Brother Isaac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We pause. Look at one another.

“Is cheap cheap man brothers, come” .

We follow.

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

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

“I can see. Was in Cali, man, 2008”

I smile and nod.

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

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

“Cool dude,” he says passing me mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I bet he is,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We can’t stop laughing. “That’s it?”

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

“Surely brother? Is true man? Sheet!”

“How far?” Jordan asks.

“Close. Around the corner, brother.”

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

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

“Is here brothers!”

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

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

Now a similar feeling was welling up inside my stomach.

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

His stubbly moustache highlights his smile.

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

He smiles harder.

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

“What?”

“A wild goose chase.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

North Sudan

The drive from Matema border to North Sudan’s capital Khartoum was a totally surreal experience. The harshness of our new environment was completely different to anything we had seen on the trip so far. The drive to the nearest town from the border was thirty minutes across the most arid of deserts. Sand and more sand as far as the eye can see, harsh, dry and lifeless yet as beautiful as the lush green highlands of Ethiopia we had left behind us.

With Sudan permanently on high security alert Police stops were frequent and found in the middle of nowhere. How people are even found is such places remains a mystery. Nevertheless, as the taxi would stop people would come running over dunes with buckets of homemade hibiscus juice, deep red in colour and freezing cold. Despite the unnecessary amount of sugar it contains, in the dry heat the refreshment it offers is priceless and everyone in the taxi helps them self to a glass or two... or three.

Despite being scolded for our short pants and Robs for wearing a vest we are deemed safe to travel onward but warned to buy some ‘proper clothes’. Still discussing the ridiculousness of wearing long pants in such a climate we realise that the dry wind gushing through the open window has absolutely no cooling value to it either, and so we shut it pulling closed the black curtains of the taxi: shade.  Having previously thought them unnecessary we realise that in Sudan shade is a precious commodity and that it may, along with copious amounts of water, be our only respite.

Something about the heat and dust, the lack of English, the robes worn, our ‘non- muslimness’ the many police stops, our insignificance in the vastness of such a desert and our complete reliance on something as simple as water finally makes us feel like we’re truly experiencing Africa.

When we stop we jump off, excited to see what are new food options are after three weeks of Njeera n Dibs (disgusting sour pancakey things and minced fillet). We wonder around looking at all the shops and rows of restaurants making sure we pick the right option and don’t land up regretfully walking past a delicious meal, full from a rushed choice of food.

All the shop owners try to coax us into their restaurants with tasters and by the time we settle we’re pretty full anyway. It seems as though foreigners and especially white people are a rarity in such an area and we end up having an absolute blast as everyone excitedly fusses over us. Our meals are paid for by a University lecturer and before we know it treat after treat is being place before us, “Taste this, taste this”. Deep fried crushed chickpeas, meats of all sorts, their version of falafels, more hibiscus juice, whole oranges liquidised into a tropica like juice, vegetables I’ve never seen and sweet pastries confuse our stomachs, leaving us feeling quite ill but. Perhaps the only disappointment was the fruit. Having spent all its time in the sun it reached us more stewed than anything else and rather displeasing to the palate.

From this wonderful market in Gardaref we had to take a seven hour bus to Khartoum. More sand, more flat desert into more dune desert. This may seem boring but the further you go the more you realise how huge the desert is and the more beautiful it becomes. The subtle changes from open planes to dunes, to thin coverings of scrub to strange black earth and little houses in the middle of nowhere creates a landscape in which your mind wonders up all sorts of possibilities and stories of life in such a country.

In perfect timing the old Jackie Chan film screened on the bus ends as we enter the outskirts of Khartoum and we open the windows, killing the aircon to see the city. From the nothingness of desert to a huge bustling city of tall high-rises and bustling markets; still thriving at two in the morning as people enjoy the coolness of night. People picnic along the green grass that runs parallel to the airstrip whilst others participate in a huge public session of yoga or something of that sort.

Another new city, completely different to the many we’ve passed through; each a unique mood, each as fascinating as the next.

Addis Window

Car wheels on the wet tar recreate the sound of rain. Arabic Muslim prayers from a nearby Mosque slightly over power Chris Brown and Jordan Sparks old hit “No Air”, creating a strange symphony. Breaks screech and hooters toot incessantly. Rumbles of thunder cause the glass to vibrate and the broken door to rattle on its hinges.  Shouts echo as they climb the twirling staircase.

I get up to look outside and gaze along the green and grey corrugated iron roofs rusting in age. The rain has made puddles and a slush-puppy of rubbish and mud all along the gutters. Umbrellas are out and people run from covering to covering. The standard half white half blue taxis dominate the road, each with a different sticker on the back; usually religious or supporting some football club.

The rain starts up again, harder this time, and it’s pattering on the tin drowns out most of the noise except my Arabic backing track. A rude bus horn twice disturbs my solitude. Across the road begins a vast shanty town; a jagged desert of tin roofs that continue for miles until a foresty hill covered in grey mist begins. More and more houses, like cans of baked beans on a fire with holes poked in them, begin to let out pillars of wood-smoke, obscuring my view of the distant pallid Mosque.

Everything now seems grey except for a light blue shack selling bottled water and a red and yellow striped tavern branded by the local ‘St. Georges’ beer, ironically a biblical figure. Other than these a fruit store and a shop selling bright pink and green doors are the only stationary objects that add colour to my scenery. Occasionally a person skipping across my slice of Addis adds a brush of colour to the window painting.

This centre of Addis, Marketo Sub City, is a true slum of Africa. Life is hard and stops for nothing. Yet still, the difficulties of day to day living have not stolen the joy that is evident in the brief interactions between its rain dodging inhabitants. Even from my elevated view I can see the smiles and cheerful eyes.

When the sun comes out, noise will increase, shouts will flood through my now quietened window and the streets will fill up as the bustling trading will once again seize to life. Masses of people will paint the grey into an ever changing kaleidoscope of colour. 

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.

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.

A little taste of Zambia

Botswana - Zambia

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

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

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