Nowhere in the world seems to have the beach culture of Brazil. I am usually bored on the beach after half an hour but here I have been kept entertained for hours people watching whilst Mike slowly rotates like a hot sausage. If you´re ever heading to Brazil there are a few things you need to know.
For her
Wax it, wax it some more, buff it, polish it, and put it out there. Big bottoms, small bottoms, it doesn´t matter, get that tiny bikini on and strut. If you´re under 70 and it´s covering your cheeks, get a smaller one or you´ll feel like an OAP at aqua aerobics at the local leisure centre. If you don´t look like a supermodel, walk like a supermodel anyway and you´ll fool half the people on the beach. Take with you to the beach: your bikini, a sarong to lie on, a tube of sun cream, a lip gloss, shades and a hairbrush. Leave the towel, the i-pod and the book behind and under no circumstances wear your underwear, shorts and t-shirt to the beach and wriggle around under a towel trying to change. If you really must wear something, make it a very small and floaty beach dress. Your dry underwear will not be needed as you will travel home wearing your bikini, the sarong, and a thin covering of sand. Your hair needs to be long and it needs to be worn down. If you go in the sea tilt your head back so it streams down your back. If you dive through the surf, stick your pretty litttle bottom in the air and point your toes. Splash about and giggle. If you are on the beach with your girl friends, preen and chat, point to your breasts, then your friend´s. Fiddle with your bikini straps. Brush your hair. Wiggle your bottom as you turn over on your sarong again and again. Rub sun cream onto each other. Ignore the adoring looks of all the men around you. If you´re with your boyfriend/husband bring the lip gloss as at least twenty minutes of passionate kissing is required per hour. Children nearby? It really doesn´t matter, just get in there.
For him
You have two choices - board shorts and a surf board or tight trunks. Bring with you: a sarong, some suncream, a bat and ball game and a sun umbrella in a nifty shoulder bag. Leave all of the above on the sand and go for a stroll. See something you like the look of? Just stop and have a good look, no need to be discreet. If you´re with your friends, go to edge of the sea, wrestle and kick some sand. Dive masterfully through the big waves. Kick a football about. If you´re with your wife/girlfriend see above re. kissing. If you´re feeling a bit self-conscious because you´re no Brad Pitt, dont worry - you will more than likely end up with a girl that looks like Gisele and tourists from the UK will lie on the beach wondering how on earth you pulled that one off.
What are you waiting for? Book that flight!
(Photos to be added soon)
Saturday 27 December 2008
Sand blindness on two continents
Since our last post we have left the developing world and entered a month of sea, sun, sand and surf all wrapped up in a package of nice little guest houses, comfortable beds and creature comforts. Backpacking for grown-ups. The budget has suffered.
After Uganda we flew to Zanzibar and after a little blip where I had an adverse reaction to something, broke out in a rash and spent a night having involuntary convulsions in my sleep due to the itchiness while Mike lay awake working out how to spend the insurance pay off when I popped my clogs, we had a lovely time there. We paid a bit more than usual for accommodation and spent an idyllic week at the Blue Oyster Hotel on Jambiani beach lounging around and doing very little. The highlight for me was swimming with dolphins. We woke at the crack of dawn to beat the crowds, set off in a rickety little fishing boat and had the dawn -and the dolphins - all to ourselves. We swam with a school of 50 or so and it was truly amazing as they scratched their backs on the coral and signalled to each other through the water, as they zoomed out to sea for their breakfast.
After Zanzibar we popped back to London for three nights, enjoyed the cold weather and the Christmas decorations and ignored the doom and gloom about the economy before jetting off to Rio via Terminal 5. We were expecting sun, surf and caiprinhas, the fabled itsy-bitsy bikinis on Copacabana beach, and the beautiful people of Ipanema. Instead we got interminable rain, deserted beaches and a dengue outbreak. Still, it is to Rio´s credit that is an alluring city even from under an umbrella and we spent a fantastic few days exploring the sights, dancing all night to Samba with some lovely Brazilian friends we made at the friendly Tupiniquim Hostel and eating countless delicious cakes in picture-perfect cafes (this seemed to be a bit of a theme - we have no idea how the mouth-watering array of sweets on offer converts to the mouth-watering array of beautiful bottoms on the beach).
We have also enjoyed a particularly warm welcome wherever we have been due to our name. Porreta (pronounced Por-hei-ta) means ´really cool´ or ´awesome´in Brazilian Portugese, as in ¨this party is Porreta¨. People find it absolutely hilarious that this is our name. In our hostel every single person staying there knew who we were and we were instantly popular as soon as we arrived. In Paraty a Brazilian guy we met stalked us around the town popping up and shouting ¨PORRETA¨at the top of his lungs whenever he saw us.
From Rio we made a small detour to Paraty, a breathtaking colonial city on the coast and spent a lovely few days there wading along the flooded streets and splashing in the surf in torrential downpours. For a few hours we even got to put the umbrella away.
From there we returned to Rio and flew further south again to the island of Santa Catarina, more commonly known as Floripa, to spend Christmas and Mike´s birthday. And the sun finally came out (except, unfortunately on Mike´s birthday when after a lovely lunch of fresh oysters and prawns on a sunny terrace we were hit by a massive storm and it rained for the rest of the day). This is where Brazilians and Argentinians come to spend their summer holidays and though a breathtakingly beautiful island it is choked with guest houses, tourists, and associated traffic. We managed to get away from the crowds when we wanted and also to get right in the midst of them too for some first class people watching (I won´t elaborate on which part of the people Mike seemed to be focusing on, but let´s just say the bikinis in Brazil are somewhat smaller than we are used to, and about 40 pictures of pert bottoms seem to have appeared on my camera, not taken by me.). More about life on the beach in a separate post.
That brings us rapidly up to the present where we are preparing to head up to Salvador for New Year. It will be a huuuge party so we are told. See you in 2009!
After Uganda we flew to Zanzibar and after a little blip where I had an adverse reaction to something, broke out in a rash and spent a night having involuntary convulsions in my sleep due to the itchiness while Mike lay awake working out how to spend the insurance pay off when I popped my clogs, we had a lovely time there. We paid a bit more than usual for accommodation and spent an idyllic week at the Blue Oyster Hotel on Jambiani beach lounging around and doing very little. The highlight for me was swimming with dolphins. We woke at the crack of dawn to beat the crowds, set off in a rickety little fishing boat and had the dawn -and the dolphins - all to ourselves. We swam with a school of 50 or so and it was truly amazing as they scratched their backs on the coral and signalled to each other through the water, as they zoomed out to sea for their breakfast.
After Zanzibar we popped back to London for three nights, enjoyed the cold weather and the Christmas decorations and ignored the doom and gloom about the economy before jetting off to Rio via Terminal 5. We were expecting sun, surf and caiprinhas, the fabled itsy-bitsy bikinis on Copacabana beach, and the beautiful people of Ipanema. Instead we got interminable rain, deserted beaches and a dengue outbreak. Still, it is to Rio´s credit that is an alluring city even from under an umbrella and we spent a fantastic few days exploring the sights, dancing all night to Samba with some lovely Brazilian friends we made at the friendly Tupiniquim Hostel and eating countless delicious cakes in picture-perfect cafes (this seemed to be a bit of a theme - we have no idea how the mouth-watering array of sweets on offer converts to the mouth-watering array of beautiful bottoms on the beach).
We have also enjoyed a particularly warm welcome wherever we have been due to our name. Porreta (pronounced Por-hei-ta) means ´really cool´ or ´awesome´in Brazilian Portugese, as in ¨this party is Porreta¨. People find it absolutely hilarious that this is our name. In our hostel every single person staying there knew who we were and we were instantly popular as soon as we arrived. In Paraty a Brazilian guy we met stalked us around the town popping up and shouting ¨PORRETA¨at the top of his lungs whenever he saw us.
From Rio we made a small detour to Paraty, a breathtaking colonial city on the coast and spent a lovely few days there wading along the flooded streets and splashing in the surf in torrential downpours. For a few hours we even got to put the umbrella away.
From there we returned to Rio and flew further south again to the island of Santa Catarina, more commonly known as Floripa, to spend Christmas and Mike´s birthday. And the sun finally came out (except, unfortunately on Mike´s birthday when after a lovely lunch of fresh oysters and prawns on a sunny terrace we were hit by a massive storm and it rained for the rest of the day). This is where Brazilians and Argentinians come to spend their summer holidays and though a breathtakingly beautiful island it is choked with guest houses, tourists, and associated traffic. We managed to get away from the crowds when we wanted and also to get right in the midst of them too for some first class people watching (I won´t elaborate on which part of the people Mike seemed to be focusing on, but let´s just say the bikinis in Brazil are somewhat smaller than we are used to, and about 40 pictures of pert bottoms seem to have appeared on my camera, not taken by me.). More about life on the beach in a separate post.
That brings us rapidly up to the present where we are preparing to head up to Salvador for New Year. It will be a huuuge party so we are told. See you in 2009!
Thursday 25 December 2008
Merry Christmas!
A very Merry Christmas to you all from Praia do Mozambique, Florianopolis, Brazil from us both. Updates on Zanzibar and Rio to follow...when we can drag ourselves away from the powdery-soft, white sand and the caipirinhas.
Remember - if you forgot to send us a small donation for the Ugandan cow in lieu of a card, you can send it from the January pay cheque instead as we wont be sending it off until early Feb.... go on, you know you want to.
Tuesday 9 December 2008
It's Christmas at Lake Nkuruba - can you help?
Mike and I are not buying Christmas presents or sending cards this year for obvious reasons. Instead we have made a donation of sixty-six pounds - a day's travel budget - to the Lake Nkuruba orphanage. This is our Christmas card or present to all of you.
If you want to do something in return....
If you would usually send us a card, can we ask that you send a cheque for one pound made payable to me to our home address.
If you would usually give us a present then please send us a cheque instead.
If you'd rather make a bank transfer then email me and I'll send you the details.
I will ask good old Mum (thanks Mum!) to pay in the cheques and transfer whatever we have received to the orphanage at the end of January and will let you know how much we have received.
Our target is to buy a cow for the orphanage - a milking cow to provide fresh milk for the kids every day.
If you want to do something in return....
If you would usually send us a card, can we ask that you send a cheque for one pound made payable to me to our home address.
If you would usually give us a present then please send us a cheque instead.
If you'd rather make a bank transfer then email me and I'll send you the details.
I will ask good old Mum (thanks Mum!) to pay in the cheques and transfer whatever we have received to the orphanage at the end of January and will let you know how much we have received.
Our target is to buy a cow for the orphanage - a milking cow to provide fresh milk for the kids every day.
Lake Nkuruba Orphanage
The next few days were spent happily at the Lake Nkuruba campsite. They had amazing views; a lake free of crocs, hippos and bilharzia; colobus monkeys in the trees; lovely staff; delicious food and fantastic day trips on offer to some of the local highlights. We visited a tea factory and saw how the lush green leaves of the tea plants make their journey to the small brown leaves in our tea pots. We hiked for hours to a breathtaking waterfall and sat in a rock pool for the shoulder-massage to end all shoulder massages.
But the highlight for both of us was understanding the 'community' element of the campsite. It is run by Pastor John Boscoe who shares his home with his wife and 27 orphans. The children sleep two or three to a narrow bed, 6-8 to each tiny room. In addition to their school work each day all of them help with the gardening, milking the cows, gathering water and cooking as well as keeping the campsite running. A further hundred or so orphans live with widows in the community but the pastor supports them in their education. The revenue from the campsite contributes to the costs of keeping 100+ orphans fed, clothed and in full time education. Thirty foreign sponsors provide further support for the education of the brightest children. My mind worked overtime with how Mike and I could use our resources and experience to help the pastor in this work. It was a pleasure to find out more about such a worthwhile project and it is great to find a project we can support directly in the future, rather than funds being lost through administration. Rather than sitting around waiting for overseas aid, the Pastor has a successful business which supports the orphans and this made me far more motivated to help him. I have already emailed the students I have met through Fulcrum and a few of them are looking into whether they can visit the orphanage next summer to undertake an enhancement project. Further ideas are in the pipeline.
On our last day at the orphanage we spent the afternoon swimming in the lake with some of the kids. I had two pairs of goggles with me and everyone had a go, though the visibility was poor everyone was excited to see under water for the very first time. When we returned from our swim we were welcomed by a performance of Ugandan song and dance by some of the children - it was excellent. As is often the way, the smallest performer - not really part of the performance at all - stole the show. As the older students competently danced and sang, she stood amidst them in a small grass skirt, her face a mask of concentration, shaking her teeny behind like there was no tomorrow. It was a happy end to our time in Uganda.
But the highlight for both of us was understanding the 'community' element of the campsite. It is run by Pastor John Boscoe who shares his home with his wife and 27 orphans. The children sleep two or three to a narrow bed, 6-8 to each tiny room. In addition to their school work each day all of them help with the gardening, milking the cows, gathering water and cooking as well as keeping the campsite running. A further hundred or so orphans live with widows in the community but the pastor supports them in their education. The revenue from the campsite contributes to the costs of keeping 100+ orphans fed, clothed and in full time education. Thirty foreign sponsors provide further support for the education of the brightest children. My mind worked overtime with how Mike and I could use our resources and experience to help the pastor in this work. It was a pleasure to find out more about such a worthwhile project and it is great to find a project we can support directly in the future, rather than funds being lost through administration. Rather than sitting around waiting for overseas aid, the Pastor has a successful business which supports the orphans and this made me far more motivated to help him. I have already emailed the students I have met through Fulcrum and a few of them are looking into whether they can visit the orphanage next summer to undertake an enhancement project. Further ideas are in the pipeline.
On our last day at the orphanage we spent the afternoon swimming in the lake with some of the kids. I had two pairs of goggles with me and everyone had a go, though the visibility was poor everyone was excited to see under water for the very first time. When we returned from our swim we were welcomed by a performance of Ugandan song and dance by some of the children - it was excellent. As is often the way, the smallest performer - not really part of the performance at all - stole the show. As the older students competently danced and sang, she stood amidst them in a small grass skirt, her face a mask of concentration, shaking her teeny behind like there was no tomorrow. It was a happy end to our time in Uganda.
A charming cup of tea with the PG chimps
After the rafting we had another day to kill in Kampala and we used it to try and understand what made the city tick. We shaved away the layers of smog and grid-locked streets to find a city pulsating with life. We spent the afternoon wandering in the markets and backstreets where 5-storey shopping arcades are filled to the gills with garish western-style clothing and tiny side streets are lined with tailors on foot-powered Singer sewing machines knocking up African skirts and blouses at a rate of knots. We climbed the fire escape of a building for a bird's eye view of the city's taxi park. Row upon row of small minibuses stretch off into the distance waiting to whisk people off to every corner of Uganda.
In the evening we went to a jam session outside the national theatre. Every conceivable type of music was covered and rastas sat alongside Americans with harmonicas and hip hop artists. One particularly weird ensemble comprised of an American folk singer accompanied by a Scandinavian girl on some kind of whistle and a Ugandan rapper. I'd love to say it was cutting edge but I think Mike and I could have done a better job with a recorder and a dustbin lid. The highlight of the evening was the people watching, as the event united all faces of the Ugandan capital. A bare-footed, tanned Norwegian girl in a colourful, floaty, silk dress wafted around self-consciously holding hands with her Ugandan boyfriend who was decked out in copious gold chains, low slung jeans, sideways baseball cap and shades. We sat on a high wall and watched as the hungry eyes of countless other young Ugandan boys trailed the shapely behind of the girl as she moved through the crowds. An elderly white lady arrived with a blue rinse and set, incongruously draped in a leopard print scarf, who proceeded to chat to a group of heavily dread-locked rastas. The beer flowed, the music warbled on. Fantastic night.
From here we headed west to Fort Portal and on to the crater lakes region. We had been recommended a camp site by one of the lakes and arrived in the late afternoon expecting an amazing paradise akin to Nature's Prime Island. We were met by a confused looking gardener and a plague of flies. Eventually the voluptuous Pakistani owner arrived, dressed in a slinky, sequined, animal-print dress, thick black hairs protruding from her chin and a cloud of cloying perfume warding off the flies. She was straight out of a Salman Rushdie novel. Her charge for camping at $15 dollars per person per night rendered even me speechless. Dinner would also be $15 dollars per person. It was late in the day, we were tired, we were trapped.
