Into Uganda

Ruhungeri was a nice spot to stay, another very typical African town, populated by lovely friendly people. I left in the morning on a relatively comfortable minibus to the border at Cyanika. This was real nowhere-land. On the Ugandan side of the border, the immigration office was shut as the officer had apparently gone for his breakfast. I sat down for a wait.

From the border to Kisoro the only available transport was a boda-boda (motorbike taxi), so I clung on as the driver, balancing my pack on the handlebars, negotiated the rocky, rutted road. I was still doing quite well for time, so decided to try to push on to Kabale. The minibus (now back to being a matatu rather than a daladala), spent the best part of three hours cruising and tooting through the tiny town to pick up more passengers before setting off. The road to Kabale was stunning, steep and rough, clinging to the hillsides as it snaked round and over the mountains. If i'd felt in any way safe, I'd have enjoyed it immensely. But of course, in a seriously overloaded matatu, negotiating a road more suited to 4x4 vehicles, driving often terrifyingly close to the edge of the roads and the precipices it bordered, my mind was taken up mostly with other thoughts.

Kabale struck me as a dismal spot. Rubbish lined the streets, in huge reeking heaps. Children demanded money (to say they begged would imply a measure of asking), boda boda drivers responded rudely if you didn't require their services. In what could have been a small green "square" on a pile of slightly burning stinking rubbish, two cows grazed on smouldering newspaper. In a nice little backpackers' cafe, two American tourists (who would never call themselves tourists, but travellers) engaged in a lengthy and loud conversation which would best be described as "competititve travel", each had 'done it better'. This apparently invovles claiming not to use the Lonely Planet, but knowing everything it says and generally being above doing anything that tourists might do. But of course, listening to them, they were just like every other traveller, but with bigger egos. I hadn't seen another mzungu for days, but kept quiet when repeatedly invited to join the competition, simply explaining that I'd just arrived and hadn't been anywhere yet.

Kigali to Ruhungeri

This was a stunning drive through lush green hills, where mud-brick houses clung onto the steeply terraced hillsides. Every inch of every slope was roughly terraced, into tiny narrow plots where a huge range of crops grew, including bananas, cassava, cabbages. Rows of people worked together, heaving mattocks over their heads and into the soil. Along the road, people carried wood, leafy branches, water, pots and baskets on their heads. Children had jerrycans rigged up like rucksacks on their backs. Other kids weilded machetes as long as their legs. Women crouched, digging, on slopes steep enough to warrant use of a harness. Dry-faced children smiled in their threadbare clothes. People squatted by the road to cut long grass, toddlers toddled onto the road here and there. Everyone seemed to be working, carrying, or going somewhere with a purpose.

Many houses did not even seem to be made of mud-bricks, but rather had a wattle and daub kind of construction, with lumpy mud patted onto a woven frame of branches. Most villages had a pump or tap station, looking fairly new and built in concrete, labelled "Safe Water," and at each of these, dozens of people waited with rows and rows of yellow jerry-cans. There were also "Eco-Lav" buildings, presumably another recent rural improvement initiative. Maybe that's where all those Oxfam "Give a bog for Christmas" toilets have ended up.

The road climbed and wound over and between the mountains. The day was hazy, sultry, welcoming. The volcanoes rose over us, shrouded in low cloud, only their lower slopes visible, hinting at their perfect smooth steep sides. This is a stunningly beautiful part of the world.

The news from Rwanda

I've spent a lot of time reading newspapers these last few days, while lying around in my very comfortable guesthouse feeling generally rather ill.

Every Rwandan paper makes numerous references to the genocide, whether naming someone as a survivor, using it as the reference point from where initiatives and development are measured, or in the ongoing attempts to bring the perpetrators to justice and the refugees home. This is still so fresh and raw, yet how little we hear of it back home.

There's a lot in the news about projects tackling problems of poverty, orphans and HIV. This all seems very positive, especially as even articles praising progress or success always continue to say that there is still a long way to go. This is a country with huge problems in these area, but at least it seems to be being realistic.

The letters pages have given me some amusement. These letters appeared in the same paper on consecutive days:

Sensitize people on good body hygiene

It is my opinion that hygiene is an all round activity. For those of us that use public means face this awkward situation where people have a very nasty body odour that is shameful. It is very obvious that our people have not been sensitized on matters of the body hygiene.

It seems the social affairs officials at Midugungu level are doing nothing to the effect.

A good scent from the body is certainly a good habit and is healthy in the process of social interaction.

At times when one enters a taxi, is welcomed with such a bad smell from passengers that can force one to throw up if you had a heavy breakfast. It is very contrasting to have very clean roads while the bad smell that could have been from the garbage has been transferred to the people.

