting.

The three of us are taken in by our surroundings, 'frothing' on the new experience. After five minutes we stop for more cargo and a few more passengers. More of the same massive bags are added, this time it's sugar and rice. Boxes of biscuits, beef cubes and washing powder are also thrown in, making a soapy vegetable aroma. Five or six more people jump on and I count a total of twenty-three men, one women and her baby.

I readjust a few things and make a fairly comfortable bed on the sugar, surrounded by a sea of cabbages. Jords and Robs have settled in on the potatoes and use their bags and the carrots as back rests. Some people sit outside on top of the lorries metal frame and with the roads still nicely tarred the journey starts comfortably enough. Until rain. The grey clouds, once ahead now loom solidly above us and the first few drops begin to fall. It comes quickly and within minutes it's pouring.

The back of the lorry is covered by two plastic covers; the one on the outside is thick and green, strong but old with holes, under this lies a clear sheet that provides the main rain protection. Those sitting above scurry inside and my glorious throne of space is slowly invaded. First an older man joins me exclaiming "Ah we are together". He seems rather impressed at my "picking a space" skills, acknowledging the wisdom beyond my years with a nod and a grunt of approval as he slides in next to me. He seems to find the whole scenario very comical as he laughs at those getting rained on nearer to the front. As the rain continues, more join and my throne becomes more of a footstool as I am pushed further and further off of it.

After a little while the water dripping through the old green cover begins to collect in the clear plastic, creating pools above our heads where it sags between the trucks squared metal frame. In total four pools are created and as the truck moves water 'swishes' from pool to pool. As one is emptied another one fills, and so the risk of it spilling increases. Thus the water becomes like an axe hanging above ones head and with every bit of braking, accelerating and sharp turning, a game is created between the passengers as water flows from pool to pool. Filling is greeted by frantic 'pushing of water' into someone else's pool, who in turn does the same, transferring it elsewhere, and so the game continues. All eyes watch as everyone calculates the risk of getting showered upon  as amounts of water rise and fall. To both safe onlooker and the endangered, it is a more than comical sight. The entertainment makes the wet a lot more bearable and soon teamwork takes over and everyone works together to push the water away from danger, out over the cabbages.

When it clears we make our way to the front, climb out the folded back plastic and sit on the metal frame; the wind icy against our damp clothes. Flat plains as far as the eye can see with a covering of sporadic shrub and thorn trees. Distant mountains to one side, shimmering in the heat. Large herds of cattle guarded by Masai create clouds of rising dust as hundreds of hooves trample the barren earth.

On my left a Masai guards his herd, wrapped in two cloths. The first, a bright pawpaw orange, partly covered by a deep purple outer cloth. He wears a burgundy scarf wrapped around his head with feathers sticking out, almost like an American Indian. Around his ankles, wrists and neck hang many pieces of beaded jewellery. His ears both have huge tunnels, in the right one a feather hangs through and in the left is a shiny metal earring. He holds a a stick, black with green beads. Over his bare chest hangs an AK47, around his waist a long machete in a leather satchel.

The Masai here differ from the more traditional red dress so commonly found elsewhere in Kenya. They seem more nomadic and wild. It feels good to see them, the non-tarnished, non-tourist version of the Zanzibar sell-outs, knowing their machetes are used to protect their cattle and not merely to peel oranges.

The journey continues and the crowd of passengers changes frequently as many get on and off along the way. At one stage we're joined by a whole group of Masai, more traditionally dressed in red with white beads and sandals, their hair braided and dried in a reddish mud. As they get off a more modern Masai gets on, his traditional skirt accompanied by a thick-striped black and white collared shirt and a Taqiyah (Muslim hat). Although his English is good, there is little conversation as his sits quietly chewing his 'Kat'.

As night falls, more and more people get off and when we finally reach our destination, Marsabit, only about five of us remain. The driver checks into his 'Hotel' and we're allowed to sleep in the back. Suddenly the bags of potatoes are not so romantic and provide more of a stone like mattress than anything else. Our excitement warn off, we settle in for another uncomfortable night of minimal sleep and water dodging as the rain continues.

