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Africa Is…

I wish I could show you Africa. But I can’t. It takes a much more talented photographer than me to capture this place. My photos contain images. Africa is an all-senses experience. But if you turn on your imagination, I will try to paint it for you with words.

Africa is…
dirt so red that it seems the earth is bleeding.

the most beautiful beaches, the most turquoise waters, the most striking mountains, the most enchanting deserts.

women who can carry seemingly everything on their heads: gallons of water, baskets piled high with bread, bundles of logs.

never seeing a woman of reproductive age without a baby in a cloth sling on her back.

being shoked when you see a man on your minibus helping with the care of a baby because you’ve seen maybe two men do so during the totality of your trip.

little girls with closely cropped hair and nothing to identify them as female except for the dresses they wear.

little boys wearing shorts that have no seat, their butts exposed to the world.

buses packed so full that there is no need to hang on because you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

the smell of dried fish, enough to make you want to gag.

the smell of humans, ripe in a way you didn’t know they could be.

women in brightly colored and patterned wrappers (cloth they wear as skirts) or wrappers with the face of the pope, the president, or Mr. Obama staring out at you.

children naively wearing t-shirts with vulgar English sayings on them.

being woken up at 4:30 a.m. by the whoops of people celebrating the results of an election.

hearing a wedding celebration long before you see it, the vibrant voices of family and friends lifted in song.

roads as crowded with people and animals as with cars.

bustling Sunday mornings as everyone heads off to church, wearing church uniforms and carrying high heeled shoes in their hands as they walk barefoot many kilometers to the “church.” 

a staggering AIDS rate and an even more staggering ignorance about the disease.

strangers stopping to tell you “You are welcome here.”

being called “mzungu” no matter how many times you tell them your name.

people furtively touching your hair, rubbing your skin, grabbing your hand.

the uncomfortable feeling of people addressing you as “Hey, boss.”

having to say three, four, five, six times that no, you don’t want to buy the hawkers carved animals/sponges/hair barrettes/sodas/brooms/beaded keychains/oranges/etc.

people who sing regardless of how well they can carry a tune and people who dance regardless of whether they have rhythm…and who make it all seem beautiful.

seeing more sunrises and more sunsets than you’ve ever before seen.

people leaning out of a minibus window to tell you they love your country and they love your president.

islands so safe that you could leave your money lying in the sand and no one would touch it and cities so dangerous that by 6 p.m. everyone is locked away behind burglar bars, razor wire, and armed guards.

road signs that say “potholes ahead” when they should in fact say “canyon that could swallow your car ahead.”

supermarkets stocked with every wonder of the world as well as people who have to walk kilometers to fill a bucket with potable water.

charities who hand out mosquito nets to every man, woman, and child, and families who turn the mosquito nets into fishing nets because starvation seems a more dire threat than malaria.

volunteers who want to build proper toilets for a school where children must go in the schoolyard and principals who demand that any money raised first go toward buying them a new television.

kids who laugh deliriously when they see a photo of themselves on the screen of your camera.

people who see you as no more than a walking dollar sign as well as people who want no more from you than a smile and a hello.

buses that leave “now,” meaning sometime in the next 24 hours and buses that leave “now now,” meaning sometime in the next hour.

realizing that childhood is a luxury of the Western world.

a dream that is too often deferred, hope that is too often unfulfilled, and joy that is too often followed by sorrow.

everything I expected and a million things I could never have imagined.

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Zanzibar Pole Pole* Style

Apparently there is a lot to do on Zanzibar, the Swahili island enclave off the coast of Tanzania. There are a slew of museums as well as dolphin tours, sunset cruises, snorkeling and diving trips, spice tours, and more. But don’t ask me for any recommendations on which of these are worth your while; we didn’t do any of them.* In our five days on Zanzibar, we did nothing but walk, walk, walk. When the touts on the street asked what tour we wanted to book with them, we said we were just going to spend the day walking around. When the taxi drivers asked if we were ready to go for a ride, we said we’re rather just walk. And we weren’t just giving them the shrug off; for us, the magic of Zanzibar was uncovered by walking.

Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar, is a maze of tiny alleys, none which are signed, some of which end abruptly, and all of which are full of wonders waiting to be discovered. Down one you might find a madrassah, or Islamic school, from which the sounds of children chanting verses from the Koran or simple math equations emanates. When school lets out, the children flood the streets, kicking balls, licking ice cream cones, giggling with friends, and doing the things that children everywhere do. Turn down another street and you’ll find one of the island’s many mosques, all well-equipped with megaphones so that no one misses the 5:15 a.m. call to prayer. Choose another path and you might end up in the market amid tables of spices and men neatly cutting the peels off oranges.

In every alley, you’ll find architecture to marvel over: intricately carved doors and balconies and colorful plates of glass in the windows.

Time and again as you make your way through the maze, you’ll have to hug the wall so a man in a robe and skull cap on a moped or a boy on a bicycle can speed past, and you’ll want to stop repeatedly to say “Jambo” to the children peering at you, watched over by mothers in brightly patterned kangas or black robes and head scarves.

If you’re out after dark and play your cards right, the alleys will lead you to the night market, where you can gorge yourself on local delights—Zanzibar pizza, kebabs of every type of seafood you can imagine, samosas and spicy potato balls, glasses of sugar cane juice with lime and ginger, steaming cups of spice tea–while enjoying the ambiance of lantern light and the lapping of waves against the shore.

Sometimes an alley will spit you out by the turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean. You’ll see little boys swimming butt naked, the bright colors of cargo containers loaded on the ships in the harbor, dhows passing with the wind filling their ragged sails, fishing boats returning with their nets held high, and the sunsets that in Africa are truly worth watching. On the beach, you might find a furious soccer game underway or witness kids practicing to become acrobats.

You might, like me, feel for a moment as if you’re back in Greece as you stumble upon a concert at the Old Fort and sit in the crumbling ruins of the outdoor stage and remember seeing the Oedipus Trilogy at the Parthenon. Or maybe the million and one store owners begging you to enter their shop and promising you the best prices will remind you of shopping in the labyrinthine Khan el-Khalili market in Cairo. Though not exactly like anyone you’ve ever been, Zanzibar invokes the spirit of a million places through which you’ve passed. And tt’s the kind of place that will stay with you long after you’ve left, especially if you allow it to reveal itself to you slowly, one step by one step.

*Pole Pole is a Swahili saying that means “slow down” or “go slowly”.

*Okay, so that statement wasn’t entirely true; we did do a Spice Tour. Our verdict: not bad but not great either, which seemed to be the consensus of everyone we met.

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The Train To Dar

The trip north from Likoma Island involved a full day and a whole lot of minibuses. Nothing terribly exciting about that. Lots of little nuances and slices of life that were pleasant or irritating, or both depending on your mood. We crossed the border into Tanzania and pulled into Mbeya just before dark after nearly 24 hours of travel pretty exhausted and sick of buses, minibuses, shared taxis and daladalas (swahili minibuses).

And so while we could’ve hopped on a bus any day and gotten to Dar 12 hours later, we just couldn’t do another bus. Instead, we waited around Mbeya three days in order to take the “express” train to Dar. It’s a 20 hour journey … if there are no delays. Also, there was the issue of finding two other people to share our compartment as people of the opposite sex are not allowed to travel together unless they have booked an entire compartment. For us, this would double the cost. Now that said, there are plenty of reasons for taking the train. For example, its not a bus. First class contains relatively comfortable four person compartments with beds. You can walk up and down the train to your hearts content and not be squished into a tiny chair for 12 hours. There are bathrooms on board … go whenever you please (except in the stations of course!). And we ran into a couple we’d met in Likoma that we managed to cajole into taking the train with us and sharing a compartment. So all was set!

So off we headed to the station, ready to catch our 2:30 train … only to have a sign meet us at the door to the train station announcing the train would not arrive until 4. Oh well, hey, its Africa. We sat and chatted with our friends and a few other travelers with whom we’d share this journey. And lo and behold, around 4, the train rolled in. We boarded, settled into our small but comfortable compartments and then, waited. After an hour and a half waiting for nothing in particular that we could figure, we finally took off just in time for sunset.

We chatted and relaxed, read and ate, had a beer in the dining car and shared our stories of our African adventures, enjoying a comfortable evening before settling to bed, all the while the train rattling along and the dark countryside passing in the background. Far, far better than a bus.