Apart from keeping streets tidy, the Ministry of Health or any other relevant authority must ensure that Rwandans do not smell bad like it is in many Nyabubogogo taxis.

- Don Corleone


Motor cyclists should maintain good hygiene

Through the New Times, I would like to sound my message loud and clear to my friends the motorists also referred to as Abamotari. I have of late discovered that some of them do not mind about their personal hygiene. They don't wash their cloths; they even don't bathe, or pay attention to the cleanliness of their motorbikes.

Though efforts have been made to reduce the number of accidents caused by motorcycles, the discomfort caused by their uncleanness should also receive the same attention.

The discomfort can also lead to an accident, as one tries to avoid the bad smell coming from the motorists, for example a passenger can avoid putting on the helmet or try to keep a further distance from the driver's dirty jacket.

True, putting on a helmet can save ones life in case of an accident, but also no one knows how much one suffers with a dirty helmet on his head.

(2 more paragraphs discuss the danger of broken visors)

When this package of cleanness is considered, I am very sure many passengers will have had their dream come true.

- Florence Munyeshuri


In a Ugandan newspaper I bought yesterday, the women's section had a full page spread on "Handy Gadgets" which caught my eye. Wondering what were the new and exciting household gadgets on offer in Uganda, I discovered the following:

An egg whisk - "Used for beating eggs"

Washing machine - "Doing the laundry requires a considerable number of hours and effort. With a washing machine your troubles will be a thing of the past"

A long handled broom - "You can buy one for Shs6,000 from Nakasweo market"

This all gave me food for thought, which I won't go into here.


And in Zimbabwe...

It seems that things in Zimbabwe have gone from bad to worse since I was there. Officially inflation is now at about 5000%, but this could be only half of the real figure. Three months ago, my US dollar bought me 20,000 Zim dollars. Now it would fetch 150,000 (or more, by the time you read this). And yes, the official rate is still 250.

Mugabe has again decided to curb inflation by slashing prices. All privately owned abbatoirs have been closed for charging the wrong prices and farmers won't sell their livestock to state owned ones because the prices they offer are impossibly low. So there is a meat shortage, and fears that wildlife will be poached - hardly surprising. 5,000 shop owners, managers and businessmen have been arrested for failing to reduce their prices by 50%. Mugabe has stated that he is committed to restoring "price stability" to protect ordinary consumers from "inexplicable price increases from profiteers."

I'm sure that any of my readers (are there still some?) who are in the least bit interested in this will know about it all already, and have better information than my Rwandan newspapers have given me. I record it here merely as part of my African musings to myself.

Kigoma to Kigali

In Kigoma, it took the best part of a day to find out anything much about buses, never mind buy a ticket. I was told that if I got to Nyakanazi, it should be possible to get transport from there to the Rwandan border. My informer had that eager-to-please optimism that doesn't always bode well, but as I could see no alternative, I decided to give it a go.

My 05:30 departure left only an hour and a half late, already with passengers standing in the aisle. We had two armed guards - that is scruffy youths with big guns - as this area isn't considered very safe. After half a dozen stops in the first two miles, the bus was bursting. I had a child on my lap, a bum in my cheek and a shirt in my face. It was impossible to move. At stops more people fought their way on and there was no chance to get off even at longer market-place stops to make sure that my luggage stayed on - I mentally waved it goodbye and focused on trying to wriggle some blood towards my numb toes. I was becoming seriously tempted to get off - anywhere - and sleep by the road or thumb a lift, or anything other than stay on that bus.

We passed a number of aid stations and refugee camps - this area is home to quite a lot of Congolese and Burundian refugees. There was not much else to see, except the harshness of life and the level of poverty.

At one point we met a broken-down truck blocking the road, so our driver tried to pass by driving with one set of wheels in a ditch. When the bus reached a critical angle, I was more than relieved by the decision to get everybody off. The bus made it without toppling over and we all piled on again - a time consuming exercise with space so limited. In the re-seating arrangements I managed to swap the largish child for a toddler, which seemed like a good deal - a lot cooler and better for circulation to the legs.

It was dirt roads all the way, for which I was quite grateful, as it kept our speed down - Tanzanian buses are famed for their high speed and dangerous driving. Even so, I was surprised that the 270km to Nyakanazi took over nine hours, not including the initial delay. There was certainly no point pushing on to the border - it was past four o'clock when I squeezed myself from the patchwork collection of scrap metal that called itself a bus. I returned various infants to their respective parents (possibly) and was delighted to be reunited with my luggage, now so red-brown with dust that I didn't at first recognize it.

Nyakanazi is just a junction, one dusty street which luckily had a grotty guesthouse (no running water), food and beer on offer. I partook of all of these, and even managed to find out that there might be a daladala going all the way to Rusumo in the morning, which would save me doing the journey in four stages.