We sat, fuming, and ate 5 small chicken bones - one of which was actually the chicken's neck - and boiled rice heavily seasoned with dying flies. In the morning we awoke to rain. It wasn't rain, it was the ever-thickening plague of flies plopping onto the tent. We asked for directions to the chimpanzee forest and were told it would be wise to pay a guide to take us there. Of course, she would give us a "very good price". $15. We declined and set off in the wrong direction.
An hour later - hot, tired, angry and lost we came across a sign for a community campsite. We walked up a grassy hill, accompanied by a gaggle of small children and came into a leafy square with views across to the Rwenzori mountains in one direction, and down into a tantalizingly blue crater lake on the other side. We ordered some water and decided to move to the camp the following day.
From there we walked back in the right direction towards the chimpanzee forest, booked a trek for the next morning, negotiated a motor bike to take us there at 6am (we hoped - the guy could speak not one word of English) and then we headed to the Chimpanzee Tea Estate for a cuppa. We arrived at an old lodge looking out across immaculately manicured lawns sweeping down to the lush green of the tea plantation below. It was deserted. We let ourselves in and perused the old books on Africa that lined the walls and the family photos on the fireplace. We settled into two wicker chairs on the veranda and an elderly white Labrador dozed companionably at our feet. We were lost in reverie, warmed by the afternoon sun. Eventually a girl arrived and we ordered some 'African tea' - spiced tea brewed with milk instead of water -and sat until the shadows lengthened and drove us back to the fly-infested campsite of doom. Luckily three Italians, paying $125 dollars a night to stay in one of Madame's faded-looking cabins, had arrived so she was forced to serve up something a little more exciting than boiled chicken neck (only a little more exciting mind you). She had dressed for the occasion in a red chiffon dress, with an even more alluring perfume than the night before. As the evening wore on the flies thickened and hummed ominously. We were driven to bed early as they flew into our eyes and mouths. They were so bad in fact that Madame offered that we could sleep in one of the cabins. We slept under a mosquito net which did not provide an impermeable barrier to the flies and awoke on a million tiny corpses.
Thankfully our motorbike driver was waiting for us at 6am with a friend. We mounted the bikes and they sped off in the direction of Fort Portal - the opposite direction to what we thought we had agreed a price for. We managed to stop them and thanks to a pretty good impression of a chimpanzee (a nod to my Grandpa there for the tuition in this field) we managed to communicate our desired destination. We sped along the bumpy, dusty road as the sun rose, lighting up the brilliant green of the tea plants and burning away the hazy blue mist enveloping them. The tiny bikes hurtled down steep hills and we clung on for dear life. I tied my hoodie tight around my face; Mike arrived with red eyelashes and hair from the fine dust.
The chimpanzee tracking was a bit of a disappointment. We did see four chimps, but they were forty meters up in the air and the forest was almost silent. As the trek finished we were faced with a problem. I did have the number of the moto drivers, but we did not have any signal. We tried hitching a lift from other people on the trek, but they were not too keen to share their Toyota Landcruisers and private chauffeurs with the likes of us. We decided to walk and hitch hike as we went. It was only 10km to the outskirts of the forest and a further 5km to the campsite of doom so we could make it in a couple of hours at a good pace. Luckily after a few km a moto driver chugged up behind us on a clapped out old bike. We persuaded him to take both of us on the one bike and set off at a tortuously slow pace, balanced precariously as the bike wobbled over pot holes. On the steepest hills we had to jump off and run after the bike, but we made it. Both of us agreed that this comical journey was more fun than the chimp tracking itself.
We found a second motor driver, picked up our packs at the campsite and headed on to Lake Nkuruba community campsite. Another interesting journey. As we hit each bump the extra weight of the packs on our backs bounced us straight off the back of the bike and into the dust. Eventually the poor drivers had to negotiate the crazy dirt roads with our packs balanced on the handle bars. We made slow progress but we arrived, dusty and travel-worn in time for a trip to the market and a dip in the lake. We spent a wonderful night in our tent under a starry sky with chirping birds and a knock-out view to welcome us the following morning.
In the evening we went to a jam session outside the national theatre. Every conceivable type of music was covered and rastas sat alongside Americans with harmonicas and hip hop artists. One particularly weird ensemble comprised of an American folk singer accompanied by a Scandinavian girl on some kind of whistle and a Ugandan rapper. I'd love to say it was cutting edge but I think Mike and I could have done a better job with a recorder and a dustbin lid. The highlight of the evening was the people watching, as the event united all faces of the Ugandan capital. A bare-footed, tanned Norwegian girl in a colourful, floaty, silk dress wafted around self-consciously holding hands with her Ugandan boyfriend who was decked out in copious gold chains, low slung jeans, sideways baseball cap and shades. We sat on a high wall and watched as the hungry eyes of countless other young Ugandan boys trailed the shapely behind of the girl as she moved through the crowds. An elderly white lady arrived with a blue rinse and set, incongruously draped in a leopard print scarf, who proceeded to chat to a group of heavily dread-locked rastas. The beer flowed, the music warbled on. Fantastic night.
From here we headed west to Fort Portal and on to the crater lakes region. We had been recommended a camp site by one of the lakes and arrived in the late afternoon expecting an amazing paradise akin to Nature's Prime Island. We were met by a confused looking gardener and a plague of flies. Eventually the voluptuous Pakistani owner arrived, dressed in a slinky, sequined, animal-print dress, thick black hairs protruding from her chin and a cloud of cloying perfume warding off the flies. She was straight out of a Salman Rushdie novel. Her charge for camping at $15 dollars per person per night rendered even me speechless. Dinner would also be $15 dollars per person. It was late in the day, we were tired, we were trapped.
We sat, fuming, and ate 5 small chicken bones - one of which was actually the chicken's neck - and boiled rice heavily seasoned with dying flies. In the morning we awoke to rain. It wasn't rain, it was the ever-thickening plague of flies plopping onto the tent. We asked for directions to the chimpanzee forest and were told it would be wise to pay a guide to take us there. Of course, she would give us a "very good price". $15. We declined and set off in the wrong direction.
An hour later - hot, tired, angry and lost we came across a sign for a community campsite. We walked up a grassy hill, accompanied by a gaggle of small children and came into a leafy square with views across to the Rwenzori mountains in one direction, and down into a tantalizingly blue crater lake on the other side. We ordered some water and decided to move to the camp the following day.
From there we walked back in the right direction towards the chimpanzee forest, booked a trek for the next morning, negotiated a motor bike to take us there at 6am (we hoped - the guy could speak not one word of English) and then we headed to the Chimpanzee Tea Estate for a cuppa. We arrived at an old lodge looking out across immaculately manicured lawns sweeping down to the lush green of the tea plantation below. It was deserted. We let ourselves in and perused the old books on Africa that lined the walls and the family photos on the fireplace. We settled into two wicker chairs on the veranda and an elderly white Labrador dozed companionably at our feet. We were lost in reverie, warmed by the afternoon sun. Eventually a girl arrived and we ordered some 'African tea' - spiced tea brewed with milk instead of water -and sat until the shadows lengthened and drove us back to the fly-infested campsite of doom. Luckily three Italians, paying $125 dollars a night to stay in one of Madame's faded-looking cabins, had arrived so she was forced to serve up something a little more exciting than boiled chicken neck (only a little more exciting mind you). She had dressed for the occasion in a red chiffon dress, with an even more alluring perfume than the night before. As the evening wore on the flies thickened and hummed ominously. We were driven to bed early as they flew into our eyes and mouths. They were so bad in fact that Madame offered that we could sleep in one of the cabins. We slept under a mosquito net which did not provide an impermeable barrier to the flies and awoke on a million tiny corpses.
Thankfully our motorbike driver was waiting for us at 6am with a friend. We mounted the bikes and they sped off in the direction of Fort Portal - the opposite direction to what we thought we had agreed a price for. We managed to stop them and thanks to a pretty good impression of a chimpanzee (a nod to my Grandpa there for the tuition in this field) we managed to communicate our desired destination. We sped along the bumpy, dusty road as the sun rose, lighting up the brilliant green of the tea plants and burning away the hazy blue mist enveloping them. The tiny bikes hurtled down steep hills and we clung on for dear life. I tied my hoodie tight around my face; Mike arrived with red eyelashes and hair from the fine dust.
The chimpanzee tracking was a bit of a disappointment. We did see four chimps, but they were forty meters up in the air and the forest was almost silent. As the trek finished we were faced with a problem. I did have the number of the moto drivers, but we did not have any signal. We tried hitching a lift from other people on the trek, but they were not too keen to share their Toyota Landcruisers and private chauffeurs with the likes of us. We decided to walk and hitch hike as we went. It was only 10km to the outskirts of the forest and a further 5km to the campsite of doom so we could make it in a couple of hours at a good pace. Luckily after a few km a moto driver chugged up behind us on a clapped out old bike. We persuaded him to take both of us on the one bike and set off at a tortuously slow pace, balanced precariously as the bike wobbled over pot holes. On the steepest hills we had to jump off and run after the bike, but we made it. Both of us agreed that this comical journey was more fun than the chimp tracking itself.
We found a second motor driver, picked up our packs at the campsite and headed on to Lake Nkuruba community campsite. Another interesting journey. As we hit each bump the extra weight of the packs on our backs bounced us straight off the back of the bike and into the dust. Eventually the poor drivers had to negotiate the crazy dirt roads with our packs balanced on the handle bars. We made slow progress but we arrived, dusty and travel-worn in time for a trip to the market and a dip in the lake. We spent a wonderful night in our tent under a starry sky with chirping birds and a knock-out view to welcome us the following morning.
Tuesday 2 December 2008
Mzungu corkscrews, paddle slaps and hippos
We're playing catch up a little bit here after a few weeks in the wilds of Uganda where we were lucky to have electricity in some of the places we stayed, let alone an internet cafe.
After leaving Rwanda we had probably the dustiest, bumpiest ride of our trip - in a taxi with 8 passengers crammed into it- to the small town of Kabale. From there we headed to Lake Bunyoni for a few days of relaxation. The scenery in this area is very similar to Rwanda, with lush green rolling hills, the only notable difference being a slightly less intensive approach to farming.
We pitched up at the Bunyoni Overland Camp, chose a shady spot and and unfurled the Oh Vee before heading for a stroll. We returned to find not one but three 'overland' trucks had arrived and green overlanders' tents had mushroomed all over the camp site. A bevvy of squeaky 18-year old Aussie girls were washing and hanging up their pants all over our peaceful oasis before hitting the beers for a night of partying. We couldn't wait to get out of there.
The next morning, bright and early we rented a dugout canoe and (after working out how not to spin in circles - the 'Mzungu corkscrew') set off looking for the tranquil paradise we craved. We found it. Just across the bay was Nature's Prime Island with an assortment of rustic log cabins set amongst a beautiful forest - brightly coloured birds chirping in the trees and a whitewashed jetty to jump from into the cool waters of the lake. We rowed straight back across the lake, packed up the Oh Vee, negotiated a good rate on the best cabin on the island and settled in for a night of luxury. We were the only customers and in the evening they lit a big fire for us, covered the table in flowers and cooked up a delicious crayfish curry. We slept like kings in an enormous bed and awoke the next morning to rays of sun peeking between the logs of the cabin. Amazing.
Next stop was dusty, sweaty and hectic Kampala and then on to an organised tour up to Murchison Falls National Park. We lucked out and had a fantastic group in our minibus including an American girl who had been studying chimpanzees in the Semiliki Valley, a Brit who had come to Uganda to set up his own charity and his friend, and another American who was working in an orphanage north of Kampala, and her visiting friend. There was also a slightly odd older German man, but we'll gloss over him. We drove for most of the day and arrived at sunset to see the full force of the Nile powering through a narrow gorge and roaring out the other side. The resulting wall of spray was very welcome after the dusty journey. We spent the night in safari tents surrounded by munching warthogs and grunting hippos. I was so scared to go to the loo in the night that I woke Mike up to come with me. I am not sure what he would have been able to do to save me from a charging hippo, but it made me feel safer.
The next day we went on a morning safari drive through the forest and along the shores of Lake Albert and spent the afternoon in a tiny motor boat on the Nile. For both of us this was the highlight of the trip. We were able to float right up to elephants, crocodiles and hippos on the shores of the river and to see some of the amazing bird life such as crested cranes, kingfishers and fish eagles. Mike and I have become reluctant twitchers whilst in Rwanda and Uganda - the birds are just breathtaking.
The next day it was back to Kampala after a rhino walking tour. Thanks to the ravages of the Idi Amin years wildlife in Uganda is still in recovery and we went to see six rhinos who will hopefully parent a population of wild rhinos in Uganda's future. For now, they spend their days lounging under the trees in the forest of a rhino sanctuary and tourists are allowed to walk right up and observe them. It was pretty amazing to see a rhino on foot - they are immense, and thankfully pretty passive.
We spent the weekend in Kampala being shown around by the gang from our tour, and managed to see the Bond film which was a welcome home comfort. Sunday brought a day of pure adrenalin......
We were picked up early in the morning and whisked out to the source of the Nile. Within seconds we were kitted out in helmets and life jackets and were floating off down the river. The training was all done on the water and before we knew it it was time for the first rapid. Amaaazing. This is supposedly one of the best white water rafting sites in the world, with grades 3, 4 and 5's and we were not disappointed. Our boat was crewed by us, an older American guy and yet another gaggle of shrill Aussie teenagers on an overland tour. As the guide shouted 'paddle hard' as we passed over the top of each rapid, the Aussies cowered in the bottom of the boat and consequently we flipped on almost every rapid.
Flipping is probably the most fun part. You literally don't know which way is up. You are sucked into a washing machine tumble before bobbing up for just a few seconds -for a breath if you are lucky - and disappearing under again as you hit the next wave. When you finally surface you have to try and make it back to the boat and clamber in. We both absolutely loved it and the shrieking, panicking Aussies probably added to our enjoyment as it was funny to hear them scream as we hurtled over each rapid. A particularly exciting moment was when the boat got lodged sideways at the top of a huge waterfall. The guide couldn't spin it back around so we plunged sideways off the top, falling out of the boat headfirst into the pool below. Apparently it was the first time that the guide had ever lost people out of the boat on that rapid and he looked pretty worried when we got to the bottom and scrambled to heave us all back in to the boat.
Mike managed to slap me with his oar on the very first rapid and by the end of the day I had a bulging, purple, 6-inch, paddle-shaped bruise on the top of my left arm. It looks pretty dramatic, so despite the pain I have enjoyed being able to spin a good yarn about it (and of course point it out to Mike on every possible occasion!).
It was a full day's trip and we returned to Kampala totally exhausted but totally elated - and keen to do some more rafting later on in the trip.
The second half of Uganda coming soon....
After leaving Rwanda we had probably the dustiest, bumpiest ride of our trip - in a taxi with 8 passengers crammed into it- to the small town of Kabale. From there we headed to Lake Bunyoni for a few days of relaxation. The scenery in this area is very similar to Rwanda, with lush green rolling hills, the only notable difference being a slightly less intensive approach to farming.
We pitched up at the Bunyoni Overland Camp, chose a shady spot and and unfurled the Oh Vee before heading for a stroll. We returned to find not one but three 'overland' trucks had arrived and green overlanders' tents had mushroomed all over the camp site. A bevvy of squeaky 18-year old Aussie girls were washing and hanging up their pants all over our peaceful oasis before hitting the beers for a night of partying. We couldn't wait to get out of there.
The next morning, bright and early we rented a dugout canoe and (after working out how not to spin in circles - the 'Mzungu corkscrew') set off looking for the tranquil paradise we craved. We found it. Just across the bay was Nature's Prime Island with an assortment of rustic log cabins set amongst a beautiful forest - brightly coloured birds chirping in the trees and a whitewashed jetty to jump from into the cool waters of the lake. We rowed straight back across the lake, packed up the Oh Vee, negotiated a good rate on the best cabin on the island and settled in for a night of luxury. We were the only customers and in the evening they lit a big fire for us, covered the table in flowers and cooked up a delicious crayfish curry. We slept like kings in an enormous bed and awoke the next morning to rays of sun peeking between the logs of the cabin. Amazing.
