tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70681660030771752842024-03-12T19:14:02.395-07:00Tomorrow is Another CountryScott and Alanna's six month journey through Southern and East AfricaUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-22356750521442466702010-10-19T10:21:00.001-07:002010-10-19T11:01:40.573-07:00photo recap: Alanna + DogsMany new friends along the way.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSi04NYDBPmLPDTnDuI8_ASGENp8K4VjclZfUtzZxQ8fAXk9OHU-Cz0KxwRrZhqqDCOF_m06qDYUM53CBdP0YbBrzBLvFeAiPVLLhP-Rpbf9N0guqWwxLIpAMU2nmbdBncHUBfmlbWA9Lg/s1600/IMG_0495.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSi04NYDBPmLPDTnDuI8_ASGENp8K4VjclZfUtzZxQ8fAXk9OHU-Cz0KxwRrZhqqDCOF_m06qDYUM53CBdP0YbBrzBLvFeAiPVLLhP-Rpbf9N0guqWwxLIpAMU2nmbdBncHUBfmlbWA9Lg/s400/IMG_0495.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529809012584872498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Wild Spirit Lodge, Nature's Valley, South Africa</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86DCRLHBYtZSXeo3GFThCap3dstGz9Jz8h-dEDTRgRTMgxIxuBx8OIZwHWF9R2fFnS90khNHdf-ESaRu4O8yGQt1Oi4K0uGi_oHdoaJl56RaOGJBW6McS7ZhfHSmorjdd4_tZ3qVSbxLP/s1600/IMG_0994.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86DCRLHBYtZSXeo3GFThCap3dstGz9Jz8h-dEDTRgRTMgxIxuBx8OIZwHWF9R2fFnS90khNHdf-ESaRu4O8yGQt1Oi4K0uGi_oHdoaJl56RaOGJBW6McS7ZhfHSmorjdd4_tZ3qVSbxLP/s400/IMG_0994.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529809030262579922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Amampondo Backpackers, Port St. John's, South Africa<br /></span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2jbAnd3DhFTwD62cMQFUdBSqt9UswIuZh-37XtrYHikBT8-tVnS58zvD4pVuMyRGBAxk104J-VUJzbanp3e05i0E7F6ak3GKbughwIOviG5ADjwDmdLz5dbQ7nAZN3JSKWbxN9XuxbHu/s1600/IMG_0937.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2jbAnd3DhFTwD62cMQFUdBSqt9UswIuZh-37XtrYHikBT8-tVnS58zvD4pVuMyRGBAxk104J-VUJzbanp3e05i0E7F6ak3GKbughwIOviG5ADjwDmdLz5dbQ7nAZN3JSKWbxN9XuxbHu/s400/IMG_0937.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529809021499008610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Sugar Shack, East London, South Africa<br /></span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNh2VOIdGjsjrlwPpb7y4PlzFoZ833djr9xEKE-RcFX1V2CJJmczycZUDZLfTbIPj5hZglWFZLtRpKuoL9Ys2iRB7mjdIzDppi00ZOVKhp7IkVB8CUSTCiiKghx8Ng8q2uP91EZBF_1BI/s1600/IMG_0467.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNh2VOIdGjsjrlwPpb7y4PlzFoZ833djr9xEKE-RcFX1V2CJJmczycZUDZLfTbIPj5hZglWFZLtRpKuoL9Ys2iRB7mjdIzDppi00ZOVKhp7IkVB8CUSTCiiKghx8Ng8q2uP91EZBF_1BI/s400/IMG_0467.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529809006041635154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Shoestrings Backpackers, Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe<br /><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdJyJ7Tyz9zWCdC8fnMzqTWHjkwnGC1H1fLDy9XwhJ5GITcuVO8jcKk-oXK493PX5iuKF4gH5VhyphenhyphenBuVz6n6w5ZweJsbLJlBIGdNMCLFRPej-mhR94thEcHLBSp_qr7YPIbUuM-_tDAAw9/s1600/IMG_0609.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdJyJ7Tyz9zWCdC8fnMzqTWHjkwnGC1H1fLDy9XwhJ5GITcuVO8jcKk-oXK493PX5iuKF4gH5VhyphenhyphenBuVz6n6w5ZweJsbLJlBIGdNMCLFRPej-mhR94thEcHLBSp_qr7YPIbUuM-_tDAAw9/s400/IMG_0609.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529809018071290594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Cool Runnings Backpackers, Senga Bay, Malawi<br /><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjz9AzT5KjoCZZvE_Jcm1dhP8tECeBHQzWkrz3PL9pw-HJj-SjcIQxjJz65-vJpV6vvGqdInZM4_-PQonnMUrEx-MYRoPQr05HKO-9ymoIF6cAKd5zFFoVU4-GuaRb8lDDkWoJIBb_Lqrg/s1600/Dc855.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjz9AzT5KjoCZZvE_Jcm1dhP8tECeBHQzWkrz3PL9pw-HJj-SjcIQxjJz65-vJpV6vvGqdInZM4_-PQonnMUrEx-MYRoPQr05HKO-9ymoIF6cAKd5zFFoVU4-GuaRb8lDDkWoJIBb_Lqrg/s400/Dc855.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529809707541668498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mayoka Village, Nkhata Bay, Malawi (the saddest, closest-to-death dog I've ever seen)<br /></span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZ2kSrzSZys5Krl2Y6Huh_aQlkcNYU0i9Sr-HKa8vGXbODedmuW8YnqVVugnBcBEw_doPZPhAXUr4P4nH6O-7oxQOKGgq26zFtVFfK-qtzCSCj5Gh6-LAUsMKPHyjlOdH8aBVXjXKh6QO/s1600/IMG_2214.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZ2kSrzSZys5Krl2Y6Huh_aQlkcNYU0i9Sr-HKa8vGXbODedmuW8YnqVVugnBcBEw_doPZPhAXUr4P4nH6O-7oxQOKGgq26zFtVFfK-qtzCSCj5Gh6-LAUsMKPHyjlOdH8aBVXjXKh6QO/s400/IMG_2214.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529809699116082978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Rwenzori View Guesthouse, Fort Portal, Uganda<br /><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3oX8jKVuTTajvYomECVxVyI4knmoN02lFDpd6mHgNWEDil6m0c9HVGM-61pt2YkYsKIusSTuRJRXhoubgvRoFzkZ7K7qgjPANJgVx2ipA00sqg4mleoUQjZuKwHz_sSy07JVMoCeAcz4/s1600/IMG_2507.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3oX8jKVuTTajvYomECVxVyI4knmoN02lFDpd6mHgNWEDil6m0c9HVGM-61pt2YkYsKIusSTuRJRXhoubgvRoFzkZ7K7qgjPANJgVx2ipA00sqg4mleoUQjZuKwHz_sSy07JVMoCeAcz4/s400/IMG_2507.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529809705429097762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Jinja, Uganda<br /></span></div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-82652611010067799532010-10-02T11:35:00.000-07:002010-10-02T12:40:12.681-07:00Summary: The Rest of UgandaHokay! Back on the blog train. Here we go. It feels a bit funny continuing on after Alanna's eloquent conclusion to all that we experienced, but that is the whole we've dug ourselves into, isn't it?<br /><br />So where were we? Yes, I do recall now! Lake Nkuruba, near Fort Portal, Uganda! Kitchen embarrassments, adorable thieving children... (Aldrin, I totally forgive you).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmH7jgMVWcu1XPwfajOnLGX52mYX67rAfOHxw-5_OlqLssblTLtQq4tBUvk7sGqi87jAmFoC36OwK7YTveVs9DXiIkudIwspx0ok-dFUF1T4jf3flVNml4jktq6L7hNEmKaHkXJsj0WP8j/s1600/IMG_2267.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmH7jgMVWcu1XPwfajOnLGX52mYX67rAfOHxw-5_OlqLssblTLtQq4tBUvk7sGqi87jAmFoC36OwK7YTveVs9DXiIkudIwspx0ok-dFUF1T4jf3flVNml4jktq6L7hNEmKaHkXJsj0WP8j/s400/IMG_2267.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523523680775794738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Lake Nkuruba</span><br /></div><br />Lake Nkuruba is one of Uganda's 'crater lakes,' dozens of which can be found in this part of the country. (I am not up to speed on their history, but an overwhelming amount of evidence leads me to believe that these lakes are in fact <span style="font-style: italic;">flooded craters</span>). Nkuruba is small, round, entirely choked with lush Ugandan forest, and feels about as far removed from everything as one could hope to be. Our daily swims would invariably coincide with visits from assorted groups of local boys who'd appear on opposing shores, hop onto homemade rafts and splash over to our side to swim badly and make a lot of noise. To us, even after four days of lake visits, the kids' varying styles of undergarment remained their sole distinguishing feature.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkJRHTEXadGuSPDvvCdjqHk4J_YnCyKnGfAP6k1H548pIXBMmatwbUQAJOi1icYrnYKwlji_GtTlwJYHoFCWdoSQwszP0ndTvSWAvdDtBLRkJoukEY9FzgkGtGl-HG8r0JHrHQByIrrQ4/s1600/IMG_2283.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkJRHTEXadGuSPDvvCdjqHk4J_YnCyKnGfAP6k1H548pIXBMmatwbUQAJOi1icYrnYKwlji_GtTlwJYHoFCWdoSQwszP0ndTvSWAvdDtBLRkJoukEY9FzgkGtGl-HG8r0JHrHQByIrrQ4/s400/IMG_2283.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523523691474768722" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjX6lYt4kpkE76KwLrmAeNP_VPQl_GojhyphenhyphenRjYRweq01HamBE6RvwUNBObG0r97RrP1s296xpyQEMzz2rgeBkZgy3qq1cOiXejmZ4zQh_IYxfdDrsz1jQ9rQmhV6-f54mWjNYNpfbqBtMyN/s1600/IMG_2299.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjX6lYt4kpkE76KwLrmAeNP_VPQl_GojhyphenhyphenRjYRweq01HamBE6RvwUNBObG0r97RrP1s296xpyQEMzz2rgeBkZgy3qq1cOiXejmZ4zQh_IYxfdDrsz1jQ9rQmhV6-f54mWjNYNpfbqBtMyN/s400/IMG_2299.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523523696281892338" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgM-wDjJJhJ_RVdYPsUOLrMBGLv1UPVOs6WdrZyC1jzAIvY4z-1sEfh44LM3JSTIiHkPqr11m_She-OIpl8K06ifhdR7WWLFriLJ_I5uZ4Y6MXV_O4bWcpMaEiN9Z1AZJqz0wz6cCqBV7I/s1600/IMG_2285.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgM-wDjJJhJ_RVdYPsUOLrMBGLv1UPVOs6WdrZyC1jzAIvY4z-1sEfh44LM3JSTIiHkPqr11m_She-OIpl8K06ifhdR7WWLFriLJ_I5uZ4Y6MXV_O4bWcpMaEiN9Z1AZJqz0wz6cCqBV7I/s400/IMG_2285.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523523693256037378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thinking back to failed raft-building attempts as a kid. Turns out all I needed to do was buy a plane ticket to Africa and lash some reeds together.</span><br /></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEVhYPwJNLZXD048Hn8jIMFOfuW5QQ5qQUahvGnjNr19c4fgmuolA61UVkffr5N6BMkbuPIhPD0fdyFvXCBOHPqZaqH11R_KYs5favKrFYzlqLkjvvp7I-hv0W0k2Dy4Ix5qWe4IAnHHX/s1600/IMG_2389.