Midway through the night the pool above me gives way, and my sleeping bag is left soaked. Freezing and wet I try escape the even colder metal side of the lorry and snuggle up to Robs attempting to steal some of his body heat. It works to minimal effect and as I slowly drift off back to sleep I think of the days previous passengers and how they'd probably like to know I lost the game of 'water dodging'.

A horrible shot, but hopefully you get a bit of an idea.

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 2

The drivers 5 o'clock alarm wakes us and we're kicked out onto the streets of Nairobi, deserted and much colder than expected. We wonder around aimlessly for about thirty minutes waiting for the rest of the city to wake up, our lack of warm clothes beginning to take its toll.

As usual, the best English speakers are either hobos, madmen, drunks or all three and so after each consulting, or several of them, we come together and see which pieces of information gathered were most common. From today's drunken ramblings it seems we require a taxi to Isiolo where we will find further transport to the border.

A kind 'piki-piki' (motorcycle-taxi) driver helps us find our minibus where a huge fight breaks out for our bums (to be places on seats I mean). Each tries to convince us their taxi is best and leaving soonest. It ends with a hostile "**** you" to which the insulted replies "you know are so so stupid". We go with him, his answer convincing us of his authenticity. As soon as we've made our decisions everyone is back to best buds and the game of trying to 'win' your customer is over.

We feel good about our choice as everyone has their own seat and it looks like we won't have to fight for space. The welcome leg room of the aisle between myself and Jordan is, however, short lived as a wooden plank is stretched across the gap and a little girl, nervously smiling, is placed between us. Other than this, all is well and I ambitiously buy some yoghurt which in turn gets donated to the street kids begging for "European coin". Their frantic yet joyous sharing is a clear indication that they're unperturbed by it's sourness, unlike it's previous owner.

At Isiolo, transport is not the only thing that changes; the environment is completely different too. Christian prayer meetings, with all the drivers joining hands in a big circle, asking for God's safety before the morning journeys get underway are replaced by sounds of "Allahu akbar" blaring over Mosque speakers. It's dry and windy and everyone is suddenly more 'Arab' looking. It's clearly a poorer area and the environment seems strangely unforgiving.

Sitting in the dry wind, my lips quickly becoming chapped, I watch the bags as Jords and Robdog inquire about the next leg of the journey across the Chalbi desert to the Moyale border. We learn it will take three days and can only be done by 4x4, lorry, or a bus that comes straight from Nairobi, which we've clearly missed. Apparently the first and third leg are done at night to avoid the heat of the desert and the second is done during the day as it crosses and area that is bad for bandits. A police block stops anyone from even attempting to drive through there at night.

I am taken back to the three of us sitting on comfortable couches in Charl and Este's crispy clean white flat in Dar looking at our 'Map of Africa' plotting potential routes. As you go North the roads slowly deteriorate down the hierarchy from Highways to Main Roads to Secondary Roads to 4x4 tracks to "tracks" in Sudan, whatever that means.

The sense of excitement is evident on our faces as we sense the journey is entering a new phase. The adventure of a wilder Africa is beginning and we hurry off to find a lorry that would be leaving sometime tonight.

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

A day in the life of Samweli

A large portion of our travel so far has been spent hunched up in the back cab of trucks, for hours and often days on end. Although trucking has sometimes proved challenging, it offers a perspective of African life and culture that cannot be experienced through the public transport system. To share this perspective we follow a day in the life of Samweli, a Tanzanian truck driver who picked us up in Southern Tanzania.

We met Samweli passing by a tavern on the outskirts of Sumbwanga. “Hello my flendies!” he shouts to us as if we're old mates. After some confusing Swahili banter and introductions to his friends and 'wife', Samweli excitedly requests that we join him in his convoy of trucks en route to Dar. Gladly accepting the offer, our response is met by round upon round of Safari, a local beer considered slightly lower class but very popular among Tanzanian truck drivers.