After a night of bites (bed-bugs again?) the morning saw me sitting dustily on my dusty pack on the dusty roadside, nursing a swollen eye and hand, waiting to see what would come along. After only an hour, the promised daladala turned up, so full I couldn't imagine fitting so much as a chicken inside. But of course there was room for me and my pack. It was uncomfortable, but better than yesterday's bus, although the driving was quite alarming at times. I particularly admired the ploy of putting speedbumps (piles of sand) across just half of the road, so as to slow down only the downhill traffic. The result? We went careering at high speed down the winding road on the wrong side, blind corners included. But soon enough we were at Rusumo and the border, I had the whiff of new lands enticing me onward and I wasn't sorry to leave Tanzania behind.

Walking across no-man's land between Tanzania and Rwanda, I realized how much the landscape had changed since leaving Nyakanazi. I'd been aware that we had entered hill country, but only once out of the minibus did I see how lush and green and tropical this area is. The river runs brown, lumps of floating vegetation sail by, and the road crosses the river at the short but impressive Rusumo falls.

On the Rwandan side of the border, a minibus waited. I bought a ticket (!) and only had to wait for an hour and a half for it to be ready to go. It took me a while to realize that we were driving on the right, because sides seemed irrelevant most of the time - at least when compared to the horn which is clearly the single most essential part of the vehicle. I closed my eyes.

From Lusaka all the way to Kigali has been a journey - a journey for its own sake. It has been a real experience of African travel, and at times a journey into the unknown - just trusting that at each stage the next stage would become apparent.

Coming into Kigali, the city appeared quite modern and prosperous. Built on a series of hills, the city has many spots offering good views, so it is easy to see where the development diminishes and dirt roads begin. Everything is in French, which is un peu d'une probleme, mais je croix que c'est plus facile que Swahili. Actuellement, c'est un peu humourous. Last night I enjoyed getting clean, fed and watered as never before. I've spent today pottering round Kigali, soaking up the atmosphere. Moto-taxi drivers are all in team colours, wearing bibs and matching helmets bearing their license number, and they even provide their passenger with a helmet. On the pavements, boys in yellow bibs wander around clutching phones. Proper desk-top phones, which apparently are running on the mobile network. Want to make a call? Just grab this mobile phone-box.

It's been a good day, resting, doing laundry, banking, lazing over coffee with the local paper... I like it here. Tomorrow I must go to the genocide memorial centre, which is not something I am looking forward to. This place feels so untainted, so pleasant, it is hard to imagine that just a few years ago the streets ran with blood.

Cruising Lake Tanganyika

A fabulous journey. An African journey.

On Friday morning, the port at Mpulungu was pure chaos. Hordes of locals stormed the gates, trying to gain entry to the harbour area to buy dried fish from the newly arrived ferry. Armed guards came out and shook guns at the crowd, which held them back for a while. Eventually I followed the lead of two other mzungus and together we pushed to the front and talked our way in, explaining that we wanted to buy tickets for the ferry.

You can't actually buy a ticket until you are on board, so after a very thorough customs check (I'd read on another traveller's blog that they liked to look for 'illegal' drugs such as antihistimines and antibiotics, so had already hidden these in the depths of my sleeping bag), I headed to immigration, where I had to pay for a sixty-five dollar Zambian visa just to leave the country - apparently my free one is only valid if I leave the way I entered, and I can see little point in arguing with these people. All that remained was to fight my way through the dried fish sellers and hurl myself over the railing onto the boat. Securing my first class (!) cabin wasn't a problem, so dumped my luggage and explored the ferry. This didn't take long - it's pretty small.

The MV Liemba is an old German troop ship which was dismantled and brought to the lake by land. Here it was rebuilt and has apparently been in use for nearly a hundred years. The none-too-swanky first class cabins were up on the open deck, as was a small restaurant and outdoor seating area which was very full - people set up permanent camp here. Below this were cargo decks and noisy airless seating and other cabins - it would definitely be better to sleep on deck than down below. On the top deck there was a little more room to sit, if you didn't mind engine noise and fumes.

The boat seemed very full, but it turned out that many of those on board were just there for fun, treating the ferry as a mobile restaurant, bar and general amusement centre. Photographers charged a couple of thousand kwacha for those who wanted their photo taken on board, and soon quite a number of people had paid him to take a photo of them standing with me - something I always find strange, but stranger still when you have to pay for the picture. After a good few hours, at about 2pm, non-passengers fled and we were off.

Lake Tanganyika is beautiful, it's water is clear and blue, stretching sea-like into the distance. It's also huge and deep - over 1.4km deep in places, which explains how it can hold 6% of the earth's fresh water. It was very pleasant to lean on the rails and watch both lake and shore go by.