Of course, all couldn’t continue this rosy. The next morning, we pulled in with a jolt to Mangula station, about halfway to Dar, at around 10 am. But unlike the other stations we’d stopped at, we didn’t leave this one. Eventually, we got to inquiring about why we weren’t moving and we were duly informed that the locomotive died and we were being sent a new one. Estimates on arrival varied from 45 minutes to 3 hours. So what can you do? We waited. We walked around town. We watched the citizens of Mangula and tried out our phrasebook Swahili on them. We took photos of all the interesting things the locals were doing.

 

We got the updates hanging out in the dining car. But, and this was discussed when deciding on train or bus, being on a brokendown train is infinitely better than being on a broken down bus. We sat and waited, and eventually, after about four hours, the train sprang back to life and off we were again, rattling along.

On the upside, all of these delays meant we’d hit one of the highlights of the train journey at just the right time. The train tracks slice right through Selous National Park, and we’d pass through just before sunset, when the animals would be coming out from the heat of the day. And we saw large herds of zebra, wildebeest, and impala, a few giraffes and warthogs and a single elephant. Still no leopards though. But hey, free safari!

We pulled into Dar Es Salaam around 8 pm, after 28 hours on the train. But its a journey I’d be happy to do again. The view was infinitely different and better than a bus. The locals were friendly and interesting. Our fellow travelers felt like good friends as we left. And we managed a pretty good nights sleep in transit. It was a great culmination of the “journey” from South Africa.

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Likoma Island in Photos

As I noted in the previous post, the people of Likoma Island were what made the place really special. They’d approach us at every opportunity, and the only thing they ever asked was for us to take their picture. They just loved to see themselves on our camera screen. They’d get so animated, dance around, make faces, and do poses. It was hilarious. Here, in full color, are a few of the people we met.

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Likoma Island

Sometimes when traveling through the developing world as a white Westerner, you feel that the local population looks at you and sees nothing more than a dollar sign. Some days it feels like the entirety of your interaction with locals is limited to requests for you to give them money or buy something from them (at highly inflated prices). And though you know you are fortunate, though you know that you do have so, so much, though you know that what may be a pittance to you is a fortune to them, you can’t help but sometimes grow weary. For me, this was certainly the case in Mozambique.

Thus our entry into Malawi, known as the warm heart of Africa, was a welcome change. Here the bumper sticker saying is actually reality. The people of Malawi are among the most friendly, helpful, genuine, and generous we have met. They certainly don’t have more than those in neighboring countries–they very well might have less–but they do not see themselves as unfortunate or in need of help. When they approach you it is usually not to ask for a handout, but to ask your name and to tell you that you’re welcome in their country.

And though we’ve found this to be true throughout the country, no where has the beautiful nature of Malawians been more clear than it is on Likoma Island, an 8 km x 3 km piece of paradise in Lake Malawi. Here, thanks to a history of good relationships with “colonial powers–” who actually left a positive legacy on the island, including health and education systems that are among the best in Malawi–as well as a limited number of visitors, travelers to Likoma are greeted with overwhelmingingly warm welcomes from each and every person encountered.

Adults wave to us from their porches and call out hello. Women gathering brush for their fires accompany us down the path, scattering away snakes (real and invisible) with a mix of singing and whistle-blowing. Men stop to shake our hands. The mayor of the island welcomes us into his home and gives us bananas and tea. But it’s the children, tiny tots to budding adolescents, who really make us feel special.

To them, we are wonders. Upon sighting us, they burst into squeals and shouts of “mzungu, mzungu.” They use their school English lessons to greet us with “Hello. How are you?” They sidle up to us and ask “What is my name?,” meaning in fact “What is your name?”. They jump up and down on their stoop as they watch you approach and then run out and swarm you, giggling madly as they grab for your hand. The tiniest ones run up to you arms up, ready to be picked up and carried around. They stop as they walk home from school in their uniforms to pull out their exercise books and show you what they learned in class, hoping for a few words of praise. They accompany you as you walk around the island, fighting over who gets to hold your hand, pointing out everything you pass—manioc plant, papaya tree, goats—until they reach some imaginary boundary at which point they say goodbye and head back home. They ask if you can be friends, and really, who could say no, especially since they ask for nothing else except the occasional balloon (I’m not sure who introduced the kids to balloons but they love them).

The children of Likoma Island are joy personified. And though I certainly loved Likoma’s sandy beaches, turquoise waters, colorful aquarium fish, impressive cathedral, waterfront market, stately baobabs, relaxing backpackers lodge (Mango Drift), and carefree attitude, what really made the place so magical was  simply walking with the island’s children.