Next stop was dusty, sweaty and hectic Kampala and then on to an organised tour up to Murchison Falls National Park. We lucked out and had a fantastic group in our minibus including an American girl who had been studying chimpanzees in the Semiliki Valley, a Brit who had come to Uganda to set up his own charity and his friend, and another American who was working in an orphanage north of Kampala, and her visiting friend. There was also a slightly odd older German man, but we'll gloss over him. We drove for most of the day and arrived at sunset to see the full force of the Nile powering through a narrow gorge and roaring out the other side. The resulting wall of spray was very welcome after the dusty journey. We spent the night in safari tents surrounded by munching warthogs and grunting hippos. I was so scared to go to the loo in the night that I woke Mike up to come with me. I am not sure what he would have been able to do to save me from a charging hippo, but it made me feel safer.
The next day we went on a morning safari drive through the forest and along the shores of Lake Albert and spent the afternoon in a tiny motor boat on the Nile. For both of us this was the highlight of the trip. We were able to float right up to elephants, crocodiles and hippos on the shores of the river and to see some of the amazing bird life such as crested cranes, kingfishers and fish eagles. Mike and I have become reluctant twitchers whilst in Rwanda and Uganda - the birds are just breathtaking.
The next day it was back to Kampala after a rhino walking tour. Thanks to the ravages of the Idi Amin years wildlife in Uganda is still in recovery and we went to see six rhinos who will hopefully parent a population of wild rhinos in Uganda's future. For now, they spend their days lounging under the trees in the forest of a rhino sanctuary and tourists are allowed to walk right up and observe them. It was pretty amazing to see a rhino on foot - they are immense, and thankfully pretty passive.
We spent the weekend in Kampala being shown around by the gang from our tour, and managed to see the Bond film which was a welcome home comfort. Sunday brought a day of pure adrenalin......
We were picked up early in the morning and whisked out to the source of the Nile. Within seconds we were kitted out in helmets and life jackets and were floating off down the river. The training was all done on the water and before we knew it it was time for the first rapid. Amaaazing. This is supposedly one of the best white water rafting sites in the world, with grades 3, 4 and 5's and we were not disappointed. Our boat was crewed by us, an older American guy and yet another gaggle of shrill Aussie teenagers on an overland tour. As the guide shouted 'paddle hard' as we passed over the top of each rapid, the Aussies cowered in the bottom of the boat and consequently we flipped on almost every rapid.
Flipping is probably the most fun part. You literally don't know which way is up. You are sucked into a washing machine tumble before bobbing up for just a few seconds -for a breath if you are lucky - and disappearing under again as you hit the next wave. When you finally surface you have to try and make it back to the boat and clamber in. We both absolutely loved it and the shrieking, panicking Aussies probably added to our enjoyment as it was funny to hear them scream as we hurtled over each rapid. A particularly exciting moment was when the boat got lodged sideways at the top of a huge waterfall. The guide couldn't spin it back around so we plunged sideways off the top, falling out of the boat headfirst into the pool below. Apparently it was the first time that the guide had ever lost people out of the boat on that rapid and he looked pretty worried when we got to the bottom and scrambled to heave us all back in to the boat.
Mike managed to slap me with his oar on the very first rapid and by the end of the day I had a bulging, purple, 6-inch, paddle-shaped bruise on the top of my left arm. It looks pretty dramatic, so despite the pain I have enjoyed being able to spin a good yarn about it (and of course point it out to Mike on every possible occasion!).
It was a full day's trip and we returned to Kampala totally exhausted but totally elated - and keen to do some more rafting later on in the trip.
The second half of Uganda coming soon....
Monday 24 November 2008
Porrettas in the Mist
We arrived in Ruhengheri ready for perhaps the most exciting part of our trip, an audience with the mighty mountain gorillas, the very same gorillas made famous by Diane Fossey whose book I had been avidly munching through in preparation. The area where the gorillas live is absolutely breathtaking. Lush terraced fields climb towards conical volcanic peaks, occasionally peeking through swathes of blue mist. The flanks of the volcanoes are densely forested and it is in these areas that the gorillas spend most of their days, alternating between different types of vegetation for their feeding. There are patches of dense forest, bamboo groves and open fields, all of which the gorillas choose on certain days.
There are 56 passes available per day at a cost of $500 per person; eight passes for each of seven groups of gorillas. Some live close to the park headquarters and some far away. Mike and I were very keen to visit the furthest possible group for two reasons. Firstly as this group is also the largest, with 41 gorillas, 4 silverbacks and several young. Secondly because as hiking in the area is $150 dollars a day we wanted to combine the two in one day. You have to hire a driver who comes to the HQ in the morning and then drives you to the trail head of whichever group you will be tracking. We chose an established driver called Alex as we heard that the more known the driver, the more chance he has of securing the group you want. We chose well. We were first at the HQ and Alex schmoozed the head honcho and secured us a place to see the Suza Group.
Other groups arrived and we enjoyed a cup of tea as people milled about. The majority of punters were kindly middle-aged Germans lorded over by a fearsome warrior of a woman – a cross between Jackie Collins and Dr Evil’s female sidekick. She marched around in full make-up barking orders at her charges and waving her arms about. One sidelong look at Mike told me he was thinking the same as me ‘sod’s law she’s in our group’. She was. The rest of the group were absolutely charming and we managed to keep a straight face when Jackie Evil introduced her self as the ‘Silverhead’ of the group and said ‘’but you can call me Mama Safari’’. I could think of more appropriate names.
The walk up to the edge of the national park was stunning. We climbed steadily through terraced fields, followed by two armed guards and a gaggle of porters that the Germans had hired to carry their day packs. Small, shy children peeked from between the crops and smoke snaked from their small mud huts. The scene would be almost totally unchanged from Diane Fossey’s days, or indeed many decades before that.
After a couple of hours we reached the edge of the forest and received our safety briefing and the excitement started to build. From here we passed a low stone wall and into the forest, following a trail upwards. It was one of the more beautiful forests I have ever seen. Wild celery, nettles and ‘sticky weed’ carpeted the floor and huge lobelia plants dotted the fields. Curtains of moss hung from the higher trees. As we climbed higher and higher, tendrils of mist crept in intermittently but we were mercifully free from the torrential rain that is typical of this area in this season.
We climbed up for another few hours. The guides were being very secretive about how far we had left to go, which added to the excitement. Finally we reached the advance tracking team. These men leave the camp in the early morning and return to where they had seen the gorillas nesting the night before. They spend the entire day with them until they nest that night. They communicated with our guide through walkie talkies. The advance tracking group remains with the same gorilla group every day and are very well known to the gorillas. Their presence is necessary to reassure the gorillas that we are friends.
We left all of our bags on the forest floor and headed up. My heart was beating and I was almost quivering with excitement. Suddenly, there they were! Two small females crossed my path and I gasped with shock. Then everywhere we looked there were gorillas. Sitting under the base of the trees, munching away in the bushes, passing to within a few feet of us. One of the trackers took my hand and led me over to see one of the silverbacks sitting at the base of a tree and surveying the scene. Suddenly the second ranking silverback moved over to mate with one of the dominant females. The main silverback, outraged at this, came crashing over to head him off and then he too mated with the female. The tracker led me forward and bent small branches to one side to give me a clear view. Gorillas share 99% of their make-up with us and I have to say I did feel a bit voyeuristic watching this intimate moment as it seemed so human! We walked around the area. Gorillas came from all directions. A small gorilla climbed a tree and we were amused to watch as it misjudged a branch and came crashing down with an embarrassed expression.
Suddenly as we were standing in a clearing watching several small gorillas, the dominant silverback walked over. He settled amidst the group, scratched his chest and watched, feigning nonchalance. Then in an instant he was up on his hind legs and running towards us, chest beating. My knees literally collapsed as the guide whispered to move back He returned to all fours and advanced towards us. Mike filmed this episode and you can clearly here me saying, in a quivering voice, ‘I’m scaaaaared’. Such a wimp.
We spent the rest of the hour peering through the undergrowth at various members of the group. We watched one of the older females grooming one of her infants, turning the baby 360 degrees as she picked through her fur. We also saw one mother with a two week old infant, nestling the rag-doll like baby against her enormous stomach.
All too quickly our hour with the gorillas was at an end, and we reluctantly left the group. We returned down the mountain elated and overwhelmed with what we had seen. We both still look at the photos and videos that we took every couple of days to recall the experience.
We loved the area so much that we stayed a further day, taking a stroll down to the neighboring villages. As usual we attracted a procession of children. There were many boys who wanted to talk football with Mike. One boy spent about 20 minutes reeling off every footballer that he knew, then every competition, then every manager and finally every football ground. I amused myself by showing the children the videos of the gorillas I had taken on my camera. Many of them, of course, have never even seen the gorillas that they live amongst and were amazed by both the pictures and videos.
We spent our last evening in Rwanda by the fire, drinking wine and looking through our gorilla photos once more. We are so amazingly lucky to have had this experience and we will never forget it.
There are 56 passes available per day at a cost of $500 per person; eight passes for each of seven groups of gorillas. Some live close to the park headquarters and some far away. Mike and I were very keen to visit the furthest possible group for two reasons. Firstly as this group is also the largest, with 41 gorillas, 4 silverbacks and several young. Secondly because as hiking in the area is $150 dollars a day we wanted to combine the two in one day. You have to hire a driver who comes to the HQ in the morning and then drives you to the trail head of whichever group you will be tracking. We chose an established driver called Alex as we heard that the more known the driver, the more chance he has of securing the group you want. We chose well. We were first at the HQ and Alex schmoozed the head honcho and secured us a place to see the Suza Group.
Other groups arrived and we enjoyed a cup of tea as people milled about. The majority of punters were kindly middle-aged Germans lorded over by a fearsome warrior of a woman – a cross between Jackie Collins and Dr Evil’s female sidekick. She marched around in full make-up barking orders at her charges and waving her arms about. One sidelong look at Mike told me he was thinking the same as me ‘sod’s law she’s in our group’. She was. The rest of the group were absolutely charming and we managed to keep a straight face when Jackie Evil introduced her self as the ‘Silverhead’ of the group and said ‘’but you can call me Mama Safari’’. I could think of more appropriate names.
The walk up to the edge of the national park was stunning. We climbed steadily through terraced fields, followed by two armed guards and a gaggle of porters that the Germans had hired to carry their day packs. Small, shy children peeked from between the crops and smoke snaked from their small mud huts. The scene would be almost totally unchanged from Diane Fossey’s days, or indeed many decades before that.
After a couple of hours we reached the edge of the forest and received our safety briefing and the excitement started to build. From here we passed a low stone wall and into the forest, following a trail upwards. It was one of the more beautiful forests I have ever seen. Wild celery, nettles and ‘sticky weed’ carpeted the floor and huge lobelia plants dotted the fields. Curtains of moss hung from the higher trees. As we climbed higher and higher, tendrils of mist crept in intermittently but we were mercifully free from the torrential rain that is typical of this area in this season.
We climbed up for another few hours. The guides were being very secretive about how far we had left to go, which added to the excitement. Finally we reached the advance tracking team. These men leave the camp in the early morning and return to where they had seen the gorillas nesting the night before. They spend the entire day with them until they nest that night. They communicated with our guide through walkie talkies. The advance tracking group remains with the same gorilla group every day and are very well known to the gorillas. Their presence is necessary to reassure the gorillas that we are friends.
We left all of our bags on the forest floor and headed up. My heart was beating and I was almost quivering with excitement. Suddenly, there they were! Two small females crossed my path and I gasped with shock. Then everywhere we looked there were gorillas. Sitting under the base of the trees, munching away in the bushes, passing to within a few feet of us. One of the trackers took my hand and led me over to see one of the silverbacks sitting at the base of a tree and surveying the scene. Suddenly the second ranking silverback moved over to mate with one of the dominant females. The main silverback, outraged at this, came crashing over to head him off and then he too mated with the female. The tracker led me forward and bent small branches to one side to give me a clear view. Gorillas share 99% of their make-up with us and I have to say I did feel a bit voyeuristic watching this intimate moment as it seemed so human! We walked around the area. Gorillas came from all directions. A small gorilla climbed a tree and we were amused to watch as it misjudged a branch and came crashing down with an embarrassed expression.
Suddenly as we were standing in a clearing watching several small gorillas, the dominant silverback walked over. He settled amidst the group, scratched his chest and watched, feigning nonchalance. Then in an instant he was up on his hind legs and running towards us, chest beating. My knees literally collapsed as the guide whispered to move back He returned to all fours and advanced towards us. Mike filmed this episode and you can clearly here me saying, in a quivering voice, ‘I’m scaaaaared’. Such a wimp.
We spent the rest of the hour peering through the undergrowth at various members of the group. We watched one of the older females grooming one of her infants, turning the baby 360 degrees as she picked through her fur. We also saw one mother with a two week old infant, nestling the rag-doll like baby against her enormous stomach.
All too quickly our hour with the gorillas was at an end, and we reluctantly left the group. We returned down the mountain elated and overwhelmed with what we had seen. We both still look at the photos and videos that we took every couple of days to recall the experience.
We loved the area so much that we stayed a further day, taking a stroll down to the neighboring villages. As usual we attracted a procession of children. There were many boys who wanted to talk football with Mike. One boy spent about 20 minutes reeling off every footballer that he knew, then every competition, then every manager and finally every football ground. I amused myself by showing the children the videos of the gorillas I had taken on my camera. Many of them, of course, have never even seen the gorillas that they live amongst and were amazed by both the pictures and videos.
We spent our last evening in Rwanda by the fire, drinking wine and looking through our gorilla photos once more. We are so amazingly lucky to have had this experience and we will never forget it.
Monday 10 November 2008
Rwanda, beyond 1994
Ah Rwanda, what a fascinating, bewildering, awe-inspiring and above all beautiful country. On the flight from Arusha we flew across the wide plains of the Serengeti and passed directly over the Ngorogoro crater, so dramatic from above. Finally as the pilot announced that we were coming in to land the plains of western Tanzania gave way to the densely populated hills of Rwanda. Red roads snaked through the lush green landscape and tin roofs sparkled like diamonds as far as the eye could see. We arrived in Kigali airport where legions of Sikh UN troops were loading their kit on to trucks to head for the border and on to Goma. An hour later we were in the city centre and were surprised at the cosmopolitan, busy city we found. The ladies are glamorous and dressed up to the nines, and jeans and striped polo shirt-clad tall, slim young guys stroll languidly around the streets. The western -style cafes are full of smart-suited Rwandans on their mobile phones and laptops sipping lattes.
The city was out of our price range. We checked into the only hotel we could afford - a dark dingy hole on the outskirts of town with squishy foam mattresses covered with crackly waterproof covers and no hot water (at an exorbitant 30 quid a night) and skulked around the streets in our scruffy clothes feeling like fish out of water. Transport around town was on the back of mopeds, each driver wearing a lime green tabard and carrying a mandatory spare lime-green helmet for their passengers – several sizes too big even for my enormous bonce and subsequently offering zero protection were you to crash. We spent our first day trying to sort out onward travel through Rwanda. Our Lonely Planet was woefully out of date – numbers had changed, prices had doubled, information was incorrect. When we did get through to a few places they were fully booked, or spoke neither French nor English. We eventually secured the help of a lovely girl in the Rwanda Tourist office who helped us sort out accommodation and an itinerary for the week ahead. We were off!
Next stop was Kibuye on the shores of Lake Kivu which forms the border between western Rwanda and the DRC. We had originally planned to go to Gisenyi which has a land border with the Congo and more specifically Goma. We were assured it was safe, but internet chat rooms informed us that the town was crawling with journos and aid workers and the hotels were over-crowded. Kibuye with no land border with the Congo sounded like a better option.
