Saturday's Email of the Week: Adding This One To My Bucket List

Saturday's Email of the Week

Okay, this is a pretty wicked looking adventure excursion. I might have to add it to my bucket list at some point. If I had one, that is. While I might just start out with plain old skydiving, can you believe parahawking? I have never even heard of that, and I bet it would be an amazing thrill! You have to check this out.



Happy Saturday everyone! I am still buried under a mountain of strawberries after last weekend's strawberry picking excursion, but the goodies are lining up on the shelves; strawberry jam, strawberry-raspberry freezer jam, strawberry syrup, strawberry lemonade (concentrate). I still want to attempt strawberry leather, and am debating between strawberry-rhubarb jam or strawberry-banana jam. What do think? Anyone else have any good strawberry recipes?

Welcome to Dream Land

I turned out the light and was asleep before I even hit my pillow. My two-hour siesta on the extended bus ride from Mombasa left me feeling more ogre than beauty queen, and I planned to sleep the day away to try and remedy that. It was nine o’clock in the morning, but I figured that  Dar es Salaam could wait. I was exhausted. I needed sleep now.

No sooner had my head touched down, then a knock roused me back to the land of the living.

 “Ugh,” I grumbled to myself. “No.”

I scrunched my eyes more firmly shut and whimpered, “Why!”

I needed sleep! I debated ignoring the knock. I figured that it was the good Samaritan that had saved my sanity and decency on the bus. He had just dropped me back at the hostel, with a  promise to return later. I feared that perhaps he was smitten though and wanted to make later more like sooner. That attitude wasn’t much of a repayment for all the niceties that he had shown me though. He had even bought me breakfast. I felt like an ingrate, shrinking away from his presence.

With a sigh I gave in, and went to the door just as a second knock cheerily tapped on the frame. I pulled the door open and stopped. The frown on my face melted instantly. As I stood there numbly, I gazed up into the smiling face of a red-haired giant. At 6’3”, this stranger immediately dazzled me with his beautiful, green/hazel eyes. His smile lit up his face, as he explained that he had seen my name on the register when he signed in. His thick South African accent charmed me back to fully awake, and I found myself shyly smiling back at this beautiful man. He wondered if I would be interested in a wander around Dar with him, to discover all that it had to offer. I don’t know if I can say that I was instantly in love, but damn I was close! A sleep-deprived, silly grin accompanied my assurance that I would love to step out on the town with him.

“Neale,” he said, as he  introduced himself with extended hand.

Yeah, I was pretty darn near in love right then. I would wander to the ends of the earth with him, but a little piece of my brain reminded me that I was sorely lacking in sleep and perhaps not able to make the best decisions right now. While I did know that I very much wanted to spend more time with this handsome specimen, I also knew that I really needed to sleep. My sentences fumbled and I gave in to my sleep-addled brain. I wasn’t going to let this temptation get away from me though. I promised that with a few hours of sleep, I would gladly poke through the deepest darkest corners that Dar had to offer.  He acquiesced with a nod and promised to come back in a few hours to wake me.

“See you soon Neale,” I waved sleepily to him. Sleep beckoned, but dream-land was now filled with visions of promise that I looked forward to in earnest. 

Heading South

Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Our leisurely days of sipping freshly squeezed juice and dining on seafood extravaganzas with locals and other tourists, could only last so long. While it was relatively cheap to stay in Lamu, and food could be had at a bargain, my money was running thin. It was time to move on.

After a week spent on this magical, tropical island, I packed my bags and bid adieu to Lamu,  as well as Stuart and Rob. We were all headed in different directions. They were headed North. I, on the other hand, turned myself towards the South, destination Cape Town. It was time for me to wind down my trip and head towards home. My hometown was still a long ways off, but it was finally calling.

So for now, I took the ferry back over to the main land, then flagged down the bus headed towards Mombasa. The threat of road-side attacks remained unfounded, as we travelled along peacefully. We picked up our armed guards for their part of the journey, but aside from their guns serving as a reminder of ill tidings, I reached Mombasa no worse for wear.

One night in Mombasa was all I squeezed in, but I did get the pleasure of an ice cream date with Renée ‘Deutsch’ for company. He even bought me breakfast in the morning, before I jumped onto the bus for Dar es Salaam. He was a gentleman through and through, and I thanked my lucky stars that I had the pleasure of meeting him. Laughter and conversation was all we shared, but he filled my heart with a little more faith in humanity.

As the day wore on, I appreciated Renée’s lovely gesture even more so. The journey between Mombasa and Dar es Salaam was scheduled to be 12-13 hours. I had bought some minor refreshments for the drive, but apparently not enough. The trip turned out much longer than anticipated and hunger gnawed at my insides before long. To make matters worse, being hungry always seemed to make me grumpy.

When I got on the bus, I was the only white face and one of few who apparently spoke English. One man began to chat with me, dancing between English and a native language that I knew nothing of. At first, I was happy to have someone to talk to, but quickly realized that perhaps I had picked the wrong person to speak with. He was loud and I felt like he was saying unkind things about me. The women around me tittered nervously and turned their heads away from my questioning stares. It became obvious that I was the brunt of some unpleasantness, so I turned inward from his taunts and focused my eyes out the window. I tried to ignore him, and soon enough he left me to my own devices.

The road was longer than anticipated though. When we reached the border, everyone got out of the bus to be processed. Again, I was singled out by the obnoxious man, but this time I had no place to turn. Women were having their shopping bags rifled through and border guards began to unpack the stowed luggage. I had been processed quickly, but now was at the mercy of the rest of the bus passenger's paperwork. To get away from my tormentor, I wandered into the bush to squat a pee (when I opened the outhouse door, I gagged, so thought better of it), then returned to an area further away from where he stood.

By the time we finally got on the bus,  a nice young man had quietly befriended me. English was not his first language, but he managed well enough for us to have a conversation. He confirmed that the other man was indeed besmirching my character and that the others were uncomfortable, but unwilling to stop the antics. I guess better me than them.