The evening with Samweli is one filled with laughter as we are entertained with mocking immitations of  fellow drivers. Midas, one of Samweli' s better friends at the table, is the epitomy of the term BFG and as a result is often the tail end of all the jokes. The biggest of these being his love for soft drinks and disdain for any form of alcoholic beverage. In the trucking community this could almost be considered a criminal offence since social life is so strongly centred around the taverns which line the roadside of the central trucking route.

Still, most drivers know their limits and as it nears the ten o' clock margin Samweli decides it's time to go to bed. “We have wake up  four 'o clock!” he shouts, pointing to his alarm clock. “That says six?!” we say, slighty perplexed. “No!” shouts Samweli indignantly “that is a four!”. After double and triple checking times we exit the tavern still unsure of when to return. In the background we hear some final warnings being shouted at us “be here four o clock or we go!”

We reluctantly agree on the safer option and arrive back at the crack of dawn. As suspected we return to our convoy, all sound asleep in their trucks, a deep rumble of  snoring confirming our initial suspicions.  At 6 o'clock some of the drivers groggily emerge, slightly hungover but happy to see us. Our bags and ourselves are hauled into the rear cab and we set off for Dar.

The beauty of each truck is that they differ according to each owner, often resembling  a shrine to their favourite football teams, musicians, Gods or otherwise. Samweli's truck is fairly plain in comparison but is at least kitted out  with a double bed, so two of us can sleep while the other is entertained with Samweli's ridiculous 'stories of the road'. Some of them, for example 'the truck driver who got eaten by the giant snake' we've heard before and so are not sure whether to believe. Others such as the 'wicked congolese policeman' seem more believable and every truck driver has about 10 000 different versions.

After some lengthy story telling full of sound effects, imitations and passionate hand gestures Samweli decides it's time for breakfast and we stop for the classic combo of chapatis and chai. The thing with hitching is that you never know how regular stops like these will be. Some drivers treat their journey like a hippie road trip finding any excuse for a break and a leg stretch, while others are more regimental and may drive an entire 12 hour stretch without so much as a toilet break. For safety sakes we stock up on peanuts, bananas and an empty coke bottle before climbing back into our cab.

Samweli returns with a stack of tanzanian notes freshly drawn from the ATM, we suspect that these are part of his 'bribery allowance'. Fines in tanzania range from legitimate offences such as broken electronics or missing seatbelts to more ridiculous accusations of having two different tyre brands or a truck that is too dirty. As a result, most drivers choose to bypass these frustrations and simply drive slowly by every road block with a large note peaking through their fingers.

As midday approaches we're grateful for the peanuts and bananas bought at breakfast. Gauging from Samweli's broken english, that was our last food stop for the day. His boss says he must to get to Dar in three days and so, averaging a speed of 40km and hour, he needs to drive 14 hours a day in order to make it there in time.

The pressure, however, does not stop Samweli from continuing the usual time wasting wheeling and dealing which all truck drivers involve themselves in; these activities include courier services for any private packages on route to Dar, passenger transport for under budget customers such as ourselves and sale of company diesel to roadside sellers who siphon their tanks with hosepipes. On the trip thus far Samweli has already strapped a large bunch of bananas, two sacks of charcoal and three chickens to the rear of his trailer, picking up a few thousand shillings at each stop, probably beer money for later.  

As it reaches late afternoon, we approach  the first weigh bridge. For Samweli this presents a problem; his truck is carrying a bulldozer and he knows his chances of making it through unfined or unimpounded are min. Being the wheeler dealer character that he is, he stops in a lay-bye and sets about waving down other truck drivers going in the same direction. He has already dismantled a portion of the machine and plans to offload it on another truck with a smaller load. The truck driving community, although divided on some class and ethnicity issues, are generally a supportive bunch and Samweli is quick to find help.

With truck drivers, everything except eating and drinking is always done in a massive hurry and with huge amounts of screaming and shouting. So, fortunately, it's not long before we're off again and Samweli is triumphantly celebrating his clever thinking, excitedly recounting his actions to us as if we weren't there to witness it first hand.