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Our Least Favorite Place So Far

Our first stop on our way north was actually east, to Mozambique. It was never a match that was meant to really work out, as Mozambique is known on tourist circuit for its beaches, and if you’ve been reading here you know how well we do with beaches. Lovely and all, but it doesn’t take us long to tire of them.

But what really defined our experience in Mozambique was hassle. The hosts at the hostel in Maputo could not bother to stop texting on their cell phones to talk to us. The cost of the flight we planned to take to the north doubled (from $200 to $400) once they added their taxes not previously mentioned. All the buses were scheduled to leave at 4:30 AM or so, only they usually didn’t leave until after 6, so you spent hours sitting on a crowded bus waiting after getting up so early. And better yet, the taxi to the bus station who’s high cost had been explained by our hostel hosts as being a far distance and complicated drove five minutes down the road, turned once and stopped. I think we could’ve walked if it hadn’t been 3:30 AM. On the bus, instead of putting people’s luggage above or below the bus, they stuck it in the cab with all the people. In fact, cramming stuff on the bus was rewarded, as anything put below cost extra. So space was at a high priority. I won’t even complain about the bus breaking down, since that just comes with the territory going overland in Africa, but this did mean filling the next already full bus with another entire busload of people. And to top it off, the whole country was relatively expensive for a relatively low level of quality. Our glorious bus experiences cost us $25 for a 8 hour ride (which with breakdowns and whatnot ballooned to 12 hours). Very comfortable luxury buses in South America (or buses in South Africa, or Malawi) were substantially cheaper. Basic places to stay ran nearly $40 for a double.

For all the hassle, we did have one very nice experience in Vilankulos, one of the beach towns along the coast. We went on a dhow safari out to the Bazuruto Archipelago, a series of five islands a few miles off the coast. We enjoyed a great sail out to the island and spent the day snorkeling on the mainland side along a beautiful coral reef cliff face teeming with fish, then walking along a sandy beach shore on the seaward side. We were served a delicious kingfish lunch and swam in a warm lagoon. It was an idyllic relaxing day away from the mainland.

So while every place has its highlights and lowlights, we just didn’t find Mozambique worth the hassle. The hassle just outweighed the reward, and we’ve found other nearby countries much better as far as reward for the effort. But hey, we never would’ve known it if we didn’t go, so now we know. And I guess now you know too … at least what we think.

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The Decisions We Make and How We Make Them

Sitting in Johannesburg after returning from our “Round the Cape” road trip, we were left with six weeks and a blank slate. Well, not quite, we did plan to be in Uganda by June, so really, four weeks. And a whole lot of options for getting there.

Since Ethiopia has always fascinated us, and got nothing but the highest reviews from the people we have met, we considered flying to Addis Ababa and spending all of our time there before flying to Uganda. Looking into this, though, we discovered it was about the same price to fly from the US to Addis Ababa as it was to fly from Johannesburg to Addis Ababa. Either way it wasn’t particularly cheap. Plus, Ethiopia is so spread out and its roads so difficult to navigate that to properly visit the country would have required all the time we had…plus more. Ethiopia, though still high on our places-we-want-to-see list, would have to wait.

We also thought about heading straight to Dar Es Salaam or Nairobi and doing the traditional East Africa tourist trail. We could climb Kilimanjaro, do a safari circuit through the Serengeti, Ngorongoro Crater, and Masai Mara, tackle Mt. Kenya, and chill out on Zanzibar. And while there’s certainly a huge amount of appeal in those attractions, we didn’t want to feel like we spent all of the remainder of our trip immersed in tourist activities but separated from the general population. We had a desire to experience Africa on its own terms, not just hop from sight to sight.

So, in the end, we opted for the journey and not the destination. We decided to go overland from Johannesburg to Kampala, through Mozambique, Malawi, Tanzania, and Kenya. We would see Africa from buses and minibuses, boats and trains. We would stop to take a break or change modes of transport and in the process spend time in cities that would never make most traveler’s radar but which are the focal point of life for many Africans. As these weren’t tourist cities, there wasn’t the usual circuit of tourist restaurants, hotels, and amenities, so we would join the locals in bargaining for bananas from street vendors, washing our clothes in buckets, and seeking the rare hotel with hot water. On our overland journey, we would get as close to the African population as possible (literally, as we were often practically sitting on their laps, holding their babies, or watching as their children smeared bananas onto our pants). We would learn patience when our bus broke down, and we were left standing on the side of the road for hours, and we would learn to take in stride the total disintegration of any plans we might have, proving ourselves more flexible than we’d ever thought.

