To Chobe We Will Go

With Miki gone, we knew our time in Arnie was winding to a close. Our little blue kombi had been good to us, but was sorely battered and bruised. For a goodbye trip, we decided a jaunt into Botswana was in order. Brett, Oliver and I would go to Chobe for one last game drive, then head back down to South Africa to sell the van. I had been to Chobe before, but the game viewing in Botswana’s first official game park had been magnificent the first time, so I couldn’t resist.

I waved goodbye to my friends in Victoria Falls and we pulled out our passports to enter a new country. Botswana was a relatively poor neighbor to Zimbabwe, but it seemed to be comfortable in its own skin. Images of poverty did not slap you in the face and gone were the tourist trappings of Victoria Falls. We were guests in a proud nation that seemed to take care of itself in a way that we had not seen thus far. A feeling of peace filled me as we drove towards the park entrance. I smiled at the dry landscape we passed and the beautiful people in their simply constructed rondavel homes. This was the Africa of my dreams.

While Chobe National Park is not Botswana’s largest park, it does hold some of the biggest concentrations of game. There are massive amounts of elephants. Hippos can be seen lazing on river banks or slowly drifting downriver from the multitudes of hungry crocodiles. Assorted deer species such as impala, sable, kudu, eland, bushbuck and waterbuck are found within the parks borders, as well as many of the Big Five (leopard, Cape Buffalo, elephants, rhinoceros and lion). We hoped to see as many animals as we could while we were there and odds were good in this relatively flat country.

 Our drive into the park heavily wetted our appetite for game viewing. Despite it being mid-day, which is not the best time to spy game, we were treated to tonnes of animal sightings. We saw impalas and giraffes, passed baboons and warthogs, and even spied buffalo and zebras. We were thrilled and anxious to set up our camp so that we could go for a proper game drive that evening. We knew that the best times of day for game viewing was between 6 and 9AM or 4 to 6PM. Most animals prefer to sleep during the worst of the heat of the day. We were not immune to the incredibly dry, hot weather either. After setting up camp, we retreated into our tents to snooze away the afternoon before heading out for our highly anticipated evening game drive after our plethora of sightings earlier that day.

The Mighty Zambezi

Back to Victoria Falls again! Lots of fun memories already, but now Miki and I were set to explore it all over again. With the falls as the main attraction, everything naturally revolved around them. There was a park surrounding the falls that you could wander through to admire the rushing waters as they tumbled into the waiting gorge below. Helicopters flew overhead to give the well-heeled tourists an aerial view of this magnificent Wonder of the World.  Bungi jumping headlong towards the tumbling waters far below was a favourite pastime of the young and brave at heart. I had already had a taste of the white water rafting that was a huge draw to the area back in December, but this time we had something else in mind.

As Victoria Falls is geared towards action and adventure, Miki and I jumped on board with our paddles at the ready. We spent our first night in Victoria Falls as two single ladies on the town, but first thing the next morning we climbed into a waiting jeep to take us to the river. This experience with the Zambezi River would be a little tamer experience than the white water rafting adventures advertised everywhere. We were headed upriver, to take in the gentler waters of the Zambezi via a canoe trip. Life jackets were still provided and the water got a little splashy in spots, but game viewing was the biggest attraction here.

Miki and I stowed our packs in the waiting jeep and settled in to enjoy the ride into the game park. Our cameras lay at the ready in our laps, as our guide chattered away about the landscape and the animals that lived there. We were not idle for long though. Elephants, impalas and baboons were spied by the throngs, as we paused to take in the natural beauty of the space. It is just an awesome experience to see wild animals in their natural environments; ie. baboons grooming each other (picking lice off companions and eating it – protein anyone?), elephants wandering in family herds ever protective of their young, giraffes eating leaves off the highest trees, impalas milling about munching on grasses until with a start they bound away. It is beautiful and surreal to be allowed these visions and an experience I would highly recommend for anyone.

Before long we arrived at the mighty Zambezi. We transferred to life jackets and canoes to paddle the rest of the way to our camp. Small rapids gave us little thrills, but the magic of the trip lay in the scenery. The warm waters buoyed us along, as we spied a myriad of birds and other animals on the river bank. The sun kissed our smiling faces and Miki and I thrilled to be alive in this incredible  place. No thoughts were cast to the ailing van or our missing travelling companions as we soaked up every moment spent on the glorious Zambezi. Even tales of the Nyaminyami river God weren’t enough to spoil our mood (Nyami Nyami is thought by the Tonga people to be the river God of the Zambezi River that controls life in and on the river – his mighty wrath leads to the river running red!). Our paddle down the river held nothing but joys on this day. A picnic on the river’s edge was wolfed down mid-day, before setting back out into the watercourse again. By late in the day, we reached our camp on the river’s edge where large tents were set up for weary paddlers. Outdoor showers helped to wash away the days travails and a hearty meal filled our rumbly bellies. Sipping beverages around a roaring campfire was a perfect end to an amazing day spent on the mighty Zambezi River. 

The Last Game Park

Hwange National Park; The largest game reserve in Zimbabwe, but also the last park for Miki before departing the continent. It was a bittersweet thing, but with the promise of many animals to be seen, we pushed the ailing van to perform once more.

Arnie wheezed into the park and we set up our campsite. The poor van was showing the wear and tear that we had suffered upon it during our overland adventures. We had no speedometer, the putty we had slathered on the muffler did little to abate Arnie’s noisy complaints, scratches were evident from the game park roads we had explored, as well as the beginning signs of rust from our salty ocean-side drives. The starter motor was a distant memory and a steady gas leak meant frequent petrol stops. The most recent woes that had begun to beset dear Arnie were a decided lack of get-up and go when the gas pedal was engaged, and the failure of our slider door to seal properly when closed. We found ourselves having to slam the slider shut  two, three times, or more. It was irritating at best, but Arnie still got us where we needed to go.

As we knew that the potential for game viewing was best at dawn, we settled in for an early evening in anticipation of the myriad animals we would hopefully spot the next day. There are over 105 different mammals that live in the park, as well as 400+ bird species. I had my check list handy, as I drifted off to sleep.

The sun was not quite nearing the horizon, when quiet rustling noises roused me from my sleep. Reflexively, I crunched my eyes tighter shut, not willing to accept the fact that it was a new day yet. Remembering that we were in search of animals that day, I peeled an eye open to inspect the interior of the tent. Still dark, but I could faintly see Miki’s eyes looking back at me. Neither one of us were great morning people (heck, it was still dark!), so no words were spoken in our early hour greeting. The sounds outside our tent were of Brett and Oliver preparing to leave for the game viewing. I pulled the blankets up over my head in protest, but started to stretch fingers and toes in anticipation of movement. Miki appeared to be attempting likewise.

The squeak of one of Arnie’s doors quickly had me emerging from my blanket cocoon.

I started to sit up, as Miki said, “What are they doing?”

We both stared at each other, as it become obvious exactly what they were doing. The soft crunching of Arnie’s tires on the earth let us know that the van was in motion. Brett and Oliver were quietly pushing it away from the camp.

“They’re leaving us!” I exclaimed in shock.