Unfortunately Samweli's conquest is short lived and his celebrations are interrupted by an explosive bang coming from the rear of truck. We grind to a halt and Samweli once again springs into action, darting down the road to assess the situation. “Tire is go flatty!”  he cries pitifully. As he stands there in a cloud of black smoke and shredded rubber we can't help but see the humorous side and try not to laugh. At the same time though, you do feel sorry for truck drivers; many get paid below minimum wage, they have the most ridiculous work hours and, on top of it all, they have to deal with problems like this almost on a daily basis.

Watching Samweli, it is clear that he is an expert in crisis management. He hurriedly sets about changing the tire, delegating tasks to everyone. I am instructed to break branches from the roadside trees and place them  at the front and rear of the  truck; a traffic warning system which seems to be understood all over Africa. Meanwhile, Luke and Robbie assist Midas who is frantically throwing tools out the truck in search of a Jack and wheel spanner.

Eventually we arrive at the weighbridge. Samweli parks his truck on the massive scale, hops out the cab and scampers into the tiny office with his papers ready to be approved. After half an hour, however, we begin to wonder what new hassles he's encountered. Finally he emerges through the rickety iron gate, his dropped bottom lip a clear indication that his duties of crisis management are not yet over.

“Four tonnes too much heavy!” he moans as he approaches the cab “we make lighter!”. After off loading  all private packages from the trailer, Samweli takes a spade and begins to remove all the dirt clinging to both the bulldozer and the truck. It seems ambitious to remove four tonnes of dirt, but  he's the boss and he's adamant that this plan will work. Nevertheless after meticulous cleaning and multiple readjustments Samweli's truck is still grossly overweight and he falls to the curb in a slump.We sit with him in some awkward silence for a while but as darkness falls, and with the familiar beckon of his friends  in the tavern across the street, Samweli seems happy to momentarily concede defeat.

And so ends a day in the life of Samweli, outside a tavern where it began. Tomorrow holds another set of challenges and he may have to answer some new questions;  how will he find the front end of his bull dozer? What will he do with the chickens and bananas he's been entrusted to deliver?, never mind the mzungus that need to get to Dar! These, however, are 'future Samweli's problems' and for now he seems content in the company of a beer, his mates and  perhaps the possibility of a new 'wife' for the evening.

A beer for the road

Up bright and early to catch a truck

probably the most comfortable truck ride ever!

Here is the boat we got, only problem is we had to sell ALL our stuff to get it!!

The places we stay

We are lead down a dark passage with evenly spaced wooden doors down the sides of the walls every three or four steps. All the silver padlocks are at different heights and hard to open. When ours eventually does we're met with a very discouraging sight, and begin to negotiate:

- Shingapi? (How much?)

- Pipteen sousand!

- But it's five thousand a room

- There three you... one, two, three (head nodding on each count)

- Yes but we want one room

- OK, make ten

- We can only do five

- OK, just add two, make seven

- Only five, if not we leave

- OK is fine

The room is a three metre turquoise cube with chip marks all over the walls, the roof is mouldy with water marks everywhere. There is a window guarded by matching burglar bars, something very rare in Africa. Silky purple curtains hang from a thread and flap through the missing window pain. It overlooks  a pool table where games of 'five ball' with made up rules are hotly contested till the early hours of the morning.

As we put our stuff down, a beer bottle belonging to the previous guest is slyly picked up as if it was never there. The floor is littered with burnt matches and flattened cigarette butts. The bed itself is still unmade from the night before, it's crinkled sheets covered by the standard blue mosquito net used all over Tanzania. In the corner is a white plastic chair and a blue lantern. The only other accessories are two wooden planks with four hooks in each for hanging clothes on. Sitting down on the spongey mattress my relaxation is short lived as my pants feel suddenly damp. Jumping up I smell beneath me; stale beer! We flip the bed knowing even “pive sousand" is a rip off.

The places we stay part 2: Rummy tummy

Lying, all three of us, on our flipped mattress we take turns running to the 'long-drop' toilet in between countless games of rummy - sickness has hit us hard at Lake Tanganyika. It all started when we arrived in Kipanga village where we planned on buying a wooden fishing boat the locals use to paddle further up the lake.