A couple of hours into the journey we reached our first stop, Kasanga, in Tanzania. I watched as sacks of beans and maize were cargo-netted and craned aboard. Huge bags of onions, each carried by six heaving men, were loaded by hand. Local boys swarmed aboard too, some selling pineapples or cigarettes, others just running around.

It was dark when we made our next stop, at a place with no dock. Seemingly from nowhere, a flotilla of small boats crowded round the ferry, packed with people, luggage, cargo. Against the black night-water of the lake, the ferry's lights picked out vibrant colours, urgent faces, white eyes, glistening skin. There was a cacophany of shouting - directions and counter-directions, reprimands and requests - as the boats jostled for position and their occupants tried to get themselves or their cargo aboard. People were hauled up by those on board, scrambling up the side of the ferry as if being rescued from a shipwreck. Women climbed with babies tied onto their backs, toddlers were swung upwards by their chubby limbs, one frail old lady was somehow raised onto the boat in a plastic chair. A few pieces of luggage landed in the water, though they were obviously a lot lighter than my pack as they floated and were fished out.

This scene was repeated many times throughout the two day journey, and it was always a pleasure to watch - quite fascinating. Gradually the ship filled with passengers, the hold with cargo. On the top deck, I sat for a while watching the world go by, Congo on my left, Tanzania on my right, chickens at my feet.

It was a sociable place to be for two days, getting to know my fellow passengers, but I was ready to leave when we finally reached Kigoma at midday on Sunday. Kigoma had a proper dock, but even so, the method of disembarking was to climb over the side of the ship, hanging by your hands until your feet reached the rail on the side of the dock, then jumping down.

Apart from a stunning lake, I haven't seen any 'sights' since before Lusaka, but I feel that I have seen more of Africa in these few days than in all the months I've been here.

Mpulungu

What a town! I loved Mpulungu. My neighbour from the bus walked with me around the rambling back-roads to help me find the place I'd heard was a good spot to stay - another fine example of Zambian hospitality. Sleep eluded me, despite the gruelling night, so after a short rest I set off to look around this village of a town.

On the shore of Lake Tanganyika, Mpulungu is Zambia's only port. The port area was deserted, but at least I'd found it, so knew where to look for the ferry tomorrow. The main part of town was a cluster of shops, guest houses and shipping agents. Down on the lake shore, wooden rowing boats sat with the morning's catch laid out for sale. I chatted to friendly fishermen, each time having to explain that I had "no pot, no fire," so couldn't buy a fish. I didn't see another mizungu anywhere, and was myself definitely enough of a novelty to warrant hearty greetings wherever I went. From the shore, a scrappy, colourful, bustling market led back towards the main road. It seemed to me to be a relaxed and cheerful place, purposeful though not prosperous, not pretty at all, but a picture-postcard of a small African town.

I joined two men who were trying to push-start a beaten-up old truck on the rocky, bumpy, dusty backroads. They were surprised - and happy - to have my help, especially as I made the novel suggestion of pushing downhill rather than up when a junction gave us the choice and the driver steered uphill. Late that night I got lost going back to my camp and of course the power was out across town and my torch batteries chose that moment to die. I stopped a passing cyclist who kindly escorted me home. Just as well - I was more lost than I'd thought.

Mpulungu enchanted me, probably jsut because it was so African, so simple, so friendly.

The road to Mpulungu

Amazingly, the bus left Lusaka only five minutes late on Wednesday afternoon. I climbed over crates and boxes to reach my tiny (5 seats across the width of the bus) seat, while outside noisy arguments continued about the squeezing of more luggage - bags, boxes, mattresses, sacks of maize - into the now non-existent space.

The road was good, the driving not too alarming, and I watched Lusaka recede. It was dark by the time we made our first 'comfort stop' - thank heavens I'd put myself onto a severe dehydration regime. When it was time to set off again, I found myself being hussled onto a minibus instead - it turned out that it was necessary to transport eighteen of us separately to a spot beyond the weighbridge so that the bus wouldn't be too overweight when checked. An interesting ploy, which did work (safety concerns aside, of course), as we were dropped off in some gloomy laybye and picked up by our bus without incident.

On we went into the night, sleep made difficult by the constant ear-hammering blaring of gospel-pop, which was even loud enough to drown out my headphones which were trying to feed me a rather good audiobook. Pee stops involved communal squatting around the bus on the open roadside, under a night of glorious stars. As we picked up more passengers, they sat in the aisle on boxes and bags, the bus groaning.

At dawn we reached Mbala, where the roads were full of bare-footed children walking to school in torn uniforms. A good few passengers got off, a few got on. As we left Mbala, the road became very narrow and potholed, twisting down towards the lake. Behind me, something squawked. A chicken! People often refer to overcrowded buses in Asia and Africa as being the sort with chickens in the aisle, but I'd never encountered one myself. Despite the noise, I was delighted. The old woman behind me sat with a basket of six tomatoes on her knees and a chicken tucked into her clothing. Were these her goods to sell at market? It seemed so little.