Miki scrambled to the door of our tent, just as Arnie’s engine sputtered to life. I sat up, stunned. She watched them drive away, then crawled back to her sleeping bag. In disbelief, we stared at each other, before a fury of words spilled out of our outraged lips. It was Miki’s last park, and they left us behind to go on a game drive without us. “SEXISM!” screamed in my mind, as we decried their selfish actions. It had been brewing, but we could not believe that they had actually went without us. Sleep was forgotten, as we cursed, questioned and plotted how to handle this turn of events.

By the time that Brett and Oliver returned, Miki and I were both up and dressed, clad in scowls for our friends. Our displeasure plain, we informed them that we would be leaving them. We all needed a brief respite from each other. No amount of apologies or explanations that “we would have been too long in getting ready”, could appease us. A brief mid-day game drive was undertaken, but Miki and  I were packed and headed towards Victoria Falls before the day was done.

The Voice of Africa

    Bob crooned in my ear.

“One love, one heart. Let’s get together and feel alright.

As it was in the beginning! One love…”

    Ah, Mr. Marley; the voice of Africa. Everywhere we went we heard his songs played on tinny ghetto blasters. Arnie’s stereo was no better and you would think the monotony of the same 2 tapes over and over again would push one over the edge, but it just became the soundtrack of our journey. When I needed a break, I could always slip on the headphones of my walkman and disappear in the dark whining of Robert Smith from The Cure or John Waite’s sad lament in “Missing You” that reminded me of friends far from arm’s reach. Mostly though, I just sat back and hummed along to Bob Marley as the miles passed under our wheels in the pursuit of life and adventure.

    With time, our journey, like Arnie, was beginning to show the wear and tear from our travels. In Masvingo, we had patched the hole that was torn in the muffler from the road from hell in Mozambique. The patch was a temporary fix, and as the miles stretched out ahead of us again, the putty found it could not hold its muster. There were other signs that Arnie was getting tired of our constant pilgrimage as well; our starter motor was now completely done, our fuel efficiency was slowly slipping, the slider door no longer sealed easily, often requiring two, three or more shoves of the door to shut it tight. Yes, it was almost time to say goodbye.

    Goodbyes loomed large for more than just the van though, as our group steered along on the last leg of our journey. In a week’s time, the gift that had been presented to me by Fate’s own hands many months before, in the Johannesburg airport, would drift away from me, from us. It was time for Miki to go home. In a mere week and a half, she would be back in Canada, far from the dry landscape of Zimbabwe. Oliver would go his own way again. Brett and I would have to decide how much further we could push Arnie, before we propped a For Sale in his window.

    Today was not yet that day though. Today, we pushed on along twisty, turny roads. We claimed victory at another petrol station reached, and shoved off towards Bulawayo where a taste of city life would encircle us again. The roads were getting shorter though and Bob’s voice seemed poignant, as I stared at my travelling companion’s heads in the front seat.

Sing it Bob…

“No, woman, no cry;

Good friends we have,

Oh, good friends we’ve lost

Along the way…”

Great Zimbabwe

With our fill of city under our belts and dear Brettski behind the wheel again, we were off to track down history in Zimbabwe. Well fed, showered and up to date with letters and curio-shopping, we stepped back in time. Our destination was Masvingo, where we planned to visit Great Zimbabwe, a ruined city that was once the capitol of the Kingdom of Zimbabwe.

Having toured through Europe the previous year, my sense of history had vastly enlarged in scale. Back home in Canada, old houses were 80-150 years old, but massive trees easily beat out on any man-made historical sites around. In Europe, I had been awed by buildings that had been in existence for hundreds to over a thousand years, many having seen many uses through the ages. A quiet respect filled me to walk through solid rock structures that had seen members of the Roman Empire walk through these same rooms. History became tangible and reachable in ways I had never experienced. We had not seen many old structures thus far in our African journey, so I relished this taste of their history.

The history of Africa is written in the people’s songs and stories. We know that some of the oldest human remains have been found on the continent, but they have typically been societies of hunters and gatherers. That equates to temporary mud and grass huts that are abandoned to follow herds of migrating animals or to escape times of drought. The rondavels I had seen might have been decrepit looking and old, but it was relative and of a people’s ancient history, they gave little story.

Great Zimbabwe was different though. Here was a landmark built entirely of stone and without mortar, that had begun construction in the 11^th century. It existed and thrived as a city from 1100 to 1450 AD, during the country’s Late Iron Age, at which point it was abandoned and fell into ruin. As we wandered through the stone structures, we were given a view of an organized people where upwards of 18 000 people may have lived in its heyday. Now sections of walls were gone and towers were only envisioned through pictures provided by the site. An amazing amount of the walls and towers were still intact though, highlighted by the Conical Tower, which is 18 feet in diameter and 30 feet high.

This was a kingdom ruled by the Shona people long before white faces invaded the lands. With the grounds covering a radius of approximately 100-200 miles and encompassing 1800 acres, I could not help but be impressed by this ancient black civilization. The relatively recent end to apartheid in South Africa had not dispelled the feeling of a racially motivated social tier in the communities we had wandered through. This monument must have felt like a slap in the face of apartheid’s belief that blacks were simple and inferior. Of course we were not in South Africa anymore and quite a bit of the racial tensions had eased just in crossing the border, but they were still in evidence. Spending the day wandering along walled passages and ducking under ancient stone lintels was an interesting experience that gave another picture of time in this land that made me feel more at home with its history in trees and rocks.

After being treated to another home-cooked meal at Clovelly Lodge life was looking pretty sweet. Feeling closer to the people and their land, Miki and I decided to explore further on horseback. We galloped along behind our guide with grins plastered to our wind-swept faces. A big home-cooked breakfast stuffed us again with the delightful taste of leisure. This must be how the other half lived, I surmised with happiness as the sun set on another glorious day in Africa.

The Reunion

Heaven Lodge welcomed us back, but our stop the second time was brief. This was just a layover now to regroup before our next leg of the journey. I gladly succumbed to a hot shower to wash away the sweat from our trek through the wilds of Chimanimani National Park. The scalding water could not wash away the memories I held of star-filled nights unblighted by city’s illuminations though. We re-fuelled our bodies and the van, then pointed Arnie North towards Harare and hopefully our lost companion.

With no communication, we had no way of knowing if Brett would be in Harare or not, so we made haste to get there as quickly as we could. Our haste was well met by giant bear-hugs from dear Brettski alive and well to greet us. He told us of his adventures in agony on the bus ride South, the flight to Johannesburg and straight to hospital, and x-rays that suggested that he had probably already passed the stones by the time he arrived. He was smiling and fine, and had been in Harare for 2-3 nights already by the time we got there, we discovered with glee.

We were joyous in our reunion and decided to celebrate. We played tourists and went curio shopping at a local open-air artisan market, where I bought soap stone carvings, a sarong, a crocheted vest and t-shirts for family back home. We splashed out by dressing up for a decadent meal out to Rani’s, an Indian restaurant, where we allowed ourselves to be catered to our every whim. It was fun pretending to be sophisticated, when we normally lived out of a backpack stuffed with six pairs of underwear, two t-shirts, three tank tops, one sweater, one pair of jeans, two long-sleeved shirts, three pairs of shorts, a sarong (newly purchased!), a dress, a skirt, a pair of pajamas and one towel (or something like that). Miki and I even put on makeup for the occasion! We held our forks daintily and discussed the state of the world, glorying in this break from our reality. I followed this up with much deserved phone call home to share my recent travel stories with my family and hear tell all the news from that part of the world. On a roll, I called my family in Cape Town to check in with them as well and see if there was any news from there. I was delighted to hear that I had received some letters and they would be forwarded along to me en route. With my ear aching, but my heart warm, I called it a night. The city had been good to me and friendly Harare was okay in my books.