We arrived early at the bus stop on Kigali and watched the morning bustle whilst intermittently being clapped on the back by various groggy-eyed but elated locals exclaiming “Obama” – the election results had come out in the night and to East Africa Obama is the knight in shining armour who will rescue Africa and bring untold riches. I even heard amidst a gabble of Kinyarwanda “now it is Black House, not White House”. It has been a fantastic new perspective to be in Africa in the run up to the US elections – people speak of little else and support for Obama, his father a Kenyan, is unanimous. Soon the bus came and we were ushered into the front seats next to the driver. This proved to be very lucky indeed as successively more people crammed into the seats behind. Of particular note were the older men who wear Stetson-like hats. Some of the hats were fairly traditional but a few were plastic animal-print or spangled versions more commonly seen on the heads of fake-tanned lovelies on hen dos in Brighton. One distinguished looking old gent in the back seat seemed perfectly comfortable in a fetching ocelot-print number with a glittery silver band.
It wasn’t long after leaving Kigali that the smart, clean streets gave way to a more traditional rural African scene. The bus chugged through picturesque villages, snaking through never-ending hills with breathtaking drops to either side. Rwanda is one of the most densely populated countries in the world and this is evident all around. Every inch of hill is given over to agriculture with even the steepest slopes terraced from top to bottom. Small ragged children and young and old farmers walk bare foot or in plastic slippers up and down the steep hills with bundles of sticks, sacks of potatoes or bananas on their heads. All of this was a feast for the eyes and ably distracted me from the young girl sitting behind me silently throwing up into a bag. I handed wet wipes back to her but averted my eyes and nose.
We arrived at Kibuye and hopped onto a couple of motos to take us to the intriguingly named Hotel Golf Eden Rock. This was an interior-design extravaganza with a roughly 70’s style building with lofty ceilings. It had clearly been decorated by the Rwandan version of Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen. It was an orgy of colour and patterns with brightly patterned silky nylon drapes, tiled walls, painted concrete floors and bundles of cobweb-fringed plastic flowers in cracked vases. It was really playing the game of being a swanky hotel with a TV in every room and hot and cold running taps in the shower. Later we learned that the TV didn’t actually work and there wasn’t actually any running water. If you wanted to wash you had to ask for a bucket of warm water to be delivered to your room. Oh well. It was easy to ignore this assault on good taste one you had clapped eyes on the stunning wrap-around view of the meandering inlets and promontories of the lake shore with the mist-clad mountains of the Congo beyond.
We whiled away the rest of the afternoon with a wander through the village and to a Catholic church on the top of the hill and playing chess on the verandah as an enormous thunder storm crackled through, leaving a swathe of torrential rain in its wake.
The next day we arranged for a boat to take us out into the lake. I waited on the shore for the driver to arrive watching a young girl flailing around in the water attempting to swim. I had not yet seen an African who could swim, most favouring an exaggerated doggy paddle which expends huge volumes of energy but does little in the way of forward-propulsion. As I watched, a young boy stripped off and dived into the water, speeding out into the lake before executing a perfect tumble turn and swimming butterfly back to the shore. It turned out he was Rwanda’s premier swimmer who had just returned from Beijing. He moved over to help the by-now drowning girl beside him.
We stopped at Chapeau de Napoleon, a tiny island where our guide ran into the forest clapping his hands and hundreds of thousands of birds ascended into the sky in a cacophony of bird calls, and then continued to Peace Island, a mere dot in the lake where the owners have built a beach volley ball court, erected some tent pitches and have a small shack on the beach with some tables and chairs, a swing in the trees and a monkey tethered to a rope. We ordered some delicious fish and chips and chatted to our guide, Bisman. He was only 17 but mature beyond his years and with an excellent grasp of English. He told us that he has been forced to leave school this year to try and find a job because his mother is sick and he has no older siblings to support her. He had had work as a tennis coach in a nearby hotel before the government had forced its closure. His only means of income currently is to take infrequent tourists out on to the lake.
After a few hours we returned and decided to take a walk around the lake shores, accompanied by Bisman. He taught me some basic kinyrwandan greetings and this transformed the reaction from the locals from blank faces to broad smiles all round. We went again to the Catholic church where Bisman told us at the age of three he had fled with his Tutsi mother during the genocide, seeking protection. The protection was not forthcoming and everyone in the church was shot – Bisman and his mother surviving because they were able to pull the bodies of others over them as protection. His father was a Hutu and later fled the country once Kagame had taken power fearing retribution; he later died in a refugee camp on the Congolese border. Extremely humbling stuff. The memorial at the church has a display cabinet with the skulls of those killed in the church and a small grass pitch in the village marks the mass grave of 10,000 locals killed in the 1994 genocide.
After our walk we went to the hotel bar with Bisman where Mike joined in a game of pool. Bisman was a total whiz and despite Mike putting in a pretty fantastic effort, he was soundly beaten in a couple of games.
The next day we rose early for a long journey heading south along the lake shore to Cyangugu and then east on to the Nyungwe forest. The bus was due to leave at 7.30am so we arrived early. The bus left three and a half hours later after a flat tire had been changed and a driver was found. We were thoroughly entertained by a beautiful three year old girl called Dianne who adopted us on first sight, throwing her arms around me and then crawling on to my lap, before bestowing similar affections on Mike. Eventually a huge lumbering school bus-style old banger arrived and we all clambered aboard, the grandmother of our new friend handing her to me for her to sit on my lap. We chose a seat next to a window with no glass in it thinking this would be an excellent way to guarantee that we would have sufficient respite from the cocktail of sweat, pee and vomit that fragrances the air on the heaving buses. We set off along the pot -holed unmade road, clinging for dear life onto the hard, slippery bench seats with a cooing Dianne on my lap, beaming beatifically. A nurse from the local hospital joined us at the next stop. He was an uncomfortable companion in that he wished to talk at the top of his voice about which contraception methods we used, vaginal bleeding and cancer associated with use of the pill (?) and how we expected to arrive in heaven if neither of us planned to convert to the other’s religion. The latter point he would not let drop and we felt thoroughly chagrined for our heathen existence.
Half an hour into the journey Dianne lapsed into a deep sleep and lolled on my lap, waking two hours later with a beaming smile and a demand for bananas and bread. We had both and duly obliged. At this point the journey began to take a comedic turn. A young girl perched on our backpack in the space in front of our seat where another seat had been ripped out began to vomit into a paper bag. As the liquid permeated the paper we rushed to move our bags away from her. Then the heavens opened and an enormous storm erupted. Everyone hurriedly closed the windows but I had no option but to sit next to the open window and let the rain pour in onto me. I was totally drenched which the entire bus found hilarious, handing me cloths and an umbrella to fend off the downpour. Dianne, sitting on my lap and wrapped snuggly in my hoodie just giggled and chattered. The storm slowed our progress and we stopped frequently along the way as yet more people piled in to the bus, standing in every available space and passing their loads of potatoes, bananas and small children on to the bus through the windows. Our missionary nurse explained that many of the villagers and children we passed were exclaiming on the mystery of two “musungus” (white people) with a black baby. The hours bumped by as more and more people succumbed to travel sickness. You don’t see the ubiquitous plastic carrier bag often in Rwanda so the locals have two options – either to stick their head out of the windows or just to be sick on to their own clothes, most choosing the latter. It is a miracle to me (and to Mike!) that I didn’t succumb myself, but I was fine.
We arrived at Kamembe on the Congolese border at 5pm after a sad farewell to our Rwandan daughter for a day, far too late to catch an onward bus to Nyungwe. A friendly local helped us find a guest house and to book the first bus out in the morning and we bought him a beer and grabbed a quick bite – very welcome indeed after an entire day without eating and drinking for fear of needing the toilet on the long journey.
The next morning we were back on the bus again for the short hop to the Nyungwe forest home to a range of primates including chimps, colobus, blue and mountain monkeys. The bus dropped us on a lonely road and we hiked to our home for the night – a sparse room, again with no running water, on a tea estate in the spectacular misty hills. We hiked down the road to the park headquarters to find that most of the information we had been given by the Rwandan Tourist Office was totally inaccurate. We were not actually at the head quarters of the park at all and the hikes we planned to do were another 18km away and we were not allowed to hike without a guide which made each walk a hefty $100. Colobus monkey tracked from this location would have been $120 dollars but I had spied some colobus just near the tea estate when we had dropped off our bags so we left the park and walked back to see what we could find. Sure enough, our luck was in and in the trees behind the estate a troupe of 50 monkeys cavorted in the trees. We sat on a low wall and watched for a few hours, joined by a gaggle of local children who were totally fascinated by our binoculars which got handed from child to child and were used to spy on the activities on the neighbouring tea factory workers cottages rather than the monkeys.
In the afternoon we walked through the village to cries of “musungu’, proceeding like a pied-piper double act accumulating more and more bare-footed ragged children whilst we searched for something to eat. The only thing we could find were yet more bananas and one shop with some dubious looking plain biscuits which tasted like they were a few years past their sell-by date. I had to use my dusty GCSE French yet again as some of the elder villages were keen to chat to us.
We spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening at a neighbouring guest house – the only option for food in the area. It was run by a very entertaining Congolese guy and the other guests were a Ugandan, an Italian and a Congolese who were in the area conducting research on bird, reptile and amphibian life after an aborted mission to the Congo to do the same. They were fantastic company and we all sat around and swapped ‘close encounters with wild animals’ stories before Mike and I left to hike back to the teat estate in the pitch black, lit by the intermittent glow of lightning in the hills over the Congo.
The next morning we were out on the road by 6am, sitting on our packs as trucks laden with freshly picked tea leaves arrived at the factory. We hailed a minibus and piled in with a mix of locals and soldiers for the spectacular drive to Uwinka, the main park headquarters. As we had no choice but to cough up $100 dollars to hike in the rainforest we chose the longest trails, marked as ‘6 hours, very difficult’ in order to get our money’s worth and we set off with David, our guide. The walk was a steep and frighteningly slippery descent down slick red mud pathways through the layers of dense moss-adorned rain forest to a series of waterfalls. The views were out of this world with mist caressing the valleys below and the sun above lighting up Lake Kivu and the Congo in the far distance. We stopped frequently to listen to monkey calls in the trees and to watch birds. David was very apologetic that we had failed to spot any primates but we were happy with the views alone. The second portion of the hike was a 1500 metre relentless ascent to 3000m, but we made very good time and returned to the camp in time to arrange a hot cup of tea and to raid the store room. All we had, again, were bread, bananas and the dodgy biscuits but we managed to unearth a tin of sardines in tomato sauce in the store room. Heaven!
We had arranged and paid for a bus for the 5 hour journey back to Kigali but just as we were about to leave an American guy with a 4x4 offered us a lift with him instead. He was an economist, a graduate of LSE and SOAS on a 2 year placement working for the Rwandan Ministry of Finance and made excellent and informative company on the stunning drive back.
Today we find ourselves in Kigali again getting everything together for the next part of our trip. Tomorrow morning we will visit the genocide museum. On Wednesday we meet the mighty gorillas. I am racing through a second-hand copy of Diane Fossey’s Gorillas in the Mist in anticipation. After that we plan to do a second hike in the Volcanoes bordering Rwanda and Uganda before we head overland through Uganda.
We have both been captivated by Rwanda. It does of course have more than its fair share of African bureaucracy a frustratingly leisurely speed of service and the accommodation at the lower end of the scale is of poor quality and meager value for money but all in all, we are firm fans. The people have been incredibly friendly, especially since I learned a bit of the local lingo. The security and orderliness of the country have been unexpected. Speed limits on the roads are enforced, there is an obvious police presence, there are timetables and advanced booking on all but the most rural buses and Kigali feels the safest of any city we have visited on this trip. The speed of recovery after the genocide is amazing. Though below the service it is obvious that tribal indicators remain in the disparate appearances of Tutsis and Hutus and in their surnames, it is extremely taboo to even mention the words ‘Hutu’ or ‘Tutsi’, and everyone is keen to stress that they are a Rwandan, not aligned to one tribe or another. It is an industrious nation and a well organized society and petty corruption is all but extinct. The landscape is of unparalleled beauty and the natural wonders are fantastically preserved and protected, in no small part thanks to the exorbitant national park fees.
With the gorillas to look forward to as the cherry on the top of an extremely tasty cake we are very pleased to have made the journey here and hope that this account will paint a picture of a country that should be defined more for the delights it holds today than the scars of its past.
The city was out of our price range. We checked into the only hotel we could afford - a dark dingy hole on the outskirts of town with squishy foam mattresses covered with crackly waterproof covers and no hot water (at an exorbitant 30 quid a night) and skulked around the streets in our scruffy clothes feeling like fish out of water. Transport around town was on the back of mopeds, each driver wearing a lime green tabard and carrying a mandatory spare lime-green helmet for their passengers – several sizes too big even for my enormous bonce and subsequently offering zero protection were you to crash. We spent our first day trying to sort out onward travel through Rwanda. Our Lonely Planet was woefully out of date – numbers had changed, prices had doubled, information was incorrect. When we did get through to a few places they were fully booked, or spoke neither French nor English. We eventually secured the help of a lovely girl in the Rwanda Tourist office who helped us sort out accommodation and an itinerary for the week ahead. We were off!
Next stop was Kibuye on the shores of Lake Kivu which forms the border between western Rwanda and the DRC. We had originally planned to go to Gisenyi which has a land border with the Congo and more specifically Goma. We were assured it was safe, but internet chat rooms informed us that the town was crawling with journos and aid workers and the hotels were over-crowded. Kibuye with no land border with the Congo sounded like a better option.
We arrived early at the bus stop on Kigali and watched the morning bustle whilst intermittently being clapped on the back by various groggy-eyed but elated locals exclaiming “Obama” – the election results had come out in the night and to East Africa Obama is the knight in shining armour who will rescue Africa and bring untold riches. I even heard amidst a gabble of Kinyarwanda “now it is Black House, not White House”. It has been a fantastic new perspective to be in Africa in the run up to the US elections – people speak of little else and support for Obama, his father a Kenyan, is unanimous. Soon the bus came and we were ushered into the front seats next to the driver. This proved to be very lucky indeed as successively more people crammed into the seats behind. Of particular note were the older men who wear Stetson-like hats. Some of the hats were fairly traditional but a few were plastic animal-print or spangled versions more commonly seen on the heads of fake-tanned lovelies on hen dos in Brighton. One distinguished looking old gent in the back seat seemed perfectly comfortable in a fetching ocelot-print number with a glittery silver band.
It wasn’t long after leaving Kigali that the smart, clean streets gave way to a more traditional rural African scene. The bus chugged through picturesque villages, snaking through never-ending hills with breathtaking drops to either side. Rwanda is one of the most densely populated countries in the world and this is evident all around. Every inch of hill is given over to agriculture with even the steepest slopes terraced from top to bottom. Small ragged children and young and old farmers walk bare foot or in plastic slippers up and down the steep hills with bundles of sticks, sacks of potatoes or bananas on their heads. All of this was a feast for the eyes and ably distracted me from the young girl sitting behind me silently throwing up into a bag. I handed wet wipes back to her but averted my eyes and nose.
We arrived at Kibuye and hopped onto a couple of motos to take us to the intriguingly named Hotel Golf Eden Rock. This was an interior-design extravaganza with a roughly 70’s style building with lofty ceilings. It had clearly been decorated by the Rwandan version of Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen. It was an orgy of colour and patterns with brightly patterned silky nylon drapes, tiled walls, painted concrete floors and bundles of cobweb-fringed plastic flowers in cracked vases. It was really playing the game of being a swanky hotel with a TV in every room and hot and cold running taps in the shower. Later we learned that the TV didn’t actually work and there wasn’t actually any running water. If you wanted to wash you had to ask for a bucket of warm water to be delivered to your room. Oh well. It was easy to ignore this assault on good taste one you had clapped eyes on the stunning wrap-around view of the meandering inlets and promontories of the lake shore with the mist-clad mountains of the Congo beyond.
We whiled away the rest of the afternoon with a wander through the village and to a Catholic church on the top of the hill and playing chess on the verandah as an enormous thunder storm crackled through, leaving a swathe of torrential rain in its wake.