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGEVhYPwJNLZXD048Hn8jIMFOfuW5QQ5qQUahvGnjNr19c4fgmuolA61UVkffr5N6BMkbuPIhPD0fdyFvXCBOHPqZaqH11R_KYs5favKrFYzlqLkjvvp7I-hv0W0k2Dy4Ix5qWe4IAnHHX/s400/IMG_2389.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523524637922886354" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We had two Canadian encounters at Lake Nkuruba: first off, the lake's hefty black-and-white colobus population were paid a visit by a group of monkey researchers from McGill who stood and pointed at a group of monkeys for twenty minutes and then went swimming (hey... does that mean <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm</span> a monkey researcher?!). We also met and spent a good deal of time with a woman from Vancouver who it turns out is on my friend's baseball team! Hi Lisa! (Sorry we didn't take any photos of you!)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJ0dSU86Ss0cdFq9R0_UAnux_0UeKJvmoAJ_4E4ISkmjwMgJ982RDIg3WQT09RLd4vepEFIL6X-J4iaQNI935PlyD9oA89KDpn3S5bU2aZTWUe21V9Ja6voQnkknoN2J0mDNJ8iTdX2Yw/s1600/IMG_2225.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJ0dSU86Ss0cdFq9R0_UAnux_0UeKJvmoAJ_4E4ISkmjwMgJ982RDIg3WQT09RLd4vepEFIL6X-J4iaQNI935PlyD9oA89KDpn3S5bU2aZTWUe21V9Ja6voQnkknoN2J0mDNJ8iTdX2Yw/s400/IMG_2225.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523523676900085026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">If Willie Nelson were a Black-and-White Colobus Monkey</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzlBRl2qxT2-nSrMSL-LXbRKu8pWgldup3G_uT-Z-0urgRf9MVNTF1drMz6Goq-9bcZS_P0oRpb3pNf4qcpK8Kh7YwZkBqSSayIA7vE2PFfMB0EeVShWfKbpaIjtO-V-IrJn3uvtuXoaN/s1600/IMG_2346.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzlBRl2qxT2-nSrMSL-LXbRKu8pWgldup3G_uT-Z-0urgRf9MVNTF1drMz6Goq-9bcZS_P0oRpb3pNf4qcpK8Kh7YwZkBqSSayIA7vE2PFfMB0EeVShWfKbpaIjtO-V-IrJn3uvtuXoaN/s400/IMG_2346.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523524623900471586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The road to Rwaihumba village, with the Ruwenzory mountain range in the distance. Behind those is the Congo! Spooky.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBopzN6KCLFG4HX98U1ZgKr67lDOapbkPzhiEXO4q_ilngu4vw7fjzK20KF-_BXXtAxEzQtZLupmij8EItndFG2YuZpt0u9auPe0ZiAGy2KPqPAcW6A6M96dO9lx7_9UY7jGOe7NVbmfk/s1600/IMG_2354.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmBopzN6KCLFG4HX98U1ZgKr67lDOapbkPzhiEXO4q_ilngu4vw7fjzK20KF-_BXXtAxEzQtZLupmij8EItndFG2YuZpt0u9auPe0ZiAGy2KPqPAcW6A6M96dO9lx7_9UY7jGOe7NVbmfk/s400/IMG_2354.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523524626942795234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Packing Avocados in Rwaihumba. This village claims to have the "3rd largest village market in Uganda" (pretty big feat I know) but I assume we were there on a non-market day because, well, there was no market.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRS_xVXe1M2-iXdxnLssiqA605a8UZYl7kDlfIIDDDDFbCxjztrh-D6iv2UHvZXckgBah6ape8n2ovL7IFeI9_MKKwcQRbRzjShS5JuXiUhv3GLTZT8b3lzLcFCN_M_i9M5REol808GbrH/s1600/IMG_2355.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRS_xVXe1M2-iXdxnLssiqA605a8UZYl7kDlfIIDDDDFbCxjztrh-D6iv2UHvZXckgBah6ape8n2ovL7IFeI9_MKKwcQRbRzjShS5JuXiUhv3GLTZT8b3lzLcFCN_M_i9M5REol808GbrH/s400/IMG_2355.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523524632648413090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Bananas at Rwaihumba.</span><br /></span></div><br />After a fantastic time at the smallest lake visit of our trip, we caught a bus to Kampala for the third and final time. The trip wasn't so bad, we snacked on grilled bananas and were treated to Celine Dion music videos and the second half of a Thai action film.<br /><br />Our final stop in Uganda was Jinja, the country's second-most populated city. Jinja is located where the Nile River first feeds out of Lake Victoria (which is a very big deal, because the Nile is a super-long river if you haven't heard). Our choice of accommodation, the Triangle Hotel, overlooked the lake and was situated in a neighborhood of fascinating dilapidated art-deco residences set on spacious palm-lined lawns. The area had evidently been at one point inhabited by wealthy whites – our hotel was sandwiched between a golf course and an abandoned yacht club – but all the homes are now in serious disrepair and likely at quadruple their intended capacity. The walk from the minibus stop to the Triangle had a surreal Palm-Springs-via-Mad-Max vibe to it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0lKg6nMf22cnSJe7ib7OwUTJz_IeBdqkVqmre0UVHqJER-FLWDSiRjeQaRo1E6-OHPy9JFXUuydC3tRdqyx54djr7QBQ3Xe8IxdV-xC_BJxoP_xIvDpqFovHEFwRgS7FboJdKFeCvKH8i/s1600/IMG_2431.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0lKg6nMf22cnSJe7ib7OwUTJz_IeBdqkVqmre0UVHqJER-FLWDSiRjeQaRo1E6-OHPy9JFXUuydC3tRdqyx54djr7QBQ3Xe8IxdV-xC_BJxoP_xIvDpqFovHEFwRgS7FboJdKFeCvKH8i/s400/IMG_2431.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523524642416534066" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5W4FDUFzuuZEK5o2nB_YnP2-z8jsVp-KAJPHHdVDS4-VwJqRLoWvZbH15-Y_2Wv6QKGKCd0DmaE3tJBx_mDvzQ4tI9xuKefi3buSYbhjBqXg0N01HVI7Lkb6fdSiImZ4ejFnomgIwTTLZ/s1600/IMG_2432.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5W4FDUFzuuZEK5o2nB_YnP2-z8jsVp-KAJPHHdVDS4-VwJqRLoWvZbH15-Y_2Wv6QKGKCd0DmaE3tJBx_mDvzQ4tI9xuKefi3buSYbhjBqXg0N01HVI7Lkb6fdSiImZ4ejFnomgIwTTLZ/s400/IMG_2432.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523525533558551442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Spot the Man</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_SqDZOKHKQqs6hOaQFNy44pNAaOoMHyr1JNL0t9OK6alZGNmjZbyJzd5FbQ5ud6pLwqx1AN5_799T9JeNjwpErNiZLWl4uJnF_Efurlkw8nZCr34IZ3Mtw_I2dZb54IDfzAXePaqZVK6/s1600/IMG_2504.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_SqDZOKHKQqs6hOaQFNy44pNAaOoMHyr1JNL0t9OK6alZGNmjZbyJzd5FbQ5ud6pLwqx1AN5_799T9JeNjwpErNiZLWl4uJnF_Efurlkw8nZCr34IZ3Mtw_I2dZb54IDfzAXePaqZVK6/s400/IMG_2504.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523526743538633042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This hotel was across the street from ours, and is definitely not a hotel any longer, but we were informed this is where Ida Amin stayed when he was in Jinja. </span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtsiffS2KcJAFSXdwTfcjHfs-SIuJb5xg709PSxUai38S3A45UVBrGzwFbXUL9OKr3nW5MLEsbrle1MZYDgOx5wjyvUkrBZOBqLppIlzwZUORZ72Wpv8RojiHDCk2fU2lpKDLgJkskSh2K/s1600/IMG_2444.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtsiffS2KcJAFSXdwTfcjHfs-SIuJb5xg709PSxUai38S3A45UVBrGzwFbXUL9OKr3nW5MLEsbrle1MZYDgOx5wjyvUkrBZOBqLppIlzwZUORZ72Wpv8RojiHDCk2fU2lpKDLgJkskSh2K/s400/IMG_2444.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523525538456482786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Triangle Hotel pool. Best pool.</span><br /></span></div><br />Our hotel, while slightly run-down itself, still sided as one of the more luxurious places we stayed, with poolside bar service, TV, and a private lakeview balcony. The place was giant and well past its heyday: entire wings were closed semi-permanently and the building's only other patrons seemed to be the East Indian owner's large family. But the hotel did have the standing to host an prestigious conference of some kind, because near the end of our stay, after we'd readied ourselves for yet another quiet swim under the ornamental crocodile-arch, we found our usually deserted poolside overrun with large important-looking Ugandan men in military uniform.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6I7HQA8v5aGIsvKB27gwWKC7cXTttkE4i4m-lQlHxLSyc7ETehfURo_0vNL_74UX1W2gnx9z2lV6UrQdsBL90amLxJV0dmOt7k-vAQQlQLsV1gmmVr2oCfjFeAlcGmErnPVZ6g73kf9gm/s1600/IMG_2510.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6I7HQA8v5aGIsvKB27gwWKC7cXTttkE4i4m-lQlHxLSyc7ETehfURo_0vNL_74UX1W2gnx9z2lV6UrQdsBL90amLxJV0dmOt7k-vAQQlQLsV1gmmVr2oCfjFeAlcGmErnPVZ6g73kf9gm/s400/IMG_2510.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523526742332391698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">One evening we decided to take advantage of room service and ordered butter naan and a scotch. I made a pretty large fool of myself ordering the scotch.</span><br /></span></div><br />One morning we hired a guide to float us out to the actual specific source of the Nile: a small patch of ripples where, he explained, the water visibly accelerates as it leaves Lake Victoria. Apparently the patch of ripples was a little more dramatic before they built a giant hydroelectric dam downstream and therefore raised the water level. Once again, a small and unremarkable landmark rendered even more unremarkable in favour of providing electricity to thousands of homes. <span style="font-style: italic;">When will it end?<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizie3OAlVfwC5G-HZa8vHKr_UmQNNQPaFduhU4vXCKcsy071Tq2UEGW9Y3qqSm4RkF6TWOdRsd8u_aDSzBXJvssaFZCWYw0zdfDXjcJemwfbiVzH_NURntDbrQsXy54H3YJc_5sm7l2Uo3/s1600/IMG_2488.