North Sudan

The drive from Matema border to North Sudan’s capital Khartoum was a totally surreal experience. The harshness of our new environment was completely different to anything we had seen on the trip so far. The drive to the nearest town from the border was thirty minutes across the most arid of deserts. Sand and more sand as far as the eye can see, harsh, dry and lifeless yet as beautiful as the lush green highlands of Ethiopia we had left behind us.

With Sudan permanently on high security alert Police stops were frequent and found in the middle of nowhere. How people are even found is such places remains a mystery. Nevertheless, as the taxi would stop people would come running over dunes with buckets of homemade hibiscus juice, deep red in colour and freezing cold. Despite the unnecessary amount of sugar it contains, in the dry heat the refreshment it offers is priceless and everyone in the taxi helps them self to a glass or two... or three.

Despite being scolded for our short pants and Robs for wearing a vest we are deemed safe to travel onward but warned to buy some ‘proper clothes’. Still discussing the ridiculousness of wearing long pants in such a climate we realise that the dry wind gushing through the open window has absolutely no cooling value to it either, and so we shut it pulling closed the black curtains of the taxi: shade.  Having previously thought them unnecessary we realise that in Sudan shade is a precious commodity and that it may, along with copious amounts of water, be our only respite.

Something about the heat and dust, the lack of English, the robes worn, our ‘non- muslimness’ the many police stops, our insignificance in the vastness of such a desert and our complete reliance on something as simple as water finally makes us feel like we’re truly experiencing Africa.

When we stop we jump off, excited to see what are new food options are after three weeks of Njeera n Dibs (disgusting sour pancakey things and minced fillet). We wonder around looking at all the shops and rows of restaurants making sure we pick the right option and don’t land up regretfully walking past a delicious meal, full from a rushed choice of food.

All the shop owners try to coax us into their restaurants with tasters and by the time we settle we’re pretty full anyway. It seems as though foreigners and especially white people are a rarity in such an area and we end up having an absolute blast as everyone excitedly fusses over us. Our meals are paid for by a University lecturer and before we know it treat after treat is being place before us, “Taste this, taste this”. Deep fried crushed chickpeas, meats of all sorts, their version of falafels, more hibiscus juice, whole oranges liquidised into a tropica like juice, vegetables I’ve never seen and sweet pastries confuse our stomachs, leaving us feeling quite ill but. Perhaps the only disappointment was the fruit. Having spent all its time in the sun it reached us more stewed than anything else and rather displeasing to the palate.

From this wonderful market in Gardaref we had to take a seven hour bus to Khartoum. More sand, more flat desert into more dune desert. This may seem boring but the further you go the more you realise how huge the desert is and the more beautiful it becomes. The subtle changes from open planes to dunes, to thin coverings of scrub to strange black earth and little houses in the middle of nowhere creates a landscape in which your mind wonders up all sorts of possibilities and stories of life in such a country.

In perfect timing the old Jackie Chan film screened on the bus ends as we enter the outskirts of Khartoum and we open the windows, killing the aircon to see the city. From the nothingness of desert to a huge bustling city of tall high-rises and bustling markets; still thriving at two in the morning as people enjoy the coolness of night. People picnic along the green grass that runs parallel to the airstrip whilst others participate in a huge public session of yoga or something of that sort.

Another new city, completely different to the many we’ve passed through; each a unique mood, each as fascinating as the next.

Alone in Addis

It’s not often along our travels that the three of us have been separated, simply because Africa is a place where it may take months to find each other again. In our case with our lack of phones etc. perhaps never. Thus, it is quite a different feeling when you’re suddenly left gallivanting around a big city like Addis all by yourself:

Shouts of “you, you” are used to grab my attention, but I pull the ‘No English card’ and continue along my way. Beggars crowd the already packed streets, usually displaying some physical ailment or religious placard. An elderly man lies completely naked, blackened by the sun ahead of me. People step over and around him as they navigate their way through the obstacle course of bodies. Something about it shocks me. Seeing a man completely degraded and humiliated through poverty. Stripped bare, not only of his clothes but also his dignity.

A little girl runs up to me, tattoos along her arms and ankles, up her neck and on her forehead; family markings. She kisses my hand like a royal courtier. Her blinking eyes, sparkling like pools in the centre of her grubby face, look up at me; “money, money”.

I jump into a taxi, my directions home written on my arm so I can’t get lost. Addis is a huge city; 3.3 million people in a census done way back in 2007, divided into sub cities because of its size. Standing in a line for a Taxi is a non-existent practice, so I feel like I’ve won a game of ‘beach flags’ as I sit in my seat. Still having my wallet is also a bonus as pick pockets thrive in the mad scramble for taxis.

My first neighbour is ‘Small Mike’; a once public, now private taxi driver. He speaks with a ridiculously strong American accent, something I have found comical throughout the trip. English accents in Africa reflect their teachers, whether it be American TV or the British Learning Institute. Hence, one can find oneself in the middle of Africa speaking to someone with a classy British accent or an extremely twangy American one.