The next day we arranged for a boat to take us out into the lake. I waited on the shore for the driver to arrive watching a young girl flailing around in the water attempting to swim. I had not yet seen an African who could swim, most favouring an exaggerated doggy paddle which expends huge volumes of energy but does little in the way of forward-propulsion. As I watched, a young boy stripped off and dived into the water, speeding out into the lake before executing a perfect tumble turn and swimming butterfly back to the shore. It turned out he was Rwanda’s premier swimmer who had just returned from Beijing. He moved over to help the by-now drowning girl beside him.
We stopped at Chapeau de Napoleon, a tiny island where our guide ran into the forest clapping his hands and hundreds of thousands of birds ascended into the sky in a cacophony of bird calls, and then continued to Peace Island, a mere dot in the lake where the owners have built a beach volley ball court, erected some tent pitches and have a small shack on the beach with some tables and chairs, a swing in the trees and a monkey tethered to a rope. We ordered some delicious fish and chips and chatted to our guide, Bisman. He was only 17 but mature beyond his years and with an excellent grasp of English. He told us that he has been forced to leave school this year to try and find a job because his mother is sick and he has no older siblings to support her. He had had work as a tennis coach in a nearby hotel before the government had forced its closure. His only means of income currently is to take infrequent tourists out on to the lake.
After a few hours we returned and decided to take a walk around the lake shores, accompanied by Bisman. He taught me some basic kinyrwandan greetings and this transformed the reaction from the locals from blank faces to broad smiles all round. We went again to the Catholic church where Bisman told us at the age of three he had fled with his Tutsi mother during the genocide, seeking protection. The protection was not forthcoming and everyone in the church was shot – Bisman and his mother surviving because they were able to pull the bodies of others over them as protection. His father was a Hutu and later fled the country once Kagame had taken power fearing retribution; he later died in a refugee camp on the Congolese border. Extremely humbling stuff. The memorial at the church has a display cabinet with the skulls of those killed in the church and a small grass pitch in the village marks the mass grave of 10,000 locals killed in the 1994 genocide.
After our walk we went to the hotel bar with Bisman where Mike joined in a game of pool. Bisman was a total whiz and despite Mike putting in a pretty fantastic effort, he was soundly beaten in a couple of games.
The next day we rose early for a long journey heading south along the lake shore to Cyangugu and then east on to the Nyungwe forest. The bus was due to leave at 7.30am so we arrived early. The bus left three and a half hours later after a flat tire had been changed and a driver was found. We were thoroughly entertained by a beautiful three year old girl called Dianne who adopted us on first sight, throwing her arms around me and then crawling on to my lap, before bestowing similar affections on Mike. Eventually a huge lumbering school bus-style old banger arrived and we all clambered aboard, the grandmother of our new friend handing her to me for her to sit on my lap. We chose a seat next to a window with no glass in it thinking this would be an excellent way to guarantee that we would have sufficient respite from the cocktail of sweat, pee and vomit that fragrances the air on the heaving buses. We set off along the pot -holed unmade road, clinging for dear life onto the hard, slippery bench seats with a cooing Dianne on my lap, beaming beatifically. A nurse from the local hospital joined us at the next stop. He was an uncomfortable companion in that he wished to talk at the top of his voice about which contraception methods we used, vaginal bleeding and cancer associated with use of the pill (?) and how we expected to arrive in heaven if neither of us planned to convert to the other’s religion. The latter point he would not let drop and we felt thoroughly chagrined for our heathen existence.
Half an hour into the journey Dianne lapsed into a deep sleep and lolled on my lap, waking two hours later with a beaming smile and a demand for bananas and bread. We had both and duly obliged. At this point the journey began to take a comedic turn. A young girl perched on our backpack in the space in front of our seat where another seat had been ripped out began to vomit into a paper bag. As the liquid permeated the paper we rushed to move our bags away from her. Then the heavens opened and an enormous storm erupted. Everyone hurriedly closed the windows but I had no option but to sit next to the open window and let the rain pour in onto me. I was totally drenched which the entire bus found hilarious, handing me cloths and an umbrella to fend off the downpour. Dianne, sitting on my lap and wrapped snuggly in my hoodie just giggled and chattered. The storm slowed our progress and we stopped frequently along the way as yet more people piled in to the bus, standing in every available space and passing their loads of potatoes, bananas and small children on to the bus through the windows. Our missionary nurse explained that many of the villagers and children we passed were exclaiming on the mystery of two “musungus” (white people) with a black baby. The hours bumped by as more and more people succumbed to travel sickness. You don’t see the ubiquitous plastic carrier bag often in Rwanda so the locals have two options – either to stick their head out of the windows or just to be sick on to their own clothes, most choosing the latter. It is a miracle to me (and to Mike!) that I didn’t succumb myself, but I was fine.
We arrived at Kamembe on the Congolese border at 5pm after a sad farewell to our Rwandan daughter for a day, far too late to catch an onward bus to Nyungwe. A friendly local helped us find a guest house and to book the first bus out in the morning and we bought him a beer and grabbed a quick bite – very welcome indeed after an entire day without eating and drinking for fear of needing the toilet on the long journey.
The next morning we were back on the bus again for the short hop to the Nyungwe forest home to a range of primates including chimps, colobus, blue and mountain monkeys. The bus dropped us on a lonely road and we hiked to our home for the night – a sparse room, again with no running water, on a tea estate in the spectacular misty hills. We hiked down the road to the park headquarters to find that most of the information we had been given by the Rwandan Tourist Office was totally inaccurate. We were not actually at the head quarters of the park at all and the hikes we planned to do were another 18km away and we were not allowed to hike without a guide which made each walk a hefty $100. Colobus monkey tracked from this location would have been $120 dollars but I had spied some colobus just near the tea estate when we had dropped off our bags so we left the park and walked back to see what we could find. Sure enough, our luck was in and in the trees behind the estate a troupe of 50 monkeys cavorted in the trees. We sat on a low wall and watched for a few hours, joined by a gaggle of local children who were totally fascinated by our binoculars which got handed from child to child and were used to spy on the activities on the neighbouring tea factory workers cottages rather than the monkeys.
In the afternoon we walked through the village to cries of “musungu’, proceeding like a pied-piper double act accumulating more and more bare-footed ragged children whilst we searched for something to eat. The only thing we could find were yet more bananas and one shop with some dubious looking plain biscuits which tasted like they were a few years past their sell-by date. I had to use my dusty GCSE French yet again as some of the elder villages were keen to chat to us.
We spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening at a neighbouring guest house – the only option for food in the area. It was run by a very entertaining Congolese guy and the other guests were a Ugandan, an Italian and a Congolese who were in the area conducting research on bird, reptile and amphibian life after an aborted mission to the Congo to do the same. They were fantastic company and we all sat around and swapped ‘close encounters with wild animals’ stories before Mike and I left to hike back to the teat estate in the pitch black, lit by the intermittent glow of lightning in the hills over the Congo.
The next morning we were out on the road by 6am, sitting on our packs as trucks laden with freshly picked tea leaves arrived at the factory. We hailed a minibus and piled in with a mix of locals and soldiers for the spectacular drive to Uwinka, the main park headquarters. As we had no choice but to cough up $100 dollars to hike in the rainforest we chose the longest trails, marked as ‘6 hours, very difficult’ in order to get our money’s worth and we set off with David, our guide. The walk was a steep and frighteningly slippery descent down slick red mud pathways through the layers of dense moss-adorned rain forest to a series of waterfalls. The views were out of this world with mist caressing the valleys below and the sun above lighting up Lake Kivu and the Congo in the far distance. We stopped frequently to listen to monkey calls in the trees and to watch birds. David was very apologetic that we had failed to spot any primates but we were happy with the views alone. The second portion of the hike was a 1500 metre relentless ascent to 3000m, but we made very good time and returned to the camp in time to arrange a hot cup of tea and to raid the store room. All we had, again, were bread, bananas and the dodgy biscuits but we managed to unearth a tin of sardines in tomato sauce in the store room. Heaven!
We had arranged and paid for a bus for the 5 hour journey back to Kigali but just as we were about to leave an American guy with a 4x4 offered us a lift with him instead. He was an economist, a graduate of LSE and SOAS on a 2 year placement working for the Rwandan Ministry of Finance and made excellent and informative company on the stunning drive back.
Today we find ourselves in Kigali again getting everything together for the next part of our trip. Tomorrow morning we will visit the genocide museum. On Wednesday we meet the mighty gorillas. I am racing through a second-hand copy of Diane Fossey’s Gorillas in the Mist in anticipation. After that we plan to do a second hike in the Volcanoes bordering Rwanda and Uganda before we head overland through Uganda.
We have both been captivated by Rwanda. It does of course have more than its fair share of African bureaucracy a frustratingly leisurely speed of service and the accommodation at the lower end of the scale is of poor quality and meager value for money but all in all, we are firm fans. The people have been incredibly friendly, especially since I learned a bit of the local lingo. The security and orderliness of the country have been unexpected. Speed limits on the roads are enforced, there is an obvious police presence, there are timetables and advanced booking on all but the most rural buses and Kigali feels the safest of any city we have visited on this trip. The speed of recovery after the genocide is amazing. Though below the service it is obvious that tribal indicators remain in the disparate appearances of Tutsis and Hutus and in their surnames, it is extremely taboo to even mention the words ‘Hutu’ or ‘Tutsi’, and everyone is keen to stress that they are a Rwandan, not aligned to one tribe or another. It is an industrious nation and a well organized society and petty corruption is all but extinct. The landscape is of unparalleled beauty and the natural wonders are fantastically preserved and protected, in no small part thanks to the exorbitant national park fees.
With the gorillas to look forward to as the cherry on the top of an extremely tasty cake we are very pleased to have made the journey here and hope that this account will paint a picture of a country that should be defined more for the delights it holds today than the scars of its past.
Sunday 2 November 2008
Fulcrum Challenge fun and games
It is impossible for me to explain the last two weeks. It's something that I will remember for ever. Words (especially mine) will not do the experience justice, but I'll give it a go.
I'm writing this whilst sitting on a sun lounger next to the 'biggest' pool in Arusha on a Sunday afternoon watching local residents and NGO workers splashing about in the pool. We are camping in the grounds of a stunning safari lodge for a few nights collecting ourselves after spending two weeks on Fulcrum Challenge 86. The students and leaders left for the UK on Friday evening and we decided to stay on for a few extra nights after our Tanzanian adventure before we head to Rwanda on Monday.
For those of you who don't know about Fulcrum, Sarah and I volunteered to be leaders on a challenge which brought 23 17 or 18 year olds from various London schools to trek to a community project site and complete a building phase of a new library for a secondary school in Magara, a small town in the shadow of the Rift Valley escarpment.
There were four other leaders who had the difficult job of shepherding the students from the UK to Kilimanjaro airport where we flew up and met them from South Africa. We went via Nairobi where we transferred onto a very dodgy flying baked bean can - broken seats, no overhead lights, and drop-down trays which dropped down whether you liked it or not, bruising your knee caps in the process. It did not instill us with confidence, but we lived to tell the tale and met up with the others.
Sarah has done two Fulcrum challenges before but this was my first experience. I was pretty scared not knowing how I was going to get along with the students and I was definitely out of my comfort zone. I also hadn't appreciated the extent to which the trip was mainly about the personal development of the students, the community project and trek being a a tool through which teamwork and leadership were developed.
Here are my highlights of the trip.
Camping
Sarah and I had a sleeping tent and a dressing tent, side by side. Compared to our Oh Vee the Vango 2-man tents we were issued had palladian-like proportions. Sleeping out in the African wilderness, amidst giant hopping crickets and countless other creepy-crawlies and - in the case of Tarangire - in amongst the lions and elephants, was very cool.
Trekking
The sweeping Savannah which awaited us on our first trek was very special. Knowing that the next landmark on the horizon- perhaps a single tree - was a few hours away with nothing in between was very weird. We were totally exposed beneath a huge sky and the baking hot African sun so hats, sunscreen, water and yet more water were the order of the day.
Clive
Our man on the ground, an Englishman that has lived in Africa for years, was quite a character. He looked like a cross between Indiana Jones and Ray Meers, always wore safari shirt and shorts, leather hat, carried a big stick, drank no water and wore no socks. He was the font of all Tanzanian knowledge and had a unique sense of humour. In the evening he slipped into something more comfortable - a sarong and African shirt and retired to his tent for a tipple.
The African support team
These guys were quite simply magnificent. Mainly local men from Arusha, they fed, watered us and went far beyond the call of duty in caring for us and our charges. What was fantastic to see was the students interacting with them - playing frisbee, learning Swahili and sharing jokes. There were tears all around when we waved them off in Arusha.
The waterfall.
Surely this was a film set? Right next to the project site camp was a breathtaking waterfall plunging from the top of the Rift Valley escarpment, a torrent of cascades and rock pools which culminated in an invigorating shower plunging into the soft yellow sand. The whole team, and Sarah dived straight in and little did I know as I paddled in the shallows, trousers rolled up, minding my own business, that the kids were scheming behind me. Next thing I knew one of the lads had knelt behind me while another pushed me from the front and I was submerged and surrounded by 23 laughing teenagers, and Sarah. I think is what you call male bonding (the gits!)
The school
Magora Secondary School had around 200 students who were crammed into impossibly small and dingy classrooms. I loved the excitement on the kids faces when we arrived, their singing, their smiles, their interaction with our students. It was all very humbling. Our project was to build roof tresses and fit the windows and doors to a new library block, following in the footsteps of three previous Fulcrum challenges and to be followed by one more. We completed the planned work extremely quickly so we had to think fast and find some extra projects for the students. This included teaching lessons, which they all really enjoyed, and taking on some further projects such as a mural, painting one of the classrooms and building benches.
The benches
This project pleased me no end - our brief was to design and build benches for an outdoor classroom. A bit of a busman's holiday for me but it was a real pleasure to guide the students through the design process and it was a real high point to see ten sturdy blue benches lined up in the sun on our last day.
The local kids
One day Sarah sat in the shade chatting to some young boys that were watching us work. They were only too pleased to teach her bits and pieces of Swahili and were fascinated by her camera, especially the video function. I took the camera and we asked them to perform so I could video them. Sarah and the four little boys put on the a great show of the silliest dance I have ever seen - all of the boys pulling faces and laughing so hard they were in helpless hysterics.
Church service
On our final Saturday on the project one of the classrooms was taken over my local villagers for a church service. People old and young came from far and wide to join a singing and dancing extravaganza which lasted for most of the day and was a perfect musical backdrop to work to. We joined them for a while and it was an amazingly uplifting experience. I'm not sure the constant hammering and sawing helped them but it didn't seem to bother them either.
The snake
It's not often that you find a black mamba. It's also not often that you see a bunch of over-excited locals grabbing anything they can to capture and kill the beast which was hiding under a pile of wood in the library, just a few feet from where the students were working. Apparently this incredibly poisonous snake claims the lives of many school children every year so they weren't going to mess around. Of course, once the snake had been beheaded our students thought it was the coolest thing ever.
Marshmallows on the beach
Thanks to Radha for having her 18th birthday while we were away we had a fantastic party. Sarah and a few of Radha's friends planned a surprise birthday party which included a cake made on the fire, and toasted marshmallows on the fire on the beach by the waterfall. Yum. The event was made all the more special by the singing and dancing by the support staff and the whole event turned into a big rave up on the beach with everyone joining in with the African songs. All this without alcohol!
The students' show
As part of the project handover our students put together a fantastic show which was extremely well received by the Magora students. It was like X-factor without the annoying panelists. 10 out of 10 guys - you were great.
The headmaster's speech
Severin gave a very personal, heartfelt and touching speech to all of us which emphasised the special bond that had formed during our time at Magora. He based it on the words around which we had created a mural on one of the classroom walls. Friendship, acceptance, respect, peace and unity.
The students
I didn't quite know what to expect at the beginning of the trip. I sometimes felt that they or I didn't get it, but as time went on I realised that all of the students were developing day by day. Some of them had to go through some real lows, but it was to their credit that they pulled through and showed such strength of character. Through the challenge they have been given such an opportunity to grow, and I think most of them grasped this and will not look back.
Saying goodbye
As usual with goodbyes I seem to take it all in my stride at the time, shaking hands and hugging everyone. However, true to form, as soon as we waved everyone off and the last jeeps disappeared into the dust, it all became too much. Sarah and I had a big hug and I had a bit of a cry and we both asked "what the hell are we going to do now?". After two and a bit weeks of non-stop energy and action it was really quiet and our little tent looked so lonely in the corner of the campsite.
I really hope that we will keep in touch with some of the students and leaders. What I realised is that it was an education for all of us, and something I hope to do again in the future.
I'm writing this whilst sitting on a sun lounger next to the 'biggest' pool in Arusha on a Sunday afternoon watching local residents and NGO workers splashing about in the pool. We are camping in the grounds of a stunning safari lodge for a few nights collecting ourselves after spending two weeks on Fulcrum Challenge 86. The students and leaders left for the UK on Friday evening and we decided to stay on for a few extra nights after our Tanzanian adventure before we head to Rwanda on Monday.
For those of you who don't know about Fulcrum, Sarah and I volunteered to be leaders on a challenge which brought 23 17 or 18 year olds from various London schools to trek to a community project site and complete a building phase of a new library for a secondary school in Magara, a small town in the shadow of the Rift Valley escarpment.
There were four other leaders who had the difficult job of shepherding the students from the UK to Kilimanjaro airport where we flew up and met them from South Africa. We went via Nairobi where we transferred onto a very dodgy flying baked bean can - broken seats, no overhead lights, and drop-down trays which dropped down whether you liked it or not, bruising your knee caps in the process. It did not instill us with confidence, but we lived to tell the tale and met up with the others.
Sarah has done two Fulcrum challenges before but this was my first experience. I was pretty scared not knowing how I was going to get along with the students and I was definitely out of my comfort zone. I also hadn't appreciated the extent to which the trip was mainly about the personal development of the students, the community project and trek being a a tool through which teamwork and leadership were developed.
Here are my highlights of the trip.
Camping
Sarah and I had a sleeping tent and a dressing tent, side by side. Compared to our Oh Vee the Vango 2-man tents we were issued had palladian-like proportions. Sleeping out in the African wilderness, amidst giant hopping crickets and countless other creepy-crawlies and - in the case of Tarangire - in amongst the lions and elephants, was very cool.
Trekking
The sweeping Savannah which awaited us on our first trek was very special. Knowing that the next landmark on the horizon- perhaps a single tree - was a few hours away with nothing in between was very weird. We were totally exposed beneath a huge sky and the baking hot African sun so hats, sunscreen, water and yet more water were the order of the day.
Clive
Our man on the ground, an Englishman that has lived in Africa for years, was quite a character. He looked like a cross between Indiana Jones and Ray Meers, always wore safari shirt and shorts, leather hat, carried a big stick, drank no water and wore no socks. He was the font of all Tanzanian knowledge and had a unique sense of humour. In the evening he slipped into something more comfortable - a sarong and African shirt and retired to his tent for a tipple.
The African support team
These guys were quite simply magnificent. Mainly local men from Arusha, they fed, watered us and went far beyond the call of duty in caring for us and our charges. What was fantastic to see was the students interacting with them - playing frisbee, learning Swahili and sharing jokes. There were tears all around when we waved them off in Arusha.
The waterfall.
Surely this was a film set? Right next to the project site camp was a breathtaking waterfall plunging from the top of the Rift Valley escarpment, a torrent of cascades and rock pools which culminated in an invigorating shower plunging into the soft yellow sand. The whole team, and Sarah dived straight in and little did I know as I paddled in the shallows, trousers rolled up, minding my own business, that the kids were scheming behind me. Next thing I knew one of the lads had knelt behind me while another pushed me from the front and I was submerged and surrounded by 23 laughing teenagers, and Sarah. I think is what you call male bonding (the gits!)
The school
Magora Secondary School had around 200 students who were crammed into impossibly small and dingy classrooms. I loved the excitement on the kids faces when we arrived, their singing, their smiles, their interaction with our students. It was all very humbling. Our project was to build roof tresses and fit the windows and doors to a new library block, following in the footsteps of three previous Fulcrum challenges and to be followed by one more. We completed the planned work extremely quickly so we had to think fast and find some extra projects for the students. This included teaching lessons, which they all really enjoyed, and taking on some further projects such as a mural, painting one of the classrooms and building benches.
The benches
This project pleased me no end - our brief was to design and build benches for an outdoor classroom. A bit of a busman's holiday for me but it was a real pleasure to guide the students through the design process and it was a real high point to see ten sturdy blue benches lined up in the sun on our last day.
The local kids
One day Sarah sat in the shade chatting to some young boys that were watching us work. They were only too pleased to teach her bits and pieces of Swahili and were fascinated by her camera, especially the video function. I took the camera and we asked them to perform so I could video them. Sarah and the four little boys put on the a great show of the silliest dance I have ever seen - all of the boys pulling faces and laughing so hard they were in helpless hysterics.
Church service
On our final Saturday on the project one of the classrooms was taken over my local villagers for a church service. People old and young came from far and wide to join a singing and dancing extravaganza which lasted for most of the day and was a perfect musical backdrop to work to. We joined them for a while and it was an amazingly uplifting experience. I'm not sure the constant hammering and sawing helped them but it didn't seem to bother them either.
The snake
It's not often that you find a black mamba. It's also not often that you see a bunch of over-excited locals grabbing anything they can to capture and kill the beast which was hiding under a pile of wood in the library, just a few feet from where the students were working. Apparently this incredibly poisonous snake claims the lives of many school children every year so they weren't going to mess around. Of course, once the snake had been beheaded our students thought it was the coolest thing ever.
Marshmallows on the beach
Thanks to Radha for having her 18th birthday while we were away we had a fantastic party. Sarah and a few of Radha's friends planned a surprise birthday party which included a cake made on the fire, and toasted marshmallows on the fire on the beach by the waterfall. Yum. The event was made all the more special by the singing and dancing by the support staff and the whole event turned into a big rave up on the beach with everyone joining in with the African songs. All this without alcohol!
The students' show
As part of the project handover our students put together a fantastic show which was extremely well received by the Magora students. It was like X-factor without the annoying panelists. 10 out of 10 guys - you were great.
The headmaster's speech
Severin gave a very personal, heartfelt and touching speech to all of us which emphasised the special bond that had formed during our time at Magora. He based it on the words around which we had created a mural on one of the classroom walls. Friendship, acceptance, respect, peace and unity.
The students
I didn't quite know what to expect at the beginning of the trip. I sometimes felt that they or I didn't get it, but as time went on I realised that all of the students were developing day by day. Some of them had to go through some real lows, but it was to their credit that they pulled through and showed such strength of character. Through the challenge they have been given such an opportunity to grow, and I think most of them grasped this and will not look back.
Saying goodbye
As usual with goodbyes I seem to take it all in my stride at the time, shaking hands and hugging everyone. However, true to form, as soon as we waved everyone off and the last jeeps disappeared into the dust, it all became too much. Sarah and I had a big hug and I had a bit of a cry and we both asked "what the hell are we going to do now?". After two and a bit weeks of non-stop energy and action it was really quiet and our little tent looked so lonely in the corner of the campsite.
I really hope that we will keep in touch with some of the students and leaders. What I realised is that it was an education for all of us, and something I hope to do again in the future.
Wednesday 15 October 2008
So long South Africa
I’m sitting here on our last day in South Africa and Mike and I have been brainstorming a list of funny, interesting, sad and amusing bits and pieces from our month here.
Firstly, something that you simply cannot escape in this country are the dark bubbling undertones of race relations. For every glass of wine you sink on a sun drenched terrace overlooking a knock-out view, there is a glimpse from a car window of another South Africa where the vast majority of black people visibly live from hand to mouth.
On many occasions as we sat in a restaurant amongst white people being waited on exclusively by black people we felt a twinge of discomfort. It was all too reminiscent of photos my grandfather has shown me of life in India in the 1940’s where the British sat on terraces sipping G&T’s while their Indian servants beavered away around them. We keep commenting on how clean and freshly painted everything is here and how fantastic the service is in cafes and restaurants, but you cannot ignore the fact that that’s because labour is comparatively cheap and in plentiful supply.
I mentioned the townships in Cape Town, and this is something I have seen on the edges of many cities across the world but what I haven’t mentioned is that every town has a township however small or rural it is. In the rural areas black people hitch hike on every crossroads yet we rarely, if ever, saw a white person on foot. Until I got to Johannesburg not once did I see a black person sitting on the next table to us in a restaurant, or a black person in a fancy car, or in a suit, or owning a restaurant or guest house, or a mixed-race couple, or black and white children or teenagers hanging out together.
Of course we don’t know the whole story, and it is all too easy to jump to melodramatic and erroneous conclusions as a tourist, so we have both been trying to ask people along the way to explain what we have seen. The sound bites we have captured are by no means the whole picture, but I can give you the same pieces of the jigsaw that we have after one month.
In Cape Town the guy running the hostel we stayed at was chatting to an American girl at the bar who was criticising his racist approach. The basic gist of the conversation was “if you lived here long enough, you’d be a racist too because black people commit all the crime in South Africa”.
In Stellenbosch an Afrikaner bar man told us that he has a black girlfriend. “I was a total racist til I met her – my Dad was in the police so I grew up thinking that way. Then I met her, fell in love and I think differently.” I asked whether there were any other mixed race couples in the town, which houses a large university. “Yeah, three couples” he said, “everyone stares at us”.
At a guest house I asked the landlord whether there was a minimum wage in South Africa. He seemed hazy on the subject but said that that he thought there were different minimum wages for different industry sectors. He followed up with “but we pay our maid way over the odds, so it doesn’t matter so much. She gets 350 rand a week from us.” That’s £25 a week for a full time job. Staying a night in his guest house cost the same.
I asked a waitress in a restaurant where she was from as she didn’t have a South African accent. “I am from Zimbabwe” she replied. I asked where the other waiters were from. “Two from the DRC, two from Mozambique, three from Zambia, one from Zimbabwe”. I asked when she came here and she said just a year ago. I asked her what she thought about the news that day that Zuma would be the new president. She said that she would wait and see as she had learnt herself that everything can change in an instant. “I tell people here, I did not choose what happened in my country, I did not want to leave, everything can change at any time.” And then she hurried away. A stark reminder that the recent race riots in the country were black on black – black South Africans against black economic migrants from neighbouring countries all fighting for the same piece of a meagre pie.
Mike and I were listening to SAfm one day and a section called “children's corner” was aired. It was an interview with two Zimbabwean children living in South Africa. Questions covered were “why do you like South Africa?” and “what do you think of Mugabe?”. The replies were along the lines of “we love South Africa” and “Mugabe is a bad man”. It was a very blatant attempt to build understanding amongst South Africans and Zimbabweans but it sounded a bit like propaganda and was woefully simplistic.
Whilst washing up in a camp site in Kruger a middle-aged woman chatted to me about her sons and daughters. “Both my sons have finished college but of course it will be difficult for them to get jobs now because of the pro-black employment policies” she said, referring to the government’s Black Economic Empowerment policy of positive discrimination which has not been well received by everyone.
To add a flicker of light to this depressing story, finishing in Johannesburg you can see a different picture. In Soweto, the mother of all townships and the centre of the anti-apartheid movement, the guide books tell you that some areas are decidedly middle class these days. When I went to Malcolm’s office half of his colleagues are black South Africans. In a coffee shop this morning and a restaurant last night you could have been in London in terms of the tables of every race sitting together.
We went to the apartheid museum today and this was an excellent way to end our time here and to reflect on what we have seen. When you scrutinise South Africa’s history it has been a huge achievement for it to even remain a country at all, so although there is a long way to go there is a lot to celebrate too. Hats off to Mandela et al.
And now for the funny bits…
Robots
For our first weeks every time we asked for directions people would tell us “keep going until you get to the third robot, then turn right”, or “it’s just on the corner by the robot”. Mike and I were in the dark about what on earth these were, not having seen any noticeable darleks on the side on the road. Eventually the light dawned – they are traffic lights.
Car wash
UK car wash: a man in Tesco’s car park flicks your windscreen wipers up, chucks a bucket of grimy water over your car and charges you £5.
South African car wash: two men roll up their sleeves and set to work, scrubbing, buffing, rinsing. The minutes tick by. The hoover comes out and no crease is left unexploited. Then the second man set to work with a paintbrush, easing the dust from the dials on the dashboard and the crevices on the panelling. The whole job takes about forty minutes and they charge you £2.50. They even found a banana in our car. Don't ask.
Maps
We purchased “South Africa’s Number 1 Road Map”. We got lost. Roads that appeared on the map didn’t exist, but other roads did and were jolly nice thank you very much. Sections of road that looked quite short lasted for ever and others that looked like they would take upwards of an hour flashed by in thirty minutes. We drove all the way to the border with Lesotho without actually seeing any signs for Lesotho until a sign within sight of the border gate helpfully pointed it out to us. A sign on the road to Addo said ‘Addo, 5km’ and 300m later another sign said ‘Addo’. We learned to roll with it.
Road works
A man stands in the road waving a red flag, you slow down, he waves it harder, you stop, he waves it some more, you edge slowly forward with a questioning expression on your face, he carries on waving and you pass by and continue cautiously – he meant for you to carry on.
You meet another man waving a red flag, you slow down but carry on, he waves frantically – he meant for you to stop.
We learned not to roll with it for fear of our lives – confusing as all hell.
Cash shops
You enter the shop and all of the produce, the till and the proprietor are behind metal bars. You can walk around the shop and see the produce but to get it to it you have to ask the guy to get everything together for you, and to pay him you have to put your arms through the bars. It’s a bit like buying food from an inmate.
Braai
It is a mystery to me how Australians have the reputation in the UK for being the BBQ nation because I reckon the South Africans can give them a run for their money, and then some. The country is obsessed with charcoal and meat! In Kruger we didn’t see anyone cook by any other means. We were lucky enough to be here for Braai day…. Braai day? That’s EVERY day!
Overall we have loved South Africa - the scenery, the food, the wildlife, the walks. Because of the contrast between the beauty and the problems here we have been made to think rather than just relax and enjoy ourselves and our experience has been the better for it. It is an amazing and fascinating country and without doubt the turmoil of the past is not yet wholly in the past. Even today the news has been all about splinter groups within the ANC. We will watch with interest.
Tomorrow, Tanzania and two weeks as leaders on a Fulcrum Challenge....
Firstly, something that you simply cannot escape in this country are the dark bubbling undertones of race relations. For every glass of wine you sink on a sun drenched terrace overlooking a knock-out view, there is a glimpse from a car window of another South Africa where the vast majority of black people visibly live from hand to mouth.
On many occasions as we sat in a restaurant amongst white people being waited on exclusively by black people we felt a twinge of discomfort. It was all too reminiscent of photos my grandfather has shown me of life in India in the 1940’s where the British sat on terraces sipping G&T’s while their Indian servants beavered away around them. We keep commenting on how clean and freshly painted everything is here and how fantastic the service is in cafes and restaurants, but you cannot ignore the fact that that’s because labour is comparatively cheap and in plentiful supply.
I mentioned the townships in Cape Town, and this is something I have seen on the edges of many cities across the world but what I haven’t mentioned is that every town has a township however small or rural it is. In the rural areas black people hitch hike on every crossroads yet we rarely, if ever, saw a white person on foot. Until I got to Johannesburg not once did I see a black person sitting on the next table to us in a restaurant, or a black person in a fancy car, or in a suit, or owning a restaurant or guest house, or a mixed-race couple, or black and white children or teenagers hanging out together.
Of course we don’t know the whole story, and it is all too easy to jump to melodramatic and erroneous conclusions as a tourist, so we have both been trying to ask people along the way to explain what we have seen. The sound bites we have captured are by no means the whole picture, but I can give you the same pieces of the jigsaw that we have after one month.
In Cape Town the guy running the hostel we stayed at was chatting to an American girl at the bar who was criticising his racist approach. The basic gist of the conversation was “if you lived here long enough, you’d be a racist too because black people commit all the crime in South Africa”.
In Stellenbosch an Afrikaner bar man told us that he has a black girlfriend. “I was a total racist til I met her – my Dad was in the police so I grew up thinking that way. Then I met her, fell in love and I think differently.” I asked whether there were any other mixed race couples in the town, which houses a large university. “Yeah, three couples” he said, “everyone stares at us”.
At a guest house I asked the landlord whether there was a minimum wage in South Africa. He seemed hazy on the subject but said that that he thought there were different minimum wages for different industry sectors. He followed up with “but we pay our maid way over the odds, so it doesn’t matter so much. She gets 350 rand a week from us.” That’s £25 a week for a full time job. Staying a night in his guest house cost the same.
I asked a waitress in a restaurant where she was from as she didn’t have a South African accent. “I am from Zimbabwe” she replied. I asked where the other waiters were from. “Two from the DRC, two from Mozambique, three from Zambia, one from Zimbabwe”. I asked when she came here and she said just a year ago. I asked her what she thought about the news that day that Zuma would be the new president. She said that she would wait and see as she had learnt herself that everything can change in an instant. “I tell people here, I did not choose what happened in my country, I did not want to leave, everything can change at any time.” And then she hurried away. A stark reminder that the recent race riots in the country were black on black – black South Africans against black economic migrants from neighbouring countries all fighting for the same piece of a meagre pie.
Mike and I were listening to SAfm one day and a section called “children's corner” was aired. It was an interview with two Zimbabwean children living in South Africa. Questions covered were “why do you like South Africa?” and “what do you think of Mugabe?”. The replies were along the lines of “we love South Africa” and “Mugabe is a bad man”. It was a very blatant attempt to build understanding amongst South Africans and Zimbabweans but it sounded a bit like propaganda and was woefully simplistic.
Whilst washing up in a camp site in Kruger a middle-aged woman chatted to me about her sons and daughters. “Both my sons have finished college but of course it will be difficult for them to get jobs now because of the pro-black employment policies” she said, referring to the government’s Black Economic Empowerment policy of positive discrimination which has not been well received by everyone.
To add a flicker of light to this depressing story, finishing in Johannesburg you can see a different picture. In Soweto, the mother of all townships and the centre of the anti-apartheid movement, the guide books tell you that some areas are decidedly middle class these days. When I went to Malcolm’s office half of his colleagues are black South Africans. In a coffee shop this morning and a restaurant last night you could have been in London in terms of the tables of every race sitting together.
We went to the apartheid museum today and this was an excellent way to end our time here and to reflect on what we have seen. When you scrutinise South Africa’s history it has been a huge achievement for it to even remain a country at all, so although there is a long way to go there is a lot to celebrate too. Hats off to Mandela et al.
And now for the funny bits…
Robots
For our first weeks every time we asked for directions people would tell us “keep going until you get to the third robot, then turn right”, or “it’s just on the corner by the robot”. Mike and I were in the dark about what on earth these were, not having seen any noticeable darleks on the side on the road. Eventually the light dawned – they are traffic lights.
Car wash
UK car wash: a man in Tesco’s car park flicks your windscreen wipers up, chucks a bucket of grimy water over your car and charges you £5.
South African car wash: two men roll up their sleeves and set to work, scrubbing, buffing, rinsing. The minutes tick by. The hoover comes out and no crease is left unexploited. Then the second man set to work with a paintbrush, easing the dust from the dials on the dashboard and the crevices on the panelling. The whole job takes about forty minutes and they charge you £2.50. They even found a banana in our car. Don't ask.
Maps
We purchased “South Africa’s Number 1 Road Map”. We got lost. Roads that appeared on the map didn’t exist, but other roads did and were jolly nice thank you very much. Sections of road that looked quite short lasted for ever and others that looked like they would take upwards of an hour flashed by in thirty minutes. We drove all the way to the border with Lesotho without actually seeing any signs for Lesotho until a sign within sight of the border gate helpfully pointed it out to us. A sign on the road to Addo said ‘Addo, 5km’ and 300m later another sign said ‘Addo’. We learned to roll with it.
Road works
A man stands in the road waving a red flag, you slow down, he waves it harder, you stop, he waves it some more, you edge slowly forward with a questioning expression on your face, he carries on waving and you pass by and continue cautiously – he meant for you to carry on.
You meet another man waving a red flag, you slow down but carry on, he waves frantically – he meant for you to stop.
We learned not to roll with it for fear of our lives – confusing as all hell.
Cash shops
You enter the shop and all of the produce, the till and the proprietor are behind metal bars. You can walk around the shop and see the produce but to get it to it you have to ask the guy to get everything together for you, and to pay him you have to put your arms through the bars. It’s a bit like buying food from an inmate.
Braai
It is a mystery to me how Australians have the reputation in the UK for being the BBQ nation because I reckon the South Africans can give them a run for their money, and then some. The country is obsessed with charcoal and meat! In Kruger we didn’t see anyone cook by any other means. We were lucky enough to be here for Braai day…. Braai day? That’s EVERY day!
Overall we have loved South Africa - the scenery, the food, the wildlife, the walks. Because of the contrast between the beauty and the problems here we have been made to think rather than just relax and enjoy ourselves and our experience has been the better for it. It is an amazing and fascinating country and without doubt the turmoil of the past is not yet wholly in the past. Even today the news has been all about splinter groups within the ANC. We will watch with interest.
Tomorrow, Tanzania and two weeks as leaders on a Fulcrum Challenge....
Monday 13 October 2008
***STOP PRESS*** Oh Vee's maiden voyage
Yes, that’s right. On the way back from safari we popped the cherry of the world’s cheapest high-spec tent, and let us just say, the earth - thankfully - did not move. She stood fast in the wind - her guy ropes gracing the red earth and her tent flaps forming a proud and impenetrable barrier to the roaming vervet monkeys. She glowed like a freshly plucked sunflower amidst a sea of motor homes and we were proud to call her our own.
The lion sleeps tonight
For the past week we have been on safari in Kruger National Park with Malcolm, a mate of mine from Japan who is currently working in Johannesburg preparing for the 2010 World Cup. We started at the southern entrance to the park, snaking slowly northwards staying at a different rest camp each night and spending our days bumping across dusty roads in the coolest safari vehicle on the market – Malcolm’s green four-door Jeep Rubicon. There have been too many amazing wildlife experiences to mention, but here are Mike’s and my top ten.
#1 – The elephant destroyer
On our first full day in the bush the skies were overcast and the air was decidedly chilly. This does not make for the most beautiful wildlife viewing but it does mean that the animals are far more active. We happened upon a bull elephant in the bushes on a quiet road and decided to watch for a while. He munched away on the trees and pulled at the branches. Then he leant his trunk up the tree and started to push. The tree audibly creaked and groaned, but after a few seconds the elephant seemed to give up and strolled slowly to the other side of the tree and ate some more leaves. Then he leaned his trunk against the other side of the tree and really started to push. The leaves rustled and shook and the elephant kept going until with a loud groan the tree gave in and crashed down through the undergrowth. We really couldn’t believe our eyes. The elephant was probably 3-4 metres high, but the tree was easily 20m with a thick trunk and deep roots. After this mammoth show of strength he nonchalantly went on munching the leaves, leaving us flabbergasted.
#2 - The lady that was pleased to see us
Later than afternoon we had the pleasure of meeting another lone elephant at a watering hole. As he drank and sprayed water, we snapped pictures. Malcolm kept saying how lovely ‘she’ was but after one too many episodes of David Attenborough documentaries I was convinced that only male elephants wandered alone and the elephant must therefore be a ‘he’. We debated the point lazily as we chilled and watched him/her munching leaves and going about his/her business. Suddenly the elephant sprouted a fifth leg, a long black appendage that within seconds was slapping about - and at this point we could confidently say it - HIS ankles. The boys were horrified at the sight and we quickly moved on. After I had snapped a few pictures of course.
#3 – Cat on a hot tin road
On our third day in the late afternoon we were driving along one of the main tarred roads when I exclaimed, with my incredible knack of stating the obvious, “blimey, that looks like three lions lying in the middle of the road”. We drove closer. “Blimey, that IS three lions lying in the road!” We drove to within 5 metres, you could almost smell the lions’ breath as they sprawled on the hot tarmac in the afternoon sun. We took countless photos as they twitched, rolled over and fidgeted, and all was well. Then one of the lions stood up. At this point, with the windows down and the roof off the Jeep I was TERRIFIED and sunk down in my seat hoping they wouldn’t see me while Mike whispered urgently “take some pictures Sarah, stop being such a wimp”. Nothing could persuade me to sit up in my seat until the lion had safely flopped back down again into a slumber.
#4 – Mike’s almost road-kill
After we had watched the lions for half an hour or so we were conscious that we needed to get to camp as soon as possible before the gate closed so we decided we would stick to the speed limit of 40kmph, rather than our usual 20kmph crawl, and hot-foot it back to camp along a dusty unmade road. Mike was driving and he ramped the speed up and we bumped along in the dust with the sun sinking lower in the sky. We rounded a bend and almost smacked into a male lion out for an afternoon stroll, all three of us shouting “Whoaaaaaaa!” He pulled back in shock and the three of us scrabbled to reverse the car, put the windows up and take photos all at the same time. The lion gathered itself together and crossed the road, as cool as a cucumber, and retreated into the bushes leaving the three of us slumped in our seats, a gibbering wreck.
#5 – Raging bull
We carried on again, rounded another bend to find a large bull elephant near the road. As we slowed down and attempted to crawl by he came into the road, flapping his ears and stamping his foot. We reversed, turned off the engine and waited. We started the engine and tried again, and this time he raised his trunk and shook his head. We reversed and waited while he eyed us suspiciously. Two more attempts until finally he crossed the road and moved far enough away in the bushes that we felt safe to pass by.
#6 – Cats in the long grass
At Talamati Bushveld camp Mike and I got up at the unearthly hour of 4.45am to go on a walking safari. I had heard on countless occasions that walking safaris are a bit dull. As you trundle through the undergrowth any animal with any shred of a brain heads for the hills, so walking safaris usually entail bird watching (twitching) and examining animal spoor (poo-watching). However, after four days in the Jeep it was in everyone’s interests that I got a bit of exercise. We met Chester, our guide, and clattered out in an open-sided safari vehicle as the sun rose, passing a family of rhino on the way.
We turned down a dusty track to meet Andre, our second guide, and another tourist. We hopped out of the vans and as Andre and Chester loaded their rifles they briefed us on what to and what not to do – it all sounded quite exciting and they were very funny guys, full of jokes. Just as they finished their explanation we heard a lion growl and both guides got very excited indeed. It’s difficult to describe the sound of a lion growl until you’ve heard it yourself. You don’t just hear the growl, you feel it too as it vibrates within you, leaving you in no doubt as to the power of these big cats.
They asked us to follow them - staying low - so we crawled through the undergrowth feeling a bit like burglars in a slapstick movie. We emerged on to a plain of dry yellow grass and they pointed out a lion ahead of us. To be honest it could just as easily have been a tree stump and I began to think they were winding us up.
#1 – The elephant destroyer
On our first full day in the bush the skies were overcast and the air was decidedly chilly. This does not make for the most beautiful wildlife viewing but it does mean that the animals are far more active. We happened upon a bull elephant in the bushes on a quiet road and decided to watch for a while. He munched away on the trees and pulled at the branches. Then he leant his trunk up the tree and started to push. The tree audibly creaked and groaned, but after a few seconds the elephant seemed to give up and strolled slowly to the other side of the tree and ate some more leaves. Then he leaned his trunk against the other side of the tree and really started to push. The leaves rustled and shook and the elephant kept going until with a loud groan the tree gave in and crashed down through the undergrowth. We really couldn’t believe our eyes. The elephant was probably 3-4 metres high, but the tree was easily 20m with a thick trunk and deep roots. After this mammoth show of strength he nonchalantly went on munching the leaves, leaving us flabbergasted.
#2 - The lady that was pleased to see us
Later than afternoon we had the pleasure of meeting another lone elephant at a watering hole. As he drank and sprayed water, we snapped pictures. Malcolm kept saying how lovely ‘she’ was but after one too many episodes of David Attenborough documentaries I was convinced that only male elephants wandered alone and the elephant must therefore be a ‘he’. We debated the point lazily as we chilled and watched him/her munching leaves and going about his/her business. Suddenly the elephant sprouted a fifth leg, a long black appendage that within seconds was slapping about - and at this point we could confidently say it - HIS ankles. The boys were horrified at the sight and we quickly moved on. After I had snapped a few pictures of course.
#3 – Cat on a hot tin road
On our third day in the late afternoon we were driving along one of the main tarred roads when I exclaimed, with my incredible knack of stating the obvious, “blimey, that looks like three lions lying in the middle of the road”. We drove closer. “Blimey, that IS three lions lying in the road!” We drove to within 5 metres, you could almost smell the lions’ breath as they sprawled on the hot tarmac in the afternoon sun. We took countless photos as they twitched, rolled over and fidgeted, and all was well. Then one of the lions stood up. At this point, with the windows down and the roof off the Jeep I was TERRIFIED and sunk down in my seat hoping they wouldn’t see me while Mike whispered urgently “take some pictures Sarah, stop being such a wimp”. Nothing could persuade me to sit up in my seat until the lion had safely flopped back down again into a slumber.
#4 – Mike’s almost road-kill
After we had watched the lions for half an hour or so we were conscious that we needed to get to camp as soon as possible before the gate closed so we decided we would stick to the speed limit of 40kmph, rather than our usual 20kmph crawl, and hot-foot it back to camp along a dusty unmade road. Mike was driving and he ramped the speed up and we bumped along in the dust with the sun sinking lower in the sky. We rounded a bend and almost smacked into a male lion out for an afternoon stroll, all three of us shouting “Whoaaaaaaa!” He pulled back in shock and the three of us scrabbled to reverse the car, put the windows up and take photos all at the same time. The lion gathered itself together and crossed the road, as cool as a cucumber, and retreated into the bushes leaving the three of us slumped in our seats, a gibbering wreck.
#5 – Raging bull
We carried on again, rounded another bend to find a large bull elephant near the road. As we slowed down and attempted to crawl by he came into the road, flapping his ears and stamping his foot. We reversed, turned off the engine and waited. We started the engine and tried again, and this time he raised his trunk and shook his head. We reversed and waited while he eyed us suspiciously. Two more attempts until finally he crossed the road and moved far enough away in the bushes that we felt safe to pass by.
#6 – Cats in the long grass
At Talamati Bushveld camp Mike and I got up at the unearthly hour of 4.45am to go on a walking safari. I had heard on countless occasions that walking safaris are a bit dull. As you trundle through the undergrowth any animal with any shred of a brain heads for the hills, so walking safaris usually entail bird watching (twitching) and examining animal spoor (poo-watching). However, after four days in the Jeep it was in everyone’s interests that I got a bit of exercise. We met Chester, our guide, and clattered out in an open-sided safari vehicle as the sun rose, passing a family of rhino on the way.
We turned down a dusty track to meet Andre, our second guide, and another tourist. We hopped out of the vans and as Andre and Chester loaded their rifles they briefed us on what to and what not to do – it all sounded quite exciting and they were very funny guys, full of jokes. Just as they finished their explanation we heard a lion growl and both guides got very excited indeed. It’s difficult to describe the sound of a lion growl until you’ve heard it yourself. You don’t just hear the growl, you feel it too as it vibrates within you, leaving you in no doubt as to the power of these big cats.
They asked us to follow them - staying low - so we crawled through the undergrowth feeling a bit like burglars in a slapstick movie. We emerged on to a plain of dry yellow grass and they pointed out a lion ahead of us. To be honest it could just as easily have been a tree stump and I began to think they were winding us up.
They told us to stay low again and we carried on through the scrub with the field to our right. We emerged on to the field again and we could see the unmistakeabale form of a male lion standing in the grasses, looking straight at us, about 100m away. It immediately began to retreat. All five of us were hopping out of our skin with excitement and discussed what we had seen in loud whispers. The guides explained that the lions are scared of humans and almost always walk away when they see them. They said that they rarely see lions on the walking tours because the lions hear them and retreat before they see them.
A few seconds later we heard another lion growl so it was back into the bushes again. This time as we walked we could see the lion lying in the long grasses with its back to us. Our guides led us closer and closer until we were about 50m away. At this point the lion turned and growled at us, then it rose and watched us as we stood rooted to the spot, hearts beating nineteen to the dozen. After a while it too started to slowly retreat and we all whispered in amazement to each other. The guides made growling noises, saying “coooome aaand geeeet uuuus” and when they did this the lion stopped to watch us. Nothing can compare to the electrifying feeling of standing in the bush, eye-to-eye with a male lion and we felt incredibly lucky to have seen it.
#7 Lunch time mud bath
As we headed further north later in the week, the sun came back out, the temperature slowly rose and it became harder and harder to spot the wildlife on the move for the bulk of the day. The received wisdom is that you should rise early to see the animals at dawn and either take a siesta or stake out a watering hole during the day. As we drove along just before lunch in the baking hot sun I said “the one thing that I really want to see is a big group of elephants at a watering hole”. Not ten minutes later we passed a large watering hole and saw four bull elephant drinking at the water’s edge, their skin glistening where they had sprayed their backs with mud to cool down and to act as protection from the sun. We sat on a bridge and watched for a while and another elephant joined the first few. He began by slapping some mud about, throwing it high on to his back. Then he decided that really wasn’t doing the trick so he waded into the mud and lay down. That obviously wasn’t working either, so he decided to wade through the mud to the deeper water beyond and then across the river. At this point a larger bull elephant on the opposite bank decided he was not happy with that and shooed the younger elephant away.
Then, suddenly, on the horizon we spied a large group of elephants plodding slowly out of the thicket. As they saw the watering hole they began to speed up, nodding their heads in what looked like intense excitement – if elephants could smile that was what they were doing. As they got closer to the water they started to jog and the entire family ran head long into the water where they threw mud about, splashed around, wallowed and kicked their legs, stamped and slapped their trunks on the water in an orgy of muddy fun. The baby elephants particularly were gurgling and splashing about like toddlers in a paddling pool.
#8 - Let sleeping cats lie
Later that afternoon after a particularly wildlife-devoid hour or two in the relentless heat we found a pride of lions chilling under a tree. They were in such a tangle that it was difficult to make out exactly how many lions we were looking at. They slumbered on, with only their ears and tails twitching, occasionally lifting their heads to scratch or lick a paw, yawn, or roll over on to their backs with their legs in the air, looking every bit like big cuddly pussy cats.
#9 - Baboon take-away
On our penultimate day I had scheduled a much-needed rest day at Oliphants camp. Due to a mix up with the rooms we had landed on our feet and had the pleasure of a rondavel right on the edge of the escarpment overlooking a sweeping bend in the Oliphants River. The temperature rose to 40 degrees and we sat in the shade for most of the day writing post cards, snoozing, and watching the wildlife amble by below us. At most of the accommodation in the park there are big signs warning you to take various precautions to keep the baboons away from your food, such as turning your fridge to the wall or bracing your doors but we hadn’t really seen much sign of the wily fridge-invaders. Our next door neighbours, however, had wedged a very heavy chair against their fridge door. Suddenly we heard a scraping and turned to see a huge male baboon dragging the chair from our neighbours’ fridge. Within seconds the eight or nine baboons had swept into action with furtive glances in every direction in case they were discovered. One smaller monkey stuffed handfuls of cherry tomatoes into his cheeks with both hands. Another stole a lettuce and sat on the wall munching his way through. Another took a metal bowl filled with leftover pasta and made a run for it. The alpha male opened a carton of African beer and drank the lot right in front of us. I stood there helplessly shouting “shoo” – to no effect – and in just a few further seconds they were gone, leaving the fridge open and a trail of empty cartons and spilt food in their wake.
#10 – There’s no place like home
At the end of that very hot day as we sat on the terrace and chilled, watching a bull elephant in the river below, the clouds started to roll in. Mike, Malcolm and I sat and watched as electricity began to crackle on the horizon. From our vantage point on the escarpment we could see for a few hundred kms to the south. We watched as a line of dust on the horizon advanced towards us, but there was barely a breeze where we were sitting. Then suddenly, with an almighty crack of thunder, the storm was upon us. A wall of wind hit us, sending everything flying, clattering at the screen doors and whipping up the curtains. We were slapped in the face by dry leaves, twigs and a swirl of dust. The three of us braced ourselves on the balcony, swigging our cold beers as the storm raged on in our faces - sun glasses on for protection against the dust despite the fact that the storm had cut out almost all of the light. It was the most dramatic weather I have ever witnessed – reminding me very much of the tornado scene in the Wizard of Oz.
#7 Lunch time mud bath
As we headed further north later in the week, the sun came back out, the temperature slowly rose and it became harder and harder to spot the wildlife on the move for the bulk of the day. The received wisdom is that you should rise early to see the animals at dawn and either take a siesta or stake out a watering hole during the day. As we drove along just before lunch in the baking hot sun I said “the one thing that I really want to see is a big group of elephants at a watering hole”. Not ten minutes later we passed a large watering hole and saw four bull elephant drinking at the water’s edge, their skin glistening where they had sprayed their backs with mud to cool down and to act as protection from the sun. We sat on a bridge and watched for a while and another elephant joined the first few. He began by slapping some mud about, throwing it high on to his back. Then he decided that really wasn’t doing the trick so he waded into the mud and lay down. That obviously wasn’t working either, so he decided to wade through the mud to the deeper water beyond and then across the river. At this point a larger bull elephant on the opposite bank decided he was not happy with that and shooed the younger elephant away.
Then, suddenly, on the horizon we spied a large group of elephants plodding slowly out of the thicket. As they saw the watering hole they began to speed up, nodding their heads in what looked like intense excitement – if elephants could smile that was what they were doing. As they got closer to the water they started to jog and the entire family ran head long into the water where they threw mud about, splashed around, wallowed and kicked their legs, stamped and slapped their trunks on the water in an orgy of muddy fun. The baby elephants particularly were gurgling and splashing about like toddlers in a paddling pool.
#8 - Let sleeping cats lie
Later that afternoon after a particularly wildlife-devoid hour or two in the relentless heat we found a pride of lions chilling under a tree. They were in such a tangle that it was difficult to make out exactly how many lions we were looking at. They slumbered on, with only their ears and tails twitching, occasionally lifting their heads to scratch or lick a paw, yawn, or roll over on to their backs with their legs in the air, looking every bit like big cuddly pussy cats.
#9 - Baboon take-away
On our penultimate day I had scheduled a much-needed rest day at Oliphants camp. Due to a mix up with the rooms we had landed on our feet and had the pleasure of a rondavel right on the edge of the escarpment overlooking a sweeping bend in the Oliphants River. The temperature rose to 40 degrees and we sat in the shade for most of the day writing post cards, snoozing, and watching the wildlife amble by below us. At most of the accommodation in the park there are big signs warning you to take various precautions to keep the baboons away from your food, such as turning your fridge to the wall or bracing your doors but we hadn’t really seen much sign of the wily fridge-invaders. Our next door neighbours, however, had wedged a very heavy chair against their fridge door. Suddenly we heard a scraping and turned to see a huge male baboon dragging the chair from our neighbours’ fridge. Within seconds the eight or nine baboons had swept into action with furtive glances in every direction in case they were discovered. One smaller monkey stuffed handfuls of cherry tomatoes into his cheeks with both hands. Another stole a lettuce and sat on the wall munching his way through. Another took a metal bowl filled with leftover pasta and made a run for it. The alpha male opened a carton of African beer and drank the lot right in front of us. I stood there helplessly shouting “shoo” – to no effect – and in just a few further seconds they were gone, leaving the fridge open and a trail of empty cartons and spilt food in their wake.
#10 – There’s no place like home
At the end of that very hot day as we sat on the terrace and chilled, watching a bull elephant in the river below, the clouds started to roll in. Mike, Malcolm and I sat and watched as electricity began to crackle on the horizon. From our vantage point on the escarpment we could see for a few hundred kms to the south. We watched as a line of dust on the horizon advanced towards us, but there was barely a breeze where we were sitting. Then suddenly, with an almighty crack of thunder, the storm was upon us. A wall of wind hit us, sending everything flying, clattering at the screen doors and whipping up the curtains. We were slapped in the face by dry leaves, twigs and a swirl of dust. The three of us braced ourselves on the balcony, swigging our cold beers as the storm raged on in our faces - sun glasses on for protection against the dust despite the fact that the storm had cut out almost all of the light. It was the most dramatic weather I have ever witnessed – reminding me very much of the tornado scene in the Wizard of Oz.
Tarzan, King of the Jungle
After arriving in the Drakensberg Mike and I were keen to tackle some strenuous hikes so we signed up for a guided walk up the amphitheatre. This is one of the many amazing natural features in the park – an 8km long sheer rock face with a 1km vertical plunge off the edge and into the valley below. We set off with our guide and two other couples for the drive to the base of the walk.
This took us through Qwa Qwa, one of South Africa’s ‘Homelands’, areas of land which were designated to black South Africans in the 1960’s with the supposed aim of providing a home where they could be self-sufficient and live in harmony. In reality of course, the homelands were situated in place where there was no infrastructure or industry and many people were forced to migrate illegally to the cities for work. The Homelands made up 14% of South Africa’s land mass while the black population comprised 80% of the people. Today they look like extended townships and it was interesting, and shocking, to see how they have evolved since the 1960’s. This was yet another reminder of how apartheid may be gone but the legacy lives on.
Our guide Sim, a Zulu from the local area, gave us loads of interesting information and his views on what was important to black South Africans today. He told us that education – even primary education - is not free in South Africa. Sim’s view was that free education up to secondary level was the single most important step the government could take to improving the country.
The walk began with a slow but steady climb in the howling wind – so strong it nearly blew us off our feet. After about 5km we stopped at a steep gully in the rocks. Here Sim said “make your way up, finding your own path, and I will see you at the top”. Mike and I headed up first, scrambling up the gorge, each foothold at least knee-height above the last. The climb was 250m and the competitive side within both of us drove us on to get to the top before everyone else. The views down the vertiginous cliff face on the opposite side were well worth the climb. Due to the strong winds we had to approach the cliff with care, but it was pretty dramatic to crawl to the edge, lie down flat and hang your head over a 1000m drop.
After walking along the ridge for a while we turned back towards the face we had climbed for the nerve-wracking portion of the trip. To get back down to the path we had to climb down a hundred meters of metal ladders bolted on to the cliff face. I set off first so that I didn’t have time for my nerves to build and Mike said that as I disappeared over the edge his stomach lurched thinking it might be the last time he ever saw me. The wind howled and the only way to do it was to focus on each rung, not look down, and not think about the fact that one wrong foot would spell certain death. I then had the horrible experience – in reverse – of watching Mike come down as I stood safely at the bottom, willing him to make it safely. Needless to say, after that the adrenalin was pumping and we practically ran back to the minibus.
The next day we decided to attempt the rather more sedate ‘Rainbow Gorge’ in the Cathedral Peak area. It started in rolling grassy plains, slowly creeping deeper into a steep-sided gorge where we had to scramble across huge boulders and bridge the stream. The guy at the hostel had given us a map and said “you’ll know when you reach the end of the gorge”. That wasn’t really so. We reached what looked like the end but managed to help each other over a huge smooth boulder and cross the stream to get a bit further. Then a few hundred metres later we got to a deep pool with a chain ladder at the far end. At this point Mike – a new man after the ladder antics of the previous day – transformed from the ‘play it safe’ man we all know and love to Tarzan king of the jungle. He stripped off to his boxers, waded through the freezing water and hauled himself up the ladder. When he got to the top he urged me to stick our boots and his clothes in my pack and follow suit. The next obstacle was another deep pool with a fallen branch hanging across it, Mike balanced on the branch, using the rock wall for support and made it across and up the next steep rock. Here we decided to stop for a late lunch and I discovered a very cool feature – a smooth concave boulder sweeping down to a deep plunge pool below – a natural waterslide. I willed myself to slide down it – it worked a treat and dunked me deep into the icy pool, Mike soon followed suit. We had a fantastic hour playing about in the pools and eating our lunch in a sliver of sun that penetrated to the valley floor before we decided we should turn back. Tarzan and Jane, happy again.
Friday 3 October 2008
Speedy gonzales strikes again
Today was a day of "shall we shan't we". We left Malealea with the intention of heading to Sani in the south-east of Lesotho but after a few hours changed our plans and decided to leave Leostho and head to the southern Drakensburgh mountains in SA, then we changed them again and decided to go to the central Berg, and then the north. Our heads were reeling with the rapid pace of change. When we had finally decided a plan of action Mike started driving towards the border crossing. We passed a few villages where the police were pulling people over but they waved us on when they saw we were tourists.
As we passed one of the last villages before the border our luck changed - a strapping policeman waved us to the side of the road and approached the window while I urged "do whatever he says and stay calm...please".
"Sir, I am stopping you because you have exceeded the speed limit. Do you accept that you were speeding?". Mike tried pleading innocence, tried using the 'we are but humble tourists' approach, but the cop wouldn't budge. He went away and came back with the evidence - as Mike had overtaken a barely-moving pick-up, heavily laden with straw, he had broken the 50km speed limit by 19km. We were in trouble.
The cop continued "you have two options. You can fill in the paperwork and you have 7 months to pay the fine of 180 rand (about 14 quid) or you can pay me now. As you are tourists we will give you a special discount and the fine will be only 100 rand. I didn't even wait for him to finish before I had handed over the cash. It literally went into the cop's back pocket and he was as eager to let us move on as we were to get out of there. Our very first African bribe and Mike's fourth speeding fine in two years - not bad for a man consistently mocked by his friends for his sedate driving style!
After we crossed the border and skirted the north-east corner of Lesotho we passed a town called Clarens. I suggested we stop for lunch but Mike thought the outskirts of the town looked "rubbish", so we moved on. As we drove on we got hungrier and I looked on the map for the next town - there wasn't one. I opened the guide book to see if there were any options listed in the local area. Nothing. I then found a description of Clarens: "this is a town you stumble upon by accident and talk about for years afterwards...blah, blah, bah.. it's no wonder that the likes of Brad Pitt and Prince Harry make a bee-line for Clarens." Bugger. We drove on, hungry and hurting after the speeding fine incident, Mike bemoaning his lost gourmet lunch in Clarens. We arrived in the northern berg as the sun set over the dramatic Drakensburgh escarpment.
As we passed one of the last villages before the border our luck changed - a strapping policeman waved us to the side of the road and approached the window while I urged "do whatever he says and stay calm...please".
"Sir, I am stopping you because you have exceeded the speed limit. Do you accept that you were speeding?". Mike tried pleading innocence, tried using the 'we are but humble tourists' approach, but the cop wouldn't budge. He went away and came back with the evidence - as Mike had overtaken a barely-moving pick-up, heavily laden with straw, he had broken the 50km speed limit by 19km. We were in trouble.
The cop continued "you have two options. You can fill in the paperwork and you have 7 months to pay the fine of 180 rand (about 14 quid) or you can pay me now. As you are tourists we will give you a special discount and the fine will be only 100 rand. I didn't even wait for him to finish before I had handed over the cash. It literally went into the cop's back pocket and he was as eager to let us move on as we were to get out of there. Our very first African bribe and Mike's fourth speeding fine in two years - not bad for a man consistently mocked by his friends for his sedate driving style!
After we crossed the border and skirted the north-east corner of Lesotho we passed a town called Clarens. I suggested we stop for lunch but Mike thought the outskirts of the town looked "rubbish", so we moved on. As we drove on we got hungrier and I looked on the map for the next town - there wasn't one. I opened the guide book to see if there were any options listed in the local area. Nothing. I then found a description of Clarens: "this is a town you stumble upon by accident and talk about for years afterwards...blah, blah, bah.. it's no wonder that the likes of Brad Pitt and Prince Harry make a bee-line for Clarens." Bugger. We drove on, hungry and hurting after the speeding fine incident, Mike bemoaning his lost gourmet lunch in Clarens. We arrived in the northern berg as the sun set over the dramatic Drakensburgh escarpment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