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizie3OAlVfwC5G-HZa8vHKr_UmQNNQPaFduhU4vXCKcsy071Tq2UEGW9Y3qqSm4RkF6TWOdRsd8u_aDSzBXJvssaFZCWYw0zdfDXjcJemwfbiVzH_NURntDbrQsXy54H3YJc_5sm7l2Uo3/s400/IMG_2488.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523526734966169858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">And they say Africa isn't safe.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRgZGgLP-AlkA1lOV544nnBbck82w0yD1FBye8or16N-cLKJC7CBIH8m4G3UlniF_TfFZO6qWv8BfH5UJ5UE2p7OVgcuNg5mm19ZFFkr92kZi9lw_fiSdtCVDqpGkbv3_rE22GU7v30sH/s1600/IMG_2478.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRgZGgLP-AlkA1lOV544nnBbck82w0yD1FBye8or16N-cLKJC7CBIH8m4G3UlniF_TfFZO6qWv8BfH5UJ5UE2p7OVgcuNg5mm19ZFFkr92kZi9lw_fiSdtCVDqpGkbv3_rE22GU7v30sH/s400/IMG_2478.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523526726649195682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Our driver, Captain Rasta.</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFeqS22Y1N2uSBpZBQ_zzeElIS7ir4UPMsnA6i4xg87b0xXbVEgN-kkXckJQoMimRky9oyxhd06GVW2k_2eJNKdPFd_jmg55TyQIpI-Ki82xvZJHFR6Yefj_dZD42hpWRgcOz7mSNShAH/s1600/IMG_2475.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFeqS22Y1N2uSBpZBQ_zzeElIS7ir4UPMsnA6i4xg87b0xXbVEgN-kkXckJQoMimRky9oyxhd06GVW2k_2eJNKdPFd_jmg55TyQIpI-Ki82xvZJHFR6Yefj_dZD42hpWRgcOz7mSNShAH/s400/IMG_2475.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523525553233174226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >At the source of the Nile! Our guide was not too familiar with exposure settings but I do not hold it against him.<br /></span></div><br />Also on the tour we stopped at a small grubby island next to the 'source' to stretch our legs and engage in photo-ops. While no larger than an average bachelor apartment, the island was home to at least half a dozen fishermen and a small souvenir hut. The fishermen didn't exactly have homes, but our guide led us to a group of miniscule tents – to our eyes indistinguishable from piles of garbage – where they slept when it rained.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4NV4MVFPhx6zhkjuUPNVxYknfzKJXbdvsn1VQcDOWd0M4oYoitpk4dJ6ek5ENaqZke1g_VDgjedQbkywR7WAeeV8rzLDvEKyGZQbc_ovxUhYzmYpb_NftcnvSTZdAHLj2ePMszvBx5Vtx/s1600/IMG_2474.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4NV4MVFPhx6zhkjuUPNVxYknfzKJXbdvsn1VQcDOWd0M4oYoitpk4dJ6ek5ENaqZke1g_VDgjedQbkywR7WAeeV8rzLDvEKyGZQbc_ovxUhYzmYpb_NftcnvSTZdAHLj2ePMszvBx5Vtx/s400/IMG_2474.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523525544999435266" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcaIBkLPUIX3LKnzQlbDdo1e88N4GCUP2HRtA0nG61ObAOWtWeOqJfpro01_aO12hLyo6duHQ5-2ExrMg1pseGw5PPBWUSvKUVoOqioBkDIGmmW1in6IrA_kgtGnyHHFNL3t1OC0d7Tmf/s1600/IMG_2472.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHcaIBkLPUIX3LKnzQlbDdo1e88N4GCUP2HRtA0nG61ObAOWtWeOqJfpro01_aO12hLyo6duHQ5-2ExrMg1pseGw5PPBWUSvKUVoOqioBkDIGmmW1in6IrA_kgtGnyHHFNL3t1OC0d7Tmf/s400/IMG_2472.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523525544379999026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Our guide (sorry mr. guide but I do not remember your name!) cutting up some jackfruit for us to taste.</span><br /></span></div><br />Other valuable sights along the way included an (even smaller) island inhabited by a colony of massive yellow monitor lizards, and a tour of all the niches along the shore where fishermen stash their nets to bypass overfishing laws, as only line fishing is permitted. We passed a few fishing boats, and our guide half-joked that “all fishermen are always in a bad mood” and what with the garbage tents and the fact that their livelihood will probably be extinct within the decade and yet they're still forced to risk crippling fines in order to survive, well, it's not too improbable a generalization. (That said, the lizards seemed fairly content.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMofGvNf20Tt-BW-wRTiUV_ya0vQxb7SWTRhtvGQMxH-nWXnU_tq0B50RT2MbNvCgwfEdMZbJAdYvNbatfmJIik_p_ELvmELt-oCHUoFZXFeTNgFioX2bvZPLz1VpV1M8PIWOjHtsIYuF/s1600/IMG_2494.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMofGvNf20Tt-BW-wRTiUV_ya0vQxb7SWTRhtvGQMxH-nWXnU_tq0B50RT2MbNvCgwfEdMZbJAdYvNbatfmJIik_p_ELvmELt-oCHUoFZXFeTNgFioX2bvZPLz1VpV1M8PIWOjHtsIYuF/s400/IMG_2494.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523526739147490210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Lake Side View Hotel</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAugtFjWzEIpXwbLyOqiBakxMgEzmjtwwnvddZ9geh7IrI6pJadNLbuNF5CppMg3K0l6D38QuoYmGEbPm7uEDgBUukC0ZnfmkgyR2kuscGhnisKZUT6dsk-iCguiCgduFnYM5GX7mtrBt/s1600/IMG_2538.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAugtFjWzEIpXwbLyOqiBakxMgEzmjtwwnvddZ9geh7IrI6pJadNLbuNF5CppMg3K0l6D38QuoYmGEbPm7uEDgBUukC0ZnfmkgyR2kuscGhnisKZUT6dsk-iCguiCgduFnYM5GX7mtrBt/s400/IMG_2538.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523526955787889538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Giant marabou storks, each one of these comes up to my chest, they are everywhere. (Insert off-colour reference to Uganda's birthrate here.)</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlx6IIoac95i0ptLDNwxA_vnYLzRjatolsPAVby8ZGnqfWrWLqGYDRPY5YOPJQk4GLHf6VsYPAeH_ZREbLybaNXDbztn9oPNuTTTxAx5EFV-p65fOihB1Cq2fXYM9KlwmyCt_muVv6YGo/s1600/IMG_2536.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlx6IIoac95i0ptLDNwxA_vnYLzRjatolsPAVby8ZGnqfWrWLqGYDRPY5YOPJQk4GLHf6VsYPAeH_ZREbLybaNXDbztn9oPNuTTTxAx5EFV-p65fOihB1Cq2fXYM9KlwmyCt_muVv6YGo/s400/IMG_2536.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523526954249050834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Krest Bitter Lemon, our new favourite Africa drink.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a style="font-style: italic;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtonSJ9DIqp7GXnOo8gwCcLCGpfX4PdgpxkBLJc50eQHhoaGmFdJohYK1bguLyMFg1Vb01wEem2NvAFRPSodXIR72ibfGyaNMiDDKxo9SKB1YMv1VZGChjl7h_tn5RiMpbHFySM3mkOmF/s1600/IMG_2524.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtonSJ9DIqp7GXnOo8gwCcLCGpfX4PdgpxkBLJc50eQHhoaGmFdJohYK1bguLyMFg1Vb01wEem2NvAFRPSodXIR72ibfGyaNMiDDKxo9SKB1YMv1VZGChjl7h_tn5RiMpbHFySM3mkOmF/s400/IMG_2524.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523526949448751410" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Again with the birthrate thing?</span></span><br /></div><br />From Jinja we took a bus across the last border crossing of our trip into Kenya and bid Uganda adieu. Whether it was the country's size, its bus network or just that the places we wanted to see were fairly spread out, Uganda was the country we were able to see the most of, which felt good. It gets pegged as an 'in-a-nutshell' African country, and the description was appropriate for us: we did the safari thing, we did the crazy-ass city thing, we drank beer in loud overstuffed hostels and we drank beer among little tweeting birds. While not the first notion of Africa for most, Uganda is a beautiful little package perfectly situated for small-scale tourists such as ourselves, where every corner merits exploration (the exception being the north corner, where the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord%27s_Resistance_Army">Lord's Resistance Army</a> is doing really, really awful things to people). And I haven't even mentioned that we shelled out $450 to see the mountain gorillas! That's because we<span style="font-style: italic;"> didn't</span>! And we still had an amazing time. So <span style="font-style: italic;">there</span>.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-83339272242799938412010-08-23T23:06:00.000-07:002010-08-23T23:08:16.161-07:00"So how WAS Africa?"<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">We are liars. More accurately, Scott is a lair for promising to keep up with this thing, and I am just lazy for failing to write a single post in almost two months.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We are home. We have been reunited with our families, friends and non-PC computers. We have been acing job interviews, cooking up some mean fried-chicken-free meals, playing every backyard game in the book, and soaking up even more sun (Canadian sun, not African sun – there’s a difference). It’s strange how seamlessly you can transition back to life as you knew it after five months in a world that could not possibly be more different from your own. It’s strange how much you can think about a place before you’ve been, and how little you find yourself thinking once you’ve returned. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I do think about it. While waiting to cross the street, I am amazed when a car actually stops for me. While reading the Vancouver Sun, I chuckle at a headline that reads “Closing of elementary school forces 8 year old to walk 3.5 kilometers to school”. While sleeping safely in my single bed, I dream of the laughing, hopeful children we met and wake up to realize that some of will not see adulthood. Some may already be gone. It’s not an easy thing to come to terms with, so I push it out of my mind and check Facebook instead.