MY DAUGHTER NINA WRITES FROM GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
February 4, 2011
Hi Pops,
No snow here, in fact it is a balmy sunny 10°C weather, a lovely spring day. I think the US stole our snow.
You do know that Rwanda is called the Switzerland of Africa (as Kyrgyzstan is called the Switzerland of Central Asia, Bangalore is called the Switzerland of India and Lebanon is called the Switzerland of the Middle East.
My friend Dorothea (whom you have met) was based for the ICRC (International Red Cross) in Rwanda for a few years. It was her first posting. At first she was not so happy, but then she liked it.
That you had to find out about Egypt from CNN and not from Tony’s emails, that keep telling you to go back up north for excitement, is interesting. Are you not reading his e-mails? They are quite funny.
Tony is right, at the rate you are going you will be in South Africa way before your booked flight. What will you do while waiting?
Sergey (from Kyrgyzstan)), loves South Africa, he went two years ago and went back again this year. He just drives around the country.
Toodle doo and enjoy
Nina
* * *
FROM KIGALI IN RESPONSE TO NINA'S MESSAGE
February, 5, 2011
Yo Nina.
A balmy February in Geneva?
Try Kigali for balmy. It practically straddles the Equator and yet, the climate is perfect; not too hot, not too cold, not too wet, not too dry not too windy, not too calm.
By the way, I crossed the Equator already three times on this trip. First time, north to south in a truck from the Ethiopian border to Nairobi, second time south to north in a bus from Nairobi to Kampala, third time, again north to south, on the bus from Kampala to Kigali.
Yeah, I’d heard about the African Switzerland designation but I didn't think they could keep the title after the horrors of 1994. Actually, a Switzerland designation seems to be like a bad omen, not only in Rwanda. Lebanon got trashed and re-trashed several time, once by a civil war and twice by Israel. Kyrgyzstan just went through a mini civil war with lots of killed, wounded and displaced people because of different ethnicity (wasn’t it ethnic Kyrgyze against ethnic Uzbeks?) I don’t know of anything blemishing Bangalore, but, with the odds they face, we probably need to cross our fingers for them.
As for Egypt’s upheavals, of course I read Tony's e-mails (yes they are funny and I answered them). I knew stuff was going on there but seeing the pictures on TV is another matter altogether. Over the years I was several times on Tahir square/ I have seen it under normal circumstances when tourist souvenirs were for sale there. What’s going on now in this tightly controlled society is horrible. I hope they'll find a peaceful solution. I wish for them to be as lucky as Rwandans. They'll need a competent leader like the Rwandans got with Paul Kagame.
As for the speed of my trip, you are right. I breezed through quite a few countries in a short time, but still saw and learned more about the people's lives, their customs and culture, than a regular tourist who flies in to visit a few sights. I live with the people, travel with them, eat and drink with them, talk with them, sometime argue with them (mostly when bargaining over prices). Most of the time I sleep where they sleep.
You suggested I go check out the southern Mozambique coast with its supposedly magnificent beaches for an eventual family get together there? If I want to go there, I need time. Since Mozambique is not on my present itinerary; Uganda - Rwanda - Malawi - Zambia - Zimbabwe, I'll have to back trak from South Africa.
Like your friend Sergey, I too expect South Africa to be interesting. I plan to rent a car in Johannesburg, drive via Swaziland and maybe Lesotho to Mozambique to check out those beaches, then zigzag somehow back down toward Cape Town. In my rental car I can stop wherever and whenever. I can eat and drink whatever, whenever, wherever.
Now, after sending off this message, I’ll hire a motorcycle with driver. From the backseat I'll visit Kigali. I can make him stop if I see something that warrants closer examination — or that looks good to eat.
Be well, you and your family.
Greetings from one of the other Switzerlands, Rwanda..
Dad
* * *
FROM STONE TOWN, ZANZIBAR
Tuesday, February 8, 2011 at 8:03 PM
If things go as planned, sometime next week I'll be in paradise. The assumption is based on a newspaper article. Last night in Dar Es Salaam I read in a local newspaper that in Malawi, where I plan to be next week, it is punishable with serious jail time if you fart in public.
I suppose if a country has no greater problems than that, it must be paradise on earth.
I suppose if a country has no greater problems than that, it must be paradise on earth.
Getting out of the airport in Dar Es Salaam it felt as if I’d stumbled into a steamy boiler room. Instantly I felt soggy as if I was being slapped around with a wet, hot towel. In the sticky heat I became also caked with dirt from swirling clouds of reddish, flying dust.
Pushing my way through a mass of humanity in packed downtown, I found the Lonely Planet recommended Safari Inn, a cheap backpacker guesthouse. It seemed, all Dar Es Salaam’s vehicle repair shops were located in that part of town. Engine oil painted mechanics plied their trade in their sandy workstations. Pedestrians climb over and around heaps of discarded and ready to be installed mechanical parts. Cars, mopeds and motor cycles wind their way between dusty and rusty piles of junk; engine-less vehicles, vehicle-less engines, puddles of discarded engine oil, and food stalls.
After dumping my pack in the room, and chaining it to a plumbing pipe, in desperate need for a beer, I went in search for it throughout the mostly Muslim town. I climbed over mountains of accumulated garbage, trying to avoid stepping on sleeping people, or into dirty puddles, braving peddlers, moneychangers. Touts pestered me with offers of organized safari, friendship in exchange for cash, cigarettes, T-shirts with pictures of Osama Bin Laden and T-shirts with pictures of Barak Obama. I happened on a partially tiled and reasonably clean sidewalk. Progress in my search for beer became more fluid and my pace quickened then I dropped about three feet down into a sewage ditch. The beautiful sidewalk had simply ended. Even though I gained a new, rather unpleasant scent, I didn't get much dirtier than I already was.
I planned to do laundry that evening in the sink of my Safari Inn room, taking advantage of the fact I actually had a sink with running water.
I planned to do laundry that evening in the sink of my Safari Inn room, taking advantage of the fact I actually had a sink with running water.
At one place the street was taken up by large grills full of glowing charcoal, turning the whole area into an inferno.
Heaps of skewered meat (goat? lamb? beef? chicken?) on the blazing grills looked appetizing. The encrusted buckets under the grills, from where the cooks took the raw, marinated meat, looked filthy.
I sat down at one of the tables in the street, as far away as possible from the heat glimmer, got a coke and ordered one of the skewers.
The cook asked which one.
All the pieces of meat were so thickly pasted (marinated?) with some yellowish/orangeish/brownish-colored paste, I had no idea what actually was on the skewer. I pointed at the closest one. He gave it to me on a piece of cardboard.
As soon as I bit into the thing it felt like black clouds of smoke were about to shoot from my ears. An infernal fire in my mouth started to incinerate my head from inside out. As the sole white patron at the crowded street eatery, with many curious eyes following my movements, I didn't dare leave my ordered food, or worse, spit out. I didn’t want to appear like a spoiled European or American kid — well, okay, a spoiled European or American old fart. In denial, totally defying the anticipated following morning’s punishment on the other end of my bodily food passage when I had to go, I kept chewing on the chunks. The meat must have come from a really, really old animal, probably a stiff geriatric cow. No matter how long I chewed, the clump of meat, after each bite reverted back to the same shape it had been before my jaws clamped down on it. It resisted all my teeth’s attempts to reduce it to a size I could swallow. It provoked giggling amusement in my fellow meat eaters when I took the Swiss Army knife from my pocket and did to my dinner, while it hung out of my mouth, one side held by teeth the other by one hand, what should have been done by my teeth alone.
My novel eating method brought about a total transformation in the people around me. Before my novel eating stunt I had the impression everybody saw in me only an anonymous foreigner, out of place in their midst. Now, suddenly, I’d become a buddy.
“Where are you from?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Do you like Dar Es Salaam?” (I fidgeted on that one).
“What do you think of Barak Obama?”
“How long will you stay?”
Everybody wanted to talk with me.
I had another coke and mentioned that I'd rather have a beer. Well, that beer didn't materialize there but some helpful fellow fire-meat-eaters told about a place, no far away, that served it. Sitting, chatting, laughing, despite a mouth and throat on fire, I started to see Dar Es Salaam and its people through another, much more pleasant lens.
I had another coke and mentioned that I'd rather have a beer. Well, that beer didn't materialize there but some helpful fellow fire-meat-eaters told about a place, no far away, that served it. Sitting, chatting, laughing, despite a mouth and throat on fire, I started to see Dar Es Salaam and its people through another, much more pleasant lens.
When I was about to leave one of the men said I should not walk alone back to the Safari Inn after dark. He offered to accompany me but I refused his help with thanks.
The warning had some little impact. I didn’t go for a beer even though I now knew where I could get one. When I did walk home through the unlit streets I had my Swiss Army knife, with an open blade, hidden in my hand.
The warning had some little impact. I didn’t go for a beer even though I now knew where I could get one. When I did walk home through the unlit streets I had my Swiss Army knife, with an open blade, hidden in my hand.
Earlier that evening, I’d gotten tickets for the Tanzania to Zambia train. It leaves Dar Es Salaam twice a week. My ticket is for three days later, Friday. It goes towards Malawi, a country I need to visit to check out the illegal farting situation.
I planned to spend the next three days in the old pirate hang out, the semi-independent island of Zanzibar.
A day later:
This morning I arrived by speedboat from Dar Es Salaam in Stone Town the main city in Zanzibar.
The architecture, some pre-colonial and some from the times of different European and Arab occupiers, is charmingly different from everything I had seen so far in Africa. Part of the old town is a Unesco World Heritage site, many are beautifully restored.
So far, having managed to avoid the tourist safari circuit with souvenir shops and tourist guides during my trip, that became a bit difficult. Zanzibar, at least Stone Town, is the most touristy place I have visited on this Africa journey. In this quaint, mainly Muslim town, are many souvenir shops, helpful locals who offer to show you local sights, or sell you local stuff, or bring you to restaurants and hotels in renovated historical buildings. Beer and wine are readily available, even while muezzins call for evening prayers from minarets. Catering to tourism clearly takes precedent over religion.
So far, having managed to avoid the tourist safari circuit with souvenir shops and tourist guides during my trip, that became a bit difficult. Zanzibar, at least Stone Town, is the most touristy place I have visited on this Africa journey. In this quaint, mainly Muslim town, are many souvenir shops, helpful locals who offer to show you local sights, or sell you local stuff, or bring you to restaurants and hotels in renovated historical buildings. Beer and wine are readily available, even while muezzins call for evening prayers from minarets. Catering to tourism clearly takes precedent over religion.
Tomorrow I'll rent a scooter to check out the rest of the island.
Yesterday in a Dar Es Salaam cyber café I had written a longish report. Just when I was about ready to push the send button, the lights went out, the ceiling fans stopped twirling, the computer screen went black and no trace of my writing was left.
If the same thing doesn't happen in the next few seconds, you'll get at least this report.
* * *
ZANZIBAR AND DAR ES SALAAM TRIBULATIONS
February 11, 2011
Stone Town, the main town in Zanzibar, is so quaint, and picturesque, it looks almost as if it had been set up for tourists, except, of course, is real.
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| Stonetown in Zanzibar seen from the ferry from Dar Es Salaam. |
Since I couldn’t help feeling like a tourist anyway, I didn’t bother looking for a backpacker dive. I went to a hotel, actually the dependence of a fancy hotel, a room in an old house in town, with tiled bathroom, AC, a ceiling fan and a mosquito net over a beautifully carved bedstead. There are mirrors, pillows and sheets and from the street I hear music. On a sandy beach with a gentle surf almost lapping at the red-checkered table cloth on my table, I had a delicious fish dinner with a bottle of real Italian, imported Chianti.
The second day in Zanzibar I rented an Indian made scooter from an Indian. The owner took me to the local football field to check out my scooter driving skills before he handed it over. While I showed off my scooter driving virtuosity, one of his assistants went to get a Zanzibar scooter driving permit for me. It cost about six dollars.
The scooter’s owner was satisfied with my scooter handling skills. He should because I had one of the things for a couple of years in the distant past of my life. I had also rented them all over the planet.
From the road on the way to the ocean side of Zanzibar, where the island’s reputed snow-white beaches are, I saw a hand made sign "Eco-tours in the Lagoon and Forest". I drove on a narrow trail into the woods where I found the “Reception”, a decrepit shack. The manager, an teen-aged boy, explained that they like to make some money for the villagers by showing visitors the local medicinal plants in the woods and the lagoon. A shaman sitting in the shade nodded agreement.