After a two hour starlit 'taxi ferry' to Kipanga we swear to never reach a place in the dark again. Although the trip itself is something I will never forget for the way the shocked locals warmly embraced us and our travel method, the area is so rural that there are literally no lights and you find yourself struggling to see even a metre ahead. Needless to say finding a place to stay is no easier, until the one “engris” speaker in the village is summoned to talk with us. The different translations and versions of our story make it feel like a kids game of 'broken down telephones' until we are eventually offered an empty room in a resturant amidst the confusion.

Although touched by the generous act of hospitality, I find myself sceptical as I know a spare room in Africa is something hard to come by. As we approach the entrance I can see through the door into a spotless white room and repremand myself for my own 'scepticality'. As I enter I change back to the 'old me' and immediately congratulate myself on my 'knowledge' of Africa. The room holds the most intense smell of fish my nostrils have ever encountered. Looking down on the floor I can see one or two small shrivelled up 'kapenta' (tiny fish) and realise we have been given the drying room to sleep in.

Finally knowing what Jonah must have felt like in the whales belly I settle down thinking that if he survived so will I. As I fall asleep my stomach rumbles and I pass it off as hunger or an effect of the terrible smell that hangs over the room so intensely. Midway through the night I am woken by the sound of the tent zip opening and assume robs has given in to the pull of his bladder. Lying in the dark, my own stomach still going crazy, I hear the distant sound of vomiting and fall back to sleep knowing I better cash in as my turn will be up soon.

In the morning we put on a brave face trying to look as grateful and unruffled as possible. We sit in the shade as close to the 'long drop' as possible and graciously deal with the audience of about thirty children and twenty adults fascinated by our every move.

Despite initially being met with tears and an about turn, the children's confidence has grown with time and the circle of little bodies draws closer and closer. I see one boy in the corner of my eye that seems especially intreuged by the three 'mzungus' in his village. As if drawn by an uncontrolable desire, I watch him reach out his hand to quickly touch my knee. After a successful first landing he gently places his hand on my knee again and sheepishly smiles at me.

My smile back signals his success and cues the tiny mob to follow suit. Even in our depreciated state, the beauty of such a moment does not go unappreciated. Nevertheless, our fears of infecting this crowd of innocent children causes us to retreat to the safety of our turquoise sauna.  

Some pics of healthier times at the lake

So we know you probably think we're the laziest bloggers ever, which we are, but the interweb is really bad here! Anyways, there's a post below and you can follow us on twitter  @TheLovemores, or check out the cool little tab on the right, and we'll tweet when we post!
Cheers.

Teargas in Tunduma

We sit writing from within a grubby, plastic, decorated restaurant. The walls are a classic two-toned blue and cream and covered in dirty hand marks; the decor suddenly fitting.

We get talking to Allen, a young Ethiopian-looking man with thick side burns, wearing a smart collared shirt with slick jeans and 'takkies'. As we make friends we find out he's actually from Nigeria and now stuck in Tanzania since Zambia refused him his visa. His wife and daughter are in Spain as he tries to make some sort of 'wheeler-dealer' success.

The similarity we share is that neither him nor us are customers but rather foreigners in hiding. Earlier we crossed into Tanzania only to be met by a horde of locals fleeing an armoured police van. Upon inquiry we discover that the disturbance is due to continuous conflicts between Muslim and Christian residents which have recently turned violent.

Teargas bombing episodes erupt with ten-minute intervals. Although the atmosphere comes across as initially hostile, the reality is difficult to gauge since locals constantly switch from blood-curdling screams to roaring laughter. Upon speculation and some lengthy rummy games we come to the conclusion that, like all of us, the Tanzanians are simply indulging in a good dose of drama.

Nevertheless, the matter is being treated with a certain level of seriousness, something we realise as padlocks and long-bolts barricade the doors of our restaurant. Intervals between blasts have become shorter and the broken windows are unfortunately no defense against the gas which has left us and the rest of Tunduma coughing and crying. Police still parade the streets with a megaphone, apparently ordering everyone to remain in doors although with Swahili as the national language, we get our information in drips and drabs of broken English.