Once we got back on the bus, I shared a seat with my newest acquaintance. I managed to get some sleep when the bus driver pulled over to rest himself for a few hours. Our border crossing had delayed us so long that no one could keep their eyes open. By 6am, we finally pulled into Dar es Salaam and I was shown to a hostel by my seat mate. We dropped off my backpack and he took me for a delicious breakfast of chapatti and tea. My eyes were getting heavy though, so I returned to my hostel with a promise to meet up with him later. I quickly scribbled the account from my last few days in my journal and turned out the light to get some much needed rest. I would explore Dar es Salaam later.

Lazy Days in Lamu

Lazy days in Lamu began with a call to worship. The many mosques on the small island rang their bells five times a day to remind the Muslim population of their responsibilities in prayer.  While I did not run off to join them, I still found the island community fascinating. Just two degrees south of the Equator, with a population pulling from Chinese shipwrecked survivors back in the 14^th century, local Swahili people, Portuguese explorers, Turkish traders and Omani Arabs, there was a rich tapestry in the local history. It was reflected in the narrow streets, numerous markets, even more mosques and gently bobbing dhows that nestled in the harbor. Time seemed to stand still on this exotic island that begged one to slow down and stroll at its pace. As long as you watched for the donkey droppings underfoot.

In the mornings,  I sat on one of my two balconies and watched the world drift by with a book in hand. It was hard to believe that I was in the heart of Africa, as I gazed around at the culture that I was submerged in. Men would saunter along the narrow streets, kicking at the occasional donkey that refused to get out of the way. Chaste women seemed to disappear due to strict religious decrees of who they could be seen by. Their presence was noted though, in the laundry strung out to dry between the narrow alleys. The sounds and smells of locals going about their days, making chapatti, tea and crafts to sell to the many tourists that descended upon the tiny island for a taste of something exotic.

When I had enough of idling watching the world drift past, I would venture out to stroll through the narrow streets myself. I had never seen streets so small before. They were no more than 6-8 feet across, hence the lack of vehicles on the island. None were allowed, but for one solitary police car. It did little good really though, as there was nowhere that it could really go. When I got tired of wandering through the streets, I would find Ali Hippy, and sit and talk religion for hours over mango smoothies. He helped me to understand a little more of the Muslim ways of the island and I appreciated the time he spent with me.

One day Stuart and I even ventured so far as the beach. It was a long walk from our apartment, but the adventure was worth the 45-minute stroll. Of course coming home to a reliable source of running water and ample beds for the three of us, plus room for many more was a luxury that I did not experience often in my journey to date. The bugs were a bit overwhelming mind you, but for our 1050ksh for the week, it was still a good deal. I just had to remember to steal myself to the scurrying cockroaches, ants and spiders that scattered in all directions when the lights were turned on. Ugh. Better to go out for another mango smoothie or take in a seafood meal at a locals home. If we could look past the bugs and numerous donkeys that overtook the island, then it was indeed a tropical paradise very worthy of anyone’s time. 

Friends Along the Path

Within a short time, I was amongst friends again. It is amazing how when you travel, you can make friends at the drop of a hat. Your backpack alone gives you that first thing in common. The road erases your differences and you embrace people for their smiles alone.  It still amazed me though; that ease of friendships formed. Back home, you can pass a million faces and not look at any of them. Or worse, not talk to anyone for fear of the what ifs and the dreaded maybes that could harm you from the “strangers” that filled the world. As I ambled along though, all those strangers were friends that I just hadn’t met yet. I was ready and keen to meet them all.

The newest friends in my roster were Stuart and Rob. I met Rob in Malindi. After my long and uneventful night bus from Nairobi to Mombasa, I quickly moved along to Malindi. The plan was to explore Mombasa later on my way back through town. For now, I was headed  North on my adventures.

In the pleasant town of Malindi, I met Rob at the hostel where I stayed. Over the two days that I explored the coastal town, I got to know Rob a little bit. He was a quiet sort that had a bit of a weird feeling to him, but we discovered that we were both headed to Lamu, so decided to join forces along the way. Heck, we are all weird in our own ways and being a traveller made anyone alright in my books. Despite our differences, we were still on the same path.

So waving goodbye to Malindi, Rob and I climbed on board the bus to Lamu. It stopped on the side of the highway to pick up us dusty travellers, then we were off again. We found a seat and right ahead of us was Stuart, another backpacker. He was travelling alone from Mombasa, also headed to Lamu. We got to talking and figured that perhaps sharing a room between the three of us would help to stretch our traveller’s dollars a little further.  

Once it was decided, we all got to know each other a little bit better. Stuart was much more dynamic than Rob and we instantly clicked. We had similar taste in music, food and conversation flowed between us like water. By the time the bus pulled up to the ferry dock, I felt like I had known him for years. Rob, Stuart and I laughed and joked waiting for the ferry that would take us across to the island. I was excited to get to know another new place with my new friends. While it wasn’t a long crossing, by the time we reached the other side and landed on the vehicle-less island, I knew that my travelling companions were a good match for this new adventure. Lamu shimmered in front of us, like an oasis ripe for exploring. I faced it smiling. 

Polepole, I Travel Along

I stood in line and waited for the bus to load. We were supposed to leave at 9:00 PM. I shifted from foot to foot and looked around nervously. My eyes were peeled for the infamous pickpocketers that I had been warned about. Stories of buses getting hijacked or being driven into wandering animals in the dark of night plagued my imagination as well. Standing in a queue with a collection of strangers surrounding me, did not help matters. For the most part, we did not even share a common language. While I am sure there were some who understood English, my knowledge of Swahili was limited to Jambo = hello, jambo bwana = hello brother, and hakuna matata = no problem. That unfortunately wouldn’t take me far in an emergency though.

I just wanted to leave. I was conspicuously out of place with my backpack piled high with a sleeping bag and all my worldly possessions crammed inside of the bulging pack. My white skin shone neon against the majority of my dark-skinned neighbours. Once we were on the bus, I felt like I would be comparatively safer from the potential evils that surrounded me. I could hide in my seat, with only the worry of my seat mate. That alone would make it difficult to sleep on our seven-hour overnight journey. I did not sleep well on overnight trips at the best of times. I prayed that our drive would be uneventful and safe. I was glad that at the very least, we would not have to cross any borders during the journey. If I could get a little sleep, then the trip would be over before I knew it.