In God we trust

I wonder at the wisdom of getting on a bus with "In God we trust" painted in eight inch letters across the top of its windscreen. But having looked at the state of the vehicle and the baldness of its tyres I could understand the need to trust in something other than the bus itself for your safe arrival at your destination.

Lusaka's intercity bus station is a buzzing hive of activity, but I was distracted from my purpose there by the names or mottoes on the buses. I rather liked "Terminal Justice" and "Heaven Awaits". Once I'd got down to the business of sorting out a ticket, I asked one company what their buses were like and one was pointed out. Half of its windscreen was cracked and sagging. I asked whether something had hit it and was told,
"No, no, it's ok. It's just the wind pushing against it when you drive that does that." How reassuring. I decided to buy my ticket from the other company serving my destination, deciding that a few bald tyres won't matter too much in the dry season.

I don't normally blog stuff before it happens, but if all goes to plan I could be off the air for a while. So get out your maps if you will, and trace my proposed route: bus to Mpulungu, followed by a ferry up Lake Tanganyika to Kigoma in Tanzania. The ferry seems to be unbookable, only runs once a week, and is a 100-year old German battleship which takes two days to do the journey. Coupled with a 15 hour (if all goes to timetable - unlikely!) bus ride and no way of finding somewhere to stay in Mpulungu until I get there, this sounds like a long and probably uncomfortable but interesting journey.

Lusaka

I like Lusaka. It's an unpretentious, easy-going place, where people are genuinely friendly. Walking on Cairo Road and the back-streets behind it, you can soak up a gentle form of African city life. There's nothing "Western" to be seen, save Barclays bank, no McDonalds even. Walls are hand-painted with advertisements for local products and services, pavements are wide sandy areas beside the streets and the traffic is quite civilized. I've enjoyed being squeezed into minibuses to get around, although the city is small enough to be easily walkable. Yesterday, while enjoying walking back to town from the Tanzanian embassy, I ignored all the toots and declined all the invitations to get in - each minibus has a conductor who's job it is to leap out at every pedestrian and persuade them to take the bus - especially as I knew I only had a 50,0000 kwacha note and the fare would be 2000, so I told one insistent guy that I had no money, whereupon he insisted I ride for free!

After the tourist-mecca of Livingstone, packed with high-adrenalin, high-dollar activities, and the beautiful South Luangua national park, it was goodto get a taste of everyday Zambia. There are few tourists here, just some travellers on their way to something else - there certainly is nothing for tourists to do in the city. In my three days here, nobody has tried to sell me a single tacky souvenir. And interestingly, despite Zambia still being one of Africa's poorer countries, I've seen only one beggar on the street. The gap between rich and poor seems less obvious here than in the other parts of Zambia I've seen, but I would be interested to see what conditions are like in other parts of the city. There are many aid organizations working here, mostly doing with HIV related work. Here in the city centre, the vibe is one of peaceful purposefulness rather than lethargy or desperation.

The Zambians are lovely people. I know it's a sweeping generalization, but I've met so many nice people. People who are interested in me, my home, my experience of Africa, and also keen to share their country with me, glad that I am here and eager to advise me on other places I should see. I've had many interesting political discussions - certainly makes a change from travelling in Asia and being expected to talk about football! Everyone seems open, warm and friendly. Maybe I've just been lucky, but I'd say that as "The warm heart of Africa," Zambia gives Malawi a run for its money - and more.

Zambian airways - from the ridiculous to the sublime

I surprised the staff in Mfuwe airport - they weren't aware of a flight to Lusaka today. They peered at the printout of my e-ticket and then explained that although there was an incoming flight, it would "sleep here" and return to Lusaka in the morning. My day had been stressful enough, with finding that I had been misinformed that my credit card was accepted by Flatdogs, and so trying to find a way to pay - not helped much by their lack of phone or electricity, so I decided that the flight issue really didn't matter. I smiled to myself and waited to see what would happen. Someone in the Zambian airways office made a phone call or two and they decided it would be ok for me to check in, quickly rooting around to find a "Lusaka" sign to hang on the desk. Overcome by the complexities of my name, I was entered as "Zoe H" on the hand-written (carbon in triplicate, of course) passenger manifest.

As there was nothing much happening in the way of aircraft, but too much in the way of country and western music, I wandered back out of departures to a cafe across the road. Returning an hour later, the place was deserted, so I processed myself back through security to departures. Outside the door onto the apron my bag and a baggage handler sat together on a trolley, both wearing a look of low expectation.