While the Tanzanians continue to enjoy their rounds of cat and mouse, the Zambians are not as amused, closing their border gates and preventing our retreat. With the road before us still deemed unsafe, we decide that the little area of no-mans land between the two borders is our best bet in terms of safety. We're also chuffed to scoop a free night without the mission of setting up a tent in the middle of nowhere.

The truck drivers have been forced into a similar predicament to us and we're invited into the inner circle to enjoy some strong black coffee, a taste both very familiar and very missed. A white South African man is the ring leader and is fluent in four languages. While he is no higher than any of the local drivers, he seems to rule the roost through his sharp humour and the respect which he's accumulated through his many years of driving and the understanding of their culture. He even gets the Xhosa men eating salad, playfully mocking their disregard for nutrition.

In the morning we rise early with the hopes that the strikers will be sleeping in after their long day of hard work. As we walk up the deserted street we are followed by an army of thirty plus children, fascinated by our great trek. Police still roam the streets which are littered with the remains of burned tyres. Morning greetings have changed from the normal “mambo-jambo” to a mutual smile and cough as a cloud of tear gas still hangs heavy over the town. Everyone walks with cloths over mouth and nose. Looks like the Muslims won.

Sneaky photo of a police van

Getting cosy in no-man's land

Police Search

Hot and baking in the sun with rolled up sleeves, loads of suncream, a minor case of dehydration and still without a lift. Hitching this leg of the journey to Lusaka has not been easy. Eventually we're picked up by Watson, Arthur and Philemon who offer us some cold water and bananas. Thinking we've hit a stroke of luck we relax and dose off in the back off the truck, encouraged by the dull hum and shaking of the moving vehicle.

After about one hour I'm rustled awake buy Watson saying we've been stopped at a road block and the police want to see us. We bundle out the vehicle still a bit puffy eyed and cumbersome in our movements. We're taken to an office and told to wait for the immigration officer. The multiple conversations in Swahili and hand gestures leave us slightly confused and unsure about why we're in this position. All we're told by Watson is that they are looking for three young white guys.

Thirty minutes pass, as we sit sharing a worn down wooden bench with an elderly man on crutches, until we are approached by an absolute hoodlum of a fellow. Of course it turns out that he's the immigration officer we've patiently been waiting for. He's short, wiry, very fair-skinned and has a skull-like face with a very defined bone structure. He's wearing a 'Muslim hat', a blue vest, bell-bottom jeans and a fat blue chain to top it off. He hardly says a word and when he does it's through a clenched jaw with a slight whistle caused by the gap in his middle teeth. Unfortunately he hasn't got the keys to his 'investigation room' and so he asks for our passports. Passports in hand he disappeared again for a while.

After fetching our bags, we return this time with the investigation room open and our inspection begins. One by one we empty our bags as he looks on tentatively for that which he wishes to find. As I sit waiting for my turn, my gaze is drawn to the investigation pin-board where a photo of four is enlarged with the heading 'Murder Suspects' and pictures of dead bodies brutally disfigured and lifeless. Remembering their faces in case I meet them along the way, I begin to wonder how serious this search is and if someone could have planted something in our bags as they sat unguarded for an hour or so. Gazing once again upon the pin board, I am drawn to a less severe case, "Garden table and chairs missing: Reward offered". The 'mickey-mouseness' of this case is comforting.

As for the remainder of our drug search, it was possibly the most pathetic drug search I could have ever conjured up in my head. Basically everything that might have contained drugs was not searched and everything that had no chance of containing drugs was. In fact, if we were smuggling drugs we definitely could have passed off with a good few kgs of something.

Coming across our Bob Marley CD's, used for bargaining and giving to truck drivers, he proudly stated "Rastapharianism" as if it was some major piece of evidence that he could add to his pin board. After forty-five minutes of unsuccessful searching he finally gave up and said "You are free to go" with a big grin on his face. Not only this, but he helped himself to one of the 'rastapharianism' CD's and wished us best of luck for our travels.

We walked outside, our truck gone, back at square one, and a dusty soccer game on behind us. Somehow we couldn't but wonder if Matthews was behind all this and maybe he was less of a laugh than we initially thought.  

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.