I gave the teenage manager the requested ten dollars, the shaman got up and motioned for me to follow.
The “Eco-tour in the Lagoon and the Forest” started out with a long, sweat-drenched hike on a faint trail through the woods. Along the way I was made to try all sorts of forest plants, some to chew-then-spit-out, some to chew-and-swallow, some to rub-in, smell, squash, squeeze. He pointed out at vegetation with promised useful purposes. Some supposedly
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| The shaman's reception office in the woods. |
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The shaman's toilet, one of the most functional
outdoor ones I visited in Africa.
cured tooth ache, some treated belly ache, birthing, cough, arthritis and ailments I'd never heard of before. We also ate non-medicinal things like wild mango and coconut and nuts and fruit I’d never seen before. One, a dark berry, is called the children keeper.
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“When you want your children to stay put and behave,” my shaman guide said, “you simply leave them next to one of those bushes. They will be eating berries 'til you pick em up again.” The man sounded knowable. He missed one ear but wouldn't tell me how he lost it.
After that introduction to healthy Zanzibar nature style living, I continued on the road to the beaches. Once flying full speed over an unmarked speed mogul I must have looked like an acrobatic snowboarder.
At three police checkpoints I was stopped for document control. All the officers were courteous and none of them asked me for money.
At three police checkpoints I was stopped for document control. All the officers were courteous and none of them asked me for money.
The famous Zanzibar snow-white beaches were a total letdown. Yes, they are white but with the flat shore, at low tide the water receded so far out, you could barely see it across the exposed rough corral-covered dry ground. Even if you wanted to go out to the water’s edge, it is virtually impossible to walk on that ugly, rubbly, pointy dead corral cemetery.
The planned, refreshing swim in a turquoise lagoon had to be put off at least until I found a place that was accessible.
On my way back to Stone Town on a badly pot-holed part of the road, a motorcycle in front of me swerved to avoid a particularly deep one. I was going to do the same but a bus behind me honked, a warning it was overtaking. I went straight for the pothole, as I had done many times before on that trip.
Well, that pothole was just too deep for the small wheels of my scooter. The front wheel got stuck in it and I did what snowboarders do routinely; propel to a somersault. Only difference is, instead with a snowboard I did it with the scooter and instead of landing on snow, I came down on potholed asphalt, with the flying scooter landing on top of me.
A bit dizzy, after I gathered myself and the scooter off the road I noticed profuse bleeding from my right foot and blood dripping down over my face from the direction of my right eye. I also had some pain in the chest but I felt lucky that the overtaking bus had not run over me.
A young man in work-stained overalls came to my assistance. When I mumbled I’d drive the not badly damaged scooter to Stone Town, he said that under no circumstances should, or could I do that. A puddle of blood from my face formed around my feet. I reluctantly agreed with the man.
I gave him the phone number of the scooter renter. He called the scooter man and made an appointment with him at a medical emergency center. He drove me there on the scooter.
The scooter renter and his assistant met us at the medical center. At the reception they told me they couldn't do anything to my wound before I had reported the accident to the police.
The scooter renter and my rescuer drove me to the hospital.
“If you say it was a vehicle accident,” the scooter man said, “you have to have a police report before they treat you.”
“I fell onto a coral at the beach,” I said at the hospital reception triage.
After a bloody and sweat-drenched long wait, a doctor took a look at my wound and said he couldn't do anything about it.
"With such a hole in the eye you'll have to go to a hospital in Dar Es Salaam," he said and gave me the address of the hospital.
"With such a hole in the eye you'll have to go to a hospital in Dar Es Salaam," he said and gave me the address of the hospital.
There was no boat to Dar Es Salaam that evening. I spent a horrible night in my beautiful hotel room. The pain was almost unbearable but all I had was aspirin. I was reluctant to take it because, I reasoned, as a blood thinner it would make the already profuse, constant bleeding worse. In desperation I took two aspirins anyway, and, as expected, the blood flowed more freely.
At one point during the night the pulsating pain became worse, as if a dagger was stuck into the wounded eye. I ran to the bathroom mirror to look what happened. In the mirror I observed how the inside of the eye was pushed out through the hole by blood pressure. It sort of hung over my cheek as a bloody gob. The blood just kept coming, pulsating out. I fetched my camera and tried to get a picture,a selfie of my departing eye in a mirror reflection. Afterwards I placed a wad of toilet paper over it, let it completely soak with blood then stood under the fan to dry it so it would seal the area by blocking the blood flow. It worked.
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| During the night the eye, sort of, popped out of the socket. |
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| To stop the bleeding I soaked toilet paper in blood, dried it under the fan to cap the wound. It stopped the bleeding. |
In Dar Es Salaam I took a taxi to the hospital the Zanzibar doctor had recommended. The place, a couple of downtown bungalows, was a mess with a gazillion people pressing in many lines towards the reception. I was in pain, didn't know in which line to stand and I had to pull my luggage along. I think it was my bloody face that eventually opened a path to the reception. I was told that the eye doctor was not going to be in 'til two PM. My watch said nine AM.
I told a taxi driver to bring me to a good hotel. He suggested all kinds of multi-star hotels but one stuck out, the Mövenpick. I knew this to be an upscale Swiss hotel and restaurant chain.
At the Dar Es Salaam Mövenpick reception my blood-stained arrival caused quite a stir. When I told them why I was there they became super solicitous. The manager was called. They offered whatever assistance I might need. I asked for a room and a good hospital in Dar Es Salaam.
The hotel driver brought me to one, called CCBRT, It was a bit out of town and, like the first one, also a collection of bungalows but in that one I didn’t have to wait in long lines.
The triage eye doctor took one quick look and said the eye had to come out immediately otherwise there might be a sympathetic (?) reaction to the other.
“It could blind the other eye also,” he said.
“Should I, maybe, get another opinion?” I said.
“There is no other option, the eye is punctured and fell already out, it only needs to be disconnected from the socket,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, “take it out.”
This triage doctor was not the surgeon. Before the operation I had to pay the bill, 70 dollars US. I case I might think that was too expensive, I was told, medication is included in the price. (Later I googled “surgerycost.com” and found out it would have cost me 30,000 dollars in the US, medication probably not included.)
After having paid the bill I got a hospital gown, so small, it fit like a second skin. With a clammy, sweat-soaked body I had a hard time getting into it and thought I'd never be able to take it off again.
The surgeon, Dr. Moonga, in the tiny but clean-looking operating room, looked about mid-twenty years old. He told me he was from Zambia. A nurse injected local anesthesia in the eye area and he started right away. He said in pretty rudimentary English it was high time the eye came out.
During the operation, for which I had only local anesthesia, we talked about all sorts of things; how I liked Africa, what I thought about the demonstrations in Cairo, and, of course, president Barak Obama came up.
As everywhere else in the region, as soon as I say I am American, I become everybody's friend. I’d heard plenty of comments like:
“We thought you Americans are racist. Now we know you are not.”
What a difference from when, a few years ago I had a hernia operation in Uruguay. Then, during the operation with local anesthesia, we also talked among other things about a US president, but then it was George W. Bush. The doctors asked me how we could have elected such an idiot.
“I'll also stitch the gash on your eye brow,” doctor Moonga said.
“Don't bother,” I said, “I like scars.”
“Exposed bone won't heal too well,” he said.
“Okay then, stitch it.” I said.
Back at the hotel I found out that not all Dar Es Salaam is as I described it in the previous e-mail. The Mövenpick is in an orderly, rather clean part of town. The hotel is set into a park with restaurant, bar, swimming pool, gym, business center (where I write this message) a beautiful breakfast buffet, and very helpful staff.
The night after the operation I was in pain. I called reception to ask if someone could get me some pain medication. A man appeared at my door to inquire what exactly I’d want.
“Some strong painkiller,” I said and gave him a twenty-dollar bill.
He came back with ten pills. With no idea what they were, but anxious to do something about the pain, I ate one.
Wow!
Now I understand how people can become addicted to prescription medicines. After I had taken the pill, the pain was still there but it somehow had transformed into something pleasant. The pain actually felt good. I felt warm and cozy all over. I was hugging pillows. During that night I took a few more of those magic things and felt wonderful.
Clear-headed again in the morning (at least I thought I was clear-headed), with diminished pain, I had to seriously restrain myself from temptation to take more of the little miracle pills. I wondered and worried about how long it might take to become addicted to such miracle medicine. I couldn’t even google it because I didn’t know what they were.
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| After the operation I had a more sanitized version of eye covering. |
I now understand how a businessperson, or a tourist, staying in such a first class hotel like the Mövenpick will come away from a town like Dar Es Salaam with a totally different impression than a traveler who hangs out in backpacker's digs in the cheapest parts of towns.
Even though, what the backpacking budget traveler, sees and experiences, the areas where most local people really live and work, is closer to the local reality, although right now I am very happy to be at the beautiful and comfortable Mövenpick hotel.
Saturday morning I'll be going back to doctor Moonga to check on the healing progress of the place where the eye used to be. Depending on what he says, I'll either continue the journey or take a flight back to either Switzerland, London or New York.
With all that happened, I have to consider myself real lucky.
The eye that is out was my bad one. It was always the weaker of the two and about two years before the accident it had become functionally blind. Now, apart from the pain and open wound in the empty socket, not much has changed. I lost some weight (as is my wish), albeit only the weight of the eye and some blood. The lost blood has already been replaced by the body’s metabolic conversion of beer and wholesome food.
After the operation I asked doctor Moonga if I could have a last look at my eye. He fished it out of the plastic garbage can next to the operating table, found it and showed it to me. It looked like a maroon, jelly-like gob, the size of a small plum.
“You want it as a souvenir?” he said.
“Good riddance,” I said.
* * *
AGAIN FROM DAR ES SALAAM
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Clean bill of health!
Just came back from a check-up at the hospital where, two days ago, they took out the right eye. I have no infection, no inflammation, no problem, except, of course, it looks like shit.
Two doctors, the surgeon, doctor Moonga, who took out the eye and the chief of the clinic, assured me that now there is no more risk that my empty eye socket could affect the vision in my other, good, eye. I got antibiotic, anti-inflammatory ointment that I have to squeeze three times a day into the space where the eye used to be. I now can wash the face, and take a shower. I am looking forward to both.
Just got an e-mail from London that Nick, my son-in-law, will arrive tonight to assist me. Although I don’t think I need help, I am very touched by the fact that he comes all the way from London — just in case.
Without the e-mail I might have missed him when he arrives tonight because I planned to go out on the town to celebrate my luck, that it was the bad eye that came out and that I have no other serious wounds. The scrapes on feet, knees and eye brow heal so fast they don’t bother me at all. The chest pain, because of a broken rib — or two — is just an annoyance. From all I know, there is nothing one can do about broken ribs anyway, so I try to ignore the occasional pain and try to neither laugh, sneeze, nor cough.
Now I'll have someone to help me celebrate. Nick and I can go out on the town together. Maybe we’ll find the place in my old neighborhood where I'd been told they sell beer.
After having missed the train the first time around, because of the eye problem, today I am again getting a ticket for the journey towards Malawi, the no-fart land. The train will leave next Tuesday. I’ll have Saturday night and Sunday for celebrating the functioning eye with Nick. Monday I can relax before the long train ride.
At the hospital I asked for eye patches. They don’t have any. If I can’t find them in town it will be a bummer. I won’t be able to enjoy the expected benefits of a pirate look. This afternoon I’ll search for eye patches.
If I get a chance I’ll write again this evening before Nick gets here.
*
The hot walk in the searing tropical town was again an illustration of Kypling's:
Only mad dogs and Englishmen are out in the tropical midday sun.
Only mad dogs and Englishmen are out in the tropical midday sun.
The search for an eye patch went on for sweat-drenched hours. I was walking the dusty streets from pharmacy to pharmacy. In each store the staff was extremely courteous and helpful when they saw my bloody gauze taped to the face. Again and again I was directed to a next pharmacy that might have one.
Eventually I found a sorry-looking plastic version. I bought both they had to hopefully last me 'til Cape Town.
Thanks to the many of you who e-mailed concern about my eye, foot and rib problems.
Now that the doctor has given me a clean bill of health, there is absolutely nothing to worry about.
How many people can walk about with a black patch across the face and say they lost an eye in exotic Zanzibar!
Now that the doctor has given me a clean bill of health, there is absolutely nothing to worry about.