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I want to tell you what Africa meant to me. I want to tell you about the mothers with the babies strapped to their backs, the colours of their kangas, the children in their HIV POSITIVE t-shirts, the ingenious things they could make out of wire and bottle caps, the houses they lived in and how fantastic it felt to be invited into them. I want to tell you about their warmth, their vitality, their faith, despite what seems like such dismal circumstances. I want to tell you about the beauty and the tragedy of Africa, but I’m afraid I’ll come up short; I’m afraid I’m not a skilled enough writer; I’m afraid that regardless of my inarticulacy, words alone aren’t enough.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It seems to me that Africa is a land of inherent contradiction. One day, the people are friendly, the landscapes are indescribable, and minibuses really aren’t that bad. The next, the people are bordering on malicious, the landscapes have turned dismal and you’re on a 14 hour bus ride with a large, perspiring woman literally sitting on top of you. In Africa, very little time is spent in the space between absolute despair and unfettered bliss, and a great deal is spent at one of the two extremes. That is probably one of the only things I can say about Africa with any degree of certainty: you will forget what complacency feels like. Africa draws extreme reactions from people, and, like the maggots that laid their eggs in our bed sheets, it’s tough not to let it get under your skin.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Africa is life intensified. The colours are more vibrant here – the reds of the fertile soil, the greens of the undulating hills, the blues of the sweeping skies. The flavours are sharper – the cinnamon and the coriander and the rainbows of peppercorns. The noises are louder, the going is slower, the journey is far more convoluted and intriguing than it appears. Everything is so pure and in the moment that even the most cautious person will want to launch themselves into the throes of it all and despite the frustrations that doing so sometimes caused, I’m so glad we did.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Everything you have ever seen or heard or read about Africa is true. All of it exists in some measure, and then some. I wish I could tell you that the kids on TV with flies on their faces are a myth, but they’re not. You will see some of that. You will see the victims of landmines hauling themselves around on the ground with whatever is left of their bodies. You will see a lot of white UN trucks, men with guns, and people who act like that’s completely normal. But you will also see laughing, energetic, healthy kids, fathers with steady jobs, mothers learning to diversify their crops, prosthetics, local languages, songs, and feel a prevailing sense of peace. It will shake you to your core. It will make you think. It will make you want to go home and tell everyone you know about it. And ultimately, it will make you want to go back. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">We have returned home with memories, experiences, and a renewed enthusiasm for life and what’s important. We hiked amidst the colourful rondavels and maize crops of the Transkei. We survived a night of food poisoning aboard a decaying steamship in the middle of Lake Malawi. We joked with the border officials in Tanzania. We explored the empty ruins of an ancient city. We watched the sun set over Kenya from a fishing dhow. We ate spaghetti and watermelon for breakfast. We took cold showers. We asked for help. We paid too much for taxis. We camped on a cliff. We ate goat. We learned to say “thank you” in half a dozen different languages. We used that one a lot. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I cried over stray dogs and begging children and my faraway family. I laughed at Scott’s Zanzibari haircut, Adam and Aviel’s beauty salesperson spiel, and the disbelief on just about everyone’s face when we informed them that we were neither married nor Muslim. I was excited, anxious, frightened, depressed, ecstatic, hot, dirty, tired and hungry. I wanted to come home on more than one occasion. I also contemplated putting down permanently with relative frequency. I hated it, I loved it, and not once did I feel apathetic towards any of it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I guess what I really want to tell you most about Africa is that you should go. There is no other way you will understand it. Even then, you might not, and it’s entirely possible that you will return home with even less to say on the subject than you did at the outset. But there is no doubt that it will affect you. Though you can’t pinpoint exactly how, and you can’t explain exactly why, Africa will move you to feel more deeply than you ever thought possible. You will see that this is not a land of rape and lions, but a beautiful, largely peaceful, inspiring place, which is so often misrepresented, ignored and abandoned by the outside world. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">What Africa meant to me is not something I am capable of telling you. So just go. See it for yourself. Marvel at all the things that simply don’t translate to words. Try to understand the incomprehensible. See things from a different perspective. Let it challenge you, change you, seep into you. Then come home and tell me about it.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-23481972211715794052010-08-04T13:10:00.000-07:002010-08-04T13:14:38.166-07:00Yikes!Okay, so when I said that we'd 'keep the posts coming' that was obviously a gigantic -- though unintentional -- fib. Turns out when there are jobs to be applied for and apartments to be hunted and decks to be reclined upon, the motivation to hunker down and pump out a post seems to die a little. But we can assure you that there are more posts on their way, because we are going to finish this thing, darnit. So everybody should all keep checking back on an hourly basis for, say, the next six months? We'll get there. Thanks!<br /><br />Just for fun, here's Alanna and mine's respective reading lists for our five months of travel:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Alanna</span><br /><ul><li>The Puppeteers - Renesh Lakhan</li><li>We Need to Talk About Kevin – Lionel Shriver</li><li>The Corporation – Joel Bakan</li><li>117 Days – Ruth First</li><li>The Whole World Over – Julia Glass</li><li>Stealing Water – Tim Ecott</li><li>Southern Cross – Jann Turner</li><li>America Wife – Curtis Sittenfeld</li><li>The Dive from Clausen's Pier – Ann Packer</li><li>Juliet, Naked – Nick Hornby</li><li>The Last King of Scotland – Giles Foden</li><li>The Condition – Jennifer Haigh</li><li>State of Blood – Henry Kyemba</li><li>The Constant Gardener – John Le Carré</li><li>One Day – David Nicholls</li><li>A Spot of Bother – Mark Haddon</li><li>The Other Hand – Chris Cleave</li></ul><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Scott</span><br /><ul><li>The Snows of Mt Kilimanjaro – Ernest Hemingway</li><li>The Big Sleep – Raymond Chandler</li><li>Papillon – Henri Charrière</li><li>The Corporation – Joel Bakan</li><li>Far From the Madding Crowd – Thomas Hardy</li><li>True History of the Kelly Gang – Peter Carey</li><li>The Adventures of Augie March – Saul Bellow</li><li>Regeneration – Pat Barker</li><li>Juliet, Naked – Nick Hornby</li><li>The Last King of Scotland – Giles Foden</li><li>Pilgrim – Timothy Findley</li><li>Stealing Water – Tim Ecott</li><li>Never Let Me Go – Kazuo Ishiguro</li><li>The Constant Gardener – John Le Carré</li></ul>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-81346249701402274242010-06-19T10:33:00.000-07:002010-06-19T11:31:53.933-07:00Homeland Security Sweet Homeland Security<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbD29bYOdqwrJWFq52y1CFCWzsz67ehe3uef10jRvUIlImj2aijcH-ZhggewE0HiaUpggqbVeLXSBaWeJrIUgjsH9QIIiQOdHahRXSEtuOWLKuwo4CY0iCk21RLcAhIPtDx_h2QMwIlvTE/s1600/IMG_2942.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbD29bYOdqwrJWFq52y1CFCWzsz67ehe3uef10jRvUIlImj2aijcH-ZhggewE0HiaUpggqbVeLXSBaWeJrIUgjsH9QIIiQOdHahRXSEtuOWLKuwo4CY0iCk21RLcAhIPtDx_h2QMwIlvTE/s400/IMG_2942.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484552041592864322" border="0" /></a><br />Well, we are home safely. Alanna and I both arrived at our respective parents' doorsteps on Monday following two plain rides, much waiting, and the frustrating bureaucratic theft of a large bottle of duty-free spirits. With regards to our online adventures we're an entire country behind so we'll keep the posts coming and everyone can just pretend we're still very far away.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">you never saw this...