I shifted from foot to foot again and glanced at the clock hanging over the platform. Dim lights illuminated the hands on the clock face. It was time to go. A bus sat at another platform, but we had nothing at ours. While Nairobi to Mombasa was a major route between two influential cities in Kenya, I also knew that I was in Africa. African time was polepole.

Ah, there was some more Swahili for me – polepole meant slow or slowly. It had a strong link to hakuna matata. We could leave at 9:00, 9:18, 9:43 or whenever the bus finally arrived. No one sweated it or batted an eye. The women sat beside their giant red and blue checked plastic bags crammed with goods for market, with their babies strapped to their backs completely unperturbed. The babies slept or looked around themselves silently with large brown eyes. Not a peep was made. Men laughed and joked with other men, or amused themselves with games.

I tried to relax to the polepole schedule, but found myself looking at the clock again. It didn’t help that once I arrived in Mombasa, I would be in a new and foreign city. This time alone. Really, this was the first time that I had travelled all by myself. Always before, I had had family, friends or tour companies helping to set the itinerary. Now it was just me. My plans were loosely based, and I had no concrete destination in Mombasa or beyond. I refused to allow myself to think of the craziness of the situation. That was the nature of backpacking.

For the time being, I preferred to live in the moment though. With a sigh of relief, I saw the headlights of a bus swing into the parking lot. It pulled up to our platform and stopped with a release of air brakes. While it might take a while to get people and baggage loaded, it looked like we would leave soon enough. My smile returned, as I allowed myself to think about the adventures that lay ahead. 

Hakuna Matata

“Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase.”

While this is a line from “The Lion King”, I learned it in Kenya. No worries, indeed. I heard this Swahili phrase everywhere I went. While I perhaps should have had a worry or two, this phrase stuck with me though. I held faith that everything would work out for me, as I travelled along.

At present, I gazed out the window of the Sunrise B&B into a throng of waiting taxis. There was a constant buzz of traffic, horns, music and people’s voices in the air. It probably wasn’t the best neighbourhood, but I wouldn’t be staying for long.  I had spent a few nights there before I went to the Masai Mara, and now had returned for a mere few hours. Only long enough to have a last visit with Amin and his wife. I had met him in a take-away the week before, and he had been the one to recommend this particular establishment. It wasn’t overly pretty, but it certainly had character being in the heart of this bustling neck of the woods. I didn’t go out after dark though.

Meeting Amin had been a God-send that I didn’t take lightly. Aside from the little packet of goodies that his wife had made up for me for my night bus to Mombasa, he had given me something much more valuable. This Edmonton, Alberta local was filled with the spirit of adventure himself. He had recently relocated from Canada and while his wife was still having a difficult time with the transition, their faith in “Hakuna Matata” was contagious. He had buoyed me up when I felt threatened with depression at my dismissal from the overland truck and now urged me on to the adventure ahead. He reminded me of the thrills of the road, and I could tell that he would love to take flight again, if the opportunity arose. His wife seemed only to dream of a flight back to Canada, but she gamely struggled on.

So for me, my road that night would take me on a dangerous adventure, from the accounts I had heard thus far. At 9PM, I would be taking the night bus to Mombasa and be rejoined with the coast. While I looked forward to arriving on the Indian Ocean, it sounded like my chances of arriving would be fraught with peril. More than one person that I met had fear in their eyes when I said that I was on the night bus. They told me stories of vehicles without lights colliding, the dangers of hitting animals on the road, as well as the threat of hijacking. I tried to take it all in stride, but I have to admit I was worried. By 9PM, it would be too late to do anything about it though, except for hopefully sleep some of my fear away. 

The Birthday Present

Happy Birthday to me! I was not in the best of spirits when I woke up this morning due to a distinct case of “poor me” and loneliness, but the morning turned out pretty darn good. After yesterday’s sightings of “everything”, I figured today would not be all that exciting. Pretty hard to beat lions, a cheetah, hyenas, giraffes and thousands of wildebeest (plus, plus, plus!). We did a mighty fine job of it though. We watched five cheetahs devour an impala, while heaps of vultures watched on hoping for leftovers. We arrived moments after they had taken down the small antelope and  the band of cheetahs still panted from their exertions. They ripped it apart, growling at each other as they vied for a piece of the kill. Their furry faces were matted with blood before the feast was done. From the safety of our landrover, we observed the gruesome display of life on the savanna with clicks of cameras and hushed voices as a quiet backdrop to the setting. By the time the cheetahs were done, all the vultures  got was the stomach and intestines. They didn’t go very far. Before we knew it, the cheetahs were slinking away to rest and digest, and the vultures were picking through the grass to find any missed morsels that held more than the stomach full of grass that was gone in an instant. This was the cycle of life in the African wilds.

I reflected on my safari after returning to camp. I had thoroughly enjoyed the Masai Mara so far. There were heaps of animals here. The Masai Mara was in Kenya, but continued into Tanzania as the Serengeti. The political border was all that stood in the way of thousands of animals migrating from one location to the next. While I had not realized it at the time, July to October was the prime time for the Great Migration when literally millions of wildebeest, zebras, and many other species of antelopes migrated North into the Mara. It was absolutely incredible.

Yes, the wildebeest were very impressive creatures. It was wild seeing thousands upon thousands of them. At one point, our driver Jimmy drove us into the middle of a herd. We were surrounded by black beasts that stretched on and on as far as the eye could see. It was neat to see the way they migrated. One day, we came upon a line of them crossing the road late in the afternoon. They were all in a single or double-file line and when they got approximately 200 metres from the road, they started to run. We sat watching them for a period of time. The line stretched out forever it seemed. It was fascinating to watch. I laughed  as they crossed the road and continued for a bit before they jogged to a walk again. I couldn’t help but shake my head at the patience and orderliness of it.

During my brief 4-day visit into the game park, I was spoiled beyond belief with these animal sightings. They quickly followed each other in a succession of sightings till I felt like I was almost in a zoo, going from a cheetah lazing in the sun with a herd of wildebeest and zebra in the background, to two hyenas munching on a wildebeest with vultures on the side lines, to the sight of simple group of giraffes gently loping along in the African sun. In addition to all of that, we saw four lions lazing under some bushes to avoid the heat of the day. The male even got a bit of a root in, although the female did not let it last for long. As I said at the time, “typical male; after a good meal (wildebeest), all he wants is  a little piece of action”. Ha!

