Rafting the Nile

It would have been better to just put me into a boat, push me away from the bank, and send me coursing down the White Nile toward the grade five rapids that make Jinja, Uganda one of the most exciting places in the world to whitewater raft. Giving me time to think about putting myself at the mercy of a raging river is not a good idea. I’m a worrier. And I’m a reader. That’s not a good combo, especially when the things you find to read about rafting the Nile talk about how many times the raft flipped over, about being trapped under the raft with the waves washing up and over you, about feeling your lungs about to burst as you’re swept underwater for five or six seconds at a time, about being warned not to fall out of the left side of the boat at one set of rapids because you’ll end up on the rocks…

Suffice it to say I didn’t sleep much the night before our rafting trip. I was too busy seriously reconsidering whether I actually wanted to do it. But when morning broke, I got up, got dressed, and boarded the shuttle that would take us to the Nile River Explorers site. I knew I’d regret not going. And I knew if I didn’t go, I’d probably be more worried as I spent all day wondering what the heck was happening to Jeff. It would be better to witness it all in person.

But they weren’t about to make it easy on me. In addition to the two hour ride from Kampala to Jinja, I also had an additional hour to sit around, think about what the heck I was doing, and watch a video of a raft flipping time and time again as we waited for another group to arrive at the site. Seriously, could you just put me on the raft and in the water?

Finally, they did just that, launching us at a deceptively calm and peaceful site where the seven of us crazy people in our boat could learn from our even crazier guide how to front paddle, back paddle, hold on (for small rapids), and get down (for big rapids). Then, as we approached the first small rapid, we got a taste of what it would be like if the boat flipped, as we all moved to one side of the boat and purposely sent ourselves somersaulting backwards into the water. I came up sputtering, trying to catch my breath between waves, and practicing the crucifix position in which you float downstream with your feet high up and in front of you in the hopes of avoiding any real collisions with rocks. I came up with a bit of a fat lip thanks to someone’s flying paddle. And I came up wondering if maybe they could just let me swim to shore and walk back to the campsite where I could meet everyone later. What the hell was I doing? I am a girl who likes to be in control, and in an inflatable raft in the rapids of the Nile, you’re anything but in control.

I’ve rafted before. This wasn’t a first, and I knew that the fear was part of the thrill, but I still wasn’t sure I was up for it. Last time I’d rafted was in the Grand Canyon, where the rafts were much sturdier, where I didn’t have to paddle but instead held on for dear life while our guide used oars to row us through the rapids, and where our old-hand guide seemed a bit less crazy than the Aussie directing us on the Nile. Though technically in the same category, the experiences weren’t going to be quite the same. I’d also never met a Grade 5 rapid before, the highest grade of rapid considered to be navigable in a raft.

Luckily once on the water, there isn’t too much time to think. After passing through a few riffles, the first real rapid you meet is called 50/50, its name an indicator of your chances of making it through this Grade 3 Rapid without flipping. Let’s just say we were on the losing end of that wager. With the first coming together of waves, the left side of the boat was tossed into the water. With the second wave, one person from the right side was tossed. That left just me and another girl Dierdra hanging on for dear life, the boat pretty much on its side. And we really didn’t have a chance. With the third and final wave, the boat flipped, dunking us into the fortunately quite warm water of the Nile. The two of us plus the guide were able to hold onto the boat and ride it through the rest of the rapid. One other person was able to grab back on after being tossed and ride with us. The other four paddlers, including Jeff, had been picked up by the safety kayakers and transferred to the safety raft, from where we picked them up once we were back in calm waters and had managed to flip the boat upright.

Though it wasn’t quite the start I had hoped for (I’d been hoping to not end up in the water at all), it was probably the start I needed. I’d survived. It wasn’t that bad. The fear of the unknown was no longer hanging over my head, and for me, that is the worst fear.

Baptism by fire is the name of the game on the Nile as our next rapid was to be the biggest of the day, a Grade 5 rapid called Silverback. We were to paddle to the precipice, and then at the command of “Get Down” we were to squat into the boat, face outward, and cling to the rope. Slam, we hit the first wave, water rushing into the boat and washing over all of us, but not yet ripping any of us out. Slam the second wave followed immediately, slamming us around but not getting permanent hold of any of us. We were almost through. Apparently some people thought we might just make it. I wasn’t thinking at all, just holding on. But in the end it was all futile. Wave three grabbed us and flipped us upside down sending each of us scattering in different directions. No one managed to hold on to the boat this time. Luckily we were through the worst of it and there were no massive waves waiting to drown us, just lots of medium waves stealing our breath for snatches at a time. Over the sound of the waves, I could hear a safety kayaker yelling “Feet up! Feet up!” and so as a current pushed me right past Jeff (both of us with it enough to say hello and make sure each other was okay) and towards the rocky shoreline, I got into the crucifix position and used my feet to push off the big boulder in front of me and redirect myself back towards the center of the river and the calm pool awaiting at the end of the rapid. There, the boat floated, still upside down, and I, followed right away by Jeff, was able to grab on and hold on until it was time to flip it back over and get back in. A tiny scratch on my ankle was the only battle wound I had to add to my fat lip. Not too bad.

And after that, well things were smooth sailing. We managed to keep the boat upright and intact over waterfalls and through raging rapids, though there were a few close calls and we certainly had plenty of waves wash over us. In fact, at an optional rapid called Chop Suey, which our boat chose to brave while the other boat bypassed it, a gigantic wave washed over the boat, pretty much sinking it for a moment. I was so surrounded by water that I couldn’t tell if I was actually in the boat or not until it popped back up and I felt the plastic of the raft under my butt. The strange thing was that although I had been in the third position when we entered the rapid, I was now in the first position. The two people in front of me, Jeff and Dierdra, had borne the brunt of the wave and been washed overboard, though both managed to hang on, and we easily pulled them back aboard.