The Mountain's Revenge

Dawn had not yet broken, but I certainly felt that I was; broken that is. A glance at the bottle I had been imbibing from the night before pulled a groan from my lips and made my head pulse. I was still feeling the effects from the whiskey, but feared terribly the imminent hangover that threatened. Going to bed relatively early could not prevent that, when my sorry 26er accused me of my indulgences. Five AM seemed extraordinarily punishing for my transgressions though.

No matter, it was rise and shine. Time to face the day and ready myself for the hike ahead of us. The plan; to hike into Chimanimani National Park and camp for two nights in the wilds. I showered with the false hope that this would somehow make me feel more human. While it didn’t hurt, it only served to make me more presentable to my fellow group of hikers. Of course we all were a little ragged from our evening on the piss the night before, but we were still game for adventure, so piled into the vehicle to head out.

We arrived at base camp shortly thereafter and signed in. It was policy that you signed in when entering the park and advise the office of how long you would be staying. If you were late to return, search parties would be sent out to look for you. Despite feeling a little disconcerted by this news, we advised them we would be gone two nights and paid park fees accordingly. From here we would continue by foot, as there were no vehicles allowed in the park. Our trek began.

Our rag-taggle group included Oliver, Rob, Miki and myself, plus a group of three other travelers from the lodge. Later, we would also meet up with three other Canadians, but for now; Allen fashioned himself as our leader and directed our route with arrogant aplomb. I was happy to fall into the pack, slugging at my water bottle for all I was worth.

While the climb up started reasonably enough, it gradually took a steeper and steeper incline the higher we went. I found myself lagging further behind and noticed my breathe had become labored. I remembered stories that my Mother told of her asthma as a young woman and wondered if I too had miraculously developed this affliction while trying to scale these mountains. Mt Binga, the highest peak in the range that spanned over 50 kilometres, measured in at 2,437 m or 7,993 ft, which might as well have been to the moon and back for me at that point. My friends that had occasionally stalled to wait for me, soon disappeared and I struggled on by myself. I stumbled and cursed this vile idea of a nice easy hike that would leave me with my heart sprung open on the side of a mountain. I wanted to stop, lay down and die. There was no going back though. By now we were miles from base camp and I was all alone in the universe, but for the buzzards that swung lazily over my head.

Finally, I found myself clinging to a rock wall. My fingers clutched at hidden niches in the craggy face of boulders. My backpack threatened to pull me off into oblivion, but I gasped and heaved and swung myself up onto a ledge. I stood panting, cursing my body, the mountains, the world, then my gaze flicked down to the world beneath me. Within the panorama, I spied my fellow hikers way down the hill, sitting below a boulder patiently waiting for me. I went limp, then burst into hysterical laughter. The mountain had beaten me and forced more out of me than I thought I had. I had survived though.

After catching my breathe, I made my way down to my friends. The worst of the climb was behind us, as was the worst of my hangover. Chugging back more spring-fed water nourished my body and soul and with that we re-grouped and headed out again. Before long we were pushing through chest-high grasses on a level plateau. The rock cairns that had directed our path became harder to see, but we finally made our way through the field and spied our home for the night. A short scramble up a little rocky path led to the yawning mouth of a cave.

We would spend the next two nights bedding down in this serene cave lit by the stars and moon, and nourished by a stream that gurgled at the back of our dark chasm. Arriving on the little ledge, I gladly threw off my pack in order to investigate. The caves were frequently utilized by hikers and there was grass strewn about for bedding purposes. A make-shift fire pit was in evidence as well. With the stream handy for fresh water to drink and cook with, we had all the comforts of home. After a hard day of climbing, I fell into an exhausted sleep with a smile that played across my lips with my triumph. 

The next two days filled me with indescribable bliss while exploring this magical place. We woke to cold and mist, but luxuriated in the quiet of this world. From my sleeping bag, I could see the surrounding grasses and rocky hills that encircled us. Tranquil repose filled our morning on the stony ledge, but with the mid-day sun burning off the mist, we headed a little further afield for some more hiking. The most delicious meal of our combined canned potatoes, tomatoes, brown beans, veggies, udon  noodles, a handful of rice and curry seasoning hit a high note in my culinary books on our return. Our communal meal and breaking of bread was like a prayer in this little piece of God’s country. Even the trek back down the mountain could not break the spell that I was under. Stopping to drink from a crystal clear stream, reminded me of the pristine beauty of this African park that I was privileged to call home for two nights. I might have broken, but Chimanimani put me back together again

A Little Piece of Heaven

My story resumes with a taste of home. A whiskey in hand, I reflected on days past from the warmth and security of Heaven Lodge in Chimanimani, Zimbabwe. Yes, truly a piece of Heaven after some of the domiciles we had been residing in recently. Mozambique lay behind us now though. It surely was not a dream, but so many of its qualities were too surreal to be believed. The poverty, landmines, potholes and pristine beaches all mixed together with extremely overt begging and acts of remarkable friendliness. Mozambique had been a lesson in living a larger life. Our final journey, ending  in a joyous dance of celebration upon reaching a petrol station, could not be squashed by a closed border for the night a few miles down the road. We still rode the high of triumph and another night in Mozambique could not disperse our success over the road from Hell. The morning sun offered us another example of the people’s warmth, with a man pointing out a nearby hostel where we could rest our head. Gratitude aside, we pushed on to a new country.

Zimbabwe held the promise of many things. My first brush with it, in Victoria Falls months earlier on the overland tour, had captivated me and I had been anticipating my return ever since.  First though, was a stop at Ann Bruce’s (Backpacker) House. Glory be, there was HOT, running water. Almost a distant memory, I reveled in this luxury. We also took in some game viewing, espying rhinoceros, giraffes, eland and ostrich, plus a magnificent sunset to round out the day. With Brett in our mind’s eye, we pushed on though. We assumed that we had time enough for a quick detour, before heading back up to Harare to meet up with him. This detour brought us to Chimanimani and a planned epic hike into the wilds of Zimbabwe. The whiskey warmed me up for the promised trek into Chimanimani National Park. I sat scribbling down my thoughts and adventures in a journal that was thankful for a sturdy table to be laid upon. With creative juices flowing, I was primed for adventure, but the lure of cards stole my resolve. I can never turn aside an invitation to the card table, so tucked my bottle under my arm and became friends with an English bloke and Kiwi couple. This night’s adventure was in runs, pairs and euchres. Modernity lured me in, but the mountains would find their revenge.

The Worst Road in Africa

Conversation stopped. The road engulfed us all. We held our breath, scanning for the pavement to re-appear in vain. I could not help, but glance out the window watching for remnants of other vehicles that perhaps did not fare as well on this stretch of road. I did not want to see fallen remains, but my brain refused to forget the stories of rain drenched tracks that sucked overland trucks and transports deep into the mire. I could not stop replaying tales of vehicles colliding when there was no other path to avoid it. There was no where to look to avoid the images.