</span>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-74723539679347027462010-06-14T02:28:00.000-07:002010-06-14T02:28:00.448-07:00Diss the CookA while back I was watching a late-night talk show on which Tom Cruise was a guest. It was one of the episodes where they wheel out a portable kitchen counter and summon a celebrity chef, who bangs together a pre-conceived dish in a minute flat just in time for the credits to roll. As is common, once Wolfgang Puck or whoever got cooking, Tom Cruise naturally joined in to 'lend a hand'. I'm sure he was well-intentioned, but it became evident early on that, from the apprehensive and awkward way he prodded whatever was sauteeing in his assigned fry-pan, Tom Cruise is a guy who does not do much of his own cooking. And me on the couch thought, “If I am ever famous enough to go on Leno, and Wolfgang Puck is a guest the same night as me, I will grasp that spatula like a pro and totally <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> those aubergines and everyone on their respective couches will say, hey, will you look at that Scott guy, he really knows his way around a kitchen, he doesn't have a personal chef or anything, he's just a normal person!” and my books/albums/fitness videos will consequentially sell like hotcakes.<br /><br />But in rural Uganda we are not just 'normal people'. We are the bourgeois: we are people who have enough spare time and money to care about things like 'anti-oxidants' and 'the blogosphere' and 'oscar-buzz'. As in,<br /><br />“Hey, have you heard? The fruit of the baobab tree is absolutely <span style="font-style: italic;">packed</span> with anti-oxidants. It is the next super-food. It is the next goji berry.”<br />“Really? Huh. That is good to know, because two baobab fruits are all I have eaten in the past twenty-four hours. Also, I live in a building the size of your guest bathroom.”<br /><br />Anyway, this is all pertinent to when, at Lake Nkuruba Nature Reserve & Community Campsite just outside of Fort Portal, Uganda, Alanna and I decided to save a few bucks (literally, like, two dollars) and cook our own dinner the final night. There wasn't a public kitchen, just the staff one for the camp's restaurant, but we asked if we could use it to cook some pasta and Jane, the timid, smiling young woman in charge kindly agreed. She led us into a small chamber with a rough concrete counter along one wall. The counter had two holes in the top with bars across like prison windows. The walls were covered in probably an inch of soot. There were no 'appliances', per se, just a few metal utensils and a yellow jug, presumably full of cooking oil.<br /><br />Now I do fancy myself as knowing my way somewhat around a kitchen, and I've done much cooking in less-than-lavish conditions, such as on camping trips and the like, and over our time in Africa Alanna and I have concocted some very good meals in all kinds of ill-equipped and unconventional facilities. But when I stepped into that room, all of a sudden <span style="font-style: italic;">I was Tom Cruise</span>. Except I was worse than Tom Cruise, because I'm sure that, in a pinch, he'd at least know how to turn the stove on.<br /><br />Jane was kind enough to help. After adding some fresh firewood, she used a small plastic bag and a few splashes of liquid paraffin (<span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> cooking oil in the jug after all) as fire-starter. She then left us alone in order to split more logs outside. As we watched the plastic sputter and smoke over the firewood, it occurred to me that this is the way in which much of the food we'd been eating over the past months has been cooked – beautiful flatbreads, tender fish, intricate curries – all produced over what most westerners would identify as 'an incinerator'.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigYEuW9bNqLVF3bzuBy4KtU1qqxUUDWWLvrIkTyeq3yJJii09L-hJ3EY4B9KMPoTAJ7a1c0UhNnVLiaRtT3i8gc_EMlRMSqWh4JWVkp1a6iW9n9x3xZ2sCzVAtc_29bb5gerC0T5qdJ44z/s1600/IMG_2398.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigYEuW9bNqLVF3bzuBy4KtU1qqxUUDWWLvrIkTyeq3yJJii09L-hJ3EY4B9KMPoTAJ7a1c0UhNnVLiaRtT3i8gc_EMlRMSqWh4JWVkp1a6iW9n9x3xZ2sCzVAtc_29bb5gerC0T5qdJ44z/s400/IMG_2398.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482002712089276194" border="0" /></a><br />And there was more. We filled a pot and brought water to a boil (really quickly, I might add) and got our pasta cooked. But then, how to remove it from the flame? This was a problem. There were some oily pieces of cardboard folded into what seemed like potholders, but of course they'd just catch fire. The solution was easy: Jane, intuiting our helplessness, simply reached down bare-fingered and plucked the pot off the stove. I guess if you've been cooking this way since you were six years old, you can do that kind of thing.<br /><br />For the fifteen minutes it took for our fusili to cook, Alanna and I alternated going into the kitchen to stir the pot with a fork. This solicited chuckles from Jane and the two other camp employees lounging outside – We weren't sure why exactly, but by now we're accustomed to mystery amusement on our behalf. Earlier in the day we walked down the road to a small town, and got some chuckles from a group of girls after we said hello, and I thought, <span style="font-style: italic;">why are you laughing at me? You are the one walking down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere with a big wooden bench balanced on your head!</span> But that's the way it goes when you don't speak the language. Anyway, cooking in the kitchen, it wasn't until we'd gone and drained the pasta together (that was <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span> funny) that the other woman, whose English was a little better than Jane's, informed us that it was of course the fact we were cooking together – that I was participating at all – that was amusing. She then went on a short, lighthearted yet still fairly serious diatribe against the frustrations of gender roles in Uganda, much to the embarrassment of the man present, who had to leave. “You go and iron all the man's shirts, and then he wears one for two minutes and <span style="font-style: italic;">fwit!</span>– he throws it on the floor,” she explained. She told us how much she admired the way we did things. I said something to the effect of, “we cook together, we clean together, we laugh together...” and this garnered whoops of laughter and a high-five between the two women.<br /><br />So the chuckles we get on the street are possibly just along the lines of, <span style="font-style: italic;">ha ha, look at that man and woman, walking down the street like equals, what a hoot!</span> And if I were offended by that, well, I'd have to be a barbarian, wouldn't I?<br /><br />----<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">CRIME!</span></span><br /><br />We haven't wanted to jinx anything by saying so, but since by the time this entry hits the press we'll be in the air on the way home so I think we can put it out there – over all this time in Africa we have not once felt in danger or experienced firsthand any the criminality that is supposed to be so prevalent here. We've certainly been out and about, and I think Alanna and I both expected at least something, whether it be some bills disappearing out of a back pocket or a small border-post bribe. But over the course of the whole trip, we'd been getting by scot-free.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Until Lake Nkuruba Nature Reserve & Community Campsite, that is...</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHYlCq26lhXYlje4n1HMGkd0iizQQuYuAdVImBLB-pN1dMABo_Pk4NNRXp3xU8s_ZUiBl-VnP-nYfOkjKns7BikCASEYsjyPvqaKyTvS0ODF9CJJSttMdBEjrzTNjzc-x7adh3zFJL_nc/s1600/IMG_2258.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHYlCq26lhXYlje4n1HMGkd0iizQQuYuAdVImBLB-pN1dMABo_Pk4NNRXp3xU8s_ZUiBl-VnP-nYfOkjKns7BikCASEYsjyPvqaKyTvS0ODF9CJJSttMdBEjrzTNjzc-x7adh3zFJL_nc/s400/IMG_2258.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482002693931734210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Little did we know.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCPvMNWIXZ2JSK09BXhrNUPXtuGASf23oPjAm3iFIuRu3WWmnMHq_5VKPQjj-f9iJ0-3cKCK8DMQ6ZaS0Vj3G-Oo4yIg24ysFHKIlJc4Caev4e-RvldPGmIVX9-3xoO9btaet0_oBV3ZE/s1600/IMG_2221.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCPvMNWIXZ2JSK09BXhrNUPXtuGASf23oPjAm3iFIuRu3WWmnMHq_5VKPQjj-f9iJ0-3cKCK8DMQ6ZaS0Vj3G-Oo4yIg24ysFHKIlJc4Caev4e-RvldPGmIVX9-3xoO9btaet0_oBV3ZE/s400/IMG_2221.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482002685081446562" border="0" /></a><br /></div>This is Aldrin. He speaks very little English and is maybe the offspring of one of the camp employees. On our first day at Lake Nkuruba he wandered over to where we were playing cards. Once we were finished, we tried to entertain him for a while – I attempted to teach him the names of the face cards, and then let him balance cards on my head, which he found utterly hilarious. I then handed over the entire pack, and he busied himself moving them in and out of the box and dealing them onto the table. Then he left with the cards and disappeared into the reception office.