The incoming flight created a miniscule flurry of activity. The crew came into the airport and on leaving a few minutes later, simply beckoned me to follow. I chatted to the pilots on the way to the plane, then settled down to enjoy the bizarre sensation of being on my own private flight. It didn't do much for my ecological concience though, and I was already guiltily aware that flying back had been an unnecessary extravagance. Arriving in Lusaka, someone opened the cargo hatch and invited me to help myself to my bag, so shouldering my pack, I walked towards the airport building, guessing which might be the right way in as there was nobody around to ask.

Zambian airways - changing something.

A walk on the wild side

Crouched behind the knarly branches of a dead tree, we watched two lions stalking a warthog. Suddenly our guide said, "Elephants!" and reeling round we saw six elephants soundlessly walking straight towards us. The scout cocked his rifle while the guide directed us to another tree, only slightly closer to the lions and further from the elephants. We set off towards it at a brisk walking pace, hoiking Alex, who'd stopped to take photos, with us. The elephants steadily followed, thankfully showing no sign of agitation as each tree seemed to be somewhat inadequate for providing cover to four people. The elephants soon changed course and we left the area in the opposite direction. The lions had given up their hunt too.

It was our last morning in South Luangwa National Park. In two days we had been on three game drives, the highlight of which was two leopard sightings. We also saw plenty of elephants, buffalo, giraffe, hippos, genets and some fabulous birds.

South Luangwa is a large park, whose boundaries are formed by the escarpment and the Luangwa river, but no fences. We stayed in Flatdogs Camp, just across the river from the park, so we shared our camp with anything that could cross the river - mostly elephants. Guards were always on hand to walk us from one part of the camp to another after dark, magically appearing as soon as we stepped outside. The first night I was woken at 2am by the sound of an elephant tearing at a tree just feet from our netted window. Later, in the half-light of the early morning, we had to make a detour to avoid more elephants on the way to breakfast.

For anyone visiting Zambia, I can't recomment South Luangwa or Flatdogs camp enough. The park has a variety of habitats, plenty of water and more wildlife than you can shake a stick at. Fabulous.

This morning I waved Alex off as he set out towards Malawi on a thoroughly clapped out minibus and realized how much I was going to miss him. You couldn't find a better travel buddy - he's smart and funny and interesting and just a lovely person to hang out with. But my purpose holds to sail towards Uganda, so with happy memories and some sadness on my part, and hopefully not too much relief on his, we went our separate ways.
Next stop Lusaka!

Zambian Airways

"Zambian Airways - changing the way Africa flies" - I couldn't help feeling that the slogan was somewhat ambiguous. In fact, there was nothing wrong with the way that our little twenty seater flew to Mfuwe. But the process of checking in and transferring was all quite innovative.

Domestic check-in in Livingstone was at the (only) gate, where a number of people helped themselves to luggage, tickets and departure tax, in no particular order, from whichever passengers they could reach. So while some American family was being checked in, my luggage was weighed, labelled, and lobbed out of the exit doors. I soon gave up worrying that I hadn't been checked in and decided just to go with the flow, and went to beg for my departure tax receipt to be returned by the official who'd swiped it from my hand.

We took off rather late due to the departure of the presidential jet bringing all air traffic to a standstill. Security was not so tight as to stop us wandering out of the departure gate onto the edge of the runway to wave him off, climbing a spare set of plane stairs to get a better view of the president and the singing, dancing, drumming that was his send-off.

Our plane touched down in Lusaka, where we had to get off, collect luggage, and check in again. The check-in was about six inches from the arrival shelf, so this was quite easy. No departure tax was payable this time as we were only in transit, so we sat down and relaxed. Mistake. It turned out that we had to go to the departure tax desk and not only show them our previous receipt from Livingstone, but also fill out a lengthy carbon-copied form, in order to be given a receipt for the zero Kwacha we'd paid in departure tax.

Having been at the end of the pointless paperwork queue, Alex and I legged it through the departure cubicle, I mean lounge, across the tarmac and onto the waiting plane. Our sweet hostess greeted us as if she hadn't said goodbye twenty minutes ago, and off we went.

Zambian airways - changing the way logic works

Oh Zambezi!

Today I took my love for the Zambezi one step further... ...but I'm ashamed to say I was such a chicken at the top, I even thought, "I don't think I can do this."

The moment I'd left the platform I was grinning from ear to ear, I was flying with the wind in my face and the beautiful wonderful river beneath me. It felt amazing.

A few photos, from the beginning:

Nothing can come closer to feeling like flying than that did. It was blissful. Even the repeat bounces were fun. Of course I'd be even happier if I'd not been so scared - a bit disappointed in myself there. I think my biggest fear was of being scared! But wow. It was good, so good. There was no fear as I flew, just flight.