The ruts in the road got steadily deeper. We began to hear a scraping noise as we rolled forward over the broken terrain. My heart beat a little harder, even as my breath slipped from me in whispers. The minutes turned into hours and still the road before us lay as a scathing reminder of a country nowhere near healed from the gaping wounds forced upon it. I was horrified at the appalling state of something that I took for granted back home; a simple roadway to take me from point A to point B. This thoroughfare was the main artery to get goods from the capitol and its harbor to the rest of the country. This road linked the two biggest cities in Mozambique. This road was broken beyond any reasonable expectation of repair and yet it was still imperative and  utilized. I sat in shock, unable to truly comprehend this failure of a system. The needle on our gas gauge slowly inched its way away from the large F, as the miles dragged behind us at a painstakingly slow pace.

When we could avoid it no longer, Arnie was gently eased to a halt. Normally one would stop a vehicle, turn it off, open the gas cap, refuel, replace the gas cap, pay for the fuel, then restart the vehicle and be on your merry little way. We had a couple of very distinct issues with normal on that day. For one, Arnie pretty much refused to start by the simple action of turning the key in the ignition. No, in general our vehicle relied heavily on good old muscle power to give it a big push to get it on its way again. With enough momentum built up, Arnie’s engine would fire to life. Stopped in the still muddy rut from a rain storm that was another’s memory, we pondered what to do. We could not hope or dream of pushing a kombi on the unforgiving path. Should we then leave the van running, so that we would not be stuck, but perhaps tempt the fates by fueling a running vehicle? Driver’s ed from years ago told me “no, no!” at the thought of this tactic, but our choices were slim. We might not even be able to get moving again regardless of whether the engine was running or not. The choice was made to avoid what seemed to be the worse fate and we poured in half of our precious petrol to the still running van. No pushing was required at this pit stop, but further down the road we would not be so lucky.

Yes, the road was not kind to our van or our spirits. We clung to our prayers that our lowly van would stick to the road. At points our prayers were answered and we were required to jump out and push Arnie back into motion again. With mud-splattered clothes, we climbed back into our caked kombi and continued our journey of hell. Another road side fill-up became imminent, but again the fates were tempted and we won. And still the trek pushed on.

With the last of our jerry can emptied into Arnie’s hold, we began to search for a break in the tire tracks of mud with earnest. The light of the day was waning and we wondered if perhaps we had pushed our luck too far this day. I forced myself to not think about what would happen if we ran out of fuel in these road ruts. It just could not happen. My hands throbbed as I clenched them ever tighter. The needle on the gas gauge bobbed closer to E. Panic pushed us as a tailwind. As unspoken dread  seemed to mount beyond reasonable bounds, someone noticed something. The incessant scraping noise became quieter, then finally stopped. The ruts were getting shallower. Before we could even throw out a hope, we scraped heavily on a lip of asphalt and were suddenly back on solid land. A cheer erupted from us all, as though we had beaten a fearsome dragon. It was quickly countered by another glance at the gas gauge though. We were not out of the woods yet. We knew we had to reach the T-junction. We had been told that there was a gas station there. Speed was of the essence now and we raced towards the finish line. Would we make it in time? Adrenaline gave us the lift that we hoped we be our saving grace. The needle inched ever closer to E.

There was no denying it. E was for empty and that was where the needle sat. Not certain how long we could fly on fumes, we began to glide down hills that we came upon. Tears almost sprang to my eyes, as a little village hove into site. Again we praised aloud the end of our flight, as we pulled up to the stop sign. Too soon we realized that with salvation at hand, we were still lost. Should we turn left or right? No gas stations were in sight and no signs pointed in the direction that would get us to the closest fill up. Could we make it. A light began to slowly seep red on the dash. Right would take us towards Beira, left the border. Our discussions decided right, but after a scant few miles we suspected our error. We did a wide U-turn and raced back West again. We coasted down hills and leaned forward bodily when mounting the next. Perspiration won as stress levels reached insurmountable heights inside our battered van. With a red light blazing on the dash, we ascended another hill and were met with the beautiful sight of a neon sign announcing GAS. Luck finally smiled upon us, as the station was still open when we drifted onto its beautiful lot. We laughed, hugged  and hooted in a crazy celebration of triumph. We had battled and won the challenge of the worst road in Africa.

Where the road ends ...

With the fresh light of day, we packed up our tents and had a quick breakfast to fill our bellies. The road ahead of us lay heavy on our minds. We had already seen many rough patches of road, so  wondered how bad this new stretch of road would actually be. Little prickles of uncertainty scratched at my brain, but with another new traveler joining us to help with the driving, it seemed that the destination was onward and upward.  We had no way to reach our fallen comrade Brett, so turned to the bumpy road ahead of us and focused on getting back to him however it took.

We had already seen a fair share of potholes on our journeys through Mozambique, but now they got wider, deeper and more frequent as our little Kombi chugged along the highway. The suggestion to stop for gas had been pushed at us heavily before we had left. Stories of buses and transport trucks getting stuck on the road, falling off the road or simply running out of gas along the road  were numerous. We had listened to the stories with growing trepidation and as we saw the petrol station grow in our sites, we paid heed and pulled off to fill our tank. We had even prepared by bringing a jerry can as well. It was filled to the brim and we prayed that it would be enough to see us through to the other side. The horror stories had suggested it was a must. I for one did not want to be left stranded to the elements in the middle of nowhere. Looking at a map, it appeared that no towns or villages would meet us till we reached the end of Highway 1. By all accounts, it sounded like it would be a tight squeeze to make it that far. There were no other roads to take though.

We pulled away from the gas station with  a full tank hoping we were ready to conquer the divide. The road continued to degenerate. Soon we found ourselves swerving all over the road to avoid the ever-growing potholes. Whole sections of pavement slid deep into gullies. Our speed dropped, as we feared the unknown gaps in the road ahead. At points we crawled to a slither to bump into and through more manageable obstructions. Conversation become sparse and was relegated to sightings and suggestions of how to manoeuvre the road. Windows were cracked enough to dispel the heavy breath in the van.  Dust filled our lungs instead.

Just when we thought that the road could get no worse, we eased to a stop. We had just finagled a particularly nasty stretch that saw us careening from one side of the road to the other and scraping our exhaust pipe in the process of avoiding especially deep drops in the roadway. Now as we surveyed the road ahead of us, we began to realize why the warnings had come so thick and fast. A mere metre in front of the van the road ceased to exist. The asphalt road stopped. The path that lay in front of us was two rivets in the mud. No concrete could be seen as far as our eyes could stretch. This was the main highway. The only highway leading from the capital to Beira, the second largest city in Mozambique. We would have to descend into this trench, if we were to get to the other side. I was speechless. There was no other way, but forward. If we met another vehicle on this road, we would be in a bad way. I tried not to let my mind dwell on this fact, as we slowly inched Arnie into the tire tracks that would take us out of this country. If we made it out the other end.

The Road Home

I am home.

I survived six hours

Two road-side pee breaks

Pretzels, rain, juice boxes

And more rain

Listening to promises of closed roads

And dreaming of pizza

And beer

~

Well, lookey that! That there looks like 160, bang on. hunh.
Bet there are some better ones out there, if you go looking.
Check over at Monkey Man's and see if I didn't tell you so!

