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Sudan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hibiscus Salesman

Egypt side

Brother Isaac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We pause. Look at one another.

“Is cheap cheap man brothers, come” .

We follow.

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

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

“I can see. Was in Cali, man, 2008”

I smile and nod.

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

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

“Cool dude,” he says passing me mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I bet he is,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We can’t stop laughing. “That’s it?”

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

“Surely brother? Is true man? Sheet!”

“How far?” Jordan asks.

“Close. Around the corner, brother.”

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

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

“Is here brothers!”

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

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

Now a similar feeling was welling up inside my stomach.

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

His stubbly moustache highlights his smile.

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

He smiles harder.

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

“What?”

“A wild goose chase.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Ethiopia in pictures

Credit to FP Aucamp for the photos, who we met twice both at the Ethiopian embassy in Kenya and the Egypt embassy Ethiopia and so joined up for the journey from Ethiopia to Egypt. Good oke!

The bizarre hyena feeding of Harar.

Enjoying his 'Kat' garden

Inside of an Ethiopian home.

Flora, another Ethiopian travel partner we met couch surfing, at the Blue Nile Falls.

Guns, everywhere and manned very poorly, treated like walking sticks.

Luke making some 'cash money' on the black market money exchange, phone calculator in hand. 

The photographer himself FP Aucamp, who traveled with us from Ethiopia, through Sudan and into Egypt.

ETHIOPIA

On entering Ethiopia I am reminded of that scene in 'Alice in Wonderland'; the one in the beginning where she's chasing the white rabbit down the black hole and her surroundings gradually become more and more bizarre. To say that Ethiopia is an island in Africa is by no means an exaggeration and it is a transition which is felt almost immediately; the dusty Kenyan sand-bowl, littered with thorn trees and termite mounds is replaced by rolling green hills, in which tiny houses are neatly embedded. In these rural areas English also seems to completely disappear and is replaced with Amharic, a language which probably most closely resembles elvish and seems to have striven throughout history to produce some of the most difficult words to pronounce. This is a fact the locals know all to well and so take great pleasure in listening to our, obviously comical, Durbanite attempts.

Food takes on a slightly more exotic form, breaking from the South-East African tradition of 'Nshima with everything' to assortments of various interestingly shaped pastries and meats, the origins of which one can never quite distinguish. Other peculiarities of Ethiopia include the incessant munching on copious amounts of 'Kat', said "chat", (a leafy plant) which will "remove all bad feeling" and apparently, if chewed consistently, "make world better place for everyone" or so say it's many admirers.

10 Birr (R5) pints of beer are also consumed from morning till night, with an enthusiasm and verve that would rival even the proudest Irish bar rat. The pubs and clubs are thus often a hive of social activity where Ethiopians gather in their masses. Although this may seem like a pretty normal social activity to engage in, the manner in which the Ethiopians undertake it can only be described as 'Classic Ethiopian'. Arriving at one pub to watch a football game, for example, we were met with the sight of hundreds of avid fans watching Tom and Jerry instead.

Aside from the complete disregard for social norms, Ethiopians seemed to have boycotted the rest of the worlds notions of time and space; when asking anybody the time, it is always imperative to distinguish between 'European time' or 'Ethiopian time' (GMT-6), the basis of which has no correlation geographically. jumping between these two times zones is commonly used as a tool by bus drivers to make their journeys seem shorter, providing a European departure time and an Ethiopian arrival time.  Moreover when inquiring of the date we discovered that it is apparently still 2005. I'm not sure how the rest of the world missed that one, but nonetheless, sitting drinking a beer, watching Tom and Jerry with Robs and Luke, I realized that if a policeman were to come and ask for ID's we would most definitely all get locked up for underage drinking.

Time traveling aside, Ethiopia remains somewhat of an oasis in the heart of Africa. Having never been colonized, it seems the country has taken on a very different path of development, creating a uniquely different culture along with it's own set of rules and regulations as well as ideas. We have thoroughly enjoyed the experience and Ethiopian peoples casual and contagious contentment with life.

(Some photos will be up in the next post, but for those of you who can't read anything without pictures, here's a shot of one of the Kat junkies we found in Addis.)

This was his response when we tried to take his Kat off him.

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Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 5

We arrived in Nairobi after the “twenty-four” bus took us a casual thirty-two hours, a lot better than the bus we passed coming in the opposite direction who were forty-nine hours in and only half way. Counting our blessings we set off for Karen district to meet our hosts, the Warren family, who we had been put in contact with via the grape vine. It was great to be part of a family again whilst waiting for our Visa’s to be processed, enjoying good food and good company.

It’s funny how on long, ‘hard’ trips like these your standards drop so significantly that even the smallest of comforts feel like a heavenly experience. Something like a bucket bath after a long dusty journey feels like you’re in some crystal clear pool and if you’re lucky enough to get a shower head, you feel like you’ve hit an absolute jackpot, as if you’re now standing in a crystal pool with a waterfall. Thus, staying in a beautiful house with hot water, hot meals and warm beds felt like we were kings in a castle; a total contrast to our last two weeks of travel.

Kings and castles aside, it seems like everywhere we go drama follows us, although I suppose that’s more Africa itself than anything else. Though we weren’t actually right in the thick of it, there were huge riots in the city centre about MP’s pay rises on top of already ridiculous salaries. The strikes were labelled ‘Occupy Parliament’ and pigs were brought in, one of which was slaughtered and its blood used to paint names of officials on the other pigs. What added to the shock factor (whether intended or unintended) was the savage cannibalism which the pigs displayed as they veraciously devoured their fallen comrade on the steps of parliament… truly symbolic?

Listening to the radio in a taxi on our way out of Nairobi the next morning was an absolute treat, comical to say the least, and I was left rather bummed and disappointed when the drive ended. The DJ kept saying, in his deep, gruff and typically East African accented voice, “now we know that the strikes were necessary, and I am in support of the strikes, but was the manner, and that is the question we are discussing, was the manner in which they were conducted distasteful? We are talking about the manner in which the strikes were conducted.”

As for the responses, they were absolutely delightful. A young lady called in first, disgusted. Then another, her more worried about animal cruelty. After this a man with a big voice called in, and I must say his response was my favourite, he simply said, chuffed as ever, “Ah! Ah! Ah! it was classic, brilliant!”. Next a Doctor ‘so and so’ decided to give a very educated and psychological response about the symbolism and how it was scary as people were saying they are ready to kill over such matters.

Upon jumping off and collecting our passports we began talking to the policeman on guard at the embassy; an ex professional boxer who had been in South Africa in ’93 and also to five European countries for tournaments. He was a proud yet humble man, not boasting in his achievements or glory days but rather happy he could share in once being in our country as we were now in his. I will never forget his huge hand as he raised it in his gesturing of “five countries” and how my fingers couldn’t  even reach around his hand as he shook mine goodbye.

And so we left, somewhat glad for our return to Kenya, ready for round three of our Moyale nightmare, this time wiser and more prepared. We booked seats sixteen, seventeen and eighteen, close to the front and on the side were wind blew the dust away rather than directly into the window. In our bus the back row was left empty and we laughed as we thought of our ‘growth’ as travellers and decided how if we saw any tourists on their way down Africa, we would definitely recommend the back seats which, we would tell them, they set aside especially for tourists.
 

                                                                   we strapped Brad's GoPro to one of the pigs, joking image courtesy of interoccupy.net
The End  
 

 

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 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.

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The breast feeder and biscuit sprayer, guilty as charged.

The Budget Breakdown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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