And as it happened, there was a good deal on, where it only cost an extra ten dollars to do a "swing". Swinging doesn't sound so bad, but look at the swing:

It's from the same platform as the bungee, which you can see on the bridge picture - or maybe not, as I've reduced the picture sizes somewhat brutally. Anyway, the jumping platform is on top of the bridge, halfway across. Click on the pictures for a larger view.

The swing involved running off the platform, plummeting earthwards (no sensation of flying this time) until the rope takes your weight and you swing. The rope is anchored to a cable across the river, some 20 or 30 metres from the bridge and also rather lower, allowing, we reckoned, at least 75m of graceless freefall. The swinging was very pleasant too, and gave a very good view of not only the gorge but also passing bungee jumpers.

Spot the speck that's me!

Reaching the top of the slow haul upwards after the swing:

Alex is uploading some jumping video onto his blog - so when he's got it up there I'll post a link to his blog so you can get a better impression of what was going on.

Bungee stats: Height: 111 m, 4 seconds of freefall, Max speed 120 kmh

Wowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Oh Zambezi!

Out of Order

I've been trying to catch up with writing here, so have been posting things out of order. So if anyone is still reading this, scroll down a bit to find older posts published after the newer ones. Will try to get photos sorted before leaving Livingstone, but as I am considering throwing myself off the Zambezi bridge with a rubber band around my ankles, I promise nothing.

The Mighty Zambezi

Rafting the Zambezi - it sounds so wild, so exotic and adventurous.

Just below Victoria falls, all that water, now flowing at maybe 6 million litres per second across the 1.7km width of the falls, is charging down a deep and narrow gorge. This was big water. We rode waves over two metres high in the rapids -capsized and took a roller-coaster of a chilly swim, survived moments when I was sure we were going over, when we disappeared completely into waves, tilted, but somehow popped out upright, and all in all had a damn good time. We jumped in to swim a grade 2 rapid, finding ourselves swirling in whirlpools, ducked by the waves, and feeling the power of the huge currents.

It wasn't as extreme as I'd expected though, maybe because it was more about big waves and churning water than rocks and drops.

The walk to the put-in was long and steep down the side of the gorge, so it's not only the shoulders that are aching today. On the way up, after a short climb, we clambered into what was essentially a glorified shopping trolley to be pulled up by a single cable along tram-tracks. The gradient was dizzying, specially taken in conjunction with the "as shown on Blue Peter" construction of the whole apparatus. The back-up brake was a pile of rocks at the bottom of the slope. I imagine we were meant to be reassured by the words "Totally Zambian" emblazoned on the side of the contraption. I wasn't sure whether the beers at the top were to celebrate surviving the rafting or the "train", so I thought it advisable to down one for each.

Sky over Victoria Falls

A night in the Kalahari

Part three of my 'Wild dog' safari was Windhoek to Livingstone. The route took us quickly out of Namibia and into Botswana, and across the (somewhat grassy) Kalahari desert. We camped, coldly, near Ghanzi, and the next day drove on to the Okavango Delta.

It was interesting to see a different part of the delta. This time we were at the upstream end, to the North-West, where there were rivers rather than just streams. We slept in a proper camp and just further in to the delta by mokoro for a day trip. Again, we poled through reedy channels of ever-decreasing size. On an island we walked, ate the fruit of the baobab tree, and failed to see any animals at all. Of course it was still a fabulous day out, and I even learnt a couple of new trees. And slowly, slowly, I'm getting the hang of a few more birds!

On our little truck for this tour, the average age is about 79, which is, well, interesting. Four elderly Americans, who are the absolute epitomy of everything you expect from elderly American tourists. And one English woman of indeterminable age, but definitely one of those people who was over 50 at birth. She has one of those deepish penetrating very british voices, posh pronunciation with absolutely no social grace, and always sounds rather slow. A problem not helped by her habit of throwing totally unrelated comments into conversations, repeating her inanities endlessly and always, always, asking questions that had just been answered. And interrupting. She also had an amusing habit of getting lost in campsites, and even when right by the fire being unable to find her own tent out of the six that we had there. And then there was the issue with showers. We all made do with luke warm, cold, or no showers, but Carol had to moan on a daily basis about how long it had been since she'd been able to wash her hair. And ask everybody how hot the shower was, how long it was likely to remain hot (is there some way I can tell whether a shower that had hot water an hour ago will still have some now? Why did she think I had this power?) . When our guide told us that Livingstone would be expensive, he said "For example a burger and chips is about eight dollars," and immediately Carol piped up with: "Well I don't want a burger." I could go on... Luckily all us youngsters found that we could dissipate our irritation by having a giggle about it instead.