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">And we saw neither him nor the cards...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ever Again.</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:250%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Aldrin!!!</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Note: his name may not be Aldrin. His name may be some other name that we misheard through a thick Luganda accent as Aldrin when we asked Jane what his name was. Adrian, maybe.</span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"> We sure hope his name is Aldrin though.</span>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-5722381715557018932010-06-12T04:27:00.000-07:002010-06-12T05:13:52.493-07:00Lake BunyonyiBack from Murchison Falls NP we picked out a new hotel in Kampala, same price as our previous one but with a slightly less hectic location. At least, we <span style="font-style: italic;">thought</span> it would be the same price – the only double they had available was the “ultra luxe” suite. It was still just $35 for the room, so we said what the heck. The “luxe” touches comprised of thick tasselly curtains, three free bottles of water, a single terrycloth bathrobe, and a shiny bedspread. There was a small TV hung from the ceiling but it didn't work. Not exactly presidential caliber, but I did feel a bit out of place scrubbing my undies in the sink.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutYu7suCrQiurnKV3x5Xlu_-s2yQXNwXMgO5aubQT7FEnGHCC7f5b9LQHqwWZ8grBBhSfShl_OosM88GA-1ST98deD0yihyphenhyphenZrGCum-ZtIBAIM7ZGX6KQfbESXAReArQobxKZdg6R9vhMz/s1600/IMG_1901.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutYu7suCrQiurnKV3x5Xlu_-s2yQXNwXMgO5aubQT7FEnGHCC7f5b9LQHqwWZ8grBBhSfShl_OosM88GA-1ST98deD0yihyphenhyphenZrGCum-ZtIBAIM7ZGX6KQfbESXAReArQobxKZdg6R9vhMz/s400/IMG_1901.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481851265041347762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Kampala Balla</span></span><br /></div><br />We left Kampala a second time for Kabale, way down south near the Rwanda border, our final destination being the nearby Lake Bunyonyi. Our method of travel was the Post Bus, a daily transit service offered by the Uganda postal system. It was an eight-hour trip, and we stopped at every single post office along the way as well for any roadside Jack who stuck his arm out, but as far as bus rides go it was not so bad. After a night in Kabale we caught a cab to the lake ten kilometers out of town. The road passed alongside several small rock quarries where groups of men and young boys were literally making gravel by hand – manually rolling boulders down from an exposed cliff face and chipping them into golf-ball-sized pieces with a hammer and chisel, some perched on piles as tall as themselves. They didn't look like they were working <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> hard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHnl1fvvKzoSLTYJmpHCZDVD4kAn4Bp8ON5M5VmyUfkaVh3LHPvGSUjo6y9i5bK4L5yfpIvWIZyw8QbvV9z1tvDcSPCUuzJPJWHSczagYzpCl8cyPrkXBgDiCm1Fd1iT_RVFMyKnu9Jzs/s1600/IMG_2068.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHnl1fvvKzoSLTYJmpHCZDVD4kAn4Bp8ON5M5VmyUfkaVh3LHPvGSUjo6y9i5bK4L5yfpIvWIZyw8QbvV9z1tvDcSPCUuzJPJWHSczagYzpCl8cyPrkXBgDiCm1Fd1iT_RVFMyKnu9Jzs/s400/IMG_2068.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848435050816258" border="0" /></a><br />Lake Bunyonyi is a low-key spot with a good reputation among people who like to do quiet things. Our accommodation of choice was Byoona Amagara, a backpacker-targeted community-centric lodge set on a small island. The resort offers a free shuttle to the island in the form of a dugout canoe – at a dock on the mainland we were met by a young man named Justice who lugged our bags into a heavy-looking hollowed-out section of eucalyptus, steadied the thing as we got in, and handed us each a paddle. The ride took just shy of an hour, and as we chatted (World Cup, Canadian weather, et cetera) I envisioned waking the following morning unable to lift my arms.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBK8J9Icj1zMs_f4i32xOhkXNd09tpM4sp3DkUAyI5-nhL450fJSpq6bW_O7DIPlSVQfLY2NDz9CoD5UJNopKZf7mCrXLmZ3KsTjeZuHAOiz1Kmy30aOfKGTnmuPMBPCwQ_VNNfNjmZmj/s1600/IMG_1921.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBK8J9Icj1zMs_f4i32xOhkXNd09tpM4sp3DkUAyI5-nhL450fJSpq6bW_O7DIPlSVQfLY2NDz9CoD5UJNopKZf7mCrXLmZ3KsTjeZuHAOiz1Kmy30aOfKGTnmuPMBPCwQ_VNNfNjmZmj/s400/IMG_1921.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481847886495321906" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eO8zRhy6hEDHbBIUFWrIFnbITG6xkN8Q5Ybv7KKsZZ0pYS-j-5rg4YBC0rQJJ03R4feb7l12RGgWjUzrisOD47ujwm4h7Z_Xq39nrI4BQl3T04DrdCobV5mfS0y_WLixXTo48Yhazw0T/s1600/IMG_1923.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eO8zRhy6hEDHbBIUFWrIFnbITG6xkN8Q5Ybv7KKsZZ0pYS-j-5rg4YBC0rQJJ03R4feb7l12RGgWjUzrisOD47ujwm4h7Z_Xq39nrI4BQl3T04DrdCobV5mfS0y_WLixXTo48Yhazw0T/s400/IMG_1923.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481847892128394658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Do the P.A.D.D.L.E.</span><br /></span></div><br />While it's nobody's first vision of Africa, Lake Bunyonyi is a truly beautiful place, set among steep hills cultivated in dense terraces right down to its squiggly shore, quaint and endlessly green. Byoona Amagara is located on tiny Itambira Island, one of many in the lake, which it shares with a small village and about a billion birds. We slept in a 'bio-dome', a geometric thatched structure open on one side to a private deck and a more-than-adequate view the lake beyond. The place is apparently owned by a guy in New York who donates all profits to the local community. Everything runs off solar panels, and they somehow have enough juice to screen nightly movies, at a dollar a head, from an impressive catalogue. We watched <span style="font-style: italic;">The Aviator</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Constant Gardener</span>. Not exactly feel-good movies but there wasn't much of a need, now was there?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-wCmH7ewtjplzw23WdYi_gHGVhOb5019-LGawbi_vYdSAlpVeRGTsh5HfzP7nwvNRBDs-CkwmglbGouIPmKegFiGi4QzIa0KGer2PqFOmNbXQNfZ8ssdjbOUgxPXaqtqCwzwHX8r3ubF/s1600/IMG_1938.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-wCmH7ewtjplzw23WdYi_gHGVhOb5019-LGawbi_vYdSAlpVeRGTsh5HfzP7nwvNRBDs-CkwmglbGouIPmKegFiGi4QzIa0KGer2PqFOmNbXQNfZ8ssdjbOUgxPXaqtqCwzwHX8r3ubF/s400/IMG_1938.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481847895965258738" border="0" /></a><br />The first two days on the island were a bit dreary, which meant warm beer (no sun ergo no fridge) and lots of cribbage. But when it brightened up we rented one of the dugouts to explore the nearby islands. I am no stranger to a canoe, and with Alanna's credentials we were fairly positive of our ability to manoeuver. But it was not until we'd drifted into the lake just far enough to come within view of the Byoona Amagara dining terrace that Alanna in the rear discovered that the physics of a dugout are completely backwards from its fiberglass equivalent and we could do nothing but spin in circles like city-slicking novices. We (royal 'we') eventually got it figured out, though not without some concentration. Watching twelve-year-olds float by straight as an arrow while barely touching their paddle to the water was a bit hard to take.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGewwJgSphKsXyhAKj2OhOLyLp7jRRRmM1I0BLkFsSNyz1qw528-DuORs6zqeIaVuStW1JIN92YXIPtBsAeFbmd_uym13y-dKPj2DKVO-lvBp06fviOUO80uqgBWGRlG76SiwxoDKABtL0/s1600/IMG_2086.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGewwJgSphKsXyhAKj2OhOLyLp7jRRRmM1I0BLkFsSNyz1qw528-DuORs6zqeIaVuStW1JIN92YXIPtBsAeFbmd_uym13y-dKPj2DKVO-lvBp06fviOUO80uqgBWGRlG76SiwxoDKABtL0/s400/IMG_2086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848915808357858" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2IHNnzxUlQgiuDKB1J80Pl8Ss5mA3dqr5jdImLRsxFXV7U3Na8nzMB2aDGvkTY7EICwEZLJy-vzMJhzlxvTsUz7LmF9TYHXQ3Zk8TvW6gDid6_xNyI6f1Om-OcIjGg_puwH4OaMRivyUE/s1600/IMG_2084.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2IHNnzxUlQgiuDKB1J80Pl8Ss5mA3dqr5jdImLRsxFXV7U3Na8nzMB2aDGvkTY7EICwEZLJy-vzMJhzlxvTsUz7LmF9TYHXQ3Zk8TvW6gDid6_xNyI6f1Om-OcIjGg_puwH4OaMRivyUE/s400/IMG_2084.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848911796111250" border="0" /></a><br />We ventured ashore on Bwama Island, Itambira's neighbour and a former mission and leper colony. The small island is dotted with blue-roofed brick buildings reminiscent of those of Livingstonia in Malawi. The island is home to both the primary and secondary schools for the area, and arriving on shore we came across what is labeled in blue paint as the 'Bwama School Bus':<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0_7umQuangMA70fNhWmnaLCyDCGHITuFLaRMiM4300kMj_knK2vM0xM2Xpo63niojC38De2oCrCm5mE6FCbZpGzdrc0l4snqqo-r30n_HqT83noz9ulDoVQ0Sx-wUdrHWhtMm9rntnRP/s1600/IMG_2082.