How many people can walk about with a black patch across the face and say they lost an eye in exotic Zanzibar!
My brother Kurt suggested in an e-mail:
“There are no witnesses,” he wrote, “so you can say whatever you like. Wouldn't a story about a lion attack sound better than a scooter and pothole encounter!”
Last night, with no pain thanks to the miracle pills, I spent the evening at a barbecue in the hotel's park. A sumptuous buffet was laid out, an orchestra played local music, a local group performed for us.
Four guys banged on bongos and ten male and females danced in “traditional” outfits. When they did their thing one could see spandex bicycle shorts with company logos under their straw skirts. For another war dance they wore synthetic fabric leopard print outfits. Even though it looked cheesy, I was glad they wore not real leopard skins.
The next report will probably come from somewhere in Malawi.
* * *
NKHATA BAY, MALAWI
February 20, 2011
Nick, and I had a real good time in Dar Es Salaam. Sunday night he went back to London without me. Even though it turned out I didn’t need assistance, I very much appreciated the effort made to ensure my wellbeing. The way I understand it, when they found out about my eye problem, the family decided collectively that Nick would have the best chance to talk me into abandoning the journey and returning home.
Ah well!
Apart for the readily available ones at the hotel, we found beer in Dar Es Salaam at the place my fellow street diners at the spicy, hot barbecue had told me about before I went to Zanzibar. No outside sign advertised available beer.
The dark, dilapidated place, it turned out, was a whorehouse. Men, leaving their beer on the table went through a door near out chairs and came back out after only a few minutes to resume sucking on their bottle While we were there, during a shift change, two veiled woman went in and a little later two other veiled women came out and left the place.
In such a heavily Muslim town like Dar Es Salaam, alcohol consumption and prostitution, are thus concentrated in one place.
In such a heavily Muslim town like Dar Es Salaam, alcohol consumption and prostitution, are thus concentrated in one place.
The train, called Tazara (Tanzania-Zambia-Railroad), from Dar Es Salaam to Mbeya near the border with Malawi was okay. Not exactly Swiss clean or French TGV fast, but compared to the other African train I have traveled on, from Bamako in Mali to Dakar in Senegal, it appeared luxurious.
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| The waiting passengers at the new Chinese built train station, from where only two trains leave per week, were treated to an impromptu performance by fellow passengers. |
While waiting for the train in the crowded, cavernous, fancy train station (a gift from China to Tanzania) a large group was doing an impromptu war dance to the music of an even bigger group. The performance was more entertaining than the professional one I had seen at the expensive five-star Mövenpick.
The train journey turned out to be a multi-compartment party with beer, boasting, storytelling, carousing and laughs. One compartment was packed with Peace Corps volunteers returning to their stations in Zambia from an international music festival in Stone Town. I found out that I'd missed a fun, all night party, following the musical performances, while I was tormented by my eye.
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| Katherine, the nurse who took care of my eye socket during the train ride in Tanzania. |
At first I was annoyed about loosing my privacy in the compartment.
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| Tom, one of my self-appointed nurse maids at Victoria Falls. |
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| Nick, in the spray at Victoria Falls, |
At the Mbeya train station, the closest to the Malawi border, the three of us got off ... and ... got royally screwed.
A local man offered to arrange for us a direct bus to the border, and assistance with border formalities. On the Malawi side, he said, he’d get us on another direct bus to the closest town from where we could take a long distance bus to Nkhata Bay on the shores of Lake Malawi, the place the Peace Corp volunteers had recommended.
The travel facilitator dude transported us into town in a mini van then got us into what looked like a Dalla-Dalla, a minibus, locally called a Dalla-Dalla. They stop along the road to pick up or drop off passengers, regardless how full the vehicle already is.
“Thought you’d get us a bus,” Tom said.
"Don't worry, this is not a Dalla-Dalla, it goes direct to the border
(120 kms). Give me the money now so I can arrange it all,” the helpful dude said. It sounded a bit fishy to me.
Tom offered to negotiate.
I know how to deal with these kinds of people," he said.
Tom offered to negotiate.
I know how to deal with these kinds of people," he said.
Nick and I each handed him fifteen dollars.
He had a serious chat with our facilitator was assured it was above board and handed him 45 dollars. The dude pocketed the bills and disappeared.
It turned out our transport was a regular Dalla-Dalla. Our middleman had paid the driver, one dollar-fifty per person.
During the whole long trip in that Dalla Dalla, I had a chicken on my lap. I felt sorry for it when I got on and I found it in a plastic bag between my feet. That chicken on my lap turned out to be a blessing. Virtually every seat had at some point during the trip at least two occupants, one sitting on the lap of another. Nobody decided to sit on my chicken.
It totally defies description about how many people can be squeezed into such a vehicle. We were full, over full, totally full, when the driver stopped for yet another half dozen people along the road, all with bags, bundles, buckets and parcels. To judge from odors, much of the luggage contained fish, as it turned out, the local staple of the people living on the shores of lake Malawi.
Try to imagine a minibus with nine seats, packed with twenty or so sweating bodies, and the resulting body odors, with buckets of "fresh" and smocked fish, squawking chickens and screaming kids squeezed into bundles between luggage on women's backs who sat on other people’s laps.
The one-hundred-and-twenty kilometer (80 miles) trip took about four very uncomfortable hours. Tom who had agreed to negotiate and pay our trip facilitator was crushed with shame for having been fleeced by the hustler. He tried to reimburse Nick and me but we assured him it would have happened to us also.
By the time we got to the Dalla-Dalla’s end station near the border, we still had to walk for about half a mile to get to the official border post. The Tanzanian emigration official checked us out of the country and said that we'd have to hurry to get over to the Malawi immigration because they were closing in five minutes. Getting soaked in sweat, we ran with our backpacks. Tom offered to carry mine but I wouldn’t let him.
Despite our efforts we couldn't cross that half mile no-man's land in five minutes. When we got there the border was closed.
Clothes, filthy from the long train ride, and totally sweat-soaked from running first from the Dalla-Dalla to the Tanzanian border post and then across no-man's land to the Malawi border I felt lousy. Because of sweat dripping in, my eye, or rather my eye socket, it hurt like hell. With not a chance to wash up, I'd been traveling by train, Dalla-Dalla and on foot, from Dar Es Salaam to that piece of no-mans land between Tanzania and Malawi for thirty-one hours.
It started to rain.
It started to rain.
We prepared to spend a miserable wet night at the border post. While I was stringing up my hammock between two crumbling concrete pillars and my travel companions were about to lay out their ground sheet on the muddy ground, a uniformed border officer asked what we were doing.
"Trying to spend the night 'til morning when we can check into Malawi," we said.
"There is a hotel on the other side of the border," he said.
"We are not checked into Malawi," we said.
"Never mind, go there and come back tomorrow morning for the entry formalities," he said.
Accustomed to the prevailing African nit-picking by bureaucrats, no matter how insignificant the problem, I could barely believe my ears. The uniformed official even walked us through the pitch-dark night to the hotel.
The hotel was a "hotel" only in name. In a long shed, from a middle corridor with crude wooden, latch-less doors on both sides, each leading to a tiny cubicle with a bed, a mosquito net and a fan we got into our two-dollars per night digs. The toilet in the back of the house, a hole in the ground, and the shower, a bucket with murky water, were enveloped in clouds of mosquitoes. So grateful for the help to get us out of the rain, onto a cot with mosquito net and fan, I gave five dollars to the immigration man. He had not asked for payment and the five dollars were probably more than he makes in a week.
I washed myself and my clothes then hung them under the fan to dry, then tried to take care of the hurting eye socket.
It seems almost impossible to imagine, but that night turned
out to be one of my most satisfactory, restful ones. The pain in the
eye socket became benign thanks to the last of my potent pain killer pills that enveloped me into a cocoon of euphoria. I covered the wound with a clean bandage and felt once more like a million dollars.
That night was one of those "hitting the head with a hammer episodes" that, when it came to an end, resulted in bliss.
In the morning, back at the border, we found again real bureaucrats.
"Can't check you in today because you checked out of Tanzania
yesterday," the immigration dude in a clean uniform informed us. He was not the same who had brought us to the "hotel".
“What can we do?” I said and explained our situation.
"You have to go back to Tanzania and check out again," he said.
“But our Tanzanian visa is cancelled, we can't go in in order to come out.”
The officer shrugged.
Knowing how futile it is to argue with bureaucrats and unwilling to pay the expected bribe, we started the half-mile walk back through the no-man's land towards Tanzania.
It started again to rain.
It started again to rain.
The immigration man who had refused to let us into Malawi, called us back. Without words he took our passports, crossed out the Tanzanian stamp and wrote in the proper date with a ballpoint pen.
"Welcome to Malawi," he said.
The taxi to the next town where we hoped to get a long distance bus was a regular station wagon but even that turned out to be functioning as a Dalla-Dalla. When we got in he waited for more passengers. Before we left, it was packed to way over capacity. Two of the new fellow passengers, a men and a woman said they were escaping assassins from Burundi.
“We have only fake papers,” they said, “had to leave in a big hurry.”
Another passenger carried three bibles under his arm, one in French, one in Swahili and one in English.
At the first checkpoint the officers had a field day with those follow passengers. They accused them of entering Malawi to profit from international aid. Dollar bills slipped into open hands eliminated the problem.
Then our passports were checked. The scribbled-in exit dates from Tanzania were discovered.
"You committed fraud. It is illegal to change passport entries," he said. “Ï cannot let you continue with these." He showed the passports to the other uniforms in his group. All nodded gravely.
The expected response was, of course, to hand over money, but I was encouraged by how things had gone at the border.
"You got to take that up with the officers at the border,” I said.
The uniforms looked at me as if I was dirt.
“The immigration people at the border are a real credit to Malawi. They are friendly, kind and understanding." I said. "You’d have to accuse those people of that fraud because it is they who changed the date." I described what had happened.
The uniform handed us back the passports: "Welcome to Malawi and have a pleasant journey", he said.
When we got to town the daily long distance bus had already left. But, there were lots of Dalla-Dalla searching for victims. Rather than stay in the drab-looking town we let ourselves be pulled into one of the torture transporters.
Again, this time without a chicken on my lap, we dealt for hours with "fresh" and smoked fish, countless bundles, buckets, and bags, with people on our laps and endless stop and go, stop and go, people got on, people got off.
Some decided to practice their English. Those were the trip’s highlights. We talked about Africa, the world, and, of course, about Barak Obama.
Some decided to practice their English. Those were the trip’s highlights. We talked about Africa, the world, and, of course, about Barak Obama.
After seven hours of (mild) torture we arrived at the town closest to Nkhata Bay (I forgot the name of the town and I don't have a map with me).
We needed to get Malawi currency. In the pell-mell of the Dalla-Dalla station, we had to find someone to lead us to a bank, then help find a taxi to go to Nkhata Bay. According to the peace corps people on the train and our Loneli Planets, Nkhata Bay is a beautiful, fun place with great backpacker lodges.
Even though apprehensive to ask for local help — burned children fear the fire — after our Tanzania huckster rip-off, Tom found a good man. Still hurt for having been played for a sucker, he explained:
“You have to find the man, and not let the man find you.”
The new guide led us through a labyrinth of crowded tiny alleys to a bank. When it turned out that bank had no money to change, he found us another one that did. He even carried my Pack.
Tom complained: "How come you would not let me carry your pack when we walked to the border but you let this man?" he said.
"He doesn't have a backpack of his own and you do."
Everything our new guide said and did turned out to be as promised. He even performed a miracle, he found me a desperately needed toilet. Then he brought us to the car of his "brother" to drive us to Nkhata Bay.
“It is direct, no other passengers along the way,” he promised.
And so it was.
Before leaving I bought a bundle of bananas from a street vendor. I had not eaten anything since noon the previous day. The prospect of traveling in a private car meant I could request a stop along the way, if I needed it. The driver, as promised, picked up nobody along the way but raced towards our destination as if trying for a speed record. He was very skillful in avoiding frequent potholes.
Mayoka Village, a Lonely Planet recommendation in Nkhata Bay, looked like a paradise, on the shore of Lake Malawi. It was built into the steep slopes above the lake.
To get to Mayoka Village, from town, we'd walked on a slippery trail along the lake shore. Bungalows made from reed, hidden in lush greenery, clung to the mountainside. At the water’s edge was a bar / restaurant. A couple of dugout canoes bobbed on the pebbly, gentle surf.
All the three of us liked the place.
