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.

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.

Shaun Tait

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

The man himself, in all his splendour!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zanzibar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

....and a little more of ST

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

A day in the life of Samweli

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beer for the road

Up bright and early to catch a truck

probably the most comfortable truck ride ever!

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

The places we stay

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

- Shingapi? (How much?)

- Pipteen sousand!

- But it's five thousand a room

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

- Yes but we want one room

- OK, make ten

- We can only do five

- OK, just add two, make seven

- Only five, if not we leave

- OK is fine

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

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

The places we stay part 2: Rummy tummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some pics of healthier times at the lake

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

Teargas in Tunduma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sneaky photo of a police van

Getting cosy in no-man's land

Police Search

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

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

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

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

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

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

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