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

ARRIVALS

Kipanga                        Tanzania, Lake Tanganyika                    Population:  100   

      

We arrive, like ancient travellers, in a handmade wooden boat. The guys paddle as I scoop out water that is leaking through holes plugged with thread.  Men and women come down to greet us. Children scatter in all directions, terrified by our ‘umzungu’ faces. The fishing rods cause much confusion, and are examined closely. Spotting a hook one man realises their use, his face lights up and he excitedly tells the rest. Hand gestures, touching, ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’; the fishermen are thoroughly impressed.

The village itself has nothing. Just a shop with spares for boat motors.  Asking for food, we’re pointed back to the village we just came from. Too tired to paddle back we decide we’ll rather starve and set up camp on the pebbly beach.

Kipanga means ‘Hawk’ in Swahili.

Nairobi                         Kenya, Capital City                   Population 3.2 million (2009 census)

We bundle off the bus onto littered streets. 2am. Starving. Cold. We walk and find a 24hour Chicken & Chips joint. A huge portion of chips is only 55 Kenyan Shillings, about six bucks. We each have two.

Back to the bus, and the driver allows us to spend the night in it. He takes the prime five-seater back row and stretches out. We’re left uncomfortable, crammed on double seats, but at least off the street. In the morning we wake to a completely different city, except for the bustling Chicken & Chips joint. Business as usual.

The name "Nairobi" comes from the Masai phrase Enkare Nyrobi, which translates to "cold water".

Sumbawanga     Tanzania, capital of the Rukwa Region    Population: 150 000 (2002 census)

                        

It’s a mission. Not merely a manner of speaking, but literally. We’re directed by an over excited receptionist to the head nun’s office. Slipping away the empty beer bottles the Sister gives us a triple room for the price of a single.

Jordan’s slops break. His bare feet create a scene. Being barefoot here is a sign of poverty and madness. Trying to preserve his dignity, everyone in the town rushes to get him shoes, mainly slops... bright green, red, yellow, pink or orange. One or two offer him closed shoes, even some nice leather ones. We’ve learnt on our travels that closed shoes are useless. His refusal creates pandemonium, so he settles on a pair of red slops.

Sumbawanga literally translates to “through a way you are witches”. It stems from local superstitions and practices relating to spiritual healers in the surrounding smaller.

Giza                   Egypt, Pyramid City                Population 2.5 million (2006 census)

Tourist central. We’re hustled into a Lebanese restaurant and seated at a laden table. Breads of all kind, towers of grapes and other fruits I’ve never seen. Dates, olives, jams, cheeses, wine bottles, even Champagne. Our waitress is a Lebanese girl in skimpy clothing. I pull out my wallet. Empty. Say, “We have no money” and we’re hustled out onto the street.

Back to the train station we each find a concrete bench to spend the night on. In the morning we’re taken for breakfast by two young policemen. Chickpea falafels in pita bread with cucumber and sweet tea. They’re fascinated by us and want us to meet their families. We have a train to catch and regret our leaving.

“When the Muslims opened Egypt, they crossed the Nile to the other side from this area so they called it ‘giza mubaraka’. A blessed crossing of the Nile. Since then the area is called Al Giza” – Ahmed (Our host who robbed us.)

Dar es Salaam       Tanzania, formerly Mzizima        Population 1.3 million (1988 census)

We are stranded. We sit and talk to truck drivers at the Tunduma border. They club together and buy us bus tickets to Dar.

“We are all men here,” says Ali, “sometimes we have financial tightness. We are pleased to help you; some day you will do the same.”

We’ve organised to meet Charl, who’s somehow connected to a friend back home. He’s a South African expat working in the mines, settled in the exclusive Peninsula area near the well known Holiday Inn. The trip has taken thirty two hours and we arrive smelly and dirty in our holey shirts.

 Jordan and Robs try to surreptitiously change their clothes on the lush lawn outside the Holiday Inn. We’re so out of place. They have wet wipe baths and drown themselves in deodorant. I decide against it. I don’t want to make a scene in front of the hotel, and think a hardcore Afrikaner working on the mines will be impressed with our roughing it anyway. He’s an accountant and I feel sheepish as I climb into his impeccably clean Land Rover, and slide along its smooth leather seats.

Dar es Salaam is an Arabic phrase meaning ‘haven of peace’.

Addis Ababa                Ethiopia, Capital          Population estimate 4.1 million (2013)

A sprawling metropolitan slum. Marketo Sub city bus rank. A seething mass of outstretched limbs reach up to the bus. Coffee, mealies, fruit, pens, handkerchiefs.

Outside the bus a porter tells us we should not be here. We pull our rain covers over our bags, protection against opportunistic thieves, and go get some lentil samoosas.