“Sorry, we’re full,” a woman said.
We sat at the bar for beer and a war council.
The woman, she turned out to be South African and the owner of the lodge, said:
“We might be able to arrange something if you but there are some inconveniences.”
“What kind?” Tom said.
“You’d have to move out tomorrow. For tonight I have two cots in a twelve-person dorm and one bungalow that is vacant for just today. There are always people leaving so, maybe tomorrow we might find something else.”
“We take whatever you have,” Tom said.
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| Doing the laundry for Mayoka Village at Nkhata Bay. |
That evening we found plenty of reason to celebrate.
Next morning we all had buzzing heads but Tom was particularly sick. It was not so much the hangover as the realization that he'd had sex with a Malawi woman. Malawi has the highest AIDS infection rate in the world.
Next morning we all had buzzing heads but Tom was particularly sick. It was not so much the hangover as the realization that he'd had sex with a Malawi woman. Malawi has the highest AIDS infection rate in the world.
Nick and I commiserated with Tom and considered ourselves lucky for not having gotten “lucky” during the celebration.
What exactly did we celebrate?
Oh, yeah, the fact that we are in Mayoka Village in Nkhata Bay and have no need to get into a Dalla-Dalla for a while!
Next day Nick and Tom got into a dorm room with only four cots for six
dollars and I moved into a 12-dollar reed hut on the lake shore.
My hut didn't have a toilet or a shower. For the shower I had to climb up a steep trail and the toilet, a composting one, was even higher up.
I was able to take proper care of the eye socket because in the morning they supply hot water in the bathroom. The water is heated outside in a barrel with a wood fire underneath.
This Mayoka Village is easily the best lodging I found so far in East Africa.
Evenings guests get into a wooden boat with a small outboard motor, plenty of beer and a couple bottles of wine to swim, sing and throw each other over board. Back on land everyone pays what he or she thought they had consumed. Nobody is counting. The restaurant's food, a choice of African or European, is tasty and inexpensive.
The guests, Europeans, Americans, Australians, South Africans, are are mostly from NGOs, Peace Corps and the likes, who come here for R&R. Among the young crowd I felt like Methuselah.
The guests, Europeans, Americans, Australians, South Africans, are are mostly from NGOs, Peace Corps and the likes, who come here for R&R. Among the young crowd I felt like Methuselah.
The story, "how the old dude lost an eye in Zanzibar" made the rounds and was a hit.
Yesterday, after a long, sweaty hike to town, I found a shoemaker in a little cubbyhole of a deserted house. With a serious language barrier, it was difficult to describe to him what kind of eye patch I wanted. The plastic one from Dar Es Salaam, with all the sweating since then, had disintegrated. Eventually the shoemaker got the drift, picked from a pile of discarded shoes a black one and tried to cut out the shape of an eye patch. His knife was so dull, I had to lend him my sharp Swiss Army one for the task.
He was not a very skillful leather worker, the patch looked like shit. For holding it in place he stitched together two frayed, old shoelaces, then he had the nerve to charge me two dollars. One dollar is the average daily wage in Malawi and the shoemaker had worked on my patch a maximum of twenty minutes. Of course I didn’t bargain with him. Those two bucks surely provided him with a lot more pleasure than they could ever do for me.
We've been in Nkhata Bay since three days. Tomorrow, probably with Nick and Tom who have decided I need their assistance, I’ll head south and west, in the general direction of Livingston by the Victoria Falls in Zambia.
Afterwards my plan is to visit Zimbabwe and Botswana. If I can avoid it there won't be any transport by Dalla-Dalla.
Afterwards my plan is to visit Zimbabwe and Botswana. If I can avoid it there won't be any transport by Dalla-Dalla.
I feel lucky to have come this far with the report. The risk of losing it all is real, either by blackout, by malfunctioning computer or ... whatever. When I hit "backspace" for this e-mail everything I had written vanished. Lucky for me, the owner of this very rudimentary cyber cafe, a German, knows something about computers. He found it again.
* * *
February 18, 2011
My friend Jeri sent me an e-mail from New York,
a notification that my New York drivers license expires on March 25 of this year.
* * *
LIVINGSTON, ZAMBIA, VICTORIA FALLS
February 24, 2011
On this trip I again found reassurance that there are plenty rewards from traveling by local means; bus, train, Dalla-Dalla, motorcycle taxi or car taxi. The traveler comes close to living like locals. He eats what crowds of children and woman sell from heaping trays on top of their heads, when they hustle around the bus wherever it stops. He suffers the same and enjoys the same and, he sees the land as if through the locals’ eyes.
It might not always be comfortable but it is mostly rewarding.
For comfort I could stay at one of my beautiful homes, either in my Manhattan loft or on my farm in Vermont. I'd have TV, AC, central heat, wireless Internet connection, eat in clean sushi restaurants, eat Chinese, French, Italian fare, hang out with familiar friends, daughters, son, grand kids. I could drive my own familiar pickup truck. For vacation I could visit daughters and grand kids in London and Geneva, my brothers in the mountains of Switzerland to play cards and eat nostalgia food, hang out on a tropical beach with fancy drinks, fly for dinner to Paris, or lounge around and be pampered by beautiful women in Bali, or Thailand, or Cuba, or in the Philippines, or ... or ... or.
It might not always be comfortable but it is mostly rewarding.
For comfort I could stay at one of my beautiful homes, either in my Manhattan loft or on my farm in Vermont. I'd have TV, AC, central heat, wireless Internet connection, eat in clean sushi restaurants, eat Chinese, French, Italian fare, hang out with familiar friends, daughters, son, grand kids. I could drive my own familiar pickup truck. For vacation I could visit daughters and grand kids in London and Geneva, my brothers in the mountains of Switzerland to play cards and eat nostalgia food, hang out on a tropical beach with fancy drinks, fly for dinner to Paris, or lounge around and be pampered by beautiful women in Bali, or Thailand, or Cuba, or in the Philippines, or ... or ... or.
I have a love affair with our planet and crave to know and experience as much of it as it will give me.
The Brazilian author, Paulo Coelho said:
If you think adventure is dangerous,
The Brazilian author, Paulo Coelho said:
If you think adventure is dangerous,
Try routine … it is deadly.
On my way from Nkhata Bay on lake Malawi to Livingston by the Victoria Falls, where I am now, it looked, at least for a little while, like I'd experience the ultimate comfort in African travel. I sat in a nice long distance bus for the thirteen-hour journey from Ilongwe, the capital of Malawi, to Lusaka, Zambia’s capital. Seats were padded, the window next to my seat could be opened and closed. Best of all, there were not more people on the bus than there were seats. I could barely believe my good luck when we took off at the scheduled time. I snuggled into my seat and looked forward to a day of bliss with roasted meats and fruits, the customary fare offered by food selling peddlers at every stop.
We crossed the border into Zambia without major hassles, well, almost no hassle. Later, comparing notes on the bus with other travelers, I found out I’d been chipped once more by immigration officers. They charged me 80 dollars for the visa instead of the official 50 dollars, with, of course, no receipt given.
We crossed the border into Zambia without major hassles, well, almost no hassle. Later, comparing notes on the bus with other travelers, I found out I’d been chipped once more by immigration officers. They charged me 80 dollars for the visa instead of the official 50 dollars, with, of course, no receipt given.
Not far past the border our bus stopped at a gas station. The driver remained in his seat without getting fuel. We stood in that gas station for a long time. Nothing happened. Nobody gave a reason, no announcement, either in the local language or English. The temperature in the bus became infernal. A super fancy-looking, air conditioned bus stopped alongside us.
Goody-goody! I thought. We'll get to change over to that dream bus. I looked longingly over to it, waiting for the propitious announcement.
People — many people — got off that bus and moved over to ours.
On entering the bus in Llongwe I had wondered what the mountain of empty plastic Coca Cola crates stacked next to the driver could be for. Now I found out. They became seats in the isle for the herd of new passengers who crowded in on us.
People — many people — got off that bus and moved over to ours.
On entering the bus in Llongwe I had wondered what the mountain of empty plastic Coca Cola crates stacked next to the driver could be for. Now I found out. They became seats in the isle for the herd of new passengers who crowded in on us.
The seat next to me was vacant, my seat neighbor had left the bus at the border. When the stream of new passengers descended on us like locusts I took my backpack from between my feet and placed it on the seat, trying to direct who would be settling next to me. I was thinking of someone skinny.
A young man and woman squeezed through the mob in the isle towards me and when they were close I took off my pack with an inviting smile towards the pretty girl. She smiled back at me and tried to sit down. From across the isle a voluminous woman yelled at her. From what happened then I figured she was yelling something like, "that seat is reserved".
A young man and woman squeezed through the mob in the isle towards me and when they were close I took off my pack with an inviting smile towards the pretty girl. She smiled back at me and tried to sit down. From across the isle a voluminous woman yelled at her. From what happened then I figured she was yelling something like, "that seat is reserved".
The slim, pretty girl shrugged and moved on. Behind her, a colossal woman in a bright yellow De-Glow outfit pushed through and plopped down into the vicinity of the seat. l say vicinity because her enormous backside would never fit in. As she settled, a gob, like a bagful of Jello, jiggled over my lap. Her arms, each the circumference of my waist, covered my front. On top of all came a basked full of smoked fish. She smiled at me and nodded, clearly satisfied with the situation. I made a face back that must have looked as if I had swallowed a glass of vinegar or that I was going to bite her.
The journey was still going to be about 10 hours. I think, with the constant pressure from her blubber I got skinnier. That in itself, is a desirable thing, but whenever I tried to push back some of the wiggling Jello-like mass, it just relocated on another part of me. Unlike real Jello, which needs to be cool to stay in its wiggly shape, her gelatinous mass was hot and wet. From between rolls of fat on her neck, like ground water from between rocks, rivulets of liquid pearled down on her ... and me. Everything from her smelled intensively of fish.
Around midday the bus stopped by a roadside marked along a sediment-laden river. Stacks of smoked, fried and "fresh" fish were for sale. Since I had practically become one, I went for a chunk of the fried stuff. It was tasty. It didn't matter there was no place to wash hands, since I’d already smelled like a fried fish before my meal.
Two Swiss women who had boarded our bus at the gas station passenger transfer and had become isle passengers on Coca Cola crates, joined me at the fish stand.
“It is more for stretching the legs than for eating fish,” one said. Like Nick, Tom and I, they were also en route towards the Victoria Falls. Swiss meeting Swiss at that godforsaken fried fish stand, we hit it off. Tom and Nick were delighted to be introduced to the two good looking women who were to be our travel companions for a long distance ahead. Their ultimate goal was Cape Town from where they'd fly back to Switzerland.
My seat neighbor from hell in the screaming yellow outfit, who already had boarded with a basketful of smoked fish, had bought another load, this one she brought on the bus in a torn plastic bag. It landed on my backpack between my feet with a smile that said: "Where else could I put it?"
At the tail end of rainy season, we drove through beautiful, verdant green savanna. It could have been pleasant but the constant pressure of wobbly, fleshy folds and penetrating odors made that impossible to appreciate. To make matters worse, my torturing neighbor and her facilitator for getting the seat, the lady across the isle who had chased the slim girl away, blabbed incessantly, very loud and shrill in Swahili. When she thought something was funny, she laughed loudly and slapped my knees. Her jiggly laughs sprayed me with sweat and spittle.
By the time we reached Lusaka, it felt like I needed to be removed from my seat with a scraper.
Nick and Tom, Martina and Millie, the two Swiss women, and I, chose one of the gazillion taxi drivers that mobbed around us, each trying to be louder than the others in getting us to ride in his jalopy All five of us, squeezed into his small car. On bus rides we had become so accustomed to make do with minimal space, we felt reasonably comfortable.
Nick and Tom, Martina and Millie, the two Swiss women, and I, chose one of the gazillion taxi drivers that mobbed around us, each trying to be louder than the others in getting us to ride in his jalopy All five of us, squeezed into his small car. On bus rides we had become so accustomed to make do with minimal space, we felt reasonably comfortable.
At the guesthouse I tried to get a room with private bathroom so I could properly take care of my eye socket — and take a leisurely shower to get rid of a strong fish odor. There was only crowded co-ed dormitory space available, with about twenty people sharing one coed bathroom.
I sort of managed to take care of the wound and squeeze in a shower, then the five of us, Nick, Tom, Martina and Millie and I, went to the bar to start decimating their beer stock.