Adventures off the Grid

Another day, another beach.  I wished all the goodness of my heart to the beautiful people I had met in Praia de Tofo, but it was time to move on. We headed North on the only good road in Mozambique and found shelter in Vilanculos. The road was getting progressively worse. We had weaved all over the road avoiding potholes that would have ripped axles, wheels and whatever it could have snatched, right off. We pulled into a little compound by the ocean to call home for a few days. The sight of an outdoor shower in the middle of the walled compound brought a smile to my face. As we had been camping by the sea, with no facilities to speak of in Praia de Tofo, a good scrubbing was in order. On checking in, it was suggested by the people that ran the camp to shower in the afternoon. A morning shower would be cold, as the large bucket was filled every morning. By afternoon, the water would have had a chance to warm up, therefore sun, soap and  sun-warmed water would cleanse our bodies and souls. Point noted. I luxuriated in a warm, sunlit soak later that afternoon and felt like a new woman.

First though, we stowed belongings in our quickly erected tents and went off to explore our new home. Again the locals seemed warm and friendly, with smiles offered from all we met. The charms of Mozambique were certainly working their magic on me. Unfortunately, other factors were working on Brett again though. Our first night there was a sleepless one for him, with little sleep attained by the rest of our travelling band, as we watched him writhe in pain. It was obvious that the kidney stones had not worked their way out yet. He needed to get medical attention. There was a small clinic in the village, but this would not be enough to help Brett.  The problem that we quickly discovered  was that there was not even a telephone here. The closest phone was in Inhambane, which was where we had left the day before; a full day’s drive away. We scrambled around town trying to figure out a course of action and discovered a small airstrip. Our hopes were dashed to discover a flight out, but full up. To charter a flight to Johannesburg would cost $1500 US and without a phone to call Brett’s health insurance company to get them to pay for the flight, it was a moot point. We did not have the cash between us to pay for it and that was the only method of payment they accepted. Brett could barely stand and had trouble catching a full breathe. It was decided that we would get him on the bus back down to Maputo where he could catch a flight to Johannesburg. Miki and I gave him money enough to get him there and prayed that he would be able to withstand the journey that led to salvation.

With teary eyes, we watched the bus depart headed South. In the hurried rush to get our ailing travelling companion attended to, we had made a rough plan. Brett would take the bus to Maputo, then continue on a flight to Johannesburg. We knew there that he would be able to find modern medical assistance to tend to his ills. Once recovered, he would make his way back up to Harare, Zimbabwe where we would reconnect. In the mean time, Miki and I, along with Oliver and a new Aussie travelling companion by the name of Rob, would make our way North. The dreaded highway towards Beira would be tackled and we would veer off towards Zimbabwe and eventually Brett.

Praying that Brett would be recovered soon, but knowing that we would have a stretch before we saw him again, we tried to distract ourselves by taking in the sights. We bumped into travellers that we had met back in Tofo, and they convinced us to take in a dhow excursion to Magaruque.  A dhow was described to us as a local sailboat. While it sounded enchanting, the day was not. The dhow was absolutely ancient and very tippy. The day was sunny and beautiful, but hot. We found shelter under beach umbrellas at a hotel in the middle of nowhere, but got run off by a very angry hotel manager. The next closest patch of shade did not accommodate the seven of us very well, so we moved on to snorkelling. It was magnificent, but we returned to our dhow captains dehydrated and severely scraped by coral, only to find that we had misunderstood our arranged meeting time. We had thought they had said 3pm, but were informed by the angry men that we were supposed to have returned at 13:00. Oops. With a new experience under our belts, we bid adieu to the day. A rough road lay ahead of us and we would need a good sleep to give us the strength to withstand the next leg of our journey.

The Eyes of a Nation

With Brett walking, talking and breathing freely again, we had done some cursory investigations of the city of Maputo.  It lay heavy on my soul though. Maputo’s fall from grace  seemed to have left all of its inhabitants affected, including myself. I begged for a change in scenery. I felt somehow scarred by the visions of children living in such abject poverty. My station in life left me above the reminders of civil war, disease and destitution that seemed to be everywhere. I could not take it anymore and we all agreed to move on. The sad eyes watched us leave the capital city and remained in my mind’s eye for many days to come. I felt hopeless and needed to cleanse myself from the sorry state that I likened Mozambique to be in. Pushing off, we hugged the coast and battled the currents North.

We chugged into Xai Xai and set up our tents. The Indian Ocean was large as life beside us and we relaxed some to be out of the city. Little markets were plentiful with women dressed in traditional sarongs sitting behind piles of bananas and little tomatoes. A bar graced our campground that we stayed at and I managed to chat over a beer with a woman who had recently emigrated from Namibia. She found it too quiet for her liking in Xai Xai and wished for more excitement. I far preferred it to our last stop in Maputo, but understood her need for something to do. The children’s smiles bloomed large on all the little faces we saw. While I could not forget, I managed to let go of some of the horrors of Maputo and began to enjoy Mozambique and its beauty.

We spent a few nights in Xai Xai, then moved on to Praia de Tofo. Here is where the blues of the ocean in front of me stole my heart. The pure white sand beach beckoned to me and I could not resist. I battled the scorching heat coming from the silky sands to plunge into the salty waters. It was heavenly to gently paddle in the warm waves that ebbed in and out. While it was too hot to sit in the direct sunlight, I did lay my towel down to soak up the pristine beauty of Mozambique’s coastline. I wondered how there could be so much suffering in such a beautiful place. Was it the heat that made people’s demeanours turn hostile? Did my colder clime make the people more prone to huddle together  and therefore more temperate in nature?

My musings were interrupted by the appearance of a boy in front of me. He said nothing, but followed my movements with his eyes. He appeared tiny, but his eyes seemed huge. They held all that Mozambique was. I could not resist and snapped a picture of him. His silence reminded me that I did not know his language or experiences, but he was beautiful none-the-less. We did not live in the same world, but could inhabit the same moment.

The child’s father materialized and smiled shyly at us as well. While English was not his first language, we managed to understand from him that his son was four years old. Miki and I  gave them some barracuda that we had dined on the night before and their appreciation was evident. I tried not to stare, but could not get over the size of the boy. We had seen children in Xai Xai that had claimed to be between 12 and 16. To me they had looked more like between 6 and 12. I pondered  again on what it was that formed these people the way they were. Did lack of vitamins and proper nutrition stunt the children’s growth so much or did the atmosphere of war factor in as well? I was supposing and questioning, but could not truly know the answers. I had not lived here, breathed here or grown up here. I could only guess at their lives paths. I don’t know if I really wanted to know the answers.

Teach them to Fish

Another grubby hand snaked out in front of me.

“Five Rand sister!” his voice rang out. “1000meticals. Enough for bread. I am so hungry missus!”

I turned away mumbling, “sorry.”