Oh, but was it ever hot during the day! Due to getting stuck in the dirt briefly, and watching our national geographic moment with the cheetahs, we ate a late lunch that day. Lunch was followed by a break, as we were in need of siestas ourselves. My pen scratched out the stories from the morning’s adventures, while I sheltered from the baking rays from the near equatorial sun. Once the heat of the day abated,  we would go on a bit of a walk.

The safari had certainly been worth it. While the people in my van were not the most interesting bunch, you can’t have everything. I got a chance to talk to some of Masai people that accompanied us on our game drives and helped out in camp. They provided an interesting study themselves. I found the women very beautiful.  In fact, I felt that the Masai were a good looking race as a whole. They had good facial features, were all quite tall, and had very interesting piercings. One of the men in camp told me how his were done. A hole was cut in his ear with a knife, and gradually bigger and bigger pieces of wood were put in the hole. He said it took two months to get to the size the holes were now. The lobes dangled down towards his shoulders loosely. And while the lobe looked like it would have no feelings left, the young man encouraged me to feel it, and replied that  it still did. Interesting, to say the least.

By the end of the day, we had taken in a nature walk as well. I showered, then popped the top on a bottle of Claret Select by Drostdy-Hof. It was my last birthday present to me for the day. Not a bad birthday all around with game viewing, a nature hike, good meals and a bottle of nice, red wine. It was my first birthday away from distant relatives, but I survived and had a list of new animals spied to add to my growing list of sightings.

New Animals Spied

ü  Topi

ü  Grant’s gazelle

ü  Thomson’s Gazelle

ü  Dik-dik

ü  Hartebeest

ü  Masai Giraffe

ü  Olive baboon

An End in Sight

It was over. There would be no recommendations from Kylie. I was not good enough. Not a surprise by any stretch with our formal and distant relationship that never had a chance from the start. It was closure none-the-less though. I was thanked and advised that my services would no longer be necessary. I was not cut out to be an overland truck courier. This news was shared with me in Nairobi, Kenya - the end of the line.

Instead of being depressed by the change in plans, I was oddly pleased. It had been terribly obvious that Kylie and Angus had never thought much of me. While I had tried to make up for my first gaff five weeks earlier, of arriving late on departure day from Harare, I must admit my efforts were never top-notch. I had been a backpacker too long and used to living on my own time-line, with my own agenda. Male attentions at our various stops had led me to too much drink. It had been doomed from the start, and I suspect that I had hastened my demise despite myself. Processing the change in a little take-away over chapati and tea, I managed to find the bright spot in my failure. I was in a new country to explore!

The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. It did me no good to dwell on my dismissal, so instead I looked to the future. I had paid $40US to get a traveller’s visa into Kenya and planned to put that visa to good use.  A little town on the coast by the name of Lamu tickled my fancy, as did a little more exploring of Nairobi. I would need to find alternate accommodations once my former passengers returned from the Serengeti as well. While I still benefitted from a roof over my head compliments of Phoenix, that luxury would be withdrawn post-haste. I would get a chance to say a proper goodbye to the friendly faces that I had got to know over the span of the trip though. While my tour guide trainers had never blossomed into dear friends, I did have the pleasure of having a lot of fun with Di, Tanya, Cathi, Dave, Adrian, Mette and Camille. I was happy to exchange addresses with these passengers that I had felt more comfortable with than any of the overland crew that I worked with or met from Zimbabwe to Kenya. The life of an overland truck courier was just not for me.

With a light and free heart, I wished overlanding adieu and thrilled at the adventures that now sprung forth, as I resumed my life as a backpacker once again. With my birthday mere days away and the knowledge that I would face it alone, I decided that I would celebrate my 23rd birthday in style. Friendly locals planted the seeds of strength in me, and I bought myself a bottle of red wine, a new camera and a ticket on a safari to the Masai Mara. Happy birthday to me!

Working for a Living

Life on the truck was still an uncertainty. I had been shown some paperwork, but wasn’t exactly feeling the love from Kylie and Angus. We were in Dar es Salaam and I had the dubious pleasure of sanding and painting equipment for the truck. All of our passengers had trundled off to Zanzibar. I would have loved to go, but was reminded that this was a working trip. There would be time in the future for fun again, but for right now, I was earning my keep.

Yes, I had the fun pleasure of varnishing a table in Chitemba, while the passengers went to climb Livingstonia. I scraped sand mats with a wire brush in Karonga, and painted truck pieces and stools. While it felt good to actually physically work, it also added to a feeling of loneliness that I couldn’t shake. No matter how much black and white paint I slopped around, I could not forget my former travelling companion Brett’s smiling face. Despite singing a little fast on my beleaguered walkman, Bob Marley’s crooning voice in my ear didn’t help either. My labours  left me  with too much time to reflect.

Before we arrived in Dar es Salaam, we got to see the beauty of the Tanzanian countryside though. As soon as we left the Malawian border behind, the scenery changed. We went from the lush beaches of Lake Malawi, to tea plantations that stretched to mountainous backgrounds. They were generously interspersed with stately banana palms. It made for gorgeous green valleys  that filled my vision as far as I could see.  

Shortly after entering Tanzania, we made our first bush camp of the five-week tour. It was mild enough to sleep outside and I woke to the stars. While it was wondrous to look up at them and watch the sky lighten, I could not stop the tear that slid off my cheek. Brett had been the one to appreciate sunrises. Without him by my side I felt adrift and oh so lonesome. My dream of living and working on the African continent seemed hollow without a friend in the world to share it with. My birthday steadily approached and a tiny flame of hope burned that perhaps I would bump into Brett again. The reality of the path I had taken made it unlikely though.

Our second day on the road in Tanzania, the landscape changed from vibrant green to dry yellow. Mealie patches and dry grasses dominated the landscape now and despite our proximity to the equator, you could tell that it was winter. The changing leaves were nothing in comparison to the brilliance of Canada’s Autumn displays, but we did not have the mud huts that leant the reminder that I was far from home. I was definitely in Africa.