As always before a long bus ride, I drank nothing during the whole rip. Now that my existence as a canned sardine was behind me, I was able to chuckle when trying to imagine how, considering my seating arrangement on the bus, I would have accomplished getting off to pee if a need arose.
As always before a long bus ride, I drank nothing during the whole rip. Now that my existence as a canned sardine was behind me, I was able to chuckle when trying to imagine how, considering my seating arrangement on the bus, I would have accomplished getting off to pee if a need arose.
On account of the message from New York, that my drivers license will expire on March 25, I'll have to shorten my trip.
My plan had been, after traveling through Botswana and the Namibian Kalahari by local transport, to rent a car in South Africa, probably in Johannesburg. From there I’d visit Kruger Park, check out the famous beaches of Mozambique, see Jade’s homeland, Swaziland (a family inside joke), and cross Lesotho to make my way towards Cape Town.
I look forward to traveling around in these countries with my own (rented) wheels. Even though I would not meet as many people, I’d be able to leave when I want to leave, go where I want, drive as fast or slow as I want and, best of all, choose my fellow passengers.
I’ll forgo Botswana and fly from Livingston at the Victoria Falls, directly to Johannesburg where I’ll rent a car. Martina and Millie will join me for the Kruger Park visit. With this new plan I’ll still have enough time for visiting southern Africa, Mozambique, Swaziland and Lesotho in style and comfort.
Got to go. There's a party on tonight at Jolly Boys (the name of the guesthouse I am staying at in Livingston).
* * *
VICTORIA FALLS, TANZANIA
February 28, 2011
Got a couple of e-mails that said: Just because of an expired driver's license there should be no need to shorten the trip.
"A missing eye didn't prevent you from continuing, so, how could a crummy drivers license," a few wrote.
"A missing eye didn't prevent you from continuing, so, how could a crummy drivers license," a few wrote.
True, but on reflection, one month for southern Africa should be plenty. Also, an earlier return gives me a chance to build a planned greenhouse at the farm before summer. With a Spring greenhouse completion I even might be able to grow my own seedlings for the garden. Apart from traveling, gardening is high on the list of favorite stuff of I like to do.
If I fly directly to Johannesburg from the Victoria Falls, I’d have plenty of time to visit South Africa, Mozambique, Swaziland and Lesotho. I’d miss the land journey through Botswana to Namibia, the Botswana part, according to the insider talk at the Jolly Boys guesthouse, is not worth it, except a visit to the Okavango delta, but that is pretty far off my route and, from all I heard about it, the place sounds like an African Disney World where super expensive lodges provide salt licks to attract animals for viewing close to the lounge chairs where fancy, sundowners over ice cubes are served. They also have zebra striped vehicles to visit wildlife in their habitat but, now, towards the end of rainy season, the vegetation is thick and tall so animals don’t depend on water holes. Spread over large areas, they are difficult to see, with or without riding in camouflaged trucks.
I would miss Namibia and the Kalahari, places I am keen to visit, but I can always do that another time. It is easy to fly into South Africa, rent an 4x4, totally equipped with camping gear and whatever else is needed to go off road.
My brothers, Peter, and his wife Eva did it and loved it.
If I were to go directly from Livingston down through eastern Botswana to Johannesburg, I'd be sitting in a twenty-five-hour bus ride through bumpy savanna with hardly any change in scenery.
My brothers, Peter, and his wife Eva did it and loved it.
If I were to go directly from Livingston down through eastern Botswana to Johannesburg, I'd be sitting in a twenty-five-hour bus ride through bumpy savanna with hardly any change in scenery.
After the previous fishy one, I am done with long bus rides for a while.
Tom, Nick and I fly tomorrow to Johannesburg. Martina and Millie, will come a few days later.
Tom, Nick and I fly tomorrow to Johannesburg. Martina and Millie, will come a few days later.
I visited the Victoria Falls, one day the Zambian side with Tom and Nick, another day the Zimbabwean side with Kathryn, a schoolteacher from New York city.
Although I have been at the huge Iguazu Falls, straddling the borders between Brazil, Paraguay and Argentina, and at the tallest of the world’s waterfalls, Salto del Angel in Venezuela, Victoria Falls take the cake, at least as it is now with high water at the tail-end of rainy season. On both, the Zambian and the Zimbabwean side, we got totally drenched from watery mist. Some places it felt like a heavy, blinding downpour.
In the Zimbabwe side’s elaborate Victoria Falls Visitor Center, Kathryn and I had ostrich steak for lunch.
For a few of US dollars I bought a couple billions of Zimbabwean dollars, enough to turn all my eight grand kids into instant multi billionaires.
For a few of US dollars I bought a couple billions of Zimbabwean dollars, enough to turn all my eight grand kids into instant multi billionaires.
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| Victoria Falls from the Zambia side. |
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| Victoria Falls from the Zimbabwe side. |
The visitors facilities at the Zimbabwe side of the fall are much more developed than the ones on the Zambian side. Zimbabwe has nicely laid-out paths for viewing the falls, comfortable bathrooms — but practically no visitors.
Probably thanks for the "no visitors to Zimbabwe" should go to to self-appointed despot, president Mugabe. He is responsible for political, economic, and human right follies, a hyper-inflation where one needed to bring cash in a barrel just to buy bread. The tourist trade has completely dried up. Few visitors of the Zambia side are willing to go through the hassle of getting an additional visa to also see the Zimbabwe Victoria Fall side.
Zimbabwe's official currency is now US dollars.
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| Nick and I getting drenched in Victoria Fall mist.
My companion for the Zimbabwe side visit of the falls was Kathryn, a New York City public school teacher. She came here from New York just for the duration a short, president's week school vacation.
Her trip sounded even more impressive — or harrowing — when she told recounted how she didn’t mind taking real cheap flights so save money.
To return to NYC, after a two-day visit to the water fall, she has to fly from Livingston to Lusaka, from there to Nairobi, then to Frankfurt and from there, the last leg, to JFK. To make it even more interesting, she has airport time to kill between each flight segment. If one flight is delayed the whole subsequent itinerary collapses. As an extreme budget traveler, she’d always be the last served in case there is overbooking and thus she might end up with plenty of extra airport time.
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| Tom and I in Victoria Fall mist. |
“We like to walk,” I said.
“I like to eat,” he said.
I gave him twenty dollars, an amount he probably doesn’t make in a normal month. To see his expression was worth a thousand dollars.
During the fall visit on the Zambian side one girl’s passport, wallet and camera went into the trees with a baboon. She had all in a plastic bag to keep it from getting soaked when one of the many frisky baboons around the falls grabbed the bag and swung up a tree. As if trying to tease the girl, the monkey swung the bag around. The passport fell out and fluttered down but the wallet with cash and credit cards, as well as the camera, stayed up.
A local kid, one of the many trying to serve visitors in whatever capacity — for pay — offered to chase the baboon. Human kid catching a baboon in the trees! That sounded ludicrous but the girl’s companion agreed to the asked for retrieval price. Incredibly the agile kid caught up with the monkey while it was chewing on the camera. The camera, presumably because it didn’t taste good, was dropped, but, gashed with baboon bites all over and pieces missing, it was no more usable. At least the girl could retrieve the memory card with her holiday pictures. The wallet stayed in the tree.
Now, I suppose, there will be baboons in Zambia with cash and credit cards.
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| The bridge over the Zambesi is also the border between Zambia and Zimbabawe. One can bungee jump from the bridge. |
The backpacker place, Jolly Boys, a collection of, mostly open-air, bungalows, where I stayed, has a free-form swimming pool, sunken and raised lounges, a tree house with mattresses on the floor, internet connection with rentable computers, a bar and restaurant — and a souvenir shop. Tonight’s special is Crocodile Curry. There is also a well-equipped kitchen where guests can cook their own stuff. The fridges are chock full with fancy food. All packages are inscribed with the name of the owner, a requirement written on the RULES OF THE KITCHEN bulletin. I imagine how the staff can haul loads of yummy food from there simply by comparing names on the stuff with names of people who have moved on.
The crowd at Jolly Boys is a real fun group of backpackers and other, mostly young, budget travelers. Evenings are a continuous party where beer flows freely and laughter is ever present. Prices for lodging range from seven dollars a night to fifty. When we arrived nothing but the seven-dollar dormitory jobs were available. Guess which one I moved to when a fifty-dollar one became free the next day. Taking care of my eye socket is easier if I don’t have to hustle for a free sink in a common bathroom. Also I don’t have to throw on clothes every time I got to go to the toilet.
This one is probably the last report from the wilds of Africa. Next news will be from South Africa. Maybe, in Mozambique, Swaziland and Lesotho, I’ll feel once more like being back in the real Africa.
.
* * *
LIVINGSTON, ZAMBIA
February 28, 2011
I plan to be about one month in South Africa, Mozambique, Swaziland and Lesotho, getting around by rental car until March 25 when my drivers license expires. Afterwards I'll head back to the US via Switzerland where I'll visit my daughter Nina and family and then play cards with my brothers in the mountains. I plan to also stay for a couple of days in London with my youngest daughter, Jade and her family.
The eye socket is well healed, no pain, no infection, no problem at all — except the Malawi shoe leather eye patch, attached to my head with a fraying old shoe lace, keeps falling off. I gave up keeping medicated gauze over the wound. In New York I'll see an eye doctor, eat Sushi, drink Sake, see friends, then go to farm in Vermont.
My two new Swiss friends, Martina and Millie and I will visit the Krueger Park. Unlike my two traveling Ethiopian buddies from Addis Ababa to Nairobi, who planned to traverse the park and the adjoining Mozambique Limpopo wildlife preserve to sneak into South Africa for work, we'll travel in comfort — in a rental car.
I very much hope the two Ethiopians did not become lion food and made it safely across.
I very much hope the two Ethiopians did not become lion food and made it safely across.
After the park visit Martina and Millie return to Switzerland and I'll continue to Mozambique.
* * *
FROM JOHANNESBURG,
KRUEGER PARK,
MOZAMBIQUE,
SWAZILAND
March 8, 2011
About a week ago, around five AM the burgler alarm of my rented car went off outside my Krueger Park Lodge. I jumped into my underpants, still wet from the previous night's washing, and rushed out.
A baboon family sat around the car, looking stupidly at it, at me, and at the two fellow monkeys with heads stuck out of a rear window. They all seemed like asking what that alarm racket was all about.
I shooed them away.
I had forgotten to close one of the rear windows.
After last night's dinner of antelope steak and a good South African wine, called "Allesverloren" (everything lost), we'd driven on a dirt path through the bush, piercing the dark for nighttime wildlife. It gave me the willies when I imagined how my Ethiopian buddies would — or already did — walk for countless miles across this, for them, alien bush where they knew hungry lions were waiting for them.
When I turned into my hut, I'd completely forgotten about that open window.
After last night's dinner of antelope steak and a good South African wine, called "Allesverloren" (everything lost), we'd driven on a dirt path through the bush, piercing the dark for nighttime wildlife. It gave me the willies when I imagined how my Ethiopian buddies would — or already did — walk for countless miles across this, for them, alien bush where they knew hungry lions were waiting for them.
When I turned into my hut, I'd completely forgotten about that open window.
The baboons must have had their own party in the car. The seats were coated with monkey hair. Luckily I had taken my travel provision for the upcoming Mozambique trip into the lodge. I hate to think what the car would look like if the monkeys had ripped into juice cartons and ripped open the bags with nuts and dried fruits.
Days before, Nick and Tom, my two self-appointed nursemaids, and I, flew on February 26 from Livingston to Johannesburg.
The high speed train from the airport into town made me think I had time traveled in, or entered another dimension. Super modern, super fast, spotless clean, fully automatic, compared to just about everything I had seen recently, it appeared like a fantasy prop for a futuristic film.
Nick's brother picked us up at the super slick stainless steel and glass train station and brought us to Nick's parent's stately house.
In a neighborhood of similar-looking houses, theirs, a veritable mansion with a big, landscaped garden, swimming pool, four-car garage, automatic garage door openers, I experienced yet another culture shock.
Many gates and electrical fences around all the houses bothered me. Inside Nick’s house were iron bars and gates even between living area and sleeping area. These fortifications made the otherwise beautiful house look like a jail.
Tom and I, as Nick’s guests, got royal treatment. I moved into a beautiful private suite with a huge bathroom just for me. The bedroom was by far the biggest I had on the whole journey.
Nick's mother chauffeured us around Town, introduced us to friends, took us shopping.