While I could have produced the change the boy begged for, I could not fix the state of the nation. There were so many here that pleaded for hand-outs. I did not have the money to feed them all. It was over-whelming to see poverty on such a level. Everywhere you turned pathetic  little hands were jammed into your face. Only this morning a boy stopped in front of me in a market we were wandering through. He did not say a word, only pointing to his mouth. Perhaps he could not speak, as his mouth was a misshapen gash. Whether it was the effect of polio, which seemed to survive and thrive here, or perhaps a misadventure with a land mine, I did not know. An image of a macabre jack o’ lantern struck me, as his eyes demanded sympathy. He got the sympathy, but not in the form of money. His errant few teeth and broken lips were another example of the horrors that this country was trying to survive through. It sickened me. How could life have turned so wrong on such a scale? This deformed child screamed of a whole nation contorted by the ugliness of war, greed and misuse. How could one person, or one handful of change make a difference? It could not. Time needed to pass to help heal the wounds so prevalent everywhere. Aid organizations were there offering what they could, but at times it just seemed that they encouraged the need to beg. The people could just sit back and expect that money would be handed to them. I often felt like my white skin was akin to a beacon of riches, booming out my affluence. Just the fact of my presence there screamed of the wealth I had in comparison to the poorest of the poor amongst this shattered world. I walked with all my possessions on my back, but still I had more wealth than most of these people would ever see. My plane ticket home was equivalent to freedom, tantamount to innumerable fortunes in their world. I turned away from him and his horrors with  a sadness that could not be ignored.

While the phenomenal poverty at every turn was a struggle to process, we did try to offer some small alms. A group of children were given some rice. A man that sold Miki a batik, also got our leftover rice salad. Another group of children were offered some slightly stale bread, that we improved with the presence of jam. We tended to live on a small budget ourselves, but we knew that our wealth was more than any of these poor children could hope to have. Our small kindnesses were met with broad smiles and extreme friendliness that did something to warm my chilled heart. Skirting monstrous potholes that looked to measure 6 feet deep and wide at times, I hugged myself and offered blessings again that I had the privilege to have been born where I was. Canada might as well have been on another planet, for the comparisons I could make. I took in the tattered tarps  and scrap lumber that held together market stalls. I processed what I could and took strength from my travelling companions. Brett strode along with a smile on his face. His recent ailment was washed from his face and his countenance held his regular good-will again. I relaxed in the presence of his faith in the world and tried to see hope for this country that was ridding itself of landmines, war, and yesterday’s ugliness. We had to look to the future with faith that life would get better, life would go on.

A proverb struck me as we skimmed across a world not our own;

“Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime”.

These people had fish, but were only just learning how to fish again. I prayed the process would be fruitful for this besotted country. 

A Grain of Sand

I went through my ablutions in preparation for bed; teeth, face, hands, eyes, check! I donned my PJs and looked forward to an early night to bed after a rocky introduction to Mozambique. Brett came into Miki and my’s room complaining of pains in his side. He was looking for anything that we might have that would take the edge off of his  throbbing woes. Miki and I dug in our packs and produced whatever we could from our personal pharmacies. He swallowed a handful of painkillers we offered him and headed to bed, hoping that they would take effect soon and allow him some sleep. The word hospital was mentioned, but he passed it off as something to look into in the morning if necessary.

In fact, the painkillers did not do a thing. Brett wiggled and flopped on his bed, but the pain just got worse. Ten minutes after I had turned the light off, Brett was knocking at our door again. He was ashen. The pain was worse. He wanted to go to the hospital; Now. We scrambled back into our clothes and hurried to the van with vague directions to the hospital. Luck was not on our side this evening though. We hustled into the van, but Arnie refused to budge. The van would not turn over at all. We pushed it half-way down the street huffing and puffing all the way, with Brett writhing in agony in the driver’s seat. Our commotion caught the interest of several passersby and Miki managed to flag down another motorist for assistance. She scooped Brett out of one vehicle and into another and they were gone. Oliver and I were left to tend to our inept vehicle. There were others that had noticed our plight though, and we soon had a gang of street kids help us push Arnie back to the motel for the night. Of course, their ministrations came with a fee and we found ourselves ripped off handing over R10 and 50 000 metical (it should have been more like 5-10 000MT). In the grand scheme of things, it equated to a pittance, but Oliver argued with the youths, as I sprinted off in the direction of the hospital.

Now as you might recall, we had just arrived in Maputo that afternoon. We had wandered around the area surrounding our Pensao a bit, but I was far from familiar with the city. A lone, white female sprinting through a run-down city after dark is probably not the smartest plan to undertake, but my vision was clouded with Brett’s tortured visage. After losing myself momentarily, I miraculously found the hospital. The next step was tracking down Brett within the walls of the hospital, but that too was achieved. When I finally came upon Brett, the doctors had hooked him up to an IV. The problem; kidney stones. The doctor explained that the hiking that he had done in Mbabane had probably served to dehydrate him, which aggravated the stones. He administered pain killers and explained to us about kidney stones. They are often fairly small and found in the urethra. They can be similar in size to a grain of sand, but their power is much more potent. The doctor explained that kidney stones are one of the most painful experiences one can go through, akin to heart attacks and giving birth. The pain comes from the crystal-like stone passing through the urinary tract system. Most times the only thing that can be done for someone suffering is to hydrate them to help the stone pass more freely. Ultimately, the only solution is for the stone to pass. That required time. It was advised that Brett spend the night in hospital to rehydrate and monitor his pain level. After watching Brett relax with the effects of medication, Miki and I headed for home. We would be back in the morning.

Crumbling at its Seams

Finally, the day came that our passports were ready to be picked up. They came back to us with brand spanking new visas for Mozambique in them. Relief at having our precious lifelines back in own little hands, had us scrambling to pack for new climes. Swaziland had been a port of call that served its purpose, but now we were done with it and on to the next country. We headed to the border and confidently handed over our passports to gain entry into this new land. Fearing reproof at the border with our faulty ignition switch, we prayed for co-operation from Arnie. It was mercifully granted. He sputtered to life and soon enough we were past the scowls inherent at so many border posts and into my fifth country in Africa; Mozambique!

Mozambique is on the South-Eastern edge of the African continent. It is bordered by Swaziland, that we had just left, the Indian Ocean, that we were headed towards, Zimbabwe, that we would head to when it was time to leave, South Africa (been there too), Malawi, Tanzania and Zambia. It had been a colony of Portugal from 1505 to 1975, so it was not surprising that the  official language was Portuguese. We hoped that we would find some people that spoke English, but expected to hear many of the local dialects as well such as Swahili, Sena, Makhuwa, Ndau and Shangaan. Whether we actually heard any of them or not, I can only conjecture, but suffice it to say that we managed to survive in English.

We drove along roads that seemed to speak of a lack of money for maintenance. Swaziland and South Africa by comparison had seemed both clean and organized. Here, potholes littered the roadway and I was reminded of the fact that we were headed towards the capital, Maputo, on the main thoroughfare from the border. As we neared the city, our progress slowed. I put the debris that we passed down to outer slums, but the further we drove, the less likely that became. I was shocked and stunned. Burnt out vehicles sat up on “blocks” with not a scrap of rubber on the tires, glass in the windows or paint on the frames. Empty lots filled with rubble were interspersed by small businesses, as well as many crumbling and abandoned buildings. The pot holes got bigger. As I stared wide-eyed out my window, I caught glimpses of the city’s former grandeur, before the Portuguese fled for their lives with their money in tow. It seemed to cry out that it had been the belle of the ball in its hey-day, when the city went by the title of Lourenço Marques. Those days had passed twenty years before though and the subsequent Civil Wars, left the capital on its knees both structurally and economically. This is where we would spend the night. I prayed that things would look better in the morning. We found the Pensao Nini, tried to ignore the cockroaches and filth, and attempted to leave our minds open to what Mozambique had to offer. A beer sipped at a local café made the world seem marginally better, as did our sustaining meal of banana sandwiches. Night encroached on our first day in Mozambique and we headed for bed.