The worst part of the remaining trip, which was about 5 hours in total, were the calm, empty stretches in the middle where you could lie back and relax or get out and swim. It wasn’t that there was anything scary here—no crocodiles that we saw—but the calm gave time for the anticipation to build. When rapid follows rapid, you have no time to think. You just act. You forward paddle and back paddle as told. You hold on and get down. You swim and gasp for breath and try to avoid rocks. But in the calm periods, where you can only hear the rapids building up in front of you, you have plenty of time to imagine the possiblities.

Fortunately, none of the imagined possibilities became realities. Though the Grade 5 rapids of the White Nile are some of the biggest in the world, it’s actually a very safe trip, because the water is deep and the rocks are relatively few. Plus the safety kayakers are so bad ass that they’d have you out in a second if you really needed a rescue. It’s a thrill though, a mix of fear and exhilaration. And in the end, when you make it through the final rapid, which is named “The Bad Place,” with only a few small battle wounds, one missing contact, and a body thoroughly exhausted, you think that given the chance, you’d definitely do it again…though you’d still prefer to just be thrown in the boat and sent downstream, without even a second to think about it.

A Ugandan Safari

When it comes to going on safari, not too many people think of Uganda. There’s good enough reason for that; Uganda is no Kenya or Tanzania, no South Africa or Namibia. It’s highlight is its gorillas, not the typical safari animals. If you’re planning a once-in-a-lifetime safari adventure, I wouldn’t advise making Uganda your destination. But if you’re in Uganda for some other reason–to see the gorillas, raft the White Nile, enjoy the lush green landscape, or spend time with the friendly people–then you ought to take a few days to enjoy a Ugandan safari in their prime reserve, Queen Elizabeth National Park.

You’ll miss some of the typical animals. Due to a case of rinderpest that struck in the early 1900s, there are no zebras, giraffes, and wildebeests. As you usually see these in great abundance, their abscence was, at least for us, quite striking. You also won’t find rhinos, which I believe were pretty much poached out of existence. And you won’t find cheetahs stalking across the plains, though I’m not sure whether their absence is due to disease, poaching, or simple geographic issues.

You will, however, find heaps and heaps of antelope, most notably waterbuck, Uganda kob (their national animal), and tobi. You’ll also find elephants, large herds of Cape buffalo, and leopards (but only if you are much luckier than we are). All cool for sure but not really worth going out of your way for.

But if you like lions, then Queen Elizabeth National Park should be on your list, as we saw many. One morning we observed a group of female lions with their cubs, while the next morning we were treated to a large male lion lying right next to the road.

Best of all, however, are the park’s famed tree-climbing lions. Though no different genetically from any other lions in Africa, these lions, which live in an area populated with easy-to-climb fig trees, have developed the behavior of resting in trees during the day. (Or at least the females have; the males are too heavy and remain in the thickets at the base of the trees.) Located exclusively in the Ishasha section of the park, an area a bit off the beaten track, the lions are an unusual treat, and we were lucky enough to spot two lazing in a tree, seemingly without a care in the world and without even the slightest bit of interest in us.

If primates are more your thing, the park is also a prime destination. On guided chimpanzee walks, you can descend into a lush gorge and track down our closest ancestor. You’ll probably find them high above you in the trees, but sometimes they scamper down and share the path with you.

You may also spot baboons, colobus monkeys, and a variety of other species. And since the paths you are walking are actually animal tracks, you could come across pretty much any other animal that lives in the park. Though we saw hyena and lion dung, we only actually spotted a few elephants making their way down to the water as well as a school of hippos.

Speaking of hippos, they gather in great abundance in the channel that runs through the park, connecting Lake Edward and Lake George. On a boat ride down the water, you’ll catch hippos barking, hippos yawning, hippos exhaling, hippos lumbering, and hippos doing pretty much anything else that hippos do. You’ll also spot zillions of birds as well as a few small crocs and some buffalo. And if you’re lucky, perhaps the bare bum of a local bathing just a few meters away from a hippo!

If you don’t want to take a boat ride but want to get up close and personal with a hippo, then just plan to have dinner at the lodge. As the sunsets the hippos waddle out of the water and plant their enormous selves on the lawn, which they very kindly mow each evening. It’s a charming way to end the day at a park that isn’t quite top-of-the-list but is quirky and fun and boasts a few features that you’ll be hardpressed to find elsewhere.

Gorillas in our Midst

There we stood, at the edge of the impenetrable forest. We knew the gorillas were in there, and had been told they were quite close. And so we plowed on.

And while Bwindi Impenetrable Forest did prove to be mighty difficult to penetrate, the gorillas were nice enough to stick quite close to the edge. Within fifteen minutes, we found them feeding on leaves on a steep hillside, the sun shining brightly behind them making visibility poor. But after a few minutes fraught with fear that they wouldn’t move for the whole hour, the whole group, led by the silverback, paraded out in front of us and down a creek bed.

For the next hour, they meandered around hills, many times walking right in front or behind us. It was simply magical and amazing.

And the expressions on their faces and their eyes were just so … human.

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Majestic creatures, without question. And an amazing experience, totally worth the high price. Especially when you consider that this price is what protects these animals and their environment.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.