One of her friend’s houses defies description. The extremely talkative owner gave us a tour. I lost count of the number of bedrooms, bathrooms, garden passes. It also had a rainforest park and a wine cellar. The park had also a grotto.
A bunch of nasty-looking dogs surrounded us on the tour.
Inside the house, the amount of knick-knack, covering furniture, stuffed in show cases, laid out on shelves and standing around on carpets, stairs and passageways, could have filled a warehouse.
A bunch of nasty-looking dogs surrounded us on the tour.
Inside the house, the amount of knick-knack, covering furniture, stuffed in show cases, laid out on shelves and standing around on carpets, stairs and passageways, could have filled a warehouse.
The lady declared: “I am a shopaholic, can't help that,” she waved at her stuff.
Nick’s mother brought us to the Apartheid Museum. That was for me a Johannesburg high point with its impressive, balanced presentation of South Africa’s racial history. Considering the devastating racial upheaval in the country, when the Apartheid government was in charge, it is a veritable miracle that the nation seems functioning now. The museum manages to demonstrate the incredible feat Nelson Mandela achieved by unifying the black, colored and whites. The way he managed to direct deep-seated hatred into the generally mutual respect, even with it's dark sides, is the work of a genius.
When she goes jogging, Nick’s mother said, she and her friends do that on the zoo grounds to where they have to buy expensive entry tickets. On public streets, she claims, it is too dangerous.
That, and having seen how most of the houses in predominantly white neighborhoods are protected by electrified fences, with prominent signs on perimeter walls that warn, “ARMED RESPONSE”, it is obvious that not all in South Africa is fine and dandy.
That, and having seen how most of the houses in predominantly white neighborhoods are protected by electrified fences, with prominent signs on perimeter walls that warn, “ARMED RESPONSE”, it is obvious that not all in South Africa is fine and dandy.
Despite my determination to stay away from, what I call Disney-like African tourist spots, I visited the Krueger Park wildlife preserve. There one can drive around in one's own car, does not have to sleep in super duper fancy, very expensive lodges. I have not seen indications of salt licks. There are no zebra striped vehicles with guides that inform each other by radio or cell phones where which animals are. Krueger Park is simply a very large national nature preserve, albeit with quite a road system for visitors to search out wild animals and to explore — and where potential illegal immigrants get eaten by lions.
We saw lots of animals even though, right at the end of the rainy season, the grass is very tall. No problems with giraffes and elephants, but despite the tall vegetation, we saw plenty of smaller animals as well. Several types of antelopes, wart hogs, zebras and large birds scurried out of the way in front of our car. We saw elephants and a large group of rhinos. With those we were glad they kept their distance from our minuscule sub-compact Hiunday. Lions seem to have become exclusively nocturnal.
The lodge, even though very reasonable priced, looked like an exclusive motel. Thatch roofed bungalows, a restaurant, a natural form, rocky, swimming pool, were laid out in a park-like setting. Tame antelopes and monkeys were more numerous than human guests. The bungalow had a cooking stove, a bathroom and a ceiling fan — total comfort. When not cruising around in search of animals, we cooled off in the pool, lazed in the sun, and had yummy drinks. In the evening we had a sumptuous dinner of local bush meat with local wine.
After leaving the park the girls took a bus to Swaziland, in the direction of Cape Town from where they were going to fly home. I continued on back north to check out the famous Mozambique beaches.
That evening I spent the night in Maputo, Mozambique's capital. The town has an European feel with many restaurants, and sidewalk cafés. Music is everywhere.
Next morning, while driving out of the bustling city I had a flat tire. When I pulled over to the side to install the spare tire the whole town, it seemed, offered to help. The spare was in the trunk under my luggage. Countless pairs of arms and hands stretched into the trunk to help taking out my backpack. That was just a little bit too much assistance for my taste. I had no way to keep my eyes on all the offered hands’ activities. At risk to offend well-meaning, honest helpers, I refused all. "No" was not immediately taken for no. I had to start yelling to be left alone. Eventually the people stood back a bit and let me do my thing. During the whole tire changing process I was surrounded by a sold wall of onlookers.
About six-hundred kilometers (400 miles) up the coast from Maputo is Tofo, one of the famous Mozambique beaches.
Tofo turned out to be a real backpacker paradise. The white sand beach, is more impressive than any I can remember seeing. At low tide it is on average three-hundred meters wide. Framed by azure water and white surf on one side and large dunes on the other, it stretches as far as the eye can see. On a brisk walk I took four hours to get to the end of the bay and back. I passed crystal-clear lagoons framed by large, windswept dunes. Local boys fished with poles, hand lines and spears. Others were prying oysters from rocks.
Tofo turned out to be a real backpacker paradise. The white sand beach, is more impressive than any I can remember seeing. At low tide it is on average three-hundred meters wide. Framed by azure water and white surf on one side and large dunes on the other, it stretches as far as the eye can see. On a brisk walk I took four hours to get to the end of the bay and back. I passed crystal-clear lagoons framed by large, windswept dunes. Local boys fished with poles, hand lines and spears. Others were prying oysters from rocks.
Tofo has lots of restaurants and simpatico backpacker guesthouses. Visitors, who seem to outnumber locals big time, are mostly young, hip backpackers from all over the world. Structures are built on sand or pillars right on the beach.
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| My hut in Tofo on a beach in Mozambique. |
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| The beach lodge's main house on Tofo's Mozambique beach. |
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| A siesta shelter on the beach in Mozambique. |
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| The pristine beach in Tofo, Mozambique. |
The waters off this part of Mozambique are reputed to have the World's largest concentration of Whale Sharks. A New Zealand marine biologist stationed in Tofo told me there are only about a thousand of these giants, the largest fish known to be alive in the world's oceans and about 300 of them make their home off Tofo.
Germans, Italians, Australians, and I, twelve backpackers, went out on a chartered speedboat to see them. It is easy to spot the aquatic giants because they swim close to the surface screening the water for plankton, their exclusive food. When one of the behemoths was located we all jumped into the water with snorkels, masks and fins. The polka-dotted six-and-a-half-meter long (twenty-feet) fish ignored us. It just kept floating around sucking water through its giant mouth to screen out plankton. Swimming with a shark with a giant mouth? No problem, the marine biologist had told us. Despite the large mouth, the gullet of the fish has barely the diameter of a garden hose. Rich with plankton the visibility in the water is poor. I took a couple of pictures with my under water camera. All it shows is a black and white polka-dot pattern of the fish’s skin, one near the tail and one near the mouth.
 |
| The polka-dotted body on a whale shark that floated by me. It is so vague because the under water visibility is bad on account of rich plankton, the whale shark's food. |
I left Tofo with a Japanese couple as passengers. We'd met at the backpacker where, as I often do when I encounter Japanese, I tried to find out what was left of my Japanese language skills (every year I find out it is less!). I lived in Japan for eleven months in 1960-1961. Since then, fifty-years ago, I lost a lot of vocabulary.
On the reasonably good but narrow blacktop we drove in one day for about seven-hundred kilometers (about 450 miles) to Mazini, the largest town in Swaziland. The border formalities to get out of Mozambique and into Swaziland were simple.
In Mozambique, we got stopped once at a checkpoint. The policeman asked me to show him the luminous vest every vehicle is supposed to carry. I told him that mine was a rental car and I had none. The cop asked for a fine of one-hundred dollars. In Mozambique? That is probably more than his monthly salary. I said I didn’t have that much money on me. He asked how much I had.
“Just enough to get to Johannesburg to return the car,” I said.
“Pay up,” he said.
I said nothing, gave nothing. The Japanese and I just sat in the car while the policeman, with my documents in hand, held up other cars. He asked the drivers also for the required vest and all managed to produce one. The policeman showed them to me. He cursed me. When he left to return the vest to the other car, the Japanese offered to pay. I refused. After a while the officer came to the window and, without further comment, threw the documents at me. We drove off without having paid a fine.
Nestled in idyllic hilly surroundings, Mazini, was far from what, in my romanticized image I had hoped Swaziland to look like. After driving around all over — that didn’t take long because the drab town is small — the only hotel I found was disappointing. A while after I stopped the car in front of a heavy metal gate under a billboard that identified the place as a hotel, it rolled out of the way to let me into the parking lot. The guard who’d opened the gate handed me a telephone.
“Talk,” he said.
“What? Why? To who?” I said.
“Talk!” he said.
“Hello,” I said.
“Yes?” a female voice said.
“What yes?” I said. “I am here at the hotel and a man told me to talk into the phone and that’s what I did.”
“You want to stay?”
“Yeah, at the hotel.”
“What is your name?” I gave it.
“Nationality?” I gave it.
“Passport number?” I gave it.
She asked a whole bunch more questions, like if I had cash on me, why I am in Swaziland and where I'd be going next. Had I seen another place to stay, I would have left. The place felt creepy.
“Give the phone to the man.”
“What man?”
“The one who told you to call me.”
The man listened for a while then hung up. He told me to throw the money, fifty-dollars in cash, for the night’s lodging through a slit in a box that was screwed to the floor.
The room might as well have been a prison cell. Small, with not the least attempt at decoration, it had a bed, a lamp, a chair, a small bathroom. It was clean.
After washing up a bit I went on the town to find a place to eat.
“You must be back before nine PM,” the man said.
“Yes Dad,” I said. He didn’t smile.
I found a restaurant above a department store. Only one other guest was there. I went to the table next to his and asked for a menu.
“We have pork chops and fries,” the waitress said.
“Okay,” I said, turned to the man nursing a beer at the table next to mine.
“What a charming town,” I said.
He shrugged.
“Not much choice in the menu,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Are you traveling through?”
“Yes,” I said. “Do you know something about the town?”
“I live here,” he said.
“I am staying in a really strange hotel,” I said and explained how I checked in.
“There are quite a few places like that,” he said.
“How come?” I said.
“All the king’s wives get their own businesses and, because they don’t want to be seen working they run them that way, from afar,” he said.
“This place? With two items on the menu?” I pointed around at the large restaurant with the charm of a railroad station's waiting room.
“Also,” he said.
The man had lived in Swaziland for almost twenty years, he said. I couldn’t quite understand his explanation about what he did in the country but everything else I learned from him about Swaziland, seemed totally surreal.
The king has hundreds of wives, all virgins when they came to him. Most of his subjects believe he is a god. Almost all businesses in the country belong to him or his extended family. That extended family is huge. Already his father had numerous wives and most of them had children by him, thus all those were the king’s brothers and sisters. The present god/king himself is rumored to have hundreds of children, nobody in the country knows exactly how many.
Next day I found Malandela Lodge, a little, Lonely Planet recommended, Swaziland paradise. It sits in a lush valley. The king has one of his residences nearby. A big part of this valley is a wildlife preserve with a large white rhino population. The only person allowed to hunt here it the king, but tourists are allowed to visit.
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| Very creative, much of the construction at the Malandela lodge is made from free form naturally grown tree trunks. It also functions as housing for the king's guest. |
The internet café is a cozy little nook. The sun is shining in, fans are whirring all around me. I had a delicious cafe (Italian Lavazza).
Phone connections are good (probably because of the king’s residence nearby). I took the opportunity to change my flight schedule to coordinate it somehow with my driver license’s expiration date.
When I got there, the Malandela Lodge was fully booked for a missionary conference. Observing all those better than thou, goody-goody, pious-looking, beatific smiling patrons who are spending their mission funds in the fancy restaurant spoiled my appetite.
Because they have no vacancies, the friendly receptionist sent me to a widow’s B&B further up the road.
Nestled in the middle of a cornfield I got a room that could easily accommodate a large family. Apart from eight beds it has a kitchen, supplies to make coffee or tea, a functioning ceiling fan and a TV. The landlady prepared for me a breakfast fit for a king.
Tomorrow I'll check out the rhinos and the king's digs.
* * *
A BEAUTIFUL E-MAIL
March 4, 2011
E-mail exchange between Dr. Moonga, the surgeon who removed the eye in Dar Es Salaam, and Ernst (written exactly as received and sent)
Hi Mr Ernest Aebi,
how are you doing? Hope your eye is healing well,i just thought of saying hi and findout how you are doing.
Stay we and be blessed.
Yours
Dr Moonga, CCBRT HOSPITAL, DAR ES SALAAM TANZANIA.
March 6, 2011
Ernst’s reply to Dr. Moonga:
Dear Doctor Moonga,
Thanks for your concern.