Way Station

   I did not look back as Durban trailed away behind us. We had parted ways with a fellow traveller, but new blood was added to even up our numbers. After the angst of Durban, we had had enough of South Africa and set our sights on new lands. A sojourn in Swaziland was the next  stop in our adventures. We welcomed the change. Technically a new country for us, it was actually considered a kingdom. Swaziland is landlocked and surrounded by South Africa on three sides with Mozambique on the remaining. The South African currency (the Rand) was accepted everywhere, although officially the Lilangeni was the currency of the country. That was not the only difference that we noticed though as we entered this tiny country measuring 200km north to south and 130 km east to west. Mbabane rose in front of us surrounded by the Dlangeni Hills. While it may have laid claim to being the capital, it was a much smaller and more relaxed environment than our former resting place. We breathed a sigh and hoped that the ill winds that had been gathering around us, would disperse in this new terrain.

 Arnie slowly putted into Mbabane, as our wandering eyes took in as much as they could of the city. The high-energy of Durban seemed a million miles away from this sleepy city. Certainly, there were amenities to be seen, but the glitz of the flashy tourist attractions were not in abundance. Here was a place to hunker down and get business taken care of, the first business being finding a place to rest our heads for the night. The Lonely Planet guide open on a lap gave suggestions and we cruised into a non-descript hostel that would fit the bill. Once settled into the hostel, we laid out a plan. One of the reasons for visiting Swaziland was to arrange visas for travelling to Mozambique. Obtaining directions, we pushed off with passports in hand to go through the legal wrangling necessary  to get said visas. After long, slow-moving lines we finally emerged from the drab consulate. I blinked at the sunshine that seemed like it should have gone to bed hours before after our ordeal. As they kept our passports to process until the visas were ready, we now had to sit back and stay close to the place at hand. Looking around, we wondered what to do next.

Since we seemed to be in a relatively safe environment, we drifted apart again. Brett and Oliver went off to hike through the nearby hills. Miki and I wandered the city and made our way back to the hostel. We debated a movie. Ultimately, I spent the time catching up on letters. On a following day, I discussed local politics with a man in a church centre that I happened across. He described a recent strike that the country had gone through that had lasted eight days and had effectively shut down the country. Water, electricity and telephones were all affected. I had heard of the strike and violence that came with it, but not the cause; maternity leave and back pay for nurses, amongst other reasons. Valid reasons, but to shut down the entire country was scary. I was glad that we had missed that.

We had our own troubles, though not near on the scale of theirs.  Brett had been in a fight the night before we left Durban. I had left my malaria pills behind there. For unknown reasons, Arnie’s starter motor seemed to be on the fritz. Somewhere between Durban and Mbabane, we discovered that turning the key in the ignition did not produce the desired effect. Around False Bay, we found that with a little encouragement in the form of a push start we were able to get in motion again. We looked at it as a trifling annoyance at the time. Add to that the minor gas leak, a bolt stuck in a tire  and the fact that the speedometer had stopped at 81km, Arnie was showing his wear. I prayed that once we collected our precious passports back again, we would hit better roads in the future. A sense of fore-boding could not be shaken though, as I noted that Mozambique was still recovering from their ten year war for indepence from Portugal, followed closely by an internal civil war that had lasted 15 years and only ended three years previous. What would we find in this new land, I wondered. 

The Peace is Broken

We piled into our baby blue, hippie love van and sailed away from Port St Johns. The days could have quite easily flown by into eternity on its shores, but the road called to us. Feet were itchy and adventure awaited around a new bend in the road. The road that we pointed Arnie down followed the same path along the coastline. The destination was nothing like what we had come across thus far though. We left behind a quiet, rustic, caught in time village surrounded by the rural countryside. We entered Durban, said to be the urban capitol of the area. It is the third largest city in South Africa and has the busiest port in Africa. Traffic lights and high rises clogged busy roads with the din of city life. A vibrant Indian population was a new and interesting sight to behold. This part of Africa was a new experience for us all.

Our first stop was of course to the beaches that touted some of the best surfing around. With the competition of several surfers per wave, the experience was more akin to the familiar swells back home in Australia for our man Brett. Gone were the quiet beaches he had surfed alone or with a small handful of others. Here aggression reared its ugly head, as competition for the best curls was fierce. Miki and I walked the Golden Mile and splashed in the warm ocean waters. Brett took a break and came to sit with us for a spell, but soon enough headed back out to the swells. Taro wandered off to explore our new domain in his own way. After peacefully floating along in our idyllic setting in the Transkei, we all felt a bit out of whack in this boisterous city. The tension seemed to be everywhere, including amongst our little band of travelers. We had been in close quarters for long enough that we all needed some space. It was only a matter of time before we were all exploring this new metropolitan city in our own ways, alone.

I headed out from our home at the Banana Backpackers to gather supplies and discover what intrigues Durban held. I marveled at the mixture of mosques, readily apparent Indian heritage sites, the heavy black population, and of course the smattering of whites around. Here they seemed to mix reasonably well, unlike in some of the other  places we had seen. I delighted in my freedom to wander wherever my feet took me. There was a certain underlying tension that seemed to fill the spaces around me, but I drifted along confidant in the peace that I had attained from our last sojourn. That peace was about to hit a jarring halt.

I returned to the hostel from my wanders about the city to relax and catch up on letters and my journal. As I reclined in the airy courtyard, a commotion caught my attention. A man stumbled in breathing heavily and seemingly dazed. He was a guest at the hostel and someone ran over to see what was wrong. He was weaving on his feet and it quickly became apparent that something had happened to him. He was lowered to the floor and that was when I noticed the blood. Another traveler pushed in to the growing circle around the injured man and took charge. An ambulance was called. The shirt that had blood creeping across it was cut open to reveal a stab wound to the man’s shoulder. Cloth materialized that the angel cloaked in a travelling medical aide’s guise, used to try to staunch the wound that threatened to fill the courtyard with the injured  man’s life-force. A friend of the fallen took the man’s camera that still clung around his neck.  A story emerged  of this blithe tourist that had wandered the city in broad daylight taking in all that the city had to offer and being attacked just blocks from our hostel. He was knocked down, kicked about and stabbed in the shoulder, the last unbeknownst to himself at the time. With his camera still intact, it would seem that robbery was not the motive for the attack. What was, no one could say. After an appalling 45 minutes, an ambulance finally arrived to whisk the fallen traveler away for treatment. An air of heavy spirits settled on all those around that lasted through the rest of the day. The space where the man had lain was avoided, as if bad spirits still lingered there. Unease took over our little band of travelers.

