Desert Life

For some reason when we arrived at Wadi Halfa, I expected a lot more than just a few houses, small businesses, home restaurants and one abandoned looking hotel next to to a random road in the middle of the desert. Perhaps it was because, as a harbour town, I thought it would have some sort of trade and development. I was wrong.

For us Wadi Halfa will forever be a turning point in our 'hoboness'. Having been caught out by a hidden registration fee of $50 (on top of a $100 two week transit visa), we quite literally had zero money to our name after paying for the ferry to Egypt. it was the perfect time to whip out the survival food and get exactly that on; survival.

After waiting in the shade the entire afternoon, and stocking up on the free cold water at the derelict hotel we set for the desert to find a place to sleep. We settled behind a 'koppie' and watched the sun drop as it pulled the days heat around the earth with it. We each cooked up our various meals; Jordan his noodles and FP his chicken soup whilst robs ate his pronutro-muesli combo and I indulged in a large helping of sand tasting water, deciding I'd keep my chocolate future life for tomorrows breakfast. I also thought how this would make a far better future life ad than Chad le Clos' one, and dozed off thinking how cheap an Olympic gold medal seemed in the vastness of this huge desert sand pit.

Making a ring around our bags we got comfortable, each using our own sleeping methods we'd developed during the trip. The slight breeze was a welcome respite to the heat, and the little bits of stinging sand were a worthwhile trade for the coolness it brought.

Above us stars sat like icing on top of a cake. It was so clear we saw aliens and some other characters from 'starwars'. Chubakka smiled at us and gave us a thumbs up, asking us to greet his relative Dillon Nuss on earth.

In the early hours of the morning, the stinging sand began to hurt. Our air-con has been switched to setting 'Gale force' and we couldn't find the remote to turn it down. Sand flying across the grounds surface, I stood up to get a scarf out my bag, only  to realise the the wind only blew to about knee height. Unfortunately I hadn't learnt to sleep standing up yet, despite coming close on a few bus journeys, and so lay back down, wrapped up my head, and turned my back to the wind.

In the morning we shook off the sand like dogs do with water, and headed back to the town. With the rest creating a diversion, Jords and I managed to slip a free shower disguised as a long toilet visit in the hotel. The day followed the same as yesterday; a search for shade, sleeping and communicating not in English to everyone.

Our next night was very restless. After being too lazy to walk to our previous nights camp, we settled closer to the village in a ditch, hoping to escape the wind. unfortunately, the scorpions had decided to do the same, and seemed to have called a meeting there. After seeing three in the space of ten minutes we were faced with a classic Africa decision: sleep in the desert with scorpions, or find shelter in the town and risk being arrested.

After remembering what the French bikers had said earlier in the day; "ze green ones will kill in sree hours", we decided that had it been three black mambas we would definitely have left and  although not as scary, these scorpions could do the same. thus it became clear, we needed to find another spot.

We picked up camp walked across the desert of dry bones (quite literally: dead camels everywhere) to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Our stealth was completely ruined when one territorial dog barked, only to be joined by every other dog in the whole of Wadi Alfa, if not North Sudan and possibly even the South. Worst of all when they all stopped, one single dog remained barking, like the cymbal player in a marching band determined to be recognised. Comically, it was actually barking at it's own echo bouncing off the distant 'koppie'

We rose the next morning not arrested and laughed as Jordan pointed out that our closest equals in the little nothing town were the stray dogs who, threatened by a possible take over, had barked at us the entire night.

Sneaking another shower, this time dodging the suspicious owner, I even managed to fill up my bottles with some cold fridge water whilst no one was looking. After trading avoidance tactics with the rest and hearing how Jordan had scooped a free breakfast, I realised in my gleeful feeling of victory at a cold shower we'd gone full hobo and the travelling had truly begun to take its toll.

FP Looking over Lake Nassa

 Finding an old blue truck

 Climbing into the old blue truck

 Stealing the old blue truck

 The Rob, plotting...

Our second night taking refuge from the scorpions

 

waking... unarrested!

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shaun Tait

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

The man himself, in all his splendour!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zanzibar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

....and a little more of ST

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

A day in the life of Samweli

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beer for the road

Up bright and early to catch a truck

probably the most comfortable truck ride ever!