On June 17, when we fly from Nairobi to Bangkok, we will leave behind the continent of Africa without having stood atop the peak of Kilimanjaro, crossed the Serengeti in a 4WD, or seen the stone churches of Lalibela. If you had told me that would be the case when we were planning our trip, I would have gasped in horror. After all, these are essential African experiences. But once you hit the ground, perspectives change. I have no doubt we will return to Africa. And I know that arranging safaris or climbs or Ethiopian vacations is not difficult; it is possible even within the stingy framework of American vacation systems. But planning a trip with limited time around minibuses and ferries and trains and buses, all of which run when and if they feel like it, is not so easily done. And that’s why we did it now. Seize the day, they say. And that’s what we did, even when our day was spent squished with about 20 other people into a minibus smaller than a Dodge Caravan.

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A Wall of White

We’ve now been to the three most famous falls in the world: Niagara, Iguazu and Victoria. And I must say that I think Victoria is the most powerful. Of course, we were there at the end of the wet season, and things can change dramatically from season to season, but lets just say its called the “mist that thunders” with very good reason. We first could see the plume rising from over 20 miles away as we approached through Zimbabwe from the Botswana border. After sorting out a place to stay and some food, we Walked down to the park, and it only looked more daunting. Then we entered the park.

Now, I said they were the most powerful. It’s actually quite difficult to ascribe anything more to it than that. Because, simply, you can’t see anything. The falls are 1.7 kilometers long, but we could only see maybe 300 meters worth of width if we looked from one end. Which was absolutely beautiful when the sun broke through and rainbows traversed the expanse.

But everything else was a wall of white. And I mentioned its called the “mist that thunders.” More like the downpour that thunders. Standing out at the rocks on the point of the Zimbabwe side was a truly soaking experience, made all the more magical by the nun enjoying the “rain” with us by spinning and shouting “It is a deluge of blessings!” Most other people just tried to stay under their umbrellas.

So not satisfied with our whiteout experience, and based on the highest recommendations of our friends Joyce and Jack, who recently completed their own round the world trip complete with a Vic Falls stop, we decided to splurge on a microlight flight over the falls. As we took off we saw an elephant roaming nearby, and hippos wading in the river just above the falls. I’ve never felt as much like I was actually flying. There’s literally nothing separating you from the air except a lapbelt and two handholds. And the pilot who knows what he’s doing of course. I soared above the falls, just above the plume, and got a real feeling for the magnitude of the place. Which certainly is grand. What struck me was the whole distance we walked the previous day, which sure felt like a long way, only went to the midpoint of the falls. And the view down the canyon below the falls as the Zambezi twisted and curved its way on was magnificant. Unfortunately but understandably, cameras were not allowed up in the microlight since they can easily find their way into the engine and that can cause a few issues, but I guess this means you’ll all just have to go up for yourselves to see it.

Let me finish this up by categorizing my impressions of the three falls: Iguazu was the most beautiful, with the lush tropical scenery and the myriad of actual falls, Niagara the most impressive because its powerful but for the most part you can actually see it and Victoria the most powerful because wow, it is.

And as an aside for those who wonder about how Zimbabwe is these days, we found the Vic Falls area to be quite normal, but I suppose as this is their main tourist attraction, this isn’t surprising. Most supplies were as available as they were in neighboring countries and the people were quite warm and hopeful that things were improving. There were two things odd about the whole scene. First, you could pay for anything in almost any currency as long as it wasn’t Zim dollars; the people were experts at currency conversion and I can’t even imagine trying to keep track of all of it in my head. The second was the bartering culture; we consistently were approached and asked for our shoes or jackets or pants in exchange for some wood carving or a few trillion Zim dollars. We wondered if they expected us to drop pants or take off our shoes then and there, but since we never were offered anything we felt was near an even exchange, it never came to that. But I can now say that I am a quarter of the way to a quadrillionaire! Makes you feel rich, even if its only worth a few pennies.