As we recounted the events of the afternoon, other stories emerged regarding other’s experiences of the city. Miki had spied two people struggling in an alleyway the day before, one with a gun in hand. Taro had seen two fights involving bloodshed that very day. Even Brett had witnessed a scuffle. Our illusion of peace and security that we had fostered in the Transkei was broken. We were faced with the realities of violence that were commonplace in this struggling country. This gave evidence to all the horror stories that had been droned into us from so many. We could not ignore it or pooh-pooh the tales any more. Unease set in and we listed the last of the tasks we had to accomplish before we could move on. No one felt like staying on in Durban much longer. It was time to go.

Before we could make our plans and set our destinations, another twist was thrown into our travelling midst though. This one came from amongst us. With little surprise, but some regret Taro decided to part ways with us. He had come with us from Cape Town, but had not entirely committed to the journey with us from the get go. He opted not to go in on the purchase of the van with us and now opted not to continue with us. Travelling with his sister had been wonderful, but also difficult. She smothered him, and he worried her over seemingly obtuse decision making. Neither party was unscathed in their criticisms of each other and their relationship had become noticeably strained. Before anger got the best of them, Taro decided to make his way on his own. The decision pained Miki, but we all understood. We went for a last supper together and offered fierce hugs to our erstwhile companion. His big heart would be missed. His space in the van did not remain vacant though. As we pulled away from the waving Taro, a new hand waved farewells in the form of a German traveler by the name of Oliver. We four headed East and looked towards better karma and a new country.

My Homeland?

Being in Port St. Johns allowed me to stop and think. We had been travelling  with frequent stops for the previous month. We hugged the coastline stopping at little surf towns, so that our Aussie surfer dude, Brett, could jump out and catch a wave whenever he spied one. The game parks of Tsitsikamma and Addo sported sighting of elephants, black-backed jackals, kudus, vervet monkeys, tortoises, ostriches,  bush bucks and even a rare white rhino at Addo! We met locals who were generally hospitable. I had a chance to visit with cousins in Port Elizabeth that I had met briefly for the first time at Christmas. All of these things were accomplished in a matter of hours or a scant few days. It was exciting and exhilarating, but also exhausting. We pulled into Port St Johns and stopped. We were there  for two weeks. It was a time to relax and process the journey thus far.

Before leaving Canada, I had done a little research on South Africa. I had exchanged letters with my uncle and connected with my aunt. I was aware that apartheid had been a significant part of South Africa’s history. I had heard the song “Sun City”  and watched the video by  Artists United Against Apartheid. I knew that Nelson Mandela had been released from jail and that he was even elected to the position of  President the year before I arrived.  I felt marginally prepared to embrace this new country to me; my homeland. These were all small snippets of the true reality of the country though. As a visitor to the country, I was able to hear some people’s stories, but could not truly understand the reality that had been lived in the climate of fear that had officially reigned for 46 years (it had been part of the micro-climate for many years before that though). My Father had been born and raised in South Africa. His was a reality of segregation of the races. The fact of his white skin gave him privileges not afforded to others of black, mixed or Indian backgrounds. I did not know him and was not able to hear his stories about his childhood in a fractured and violent environment. I had to make do with the tales I heard on the road.

My South African relatives cautioned me by saying “Don’t go off the main roads onto any dirt roads and DON’T pick up any hitchhikers! Be really careful. Call us every once in a while to let us know that you are okay. We would hate to have to tell your Mom that we let anything happen to you.”

I heard “You haven’t lived here, so you don’t know how it is.” A fact that I cannot deny.

An overheard conversation between one of my travelling companions and a German man expressed anger, “The violence is exaggerated!” “You can see the fear in the white population.” “I feel safer walking around here, than I do in some American cities.” All statements made whilst in the middle of the Transkei.

From  yet others, “They are lazy.”

“The maids steal from you,” was a truism put forth from a white woman that had fear written all over her face.

From a white man living in the Transkei for eleven years, I heard that the reputation of violence that the area had was not fully deserved. The incidents of violence existed, but not to the extent that was advertised. The Transkei tried to set up a system of self-government to a certain degree, but the government was just a puppet to the federal government. There was unrest and negative reactions to the white populace in the area. This is where the horror stories started. It was a backlash against the injustices meted out by the white government. The Transkei was a black homeland. The blacks took it back. He happily lived and worked there though.

My experiences in the Transkei did not reflect this violence. I found people friendly, with smiles and hellos prevalent as you passed them in the street.  As I bathed one morning on our hike, I looked up to see cows wander  past. The (black) shepherd that was tending them smiled and waved shyly as he followed his cattle.  I felt it was a beautiful moment that struck through all the horror stories that had been rained upon me. I felt cleansed in body and mind. I know that atrocities happened in ugly numbers and that fostered a state of fear and anger in the population. In my transient way, I tried to understand and move through this world the best that I could.

Enkosi means Thank You

In Port St. John’s, I discovered Africa. A new Africa, that I had not seen yet. A black Africa, where white faces were a minority in visibility and actual numbers. We entered the Transkei. I had been forewarned of going into the district from relatives and white faces we met in our travels. We were told not to stop, pick up hitch hikers, drive on dirt roads and God forbid an accident occurred and we hit something; again the message was to NOT STOP! For anything. It was dangerous and full of unrest, was the message that was drilled into us. With some trepidation, we did stop though. And for that I will be forever grateful.

Port St John’s is on the coast of the Indian Ocean in the middle of Pondoland. It is considered to be a traditional black homeland and as such, has a very limited white population. The language was another new one to me, so communication with the locals was limited to sign language and what little English they could get by with. Even with that, I felt the difference here though. For two weeks we made the area our home, and it was a beautiful, lush and peaceful place. We stayed in a hostel that was five kilometers from a beautiful beach, full of sand and shells. The town had a traditional market, “Take-Aways” aplenty, a more “formal” supermarket and a bank, if you were willing to stand in the long and very slow line. My van mate Taro even discovered that the Town Hall played movies and he attended with a few local youths that he befriended. They became fast friends and spent several days together just doing and being whatever they liked and required.

I found a measure of quiet, that I sorely needed to recharge my tattered soul. I made new friends and acquaintances.  I discovered a new faith in the country that struggled with its identity after so many years of apartheid and unrest. It was a simple place steeped in tradition. Labelled rustic by some, I found it quaint and it stole my heart. Many words flowed from me as I sat  by candle light. A hike to a waterfall, spawned a longer hike along the Wild Coast Trail. For four days we hiked through back country. We skirted deep, dark chasms, jumped from boulders to rocks, waded through tall, waving fields of grasses and discovered magical streams to take the sting out of burning, sun-baked skin. This was topped off by spending the last night in a traditional rondavel with a Xhosa family that fed us in the manner that they were accustomed to. We slept on the ground in our sleeping bags surrounded by stray dogs and scattered chickens. We were fed rice, samp (beans), mussels  and fish from the ocean we had just been hiking beside. We were steeped in the smiles of the locals. The children seemed to have such an amazingly pure energy and joy of life that was contagious. You could not help but wave and carry on the smiles that they handed out so freely. Those smiles buoyed me up and the simplicity around me made me appreciate all I had and knew. It was a far cry from our previous stops in Port Elizabeth, Addo National Park and East London and that was a good thing.

*Enkosi means Thank You in Xhosa, one of South Africa's Eleven official languages. I noted that was the only word I picked up in Xhosa in a post card written home

Here is a link to Miriam Makeba singing the Click Song in Xhosa.