The elderly Americans: Herb videos everything, Anda loves everything, Zoltan's game for everything - even whitewater rafting. Eva is the perfect homely grandmother type - and quite the sweetest person you could ever meet. She has an interesting history too, having fled Hungary as a child in 1948 and eventually reached the States via Austria and Germany. In fact, she even crossed the mountains into Germany on foot and recalls running down the hillside. You can draw your own Sound of Music parallels here. Once in the states she lived for some time in an orphanage until the family was all sorted out (I got a bit lost at this point in the story) but all in all an amazing life.

I pity whoever has to watch Herb's video of shakily shot animals with a wonderful commentary which seems to involve him barking, for example, "Impala!" but nothing else. At one point he picked up a seed from the ground and filmed it on the palm of his hand for over a minute. He was also obsessed with checking the temperature with his watch's thermometer, insisting that it was "6 below" on a morning when clearly the dribbles of water in cups and half inch of water in a metal kettle left out all night in camp had completely refused to freeze. When I pointed out the unfrozen evidence and the fact that it certainly didn't feel that cold, he grunted and prodded his watch repeatedly while waving it in my face. I was moved to suggest that his watch might not be 100% accurate...

Also on our truck are two nice German girls and a lovely American guy, Alex. The Germans seemed good fun, great company and quite a laugh, but we never persuaded them out to a bar. Alex and I have been on a bit of a nightlife mission, hitting campsite bars whenever there is one, but generally we are the only people there - but the nights were about to get a little more exciting, so lets get back to the story...

After the delta we crossed back into Namibia (details of placenames may follow on editing) and spent the next couple of days driving East, into the Caprivi strip. The National Parks in this area were great, lots of elephants and so on. Impala.... Somewhere along the way we had a really good sighting of a honey badger, there were lots of lilac breasted rollers around, kori bustards, ground hornbills, in fact too many birds to mention...

There was a rather grim visit to a tourist, I mean traditional, village, with the obligatory demonstrations of basket making and dancing performed by people who looked as if they'd rather be anywhere else. A far cry from the wonderful trip to the Himba village last week.

Then we hit the border again and went back to Botswana. This flitting in and out is getting heavy on passport space! We camped near Kesane, at the same campsite where a couple of months ago I'd stayed with the overlanders. And like last time I went on the sunset game cruise on the Chobe river, and again marvelled at elephants. This time we also saw a huge raft of hippos, lots of buffalo and now I'm a birding geek, there was even more to get excited about. We met some nice people on the boat from another overland truck, who happily were staying at our campsite. So at last, Alex and I walked into a bar full of people and had a lively night! Hurrah. And guess what? They're all here in Livingstone too.

So, from Kasane to Livingstone... Kasane is only minutes from the border. After being stamped out of Botswana, a very short drive took us to the Zambezi where we waited for a spot on the little ferries plodding back and forth across the river. One get stuck, but was refloated by moving the trucks around. On the other side of the river, it was chaos. Multi-direction traffic, some aiming to cross to Botswana, but mostly stationary, a few stuck in the mud, most waiting for processing at the border post. Boys wandered around selling hard-boiled eggs, it was dirty and dusty and utterly peaceful in a disorderly haphazard, chaotic way. We queued for an hour or so to get passports stamped and visas sorted, but I loved it all - I was back in Africa.

The old brit looked horrified, the Americans unflustered, and Alex and I perked up with excitement - Namibia and South Africa are just too neat and tidy! Proper Africa and the end of the organized tour in sight....

We had a quick trip to see the Victoria Falls, which was great as I hadn't seen the Zambian side at all last time, but unfortunately there wasn't enough time to take the path down to the Boiling Pot or to hang out just enjoying the view for a while.

The evening went rather downhill with our guide getting drunk. Once drunk, he became very pushy, trying to get us to change our evening plans for dinner in town to suit his plans for more drinking in the campsite. Once we'd escaped, locking our valuables in the truck which he had assured us would be safe in the campsite, we ended up at a cheesy overpriced tourist trap restaurant, with lots of dancing by people scantily clad in grass skirts and bits of zebra skin. Then our guides turned up there. When we realized that the truck was now parked on some roadside in town, things got less friendly. Eventually, we got our things out of the truck, the guides got very aggressive, but eventually drove off. We decided to have just one more drink then go back to camp as nobody wanted to wander around town with their valuables. Luckily it was just us four young folk (yes, I know, but all things are relative!) as the oldies hadn't come out with us. The restaurant staff were quite understanding as we ran in and out in varying states of alarm and anger, generally trying to leave one person inside so it didn't look as if we were doing a runner. We crept back to our camp with some trepidation, saw the truck had made it and the guides had presumably gone to bed - a big sigh of relief. Alex and I leave the trip here, supposedly tomorrow, so today we looked for alternative accommodation for tonight, but Livingstone is bursting at the seams. The nice overlanders have offered to squeeze us into their tents for the night. Nothing like a bit of drama...