I am now in Mozambique. All is well with the
eye -- or rather, the place where the eye used to be. I even went diving in the ocean, looking for wale sharks (saw two)
With best wishes,
Ernst Aebi
March 6, 2011
Dr.Moonga replies:
Oh! iam very happy to hear that you are doing fine.Iam sure you are enjoying what Mozambique hsa to offer.
It is good to enjoy life when you can.Wishing you the best of your adventure.
Dr. Moonga
March 6, 2011
Ernst replies to Dr. Moonga:
Dear Doctor,
Yes, true about enjoying life even with one eye. After the eye was
taken out one of my sons in law came from London to bring me home but
since you told me that the wound was healing well I felt like
continuing my journey. My son in law went home alone.
I shall presumably be back in New York around the middle of April.
Thanks again for a job well done. I am curious to find out what it is
I see inside, when I part the eye lids. Now it looks ugly but feels fine.
With kind regards,
Ernst Aebi
* * *
STELLENBOSCH, SOUTH AFRICA
March 20, 2011
This is probably the last report from this journey.
After Swaziland, via Lesotho, East London, Jeffrey's Bay, I visited Nick on his farm in Paviaans Kloof. Paviaans Kloof is a world heritage site, about seven-hundred kilometers northeast of Cape Town.
Swaziland, already described a little in a previous e-mail, turned out to be really pleasant, despite the first night’s weird accommodations in one of the king’s wives’ godforsaken hotel and other king-related oddities — or rather absurdities — I saw or was told about.
The day after the Mazini “hotel” debacle I ended up at the House on Fire at the Malandela Lodge, a master piece in imaginative mosaic work. It is situated at the edge of the king's game reserve where I saw lots of zebras, warthogs, many different antelopes and a crocodile in a futile effort to catch a wading bird. Of the white rhinos that are supposedly plentiful there, I saw none, neither white nor black.
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| Zebras in the king's wild live preserve, where only he can hunt. |
v
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| More zebras in the king's wild live preserve. |
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| In a swamp I saw a crocodile trying to catch a wading bird — unsuccessfully. |
In Bethlehem (northeastern South Africa), like in Swaziland, I entered once more a twilight zone. After dark I found a nice-looking hotel at the edge of town but it was fully booked. They told me about a lodge near town that always has vacancies. The gave me detailed directions.
Eventually, after erring around on dirt trails in the dark, I found the lodge, tucked away on a wooded hill. It was quite a way out of town.
Buckies, as they call pick-up trucks in South Africa, stood haphazardly around on a gravel lot. I saw them only in my car’s lights because, except for a murky light that came from small windows in a shed, it was pitch dark up there. Inside the shed, which was much larger than it had seemed from the outside, a bunch of guys, most of them giants in height and girth, played with darts. When I asked where I’d have to register for accommodations, it turned out most of them only spoke Afrikaans. They shuck hands with me. Their callous paws felt, and looked huge like excavator shovels. They pointed to the dark bar where I could sign up for a room.
The bar had one dim light that barely illuminated walls. On closer inspection I noticed they were covered with stuffed African game, Elands, rhinos, lions, leopards, zebras, giraffes, buffaloes, all kinds of antelopes and the huge backside of an elephant, its grossly enlarged testicles and anus sticking into the space.
The girl at the bar gave me a room key and a brown bag. In the bag was soap, instant coffee and creamer. She gave me directions to the room but I couldn’t find it and went back for help. The bar girl led me through dark woods to a bungalow then went back to her work.
The room had six beds, the carpet lots of cigarette holes and unidentifiable stains, some sticky. I chained my pack to a pipe and went back to the bar for a glass of wine. In South Africa, the land with a growing reputation for excellent wines, the only red they had came from a carton and was sickly sweet.
Probably propelled by curiosity, one after the other of the giants drifted into the bar. They downed beers fortified with double chasers. To judge by the questions some asked in heavily accented English it seemed I had dropped into an Afrikaner club whose members had not yet acknowledged the end of the Apartheid area.
When the guys, with large beer cans in hand, drifted back to their darts, the young, pretty bar girl, asked what happened to my eye. I told her about my Zanzibar accident and described my journey. She looked around to make sure none of the men could hear her, then asked if she could continue the journey with me.
"All my life I have only been as far as Bloemfountain," she said. Bloemfountain is about fifty kilometers from Bethlehelm.
Of course I was flattered that this young pretty woman wanted to hook up with me, but I had not imbibed enough of the horrible wine to lose my capability to reason.
"I don't know exactly where I am going next," I said.
"Anything, any place, with anyone, just to get out of here," she said.
That effectively deflated my ego. For a short moment, before she elaborated why she would like to elope with me, I had assumed she was taken in, swiped off her feet, bamboozled, by my appearance as a dashing, irresistible, one-eyed, world traveling adventurer.
The next day, without a new companion, I arrived in Lesotho.
At the border, after having traveled the last few days through northeastern South Africa that reminded me in many ways of Europe — of course with the exception of the Bethlehem Africaners’ hang-out — I returned to the real, full-of-life Africa with colorful crowds of people in the busy streets trying to sell, trade, lead, beg, peddle a wild assortment of goods and services. The activities at the border post were chaotic.
One of the touts, a young man, offered to process the border formalities for me, for ten dollars.
“Thank you,” I said, “I think I can deal with this.”
The man shrugged and followed me around when I went into the immigration hall. When I saw many lines of people in front of many desks, none marked as to whether it was for immigration, customs, car registration, or whatever, I must have looked like the babe in the woods.
The man looked at me with a knowing smile.
I dug a ten-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to him. He took my papers, went past the line of waiting people right up to a desk, got a stamp, moved to another desk, got another stamp, took me out to the car, pointed to a man in uniform and said:
“Give him five rand,” (about 60 cents US), he said.
“Why?” I said.
“Just give him,” he said.
I gave five rand to the uniformed man, he saluted and waved me into Lesotho.
On the pretty good road to the capital, Maseru, I first saw a trickle of kids in neat school uniform, a little further one, another group joined them, walking in the same direction. The groups grew bigger. Kids congregated from villages towards the road. The roadside, without pedestrian walk, started to be crowded. Soon it looked like a large procession, until we came to a large, one-story school complex in the middle of nowhere. An equally large mass of identically dressed children came towards the school from the opposite direction and others from the surrounding countryside. The distances some of those kids walked were incredible, unthinkable in the US or in Europe. Some of them had to walk more than ten miles.
All along, while traveling in Lesotho I came across these school migrations. Not surprisingly I didn’t see a lot of overweight children.
Also along the roads I saw cow, goat and sheepherders in traditional garb, wrapped in cloaks, carrying long staves. They watched over animals as probably their forefathers done for generations, except now the animals were decked out in fluorescent-colored headgear, highly visible ribbons fluttering in the breeze. The animals were impossible to overlook if they strayed out onto the road.
I had a run-in also with Lesotho police.
A temporary stop sign on the road side said: STOP POLICE. The cops stood about fifty feet beyond the sign. I drove up to them and stopped.
"Why didn't you stop at the stop sign?" the cop asked.
"I did, right here. It says STOP POLICE.
"You have to stop at the sign," he said.
“Not at police?”
“At sign.”
"Common courtesy might suggest I stop where the police man stands so he doesn't have to walk to me," I said.
"No at stop sign".
"Sorry I misunderstood.”
"500 maloti,” (about 80 dollars) he said
"I pay if you give me a receipt because I’ll fight it in court,” I said.
He stood there with my driver license in hand, walked up and down, and said: "Pay up!"
I didn’t respond.
He continued pacing while II made no motion towards my wallet. After a while he gave up, directed his attention to new vehicles that approached his trap. He threw my drivers license through the window into my car. I drove off without a fine.
I drove around Maseru, the capital of Lesotho, ‘til I felt I had seen the whole small town but had found but one hotel. Parking was in the back where I had to identify myself to an armed guard. The room was okay, the price reasonable but I wondered what that armed security was for, especially when, after I had dumped my luggage, I went out the street side with nobody checking anybody at the entrance. People came and went. Some things I just don’t get.
I stayed two days and one night.
Under way again, alongside a gravel path that led towards the South African border, stood a woman who roasted meat over a fire in a barrel. For a long time I had not seen any car, any pedestrians, nothing, nobody, no houses. Curious about that roasted meat in the middle of nowhere, I stopped, ordered a few pieces, tasted them, found them delicious, got a few more, ate them too. The woman smiled. I smiled back and chewed. The price was ridiculously low. I lingered purposely just to find out who she prepared the food for. Nobody came, she kept roasting and smiling.
Some things I just don’t get.
Next day, back in South Africa, I ended up for the night in East London.
Along the shore stands a whole row of big, some pretty fancy-looking hotels. There is no beach, just a bunch of breakers over a bleak, black, rock-strewn shoreline. The town is definitively nothing to write home about. I didn’t see any sign of important industry, no big harbor, nothing that would attract anyone — except someone like me who got to town by nightfall and after a long journey needed a place to crash.
Some things I just don’t get.
My room had a TV. I looked forward to catching up a bit on world news. I’d heard in bits and pieces about huge demonstrations in Egypt and Tunisia. I wanted to know details and settled in front of the boob tube with a drink. A perfect way, I thought, to rest up after the long drive.
The Cricket World championship was on and South Africa had advanced in Rugby finals. On all channels was nothing but, wall-to-wall Cricket and Rugby. Nothing in the world mattered anymore. Egypt and Tunisia were not even mentioned on the side.
Some things I just don’t get.
Next day’s drive south to Jeffrey's Bay was through mostly untouched, endless, unexciting brush land. Nothing along the way invited me to stay or to visit.
Jeffrey's Bay however, looked promising. It is yet another beach that, in my opinion, can compete for the title of BEST. At low tide, the ivory-colored, pristine clean sand is at least a thousand feet wide. I walked a couple of miles to one end and could not resist picking up, and carry along, corals, incredibly beautiful shells and small sponges. To make the long beach walk even more memorable, at the end is an outdoor pub that serves oysters and beer. Next day I walked several miles to the other end of the beach. Again I couldn’t help picking up beautiful sponges and shells. At that end I found no pub, no house, no road, only rocks stretching far out into a pounding surf.
I picked beach treasures because from now on, I reasoned, I could simply throw stuff into my car’s trunk. After returning the car to the rental agency in Cape Town, it will be airplanes, trains and taxis all the way ‘til home.I won't have to worry about carrying extra luggage. No more lugging it to bus stations and then worry about where to stow it on the bus.
Nick, one of my nursemaids from from Tanzania to Johannesburg, had told me how he runs an olive farm in Paviaans Kloof (Baboon Canyon or Gorge). This valley/canyon/gorge is a World Heritage site because of its incredible natural beauty, its wild rock formations, rare fauna and flora.
His place in Paviaan Kloof's also offers ecotourism with a guesthouse. He'd invited me to stay.
I called him from Uniondale, a town surrounded by apple, pear and peach orchards. It is the last inhabited place before getting into the canyon, I stocked up on gas and food. He had told me the Paviaan Kloof motto is: If you don’t make here, or bring it in, you don’t have it. There are no stores. The kloof is literally cut off from the outside world.
After Uniondale, a three hours drive on a pretty good gravel road through hilly terrain and mountains, leads into a stunningly beautiful valley. Framed by red, wind sculpted cliffs, sparsely covered with vegetation, with baboons and other monkeys sitting in the road, as if saying: "What are you doing here?" I felt I was entering a new world. A few bridge-less river crossings turned out to be interesting challenges for my rental car's small wheels.
Nick's place, Kamerkloof, is a gracious country house with neat landscaping (mostly cacti), but the river, separating it from the road, was too deep for my car’s wheels. Nick picked me up to cross in his Land Rover.
The following day I roamed the wild, wildly beautiful land,
In Nick’s house, I had a private suite, complete with generous living/dining room, bedroom, bath and kitchen. Kamerkloof has also a beautiful guesthouse in an olive grove. Apart from comfortable sleeping accommodations for about twenty people, it also has two bathrooms, a full kitchen, two barbecue stations, a swimming pool (actually just a big concrete water reservoir that is also used for irrigating the olive grove). The surroundings lay in such lush vegetation it is difficult to determine what is natural and what is landscaped.
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| One of many beautiful rock formations in Paviaan Kloof where I visited with Nick. |
We went to visit some of his local friends. Most are escapees from the outside world and live the Spartan life of hermits. They built their own houses, grow their own vegetables and raise their own meat. Two of the houses are artistic creations, both made of adobe. One is round with a domed cupola, the other is a collection of small structures attached to each other by short tunnels. The woman with the tunnel house had built her fist little dwelling when she arrived, then, over time, whenever she had time, desire, finances or need, she added a new one.