Addis Ababa means "New Flower" in the African language of Amharic.

Isiolo            Kenya, Eastern Province, Isiolo county         Population 140 000 (2009 census)

We’re having a taxi swap over. The drivers stand in a huge circle and pray for protection on the road.  The prayer is led by a man in a fancy suit with a fat Bible. It’s loud and in some local dialect. We agree with Amen’s.

Meaning of Isiolo unknown.

Kapiri Mposhi          Zambia, close to the DRC border           Population: 200 at a guess

We’re dropped at a petrol station where trucks often refuel. A crossroad where we can get lifts to our next destination.  Inside, there’s a TV and we watch the last 20 minutes of Tottenham vs QPR. It feels like home. We also watch the chickens. All in a row, brown and glistening, turning slowly on the rotisserie.

Outside we dodge the oily patches on the ground and prop ourselves up against a wall, out of the wind. We pull out our sleeping bags for warmth. Africa is big and it’s sky wide. The petrol station is small and I’m small in the petrol station.

Women nearby are selling bananas and peanuts, still dirty in their sandy shells. They give us some. Thank you. For supper.

I don’t know the meaning of Kapiri Mposhi. But it sounds kind.

Wadi Alfa      North Sudan, on the shores of Lake Nubia       Population: next to nothing

The old Jackie Chan film ends in perfect unison with our journey. It’s subtitles told a different story. The doors open, heat rushes in. I’ve lost my sun glasses and the glare of the white sand hurts my eyes. It’s not quite what we expected. Jackie Chan doesn’t get the princess and she’s stolen by his nemesis. I’m so thirsty and the cold water tastes like sand.

A wadi is a river in North Africa or Arabia. A river which is dry except in the rainy season. Alfa I don’t know. Perhaps it is the name of a famous local.

Awassa              Ethiopia, The Great Rift Valley                 Popluation 150 000 (2007 census)

Everywhere is expensive, except one place.

The women at the door look excited to see us.

 It doesn’t last long. 

We do not seek companionship.

Meaning unknown.

Marsabit                     Kenya, southeast of the Chalbi Desert        Population: minimal

It’s pouring and I need to pee. I climb out the back of the truck, my back stiff from sleeping against its cold metal sides. The roads potholes are filled with water and reflect the lights of nearby buildings. A hand gestures from a nearby hotel.

I watch TV with Peter for half an hour. I must call him when I’m home, he says.

What I learnt from Google, Wikipedia:

 Originally, Marsabit was popularly known as Sokorte. The name Marsabit was given by English explorers who went through the area using landrovers. Popular inhabitants, the Rendille, used to call it Sokorte or Haali dayan. Trekking across the drylands, white explorers describe where they were coming from by pointing fingers to the mountains saying 'Mars a bit" which means high and cool - an old English word. The local residents didn’t pronounce it well, and hence 'Marsabit' was picked up from there. Others claim the name is from the Amharic word 'Marsa bet'; Meaning Marsa's home/house. Marsa was a farmer brought to Marsabit from Mega, in Ethiopia, by the Consul to assist in the consolidation of farming and permanent settlement on the slopes of the mountain.

Kiwengwa                   Zanzibar                       Population: 10 people

Jordan is excited. He’s going to see Shaka, a guy he met on last trip. We walk down the path Jordan remembers, turn around the corner and are greeted by a plot of over grown weeds. Shaka’s hut is gone.

A bunch of high Rastas smoke under a palm roof shelter. They invite us in. They say we can stay wherever we like. Montera, the one with a glorious mane of dreads, recognises Jordan and says he knows where Shaka stays. He’ll call him. His wife left him after the fire and he makes curios on the beach. He’s a beach boy now. They’re famous for sleeping with foreigners, especially the Italians. Montera actually has a kid in Italy who he’s going to visit soon. Shaka says he’s looking for a white lady too now.

The meaning of Kiwengwa went up in smoke.

Chuma                    Zambia, Large informal settlement of about 2000 people

MacNully had picked us up, and after an eight hour journey we were considered friends, so we had to stay over at his house. He laughs at how poor we are. We fetch his son and daughter from school. Chando’s big brown eyes watch our every move. Mbulelo is told by her father to practice her English with us. “Hello, ‘ow are you?”, “Mayi name is Mbulelo. I am nian years old”, ”My fayvorite subject is Science”, “You arah welcome in owah place”.

We’re given bread and tea for supper. A new margarine is brought and opened especially for us. Chando and Mac each have four table spoons of sugar in their tea. Only men sit at the table. Chando is clearly Mac’s favourite child.

In the morning a chicken is thrown in our room to wake us up, and once we’re up, we’re proudly paraded around the dusty streets of Mac’s village, taking the long route back to where his truck is parked.

Chuma. A place where the streets have no names.

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.