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0_7umQuangMA70fNhWmnaLCyDCGHITuFLaRMiM4300kMj_knK2vM0xM2Xpo63niojC38De2oCrCm5mE6FCbZpGzdrc0l4snqqo-r30n_HqT83noz9ulDoVQ0Sx-wUdrHWhtMm9rntnRP/s400/IMG_2082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848908796117170" border="0" /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"the keel on the bus goes..."</span><br /></span></div><br />Our guidebook mentioned Bwama as worthy of exploration, but we felt half as though we were wandering through someone's backyard. Any surface of the island not covered in pathways or buildings was almost entirely surrendered to crops of potato, maize and banana, save for an undulating soccer pitch beside the primary school. We visited during a spring break of sorts, and without kids running around it was very difficult to tell whether the school buildings were abandoned or not. Windows were boarded up, there was childish graffiti scrawled over the walls and a sombre lack of furniture. The primary school's exterior was decorated with various decisive slogans in bold black paint: <span style="font-style: italic;">AIDS KILL</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">ABSTAIN FROM SEX</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">VIRGINITY IS HEALTH</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">STAY AWAY FROM BAD GROUPS</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">DO NOT ACCEPT GIFTS</span>, which confused us, but probably means something along the lines of don't take candy from strangers, which is no doubt more of a problem here, seeing as kids have a habit of demanding that very thing from every white person they see.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyninlhwZ5jzzmrCS06uLpvKpfxFVgUEAU7lgKoTjqeA682rJxMBSypW84bp9zFQO1hAG8sbRRwRgxdLnejvl6BUIXNvyF0s9-qJ_o5QSCNfPeE7jNc8CaDAi5lbz85nbb1Vgkl387I6TF/s1600/IMG_2079.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyninlhwZ5jzzmrCS06uLpvKpfxFVgUEAU7lgKoTjqeA682rJxMBSypW84bp9zFQO1hAG8sbRRwRgxdLnejvl6BUIXNvyF0s9-qJ_o5QSCNfPeE7jNc8CaDAi5lbz85nbb1Vgkl387I6TF/s400/IMG_2079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848449876746802" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0ORlubRxtWtuiAzSRK83GpNAH65DpKUOWyJ-uwhRMpLzlwoItkfrf1CptdaOL-ZGkTL6XOuFNMrZOp-qs58MCuYOTo5B85HweNwnqYzxX_gtRICduh5z8mmHbzALR6-w8Zk0VVxloGY-/s1600/IMG_2067.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit0ORlubRxtWtuiAzSRK83GpNAH65DpKUOWyJ-uwhRMpLzlwoItkfrf1CptdaOL-ZGkTL6XOuFNMrZOp-qs58MCuYOTo5B85HweNwnqYzxX_gtRICduh5z8mmHbzALR6-w8Zk0VVxloGY-/s400/IMG_2067.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848430880500018" border="0" /></a><br />The secondary school operates in the buildings of the former lepers' hospital, equal parts historic-charming and plain old run-down. Again, the place had an aura of having been empty for decades rather than weeks, but our paddler Justice later confirmed than students were to be returning in only a few days' time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6YUxK6y6e_Yc25p-sszAqCFCL_R2X1DCj_ItefgQ5RJK5ZlQ6FlZX_Fh9vU8tNbxHzpTINWArbKCuGrjEB_7z-xIxUaDzG0883h_RZLeXVl5-OhmThbAcZN84BO-c6ceHMCaTmv5Fhoii/s1600/IMG_2066.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6YUxK6y6e_Yc25p-sszAqCFCL_R2X1DCj_ItefgQ5RJK5ZlQ6FlZX_Fh9vU8tNbxHzpTINWArbKCuGrjEB_7z-xIxUaDzG0883h_RZLeXVl5-OhmThbAcZN84BO-c6ceHMCaTmv5Fhoii/s400/IMG_2066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848424525136194" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyOGBNfW8DBjDL0Ftdko0W-6-c9qhBqdoyfBG3m4B5s0-0l5YEc56YS223fKz1Runo_nIDYkCgQy-FS67ld7A3BeJDs5EL91OtQ-LtgphNgRssbKhDz4k01mq38EpTj6xg4tBEtpkiCWF/s1600/IMG_2069.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyOGBNfW8DBjDL0Ftdko0W-6-c9qhBqdoyfBG3m4B5s0-0l5YEc56YS223fKz1Runo_nIDYkCgQy-FS67ld7A3BeJDs5EL91OtQ-LtgphNgRssbKhDz4k01mq38EpTj6xg4tBEtpkiCWF/s400/IMG_2069.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848442463398290" border="0" /></a><br />But other than the one fitness activity to remind us how out-of-shape we were (isn't backpacking around Africa supposed to be a workout?) we easily passed the days reading our books, throwing ourselves off the beautiful dock and eating Byoona Amagara's (mostly) delicious foods. And while Alanna and I are both very bored by the majority of birds (I say if it's not bigger or brighter than a fire hydrant, it ain't worth identifying) but the little Bunyonyi birds were actually pretty cool, some with long ribbon-tails up to a foot in length and often six or seven species occupying the same bush. Still doesn't mean I needed to know their names.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_pzuRRkcblf0a6NyxcoJDSZcQJ4PtkJGMHEgoW_0KVA77mUDAVlzKkyJ2XwvoseHPhFQKcmR2eq6BK1GVez0wRRlmsZ-S1pOIhtaBsjuMYLy7fBBeWZHJM8tulkYDS9XqA_hGmCok72-/s1600/IMG_2104.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_pzuRRkcblf0a6NyxcoJDSZcQJ4PtkJGMHEgoW_0KVA77mUDAVlzKkyJ2XwvoseHPhFQKcmR2eq6BK1GVez0wRRlmsZ-S1pOIhtaBsjuMYLy7fBBeWZHJM8tulkYDS9XqA_hGmCok72-/s400/IMG_2104.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848919178236002" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdwP_yNfo0XNUL26ZFnLW_Ss4BeeB0fTrp8NTtSn6F1UjNLrj06sy7JrIbUzEhReu883cFMQymVqS0B4P3J-IjbZ3JY2uFAKxKPsRgqYNLOSGZ-aABy1QHRH3aYGfhc4oFqKt7aW8iWLUR/s1600/IMG_2033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdwP_yNfo0XNUL26ZFnLW_Ss4BeeB0fTrp8NTtSn6F1UjNLrj06sy7JrIbUzEhReu883cFMQymVqS0B4P3J-IjbZ3JY2uFAKxKPsRgqYNLOSGZ-aABy1QHRH3aYGfhc4oFqKt7aW8iWLUR/s400/IMG_2033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481847902892871474" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIBVHd95-GdZ1DPotkKlPf-3H2jBgh3jcJb_nJER6IIN5lpyLTxPEXOkkzkIlSfCCt1o3Xriq9QrT_pddqt3WHG8yhUkBHbn_NJS4nYstufeeHfSJz8j8plFlXSriOK_tooWayDfTr_yK/s1600/IMG_2110.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIBVHd95-GdZ1DPotkKlPf-3H2jBgh3jcJb_nJER6IIN5lpyLTxPEXOkkzkIlSfCCt1o3Xriq9QrT_pddqt3WHG8yhUkBHbn_NJS4nYstufeeHfSJz8j8plFlXSriOK_tooWayDfTr_yK/s400/IMG_2110.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481848922939123474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Fresh crayfish from the lake figures prominently on the Byoona menu.</span><br /></span></div><br />On the fifth day Justice paddled us back to the mainland and we were very sad. After another night in Kabale we discovered that the only bus that would take us to our next destination left at two thirty in the morning and we were even sadder. But Bunyonyi was the solitude we'd been waiting for, hard to beat on all counts, and worth an insufferable bus trip to the moon and back.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-51723755440433233222010-06-10T08:36:00.000-07:002010-06-10T11:12:08.613-07:00Safari!After aborting our island jaunt, we caught a minibus to Kampala, Uganda's capital. We'd been seriously craving a quiet lakeside retreat, and (at the time) pretty crushed the Banda Island thing had fallen through. The prospect of returning to another crazy capital city was not an appealing one. On top of it all, our shorts were still sopping wet from having had to wade back to the beach when we canceled on the boat trip.<br /><br />And then we reached downtown Kampala. The streets were jammed in a category of gridlock I had not thought possible. The density of people, vehicles and shops were beyond what we'd experienced so far, there was mud everywhere, and it was bloody hot out. It was as if the world had conspired to affirm for us one fact: <span style="font-style: italic;">you don't want to be here!</span> I personally had conceded to never reaching anywhere clean and quiet ever again in my entire life, but as our minibus once again became wedged in a sea of its brethren, Alanna announced we were getting off and heroically led us straight to our hotel, which was magically (to me at least) not that far away.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7VNuistUolZ9TSS7XM72X68jj8T1UMf53yYXpcTMElFx7DhYrndHn12WLT5ll5CyeGGFrbQOS9NwnxrJApz9-EWTj-9VbEDGVs0ifuF7IERH3wV4xOzS47u4OcFym12unbtnAi841qaa/s1600/IMG_1610.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7VNuistUolZ9TSS7XM72X68jj8T1UMf53yYXpcTMElFx7DhYrndHn12WLT5ll5CyeGGFrbQOS9NwnxrJApz9-EWTj-9VbEDGVs0ifuF7IERH3wV4xOzS47u4OcFym12unbtnAi841qaa/s400/IMG_1610.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481171684229456642" border="0" /></a><br />It turns out our accommodation (and the main minibus rank) is situated at the heart of Kampala's 'wholesale district', an especially cramped and hectic part of town. Though our hotel was perfectly adequate, leaving the building we'd often have to dodge men charging along the sidewalk with stacks of mattresses on their heads, or hefting giant industrial bags of plastic sandals off the back of a truck. The rest of the city wasn't so bad, and we came to enjoy Kampala, returning to it two more times between our excursions into rural Uganda.