The places we stay

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

- Shingapi? (How much?)

- Pipteen sousand!

- But it's five thousand a room

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

- Yes but we want one room

- OK, make ten

- We can only do five

- OK, just add two, make seven

- Only five, if not we leave

- OK is fine

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

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

The places we stay part 2: Rummy tummy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some pics of healthier times at the lake

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

Teargas in Tunduma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sneaky photo of a police van

Getting cosy in no-man's land

Police Search

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matthews and the Inspector

Hello everyone. Sorry about the inconsistent blogging, the Internet in Africa is giving us a few hassles! It has been really hard to upload posts, but hopefully we can get some consistency sooner rather than later. Also, we're off to paddle around Lake Tanganyika - but anyway, Enjoy the story of Matthews...

Matthews

After a long and dry thirty-eight hour journey, we eventually arrived at a very full Zambezi river that creates the border between Botswana and Zambia. Seeing water felt like a mirage as the Zambezi glistened proudly in its 500m plus, width. Having not bathed since South Africa, I took off my grey (once white) shirt, and brown-bummed pants and immersed myself in the dirty, but cool, water. The guards looked on tentatively as the ‘umzungu’ (white person in Bemba) crocodile fodder washed off the long journey in his lime-green boxers.

No sooner was I drip-drying when the ferry returned, and a huge truck begun to drive onto it, followed by passengers laden with goods for home. We checked in at the Zambian side where the offices smelt more like a barbel fish factory than a government building. Bright baby blue taxis holding eager drivers bombard you as they fight like bulldogs for bewildered passengers. We are not such and sit down to a cold Coke and Fanta. After asking around, we hear of a once busy campsite “not too far from here” that is now abandoned and inhabited by locals who used to work there.

A sandy 3km walk through Kazungula village turns into a swamp crossing with bags on backs and pants rolled high. Children play in wooden boats carved out of tree trunks and jump from branches into deeper parts of the swamp surrounded by green reeds as far as the eye can see. We pass communal baths as three or four kids enjoy each others company as they scrub themselves clean.

The old campsite we arrive at has simply been left to waste. Three young men; Mark, Alex and Gilbert, say we are more than welcome to claim a piece of grass as our temporary home. Rob and Jords immediately set up their fishing rods and cast some lines, the sound of the spinner relaxing in the quiet of the late afternoon. We begin to chat to the three young men and ask them how long they have been living here. “We don’t live here” they exclaim. How generous, I think, offering up someone else’s land - relaxed, hospitable Africa at it's best. Despite now being slightly unsure, we decide to stay. When the true owner comes, we’ll just pass him on to MAG (Mark, Alex and Gilbert) and they can explain their actions.

Unfortunately this simple plan in our heads was not as easy to implement in reality. The true owner, Matthews, arrived in a crisp blue and white pin-striped, collared shirt with the fabric left of the buttons tucked into his black boxers and the fabric on right of the buttons hanging out. We begin chatting but he doesn’t seem to believe a word of our perfectly normal story, even seeming suspect of the names we have given ourselves. Still shocked a little by his unfamiliar nature, he summons Jordan and I to his dilapidated cabin and tells Robbie to stay and watch the bags. He seems almost intent on splitting us up and does so successfully, as Robbie obeys.

In his cabin Jordan and I are told to sit on his messed up old couch after which he disappears for a moment. Whilst alone, I glance around and pick up a Christian hymn book. Slightly more at ease, Matthews returns to announce “I have brought you here to find the truth!”. With this little explanation, we are asked to give up our passports for examination.  Whilst examining our stamps he, rather badly, cross-questions us, simultaneously watching our every move. As weird as the situation may seem I cannot dispel the feeling of being a character in a comical detective story with it’s own quirky detective.

Despite his best attempts to impose himself as a powerful person, Matthews is a very un-scary human. With strong hand gestures I am sent back to fetch Robs. I later find out from Jords that during this time he was shown countless photos of Matthews as a police and army officer posing with many different guns, including one with an AK47 - his personal favourite.

When I return, Robs in tow, Matthews seems a different person. He happily invites us to camp on his lawn, posing as our new protector. Somehow I know it is more to keep his eye on us. We learn about the previous owner, Vans, who is now back in South Africa after being deported for illegal wild animal trading. Apparently he was found 'not-guilty' and is set to return soon. Matthews plays back a recording of a phone call between him and Vans, it is evident in his smile that he worships Vans, and suddenly seems rather small and lonely. 

Deciding Matthews is harmless we set up tent whilst he has some weird, perhaps staged we thought, phone call with “Inspector” about checking some documents or other. As we are about to head for bed a figure appears out of the dark, startling us all. He introduces himself as Chris. In whispers he says “Whoever is your leader must come and meet me at twenty-two hundred hours”. Wanting to sleep, Jordan bravely asks if we can not just come now, instead of the scheduled meeting two hours away. This is met with a simple “No” and the meeting becomes non-optional. 

Perplexed by our bizarre second summoning, our minds begin to wonder. After lying crammed for thirty-something minutes in our two man tent dreaming up the worst possible scenarios, we decide the whole situation is utterly ridiculous and why must we pander to these outlandish demands from people who are in fact squatters on a once magnificent fishing camp. Thus Jordan and Robs set off an hour and a half ahead of schedule to confront Chris and put an end to all this nonsense, as I stay and watch the bags. 

Content in my fate, good or bad, I drift off despite my worries. Whether I am woken by Jords and Robs’ laughter, screams, or Vans’ cannibal-slave Matthews, matters not as the journey overtakes my eyelids despite my best intentions of being a good friend and watchman.

Luckily it is Jords and Robs’ semi-worried amusement that wakes me. It turns out we were pretty accurate in our assumptions all along. Chris is in fact “Inspector”, a ridiculous name he says Matthews insists on calling him. The earlier phone call was in fact a coded message that he was holding us three on his property, intent on calling an immigration officer in the morning. Chris’ whispering visit was merely to get us, unnoticed, away from Matthews to tell us his plan. Jords retells of their supper of peanuts with the rest of Chris’ most hospitable homestead where the word ‘harmless’ was repeatedly used to describe Sam Matthews. Sam was the name we decided to give him. 

The next day all is well that ends well, as Matthews' attempt to relive his investigative past seems merely an act of paranoia caused either by his past army experiences, or multiple bouts of malaria, we decide. Biding him farewell, we present a Bob Marley CD as a peace offering. He is only too stoked, and immediately puts it on as he changes for work. He comes out in suit and tie, yet still in boxers, with his pants and shoes neatly folded in his hands. I now realise that his permanent attire of boxers is due to the crossing of the swamp, and not his craziness. Our final handshakes are interrupted by, no doubt, another secret phone call and Sam rushes off to tackle another day and catch some more innocent criminals.

A little taste of Zambia

Botswana - Zambia

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

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

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