I learn how he is unhappy with Ethiopia and Addis in particular, sadly turned against his own country because of his brothers comfy lives in Washington and Chicago. He jumps off saying “if you ever need anything friend, come find me at Jupiter Hotel. Ask for small Mike, that’s me. They call me Small Mike because there’s another Mike. He’s big!”

My next partner is a middle aged man in smart pants and a pink pin striped collared shirt fitted tightly around his aging belly. He greets me asking if I’ve come to Addis for the African Unions 50^th Anniversary or if I’m just a tourist. He seems very interested in my travels as we talk about our journey and the progress, or lack thereof, in Africa. Inevitably he ask where I’m from; standard conversation in Africa. Mostly, Africans can’t believe we’re from Africa because we’re white and conversations usually go something like this:

Where are you from?
South Africa
But where do you live?
I live in South Africa
But where are you actually from?
No, I’m from South Africa
 Yes, but where are you born?
In South Africa, I am South African, that is my country!
So where are your parents from?
They are from South Africa (sensing the trend) and so are their parents and their parents and their parents and their parents.
So you are British or American?
No I don’t know. I think I have some Scottish, from my dad. My mom is maybe Irish, but I’m not sure, I know her dad grew up in India, but as long as I know I am African,  I’m from South Africa. 

Still unsure of my “Africaness” and even more sceptical of my lack of knowledge of my heritage, he accepts my answer, clearly unsatisfied.

I ask my standard questions and find out he is 46 years old, married for seventeen years and has two daughters of three and nine. Conversation dries up slightly until the next favourite question is dragged out: “Christian?” We talk about religion and churches in Ethiopia as well as our plan to perhaps try meet my parents in India. He was a minister in Lebanon for twelve years, returning to Addis to get his carpet business going and make some money. He says he’s returning to Lebanon as soon as his business is up and running. Our budding friendship is interrupted as he jumps off at our next stop. He wishes me well as I send greetings to his family and wish him luck in his business venture.

I have no partner for a while; my hoarse fluey throat appreciates the break and I stretch out my legs letting the blood tingle down to my toes as I enjoy the space. It doesn’t last long as the taxi is soon crowded again. Another partner, but this time no convo. His lack of English and my lack of Amharic leaves us at his greeting of “Salaam” and my reply of “Salaamno” and a smile.

This time I hop off first. I pass the familiar fruit sellers and the familiar shop keepers. Along the cobblestone path, past the kids who pull tongues at us daily, up the winding stairs and along the concrete corridor to the red door of the flat we’re all staying in. It’s locked; I’m home first. I lean on the balcony that overlooks the green courtyard in which all the boys play soccer, admiring the skill they display in their cumbersome 'crocs', I wait for the key bearer to return. 

Addis Window

Car wheels on the wet tar recreate the sound of rain. Arabic Muslim prayers from a nearby Mosque slightly over power Chris Brown and Jordan Sparks old hit “No Air”, creating a strange symphony. Breaks screech and hooters toot incessantly. Rumbles of thunder cause the glass to vibrate and the broken door to rattle on its hinges.  Shouts echo as they climb the twirling staircase.

I get up to look outside and gaze along the green and grey corrugated iron roofs rusting in age. The rain has made puddles and a slush-puppy of rubbish and mud all along the gutters. Umbrellas are out and people run from covering to covering. The standard half white half blue taxis dominate the road, each with a different sticker on the back; usually religious or supporting some football club.

The rain starts up again, harder this time, and it’s pattering on the tin drowns out most of the noise except my Arabic backing track. A rude bus horn twice disturbs my solitude. Across the road begins a vast shanty town; a jagged desert of tin roofs that continue for miles until a foresty hill covered in grey mist begins. More and more houses, like cans of baked beans on a fire with holes poked in them, begin to let out pillars of wood-smoke, obscuring my view of the distant pallid Mosque.

Everything now seems grey except for a light blue shack selling bottled water and a red and yellow striped tavern branded by the local ‘St. Georges’ beer, ironically a biblical figure. Other than these a fruit store and a shop selling bright pink and green doors are the only stationary objects that add colour to my scenery. Occasionally a person skipping across my slice of Addis adds a brush of colour to the window painting.

This centre of Addis, Marketo Sub City, is a true slum of Africa. Life is hard and stops for nothing. Yet still, the difficulties of day to day living have not stolen the joy that is evident in the brief interactions between its rain dodging inhabitants. Even from my elevated view I can see the smiles and cheerful eyes.

When the sun comes out, noise will increase, shouts will flood through my now quietened window and the streets will fill up as the bustling trading will once again seize to life. Masses of people will paint the grey into an ever changing kaleidoscope of colour. 

Ethiopia in pictures

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

The bizarre hyena feeding of Harar.

Enjoying his 'Kat' garden

Inside of an Ethiopian home.

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

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

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

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

ETHIOPIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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