Another woman, an artist we visited, also lives in a labyrinth of attached room. She has huge stacks of really impressive paintings all over the place. She never shows them in galleries. She is surrounded, inside and outside of the house, by big flocks of chicken, geese and turkeys.
“You’ll never lack meat and eggs,” I said.
“I am vegan,” she said.”
Two men and a woman had formed a commune that on and off had more members. To judge from their digs, they lived in abject poverty. Nick told me one of the men was from one of the richest families in South Africa.
Nick, his friend Cornelius, and I went to the other end of Paviaan Kloof, a four-hour drive over three rugged mountain passes.
I understood then the reasons for signs I saw along the way that said Only All-Terrain SUV allowed. Even a regular 4x4, or all-wheel drive car, could not make it over these mountains because a vehicle needs to be high off the ground to pass obstacles like wash outs, river crossings and deep furrows in the road.
Back in the outside world, on the other side of the mountains that enclose Paviaan Kloof, we stayed with friends of Nick in a research station that is funded by GREEN ENERGY CREDIT contributions.
Individuals, like Al Gore, and environment conscious corporations, pay into this organization to atone for their carbon use. The station cultivates many, many native tree and bush seedlings that are then planted in Paviaan Kloof to restore native flora that has been decimated by livestock over-grazing and field planting. The organization offers to pay the few remaining farmers in the region for removing domestic animals from their land and to stop plowed field planting. Shooting a leopard in the Kloof, regardless how many sheep it has ripped, is punishable by heavy fines and mandatory prison time.
Individuals, like Al Gore, and environment conscious corporations, pay into this organization to atone for their carbon use. The station cultivates many, many native tree and bush seedlings that are then planted in Paviaan Kloof to restore native flora that has been decimated by livestock over-grazing and field planting. The organization offers to pay the few remaining farmers in the region for removing domestic animals from their land and to stop plowed field planting. Shooting a leopard in the Kloof, regardless how many sheep it has ripped, is punishable by heavy fines and mandatory prison time.
Despite the incentive to remove them, some farmers still insist on keeping their sheep herds. To deter leopards killing them, they wrap barbed wire collars or sheet metal rings with protruding vicious-looking spikes around their necks.
With new-found knowledge about some of the plants I got carried away with one, called Speckboum (pork lard tree). It looked similar to Sandwort, a plant I had eaten and enjoyed on Baffin Island above the arctic circle. I collected a bagful of the fleshy leaves, cooked it up with garlic and olive oil at Nick's house. Everybody liked its gentle, lemony flavor and pleasant texture. None of Nick’s friends had tasted it before. There will be, I presume, a new, locally grown, native plant food supply.
One morning I was reading a book under a huge cedar tree next to the house. A cute baby monkey (a gray one with a white framed black face, I think they are called Capuchins) tested me as a potential playmate. First it screeched at me and showed its teeth. I showed it mine. It whipped its head, I whipped mine. It hopped on a branch, I hopped on the ground. It started pelting me with cedar cones and I pelted it back with cedar cones. The game attracted a whole bunch of other curious monkeys. I ended up in a shower of cedar cones. The monkeys won, I moved to a place far from the tree to continue reading my book.
I write this message in Stellenbosch, a charming college town. It is also the South African wine capital. Streets are lined with old, stately oak trees. The town has lots of sidewalk cafés, both fancy restaurants and simple, straight forward eateries. Wine bars are full of a young, good-looking crowd. Most must be students but clearly a lot of others are here for the wine, the atmosphere, and maybe, hoping to hook up with students from the prestigious university.
While strolling around town, I saw an advertisement for a wine tasting tour. I called them.
Next day I met a van with five other people and the enterprising man who organized the day-long wine exploration tour. We went from incredibly impressive winery to out-of-this-world winery. Just about all could pass for museums, some for antique furniture, some for very unusual architecture, but most of them for their art collections. You name it, they have it, from Renaissance masters to Picasso, Rauschenberg and Jackson Pollack. To judge from the looks of these estate, it seems super rich people from the world over, compete for having the most impressive joint.
As for the wine, they're all going out of their way to advertise the best of their vintages. I never before in my life so many constantly superb wines. In each tasting room we got to taste several types; white, rosé and reds of different vintages. All the other fellow wine tasters, in order to be able to tast as many of them as possible, just swilled the delectable liquids in their mouths then spit it out into spittoons. They also ordered wines to be sent to their home all over the world. I could not do that spitting, considering the practice an inexcusable waste. I swallowed every drop.
At the end of the tour, the driver brought me to my hotel and, walking me to my room, made sure I'd remain upright 'til I was next to my bed.
I write this message in Stellenbosch, a charming college town. It is also the South African wine capital. Streets are lined with old, stately oak trees. The town has lots of sidewalk cafés, both fancy restaurants and simple, straight forward eateries. Wine bars are full of a young, good-looking crowd. Most must be students but clearly a lot of others are here for the wine, the atmosphere, and maybe, hoping to hook up with students from the prestigious university.
While strolling around town, I saw an advertisement for a wine tasting tour. I called them.
Next day I met a van with five other people and the enterprising man who organized the day-long wine exploration tour. We went from incredibly impressive winery to out-of-this-world winery. Just about all could pass for museums, some for antique furniture, some for very unusual architecture, but most of them for their art collections. You name it, they have it, from Renaissance masters to Picasso, Rauschenberg and Jackson Pollack. To judge from the looks of these estate, it seems super rich people from the world over, compete for having the most impressive joint.
As for the wine, they're all going out of their way to advertise the best of their vintages. I never before in my life so many constantly superb wines. In each tasting room we got to taste several types; white, rosé and reds of different vintages. All the other fellow wine tasters, in order to be able to tast as many of them as possible, just swilled the delectable liquids in their mouths then spit it out into spittoons. They also ordered wines to be sent to their home all over the world. I could not do that spitting, considering the practice an inexcusable waste. I swallowed every drop.
At the end of the tour, the driver brought me to my hotel and, walking me to my room, made sure I'd remain upright 'til I was next to my bed.
This lengthy report is testimony to a comfortable cyber café with fast, working computers and cappuccino service while I write.
When I leave this pleasant town, I plan to check out if the wonderful things I heard about Cape Town are true. Then, via Switzerland and London,I head back to the Big Apple and my favorite Sushi restaurant.
So far, in a little over three weeks since I have this little sub-compact car, a Hyundai with tiny wheels, I made about five-thousand kilometers.
I don’t feel I went too fast. Some of the distances are huge, without much visible change in the land, the people and customs. Although, without a own (rented) car, I saw and experienced more of the real Africa, but for a change that was also nice.
I added not one scratch to the car’s visible top despite frequent driving where I had to watch out for hazardous crowds of people, herds of cows, goats, sheep, baboons, antelopes, zebras, etc. Many of those co-users of roadways don’t care about rules of the road, and animals don't know about them.
The poor car’s under-carriage, with all the gravel and pebbles that bombarded it along the way, might look at bit less pristine than the upper part.
Ah well!
* * *
ERNST WRITES FROM CAPE TOWN ABOUT PRESENTS IN RESPONSE TO REQUESTS OF AFRICAN FABRICS:
March, 22, 2011
Along the way from that fantastic Paviaan Kloof to Cape Town I drove through a region where huge ostrich farms line both sides of the road for mile after mile. Thousand, and thousands of the huge, rather ugly, birds are penned in corrals that look very much like American feed lots for cattle.
One such farm advertised OSTRICH RIDES, OSTRICH STEAKS, OSTRICH BOAS. Since it was just about lunchtime, I turned off the road and went there.
I ended up riding on an ostrich, ate an ostrich burger and bought ostrich feather boas. The boas, I am told, are not only for strippers, people nowadays also wear them as fancy scarves.
I really sat on one of those gangly ostriches and rode a turn in a corral. Got pictures to prove it and a certificate that declares me fit to ride ostriches. In other words, I am now the proud owner of an ostrich drivers license. Just in case I never need that knowledge, it is a good thing to know the ins and outs of ostrichmanship. It takes a special skill to hop around one of these huge things. You sit astride its broad, strangely warm, featherless back, legs tucked under its rudimentary wings. Like you would with a motorcycle handlebar, you hold on the base of those wings to steer the beast in the direction you hope to go. In my case that was easy, my ride went in a circle around the arena. The bird knew the routine and the route. I probably would have gone that way no matter how I steered. To brake, I was told, you grab a tight hold on the bird's swaying neck then pull back with all you might. Luckily I didn't have to do that, the bird stopped all by itself by the stand where I could get off without breaking my neck.
I really sat on one of those gangly ostriches and rode a turn in a corral. Got pictures to prove it and a certificate that declares me fit to ride ostriches. In other words, I am now the proud owner of an ostrich drivers license. Just in case I never need that knowledge, it is a good thing to know the ins and outs of ostrichmanship. It takes a special skill to hop around one of these huge things. You sit astride its broad, strangely warm, featherless back, legs tucked under its rudimentary wings. Like you would with a motorcycle handlebar, you hold on the base of those wings to steer the beast in the direction you hope to go. In my case that was easy, my ride went in a circle around the arena. The bird knew the routine and the route. I probably would have gone that way no matter how I steered. To brake, I was told, you grab a tight hold on the bird's swaying neck then pull back with all you might. Luckily I didn't have to do that, the bird stopped all by itself by the stand where I could get off without breaking my neck.
For boys' presents, I found special Kalahari bushmen’s knifes made of elephant bones. For a special treat, all my grandchildren will become billionaires. I bought a bunch of multi-billion dollar bank notes in Zimbabwe. Towards the end of the Zimbabwe hyper inflation, people had to go with wheelbarrows full of bank notes just to buy a loaf of bread.
Cape Town lies in a stunningly beautiful bay with Table Mountain as a backdrop. I am staying downtown in a so, so hotel. The room has a TV but it is useless to me. Like the last time I had access to one, there is practically nothing on it except cricket and rugby.
Long Street in Cape Town is a backpacker’s and other young people's paradise. Lots of drinking and eating joints attract an interesting, international crowd.
I walked all over town. It has beautiful parks, one is an impressive Botanical Garden. Some of the now majestic trees had been planted hundreds of years ago by Dutch settlers.
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| Table Mountain in Cape Town from the Marina. |
I took a cable car to the top of Table Mountain. Unfortunately I got only periodic glances at the land below. Most of the time up there I was in the clouds.
Down by the water, where the commercial and fishing harbor used to be, is another center of frantic free-time activity. Pleasure boat marinas are nestled among luxurious condominiums. Most old harbor structures have been turned into eating, drinking and shopping palaces.
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| Cape Town on the far side of shrouded Table Mountain. |
I took a tourist sightseeing bus on a grand tour around Table Mountain — I returned the rental car the moment I got into town! On the far side, the Indian ocean side, are stunning beaches. Super luxurious beach villas and multi-story condos are built into steep cliffs. The roofs, below the road, are multi-story buildings’ parking lots. The apartments are built into the cliff line all the way down to the water’s edge.
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| View of Table Mountain from Cape Town park. |
I am enjoying the last few days of my Africa trip in Cape Town luxury with beautiful weather, great hikes, great sights, great people, great food and great wines.
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| Cape Town street performer serenading my departure. |
* * *
FROM NEW YORK
April 16, 2011
END OF JOURNEY
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| Back in my New York loft the plants have turned carnivorous. |
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| In Zanzibar it was bad... |
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| but time heals all. |
In New York feels good.
I found out my son Tony is becoming famous for something he (and I) can be proud of. He helps keeping healthy the planet with which I have a love affair.
I found out my son Tony is becoming famous for something he (and I) can be proud of. He helps keeping healthy the planet with which I have a love affair.
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| My son Tony (Anthony) is building Net Zero Energy homes that produce annually at least as much energy as they use. Following are some links with comments about Tony's work. |
In a few days I’ll be grooving on my farm in Vermont.
As visitors to this blog may have realized, there are only sporadic photos of events and locations. Often when I see something worthy of taking a picture I don't have the camera on me, and sometimes I simply forget it is in my pocket.
As visitors to this blog may have realized, there are only sporadic photos of events and locations. Often when I see something worthy of taking a picture I don't have the camera on me, and sometimes I simply forget it is in my pocket.
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