The excitement of reaching Dar es Salaam, while great for the group, was less so for me. Once the gang was gone, we gathered supplies for the truck and ourselves, then set out for a camp outside of town called Silver Sands. Melancholy followed me, as a sad song by UB40 and the loss of a lover of a character in my book, left me in tears. I allowed the tears to come, as I missed friends and family, and even finally allowed some tears for my long-lost relationship from the beginning of my trip. There was no one to talk to about my loneliness though, so I shook it off and returned to the present. The present held more truck maintenance that saw me scraping paint off of cupboards till break time. I was then left to catch up in my journal and read.

The hours became painful though, and intermixed with a desire to explore the city of Dar es Salaam, I wished to see the only friendly faces I knew, that of our passengers. They would return in a few days. Our reunion would be short-lived though, as we would only explore the city for a day, before it would be time to head off to Arusha. From there, they would go to the Serengeti. I would be headed for Nairobi though and the end of my training trip.  The word was that I had a trip lined up for another 5-week Overland from Nairobi to Harare. I still had to get my evaluation though. That would happen in Nairobi. 

Life of a Courier

Oh, silly girl. Late for my very first day! Not a great way to make a good first impression, but you cannot turn back the hands of time. Ian had convinced me to go out for a last hurrah on my final night in Harare and it would seem that I either forgot to set my alarm, or just plain slept through it. I was lucky that the truck was still there at all, as I choked when I rolled over to see that the time was 50 minutes past when I should have been at our meeting destination.  The truck was loaded and ready to go, when I ran up breathless with tail between my legs. I sheepishly threw all my worldly possessions into the storage bay under the truck and slunk on board praying that I would be able to improve the opinion I was sure Kylie and Angus now held of me. 

By hook or by crook, I was on the road again.

It took a few days, but my training crew slowly began to warm up to me. With a five-week training trip to get to know everything about how to be a courier, I had a lot to learn. I had to be friendly and informative with passengers, able to book day trips, organize grocery shopping, navigate road maps, maintain regular upkeep of the truck, have fun, but still keep some kind of balance in that fun so that I could function the next day. With the history that I had accustomed myself to in Harare, that last one was proving to be the most difficult.

The first week of the trip was a bit of a review for me. We visited a game ranch, where rhino were spied and some ice breaking was in order with a game of polo cross. The guests on the truck then took in the ruins at Great Zimbabwe.  I opted to stay back, as I had previously explored the ruins and the weather was a little too wet and cold for me. Despite it being the dry season, this May was unseasonably wet with more rain falling than had been seen in many years. The gray clouds matched my mood though, as I pined for my old travelling companion Brett. I missed him terribly and wondered if I had made a mistake in separating from him. We didn’t stay put long enough for me to dwell too much on it though, as we were off to Lake Kyle, then Bulawayo, before heading to my old favourite destination of Victoria Falls.

As the days passed, it was questionable if I was in fact sabotaging my goal of working in Africa at all. Every time we came across another overland truck, as we invariably did on a pretty regular basis, I was thrown back into temptation again. My food, transportation and accommodation were paid for by the company, but beer was also included and I seemed not to have enough wherewithal to be the consummate professional that I wished to fashion myself as. 

By the time we got to Victoria Falls, I was hobnobbing with all my old friends and enjoying every minute of it. The first day, I bumped into Nat and Keith while I wandering with a few of the truck’s passengers.The night after that, I was hanging out with Max and Ndaba like they were long-lost friends. My blood-shot eyes stung constantly from lack of sleep and the pax laughed at me for my antics. I was always game for the next adventure though and dug in for white water rafting with relish. I gave my support to the girls who dove off the bridge for beautiful bungi swan dives as well, despite not joining them for that adrenaline thrill. My thrill was to see if I would last as an overland truck courier. The odds were stacked against me. 

Eye Candy

I turned this way and that in front of the mirror. The dress was pretty tight. No, scratch that. The dress was skin tight. A leopard print mini to be exact. With high heels to complete the image. Oh my.

“You look great,” Debbie said.

It was her clothes that I was wearing, so I am not surprised that she felt that way. I was a lot more skeptical though. I had never worn a leopard-print anything before and wasn’t sure if it was really my style. The look in Ian’s eyes told me that I must have been working the outfit pretty good though. He wanted to take me to "The Tube".

“Let’s  do your makeup now,” Debbie gushed.

“Oh Lord, help me through this night!” I prayed to myself.

There was no room for negotiation. Before I could protest the transformation, we were out the door.

Ian’s smile was wide as he waltzed me into the club. I was a prize trophy in my vampy dress. As he strutted around with me on his arm, I tired of the game though. I had a hard time playing Ian’s girlfriend. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but any dreams of a real relationship sparking, were slim to none. He apparently wasn’t willing to take no for an answer though. For my part, I obviously wasn’t doing much of a job of deterring those thoughts for him. Certainly not by allowing myself to play seductive mistress. He was cute and his dogged persistence wore me down. It had been a long time since I had received such flattering attention and there was enough of me liking it to keep the charade going. It wasn’t destined to last.

By the end of the evening, I tired of Ian’s childish antics.  He had become sullen when I left him to talk to Deon and Phil. I could feel other male eyes devouring me as well. It was fun and I relished the attention, but Ian was almost petulant when I refused to go home with him at the end of the night. He felt that I was his date and somehow owed him something, but I refused to give in. I was not his woman.

As the days passed, it only got worse. He was hanging around the hostel constantly and dripping off of me every chance he got. People kept asking me what was going on, but I had my sights set on moving on again. I knew I was hurting him, but questioned how he could have ever thought to put himself into the situation of hooking up with a backpacker. My money belt was forever growing thinner and I had to do something about it. There was no option at any point to stay, and I tried to tell Ian that he shouldn’t get so involved with me. It wasn’t until I got the training trip planned, that he realized all was lost. I was leaving.
A five-week training trip to Nairobi lay ahead of me. I would be leaving behind my adventures in backpacking, and two weeks spent in Harare with friends and weird relationship statuses. Till the end, Ian hoped to win me over, but his struggles were for naught. My Harare boyfriend would become nothing but a memory of fun and frivolity that was tainted by his young dreams of love. The attention buoyed up my ego though, and I looked forward to the new adventure that lay ahead.