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxHu5PeidyGTWci1_6MmXyJQa8WSLHm9ggZRyTMuthIk1Xo8ODc6tJIDhMARVtEejANXIUIJXHD7UKMiv-N34TIO5kJUDVsOQPvOrrS874wkvuXq5jOe7C5aaID64mKnZjr4vYla8AygR/s1600/IMG_1613.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxHu5PeidyGTWci1_6MmXyJQa8WSLHm9ggZRyTMuthIk1Xo8ODc6tJIDhMARVtEejANXIUIJXHD7UKMiv-N34TIO5kJUDVsOQPvOrrS874wkvuXq5jOe7C5aaID64mKnZjr4vYla8AygR/s400/IMG_1613.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481171694675403010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">View from our balcony.</span><br /></span></div><br />Our first such outing was a three-day safari package to Murchison Falls National Park run by Red Chilli Backpackers, a hostel in the Kampala suburbs. It's advertised as 'budget' and is obviously geared towards the backpacker crowd, and the price, though not an absolute steal, was appealing. What they reserve for the small print is that meals aren't inclusive, which tops up expenses somewhat. Also, Murchison Falls National Park is a seven-hour drive away from Kampala, which, there and back, tends to cut into that oft-quoted 'three days'.<br /><br />Day one was, inevitably, mostly driving. We stopped for a split-second tour of the falls themselves – said to be the 'most powerful' in the world. Here the entire Nile river squeezes through a six-meter-wide gap in the rock. But, mostly driving. I read an entire Nick Hornby novel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84IUYJgwJCuJQWhA0_NoFLJAD7F5iX_hpKrtZCTYUkgG8zLEfvhXGc4Sxgdm3mvdyBhg54GLL2DQdDx6wTKzTac3Gr0DAz5I291-dzyi6o54u5hkcGmRkWrleFrv64Z_N6ou8lJnuRlpC/s1600/IMG_1655.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84IUYJgwJCuJQWhA0_NoFLJAD7F5iX_hpKrtZCTYUkgG8zLEfvhXGc4Sxgdm3mvdyBhg54GLL2DQdDx6wTKzTac3Gr0DAz5I291-dzyi6o54u5hkcGmRkWrleFrv64Z_N6ou8lJnuRlpC/s400/IMG_1655.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481171697938102114" border="0" /></a><br />Red Chilli operates a rest camp within the park, where we spent two nights in a double safari tent. The camp is unfenced, and a family of warthogs browses the property on a regular basis. After dark, hippos leave the cool of the Nile river to forage on land, and apparently wander the camp once lights are out. We didn't see any but other guests encountered a few on a late night trip to the toilet. By the way, the Nile begins in Uganda, how is this not common knowledge?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbQ1TTQ1ee3F4zwsC8oZZQAgl-DwQzwRAYWJ4oUmJdqLm9ikSOgT4z5LZkqj_6e32mCToHQ_bWvraeAyMwqh7d8xS_a_EVAHLsT35Z_3qS0_Tb5pA-01bUV3XpMMTYGXD4YMybRZWs4bW/s1600/IMG_1664.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbQ1TTQ1ee3F4zwsC8oZZQAgl-DwQzwRAYWJ4oUmJdqLm9ikSOgT4z5LZkqj_6e32mCToHQ_bWvraeAyMwqh7d8xS_a_EVAHLsT35Z_3qS0_Tb5pA-01bUV3XpMMTYGXD4YMybRZWs4bW/s400/IMG_1664.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481171714158528818" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGk6Ga1jGrVDH6tK1CGPr0qmoB6T5OfhzjxD0Veo_49RaoMwexiSiZugFsZ7Z-TxPtVUViUljwbd7s5hk224JE5k4ui8B2m4naJDviVRKX1qDrTU9QpGVCQ-TI_G5NtpZrQ5qHAl1PGP7/s1600/IMG_1885.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGk6Ga1jGrVDH6tK1CGPr0qmoB6T5OfhzjxD0Veo_49RaoMwexiSiZugFsZ7Z-TxPtVUViUljwbd7s5hk224JE5k4ui8B2m4naJDviVRKX1qDrTU9QpGVCQ-TI_G5NtpZrQ5qHAl1PGP7/s400/IMG_1885.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481173823888615026" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOR-vLepucw2VNA5IAUmFl4XJ2Aa5WR3Zb6CaUPL9ygSOqWgeLsTao8sHQ-HKUhy6x8K3VDjIHGXwJKJ42YQP_JFh3N-KBbxu0COY75QEBFfMQ2jO2P-IqDQKHg5HYkJ3ieIAa2vBN6MB8/s1600/IMG_1879.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOR-vLepucw2VNA5IAUmFl4XJ2Aa5WR3Zb6CaUPL9ygSOqWgeLsTao8sHQ-HKUhy6x8K3VDjIHGXwJKJ42YQP_JFh3N-KBbxu0COY75QEBFfMQ2jO2P-IqDQKHg5HYkJ3ieIAa2vBN6MB8/s400/IMG_1879.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481173824680389554" border="0" /></a><br />Day two we went on a morning game drive through the park and then a fantastic little boat ride up the Nile to see Murchison Falls from the water. The game drive was much what I'd expected a safari to be. We drove it in the same minibus we'd ridden from Kampala – the whole roof conveniently pops up, allowing us to stand and enjoy a 360-degree view of our surrounds. We had a guide in the vehicle spotting animals for us, though the knowledge he offered didn't go very far beyond each animal's average weight and lifespan.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy63BA3oDxpI8pXHWJHkw3o-mJ5z3uX7G8YWJe7qslw5qfKSznZCP_8QAgdZfKgrEL9xkPD6ZgIejL5fEz8hqg1Q0XALqYF2-EoOLLKrVz5etTEGNEYCXfKvQvsLbcaVNqUatmtqP__fzK/s1600/IMG_1671.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy63BA3oDxpI8pXHWJHkw3o-mJ5z3uX7G8YWJe7qslw5qfKSznZCP_8QAgdZfKgrEL9xkPD6ZgIejL5fEz8hqg1Q0XALqYF2-EoOLLKrVz5etTEGNEYCXfKvQvsLbcaVNqUatmtqP__fzK/s400/IMG_1671.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481171719387890578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">aboard the ferry across the Nile</span></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FbUlJOcJlQENfNf1uy4vRZoLp5fwnlx080tgjy7gjkKoY-YhK8uw3SpziXsDmmn5q7L4Pz6fb0O3lkCsn6bCNpuI2yebFmIywfTTeK0uI2dTXWknie1tyf2BsJgYPzavRjsWDc1RpDAY/s1600/IMG_1727.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FbUlJOcJlQENfNf1uy4vRZoLp5fwnlx080tgjy7gjkKoY-YhK8uw3SpziXsDmmn5q7L4Pz6fb0O3lkCsn6bCNpuI2yebFmIywfTTeK0uI2dTXWknie1tyf2BsJgYPzavRjsWDc1RpDAY/s400/IMG_1727.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481172625522437458" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-uguCb9xcgOneG7BuV5wMLDp1xXTX7Lp-E8_KwQvATeYe_h9EfpqA_HJOTkVnpKEXA_yBld8b66uxVVcMiaJabMOe-a0vayyDSL7o8_jw_tgfrBDBl3jPS65y2nTXnvPWq_KwAGBBp5z/s1600/IMG_1695.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-uguCb9xcgOneG7BuV5wMLDp1xXTX7Lp-E8_KwQvATeYe_h9EfpqA_HJOTkVnpKEXA_yBld8b66uxVVcMiaJabMOe-a0vayyDSL7o8_jw_tgfrBDBl3jPS65y2nTXnvPWq_KwAGBBp5z/s400/IMG_1695.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481172619559207586" border="0" /></a><br />I was pleasantly surprised at the density of animals in the park – I'd expected a pocket of buffalo here, some antelopes over here, but it was pretty much nonstop animals wherever we were: plenty of buffalo, warthogs, giraffe, and a wide variety of brownish antelopey animals ranging from the goat-sized duiker to the large and dunce-looking Jackson's hartebeest. We saw a single elephant, and a lion from just about as far away as a lion can be while still being categorized as 'seen'. No leopard, darnit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3BIBc1XH9H9ryQ45BBr972FobSXdAsFbmwKW-DDuZuCFvvnX0b38LU7_dX7YDeKJHq9lsO1enYusu8xpatleSo22GVgRP3-hz18gmRqkXPcILUoybLNgxz_YuT-LLgX1V-2Eq-MvwjC_/s1600/IMG_1753.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3BIBc1XH9H9ryQ45BBr972FobSXdAsFbmwKW-DDuZuCFvvnX0b38LU7_dX7YDeKJHq9lsO1enYusu8xpatleSo22GVgRP3-hz18gmRqkXPcILUoybLNgxz_YuT-LLgX1V-2Eq-MvwjC_/s400/IMG_1753.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481172631725913346" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLuA_xSsBXtRGqD3U95ezTFPZEFrfg9ZHiEA4TcSyOuUQDBpvFpuCWsPb46uqiwgjPgY0B07QwsmQAeaPz3EcXdZh8C49hyphenhyphenpmkiGKCPVgwx5RBJQwhhTjczHeEamdHjvwZQC4LIQB5uODN/s1600/IMG_1703.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLuA_xSsBXtRGqD3U95ezTFPZEFrfg9ZHiEA4TcSyOuUQDBpvFpuCWsPb46uqiwgjPgY0B07QwsmQAeaPz3EcXdZh8C49hyphenhyphenpmkiGKCPVgwx5RBJQwhhTjczHeEamdHjvwZQC4LIQB5uODN/s400/IMG_1703.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481172620187322162" border="0" /></a><br />A group of baboons kept us entertained as we waited for the ferry to take us back across the river to the camp. In the morning we'd been advised to keep our bagged lunches out of sight, as the baboons will take them away from you. Monkeys are a source of much amusement and adoration obviously, but up close, once one gets a sense of a baboon's size and the way its shoulder muscles pump when it walks, 'tree-climbing humanoid pit bull' becomes the appropriate description.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-9k8tZ2E9EHQNISmoVYwQUhHlWeIPzhiMmNrzxtfzZ8UUpKDaVOu3FNJIDgTrq3ER56hLnEXnUxDw7Mm1euj62L1A5sSKxibrxhkcoguHnrjHJN2zgb_jsaBcm_4uyfn-VIYCWrSt4XW/s1600/IMG_1770.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-9k8tZ2E9EHQNISmoVYwQUhHlWeIPzhiMmNrzxtfzZ8UUpKDaVOu3FNJIDgTrq3ER56hLnEXnUxDw7Mm1euj62L1A5sSKxibrxhkcoguHnrjHJN2zgb_jsaBcm_4uyfn-VIYCWrSt4XW/s400/IMG_1770.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481172633846282978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Uh, buddy, you may not realize this, but, uh...</span><br /></span></div><br />In the afternoon our group returned to the river and boarded a small double-decker catamaran for a river cruise. Our guide for the river trip was more informative that the game drive man, and over the course of the two-hour trip to the falls we passed some buffalo, a good number of crocs and more hippos than anyone could hope for.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7NfNtnab2PaXtF6SqQQlKQPnENATCZCqXM5NOyzxsLnSnorlmtlr-aJdXhMvLaa7-EZ4tTZytRBi_gbIuAChuJGbIPiIoBhWdy8NA0