A Ghost on Board

Bodies littered the filthy, open deck. Colourful sarongs tucked in close beside stunned chickens, and giant bags of God knows what.  It still amazed me that live chickens could be found everywhere. You saw them scratching in the dirt around rondavels, at market waiting to be plucked and fried, or sold to another for the same treatment. They were a common traveller on buses, and here too on the ferry sailing South to Monkey Bay.

The large checkered polyethylene bags, that were always stuffed to bursting, were an anomaly as well.  They could hold a traveller’s entire worldly possessions, or more likely, their wares to hawk at the market. Always dirty white with a blue or red  pattern, they adorned women’s arms and heads. It struck me that the men usually travelled much lighter, leaving the heavy work to the women.

Chickens and plastic totes were not the only thing that the women travelled with. Everywhere you looked,  babies clung quietly to women’s backs or chests. You never heard them crying or making a fuss, but perhaps that was due to their close proximity to the most important person in their lives; Mother. These mothers seemingly did not even notice the addition to their load. Babies were a constant and just a part of who these women were. It was only age that released them from that burden.

The men on the other hand, had it comparatively easy. No babies or children clung to them, and luggage was left to the women. They could be seen engrossed in a  game of bao just about anywhere. Even here, I could see a few games set up in various corners of the ferry, before we even left shore. Their factions were boisterous and held the air of a party. I wouldn’t doubt that a carton of Chibuku or two were being imbibed. They loved their shake shake, but despite giving it a try, I was not a convert to the millet beer. The taste of the sludge was not worth the possible effects that could be gleaned from drinking it.

I was not offered any now though. At present, I was curled onto a little bench that I clung to. We had left Nkhata Bay at 3PM. There was to be a stop at Senga Bay and a few other little ports, before we reached Monkey Bay  at 6 or 7AM two days hence. It was a very long ferry ride and my white legs were the only ones that walked this boat. I was a ghost amongst a sea of black travellers. Curious eyes followed any movements I made, but the shy women made no attempt to speak to me. I pondered that it was not their place to speak, and certainly not to a foreigner. My inner voice gave thanks that I had not been born to their reality.

Without Brett by my side now, I silently watched the world go by. I prayed that my pack would not disappear overnight, as I shivered through the misty darkness on deck. I was glad to have it too, for the cool night air found me digging for extra clothes to put on, so I would survive my ordeal. The warm bodies of sleepy chickens looked inviting now, as I mentally willed warmth into my chilled limbs. And while I could have looked into an inner cabin for the voyage, my pockets were thin in change. So many others were willing to ride on deck, hence I deemed that I wasn’t above it myself. I looked around at the others that huddled about  and couldn’t help but contrast our stations though. Comparatively, I could have afforded better accommodations. Elusive sleep screamed my folly.

It would be a long unpleasant ride, ever vigilant of the filth and thieves that potentially lurked everywhere, but as long as this ferry did not sink, as the other had done a mere month before that, I would survive.

Spare Me a Towel

The sun rose warm on another beautiful day in Malawi. I pushed the mosquito net aside from my sleepy cocoon and wandered out to join Brett for coffee on the verandah. Joey heard our muted conversation and hurried over to serve us our breakfast. I felt like royalty as I sipped on my freshly squeezed orange juice served by our attentive minion.  Nothing in life was as sweet as this day and I savoured every moment of it.

My day continued in a tranquil vein, as I headed out to the beach to catch up in my journal. I laid my towel in the shade, aware that the day would get hot soon enough. The hope was for a lazy day of swimming, writing and nothing more strenuous than that. My time in Mwaya Beach was coming to a close and I wanted to soak in every nuance of it.

I laid my handful of possessions down and strode into the gentle waters that lapped at my skin.  I dove into the warm lake and popped up for air, only to strikeout for the distant shore.

Aw, who was I kidding though? After several strong strokes, I paused to tread water and look around. A wisp of wind touched stately palms on shore and I caught sight of the housekeeper wandering over to clean our hut. I rolled onto my back and lazily kicked my feet, as I traced cloud shapes in the Malawian sky. A bird flew overhead gliding towards shore.  Life was perfect in this moment and I wanted it to last forever. My sun-warmed  smile filled the universe and I was at peace.

Eventually my fingers began to pickle though and I made my way back to shore. I laid down on my towel and picked up my pen to capture life around me. I became engrossed in recounting my experiences at school the day before and only looked up when I noticed a man walking by me on the beach. I looked up with a smile in greeting.

“Jambo”, he said.  “Hello”

“Hello,” I replied. “Beautiful day today.”

I noticed the net thrown over his shoulder and asked him if he was going fishing. He looked confused, so I pointed to the stringy bundle on his back.

“No,” he said. “I work at the Matete post office. This is my towel.”

His towel was nothing more than a few threads loosely strung together. He then proceeded to ask me for my towel. While my heart lurched, I had to say no. It was my only towel and a possession that I would continue to have need of for the foreseeable future. While I could afford to go and purchase a new one, I was still on a tight budget.  Comparatively, I was rich in their eyes. Just by my presence there alone. Handing them anything and everything would do little good in the greater scheme of things though. In Mozambique, the widespread aid organizations that handed out alms only helped to create a beggar society. I loathed the thought of the friendly people of Malawi following in those same footsteps.

My visitor took his leave with a smile. He wandered off to enjoy a bath in the lake and I was left to contemplate the economics of wealth in a continent largely unfamiliar with it. Back home, I had clothes and towels aplenty. More than enough to spare and share. I knew that hand-outs took their toll in pride though. I offered my good-will and that was enough for the day. I prayed that the warm heart of Africa could keep its special nature, and perhaps one day be able to proudly have more wealth to share with its people. Today though, it shared what it was able and I was grateful for all that Malawi was.

No Chamba, No Marriage, Just School

Now though, I sat in front of hundreds of nervous pupils as they received their marks. I was at the end of a line of  the school’s twelve teachers, and tried to follow the proceedings as best I could. I was able to get the gist of the fact that they were reading out all the students marks from recent testing, and the results were not good. New testing formats had been implemented and it would seem that the majority of the students had failed. I silently wondered at the practice of reading grades aloud, so that everyone could hear how well or poorly one did, but then remembered their lack of supplies. They could not spare the paper to write down individual student's marks.

Once the dismal results had been read, speeches began.  I was lucky to get a quiet English synopsis of the speeches that the teachers addressed to the students. There was an announcement that a new junior primary school was to be opened the next term. It would only be for Standards one through three, but it would help to reduce the walk that some of the children had to make, and the hope was that the school could be expanded later. I was shocked to learn that some of the students had to walk upwards of four-and-a-half kilometers to school every day. The reality of that would be that many of those children would just not bother to make it all the way to school on many a day.

The Head Master continued and spoke of the ills of “chamba” or marijuana. I looked out at the children in front of me and was saddened that this was a reality that needed to be spoken, but glad to hear that the issue was being addressed. Another teacher spoke against the practice of early marriages. It would seem that many families married off their children young, so that there were fewer mouths to feed. The problem with that though, was that it only served to create new young mouths to feed.  When children begin having children at age 14 or 15, there was time enough to have quite a few babies.

I processed the experience the best I could through my translator, trying not to disrupt the proceedings. My head swam with the details and my heart ached at this very real picture of life in Malawi. All of these smiling faces in front of me held such beautiful promise, but their odds of success in the school system and later in life were bleak. Some of these children would continue on to high school. Even less would be able to attend university. As the ramifications threatened to overwhelm me, a young girl crept over and tugged at my skirt, reaching for my hand to touch. With a smile I returned to the present, and promised myself that I would not forget this day or the lessons that these genuine people offered me. The warm heart of Africa had stolen mine. 

A Drop in the Bucket

Somehow I ended up sitting at the head table with all of the teachers, and Head Master. A sea of little black faces looked towards me, listening intently to the speeches being poured forth by teachers, Head Master and Deputy Head-Master. The only white face out there was Brett, almost invisible though he was, swamped by the hordes of little boys that fawned over him with his magical camera slung around his neck once again.

As we walked to school that morning, our entourage of children had grown from one or two, to a large contingency by the time we reached the Mwaya Beach Public School. Children danced and skipped, hooted and hollered, as we walked along. When we neared the building, our group merged with the other students that milled about, and Brett and I found ourselves under the wing of an adult now. The Deputy Head Master at that!

I felt like an honoured guest, as we were treated to a tour of a class room and the main office. The Deputy Head Master had a running commentary of life for the students in his community, as he showed us the sparsely decorated class room. There was a chalk board in the simple rectangular room, but not a chair or desk to be seen. In fact, most of the lessons were done outside in the open air, as it made little difference if they were inside or out, except for on rainy days. Supplies were almost non-existent and the chalkboards could not even sport chalk to illustrate points on a good day. The beleaguered teachers had classes that numbered in the hundreds. How could one person teach effectively to a class of over 300 pupils? And why would they want to, when their pay was poor and usually late?

This was a far cry from the schooling that I had gone through back in Canada. I could not help but think that the teachers there had nothing to complain about in comparison.

A tour of the cramped office was a little better, but still dismal in its breadth. Stacks of books sat on the floor and on shelves, but when compared to the numbers of pupils, it was a far cry from the necessary needs. There were 1096 registered students at Mwaya Beach, and the stacks of books I saw numbered at most close to a hundred; probably less. When the Deputy Head Master learned I was from Canada, he picked up a book and handed it to me with the cover open. My national pride fluttered, as I read that it had been donated by the Canadian government. It would seem that they had sent several text and workbooks. It helped, but looking out at the sea of students, I knew it was just a drop in the bucket. 

The Colour of Poverty

Brett and I lingered over our candle-lit dinner, and reflected on our day.  While I had taken the opportunity to lounge the day away, he had ventured out with his camera slung around his neck, intent on capturing the heart of Malawi via his lens. Children had swarmed around him, jumping, posing and begging to have their pictures taken. Laughter followed him around the beach and through the village, as he wandered. The sparkle in his eyes told me that he had enjoyed every minute of it.

I had seen that myself, when he ambled up the beach with his entourage of boys giggling and yelling. They had stopped at my towel where I was reading, and their antics were a sight to behold. Gregarious boys were laughing and running circles around us. Shy girls quietly clung to the outskirts of the circle, a part of the fray, but by their nature, removed. A few daring girls came over to feel my hair and skin, to see if it felt any different than their own black counter-parts. I encouraged their curiousity and admired their beauty as well. It was a delightful exchange and the mirth was infectious. By the time the group dispersed, I was smiling and laughing too. 

Over dinner our conversation was a little more serious though.  While the children had been happy and friendly,  their poverty was all too apparent. They were dressed in nothing more than rags. Excessive wear had robbed the clothes of any colour that they once may have sported. The contrast between their childish glee, was strangely muted by their drab monotonous colour palette. While it did not dampen their enthusiasm, it did diminish our joy.

One image remained in my mind of a little boy in the group that had been wearing a pair of trousers that were bereft of a crotch or bum. His little “chaps” spoke volumes of the standard of living that was so disparate from my own, so far away.  While Brett reminded me that he probably kept his better clothes for school, that could not shake the vision from my eyes. I would not have kept his clothes for rags back home, but here he was running around in public without adequate covering. I am not overly prudish, but his exposure hurt my heart and soul.

 As we watched the last light of the day disappear, we wondered what we would learn the following morning. It would prove to be interesting, as we would see exactly what some of these children did wear to school. It was the last day of the term for the students at Mwaya Beach Primary School. A couple of boys that Brett had met on the beach had invited us to tag along with them to hear test results and tour their classrooms.

I watched the full moon rise into the sky, before being driven under my mosquito net for the night to dream of my date at the chalkboard.

The Magic of the Lake

Brett and I left Blantyre and headed to Cape Maclear. It had been described in glowing terms, and I hoped it would live up to the hype. It would be our first encounter with Lake Malawi. Being a land-locked country, Lake Malawi was an integral feature of this small sub-tropical nation. Also known as Lake Nyasa, the lake runs three quarters of the length of Malawi, at 587km (365 miles) long and 84km (52 miles) wide. And truly, it is beautiful to behold.

The magic of Malawi settled over me in gentle waves. The lure of Lake Malawi was palpable. Its soft waves were forever within hearing distance, if not in sight. The people were friendly with a simple air about them that lent them a most desirable quality. This was probably the poorest nation I had been to, perhaps barring parts of Mozambique, but the people were amongst the richest in attitude. Was it the sunshine? The proximity to soothing waters? Or was it the lack of Aid organizations that brought with them handouts, that in turn turned the people into beggars. Here people were happy with their lot in life and it showed in their eyes that sparkled despite lack of material wealth. Their peace was infectious.

Our first taste of the magic of the waters was from a seat in a mokoro (a hand-carved dug-out canoe of sorts). They were narrower than the mokoros that I had lazed in on the Okavengo Delta, but still a marvel. Brett and I got a couple of locals to row us out to Pemba Island, where we spent the day snorkeling in the blue waters. We spied a myriad of fish, as we slowly paddled about on our leisurely adventure. Lunch was a feast of rice, potatoes, tomatoes and fish that had been caught as Brett and I swam. Simple, but excellent. Dessert of a special banana cake sent us over the moon and topped off a perfect day to soak up the beauty of Malawi.

We spent three nights in Cape Maclear. On our last night, I accompanied a young man to Ba’blue, a small local bar. He introduced me to the game of Bao. It is a local mancala game where beans are moved around a board from a series of dugout holes. You play against an opponent, trying to steal their beans (or whatever the markers are) until you have all of them. Everywhere you looked, a game was being played. Always keen to learn a new game, I insisted on trying to pick up the rules. I loved it and before we left, I had my very own bao game stuffed into my backpack, as we headed off to Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. 

Walk This Way

Brett was sitting at a table with a ridiculously huge grin on his face and a beer in front of him.

“Hey Mate!” he exclaimed, as he weaved his way to standing to give me a hug. “Good ta see ya! I’ve been to the Carlsberg Brewery.”

The crooked smile on his face gave proof that the tour had been a good one. I couldn’t help, but laugh. I ordered a beer and sank into the chair across from him to hear what he had been up to since I saw him last a few days ago. The 14-hour bus ride slowly slipped off my shoulders as I watch him giggle and titter. He was pretty soused and very willing to talk. Not sure if it was his silly grin or just being off the bus in general, but I was pretty happy to see him.

“…and then I jumped up on a chair and was just grabbing handfuls of them. The other bloke was waving a net around and catching mitt-fuls of ‘em! It was awesome!” he spluttered.

“Grasshoppers?” I queried. “Why? What were they going to do with them?”

“Why, eat ‘em of course!” Brett laughed.

My face contorted in a grimace and I could not be help but exclaim “ew”

He cackled and slapped his knee. He really was quite drunk and funny to watch.

Brett went on to explain. “They come across the lake this time of year and people go bananas! It is a feast for everyone. They scrape the little buggers off the walls, and floors, and wherever, then toss them into a little oil to fry‘em up.”

“Blah!” I exclaimed, as he shook with laughter again. “How many did you catch?”

“Hundreds of “em mate!” he said. “They were everywhere! It was excellent fun.”

I shook my head and smiled at his enthusiasm.

“Tomorrow, I will take you to the market so you can try some,” he said.

I wasn’t so sure I was interested in trying grasshoppers, but replied “we’ll see” to appease him. We sat in the bar until Brett’s stories became illegible and I had a pleasant glow on. He kept on rambling on about this and that until I had to pack him up and take him back to the hostel. I promised him that I would try grasshoppers when we went to the market the next day, still shaking my head at his animation. The way he talked, they were like manna from heaven, but I would find out for myself.

Oh, and really, they aren’t manna at all. While I did pull off their wings, I was not instructed to pull off their legs, so couldn’t get beyond them “walking” down my throat. Yeah, not my idea of a delicacy I’m afraid. You should try it if you get a chance though. They are a great source of protein! You might like it. 
Blah…

Showing a Little Leg

Settling back into the familiar setting of Sable Lodge, I reflected on the last few days.  The warm sun shone on me again, as I lazed poolside thinking about what direction my life would spin in now. Brett and I had finally sold Arnie and made our way back up to Harare. It wasn’t near as comfortable a ride, but the taste of new adventure whetted both our appetites for life on the road again. The road was a different thing entirely now.

How did we make our way back to Harare without our beloved van to chug along in, you wonder? Why, by hitchhiking of course! Dear Brett used me as a pawn to attract attention, pushing me closer to the roadway and encouraging a little leg. Nasty bugger, but it worked. We got a ride in Pietersburg that took us as far as Louis Trichardt. Standing beside the highway, we bumped into another traveler that we had met hitching back in Pietersburg. On this section of the journey, we shared a lift with our new friend Deon. Since they had both been pushing for me to flag down a ride for us, I got the luxury of the front of the bakkie, while they got to ride in the back of the pickup wearing every sweater they owned and tucked into their sleeping bags to keep warm. Seemed only fair. Teehee! Mind you, I did have to play up my “relationship” with Brett to keep Alex, the driver, away from pawing at my knees, and beyond! No matter. We arrived in Harare late that night and Deon was good enough to put us up for the night at his apartment. He even cooked us steak and eggs for breakfast. A treat for us poor lot who had been subsisting on dry noodle soup, and peanut butter for the last while.

 With our first taste of hitchhiking behind us, I was able to relax a bit on my constant worried path of where the future would take me. The sun felt good poolside and I smiled at the possibilities that lay before me. A glance at my watch made me realize that for right now, it was time to go though. After leaving Deon’s apartment that morning, we had settled back into our makeshift Harare home at the Sable Lodge. Deon had made us promise that we would return that afternoon to join him and his roommate for a home cooked meal and some TV viewing. As the television had been a foreign object for a long while now, we couldn’t resist. Making a plan for where we would head next could wait for another day, but the Simpsons were a luxury that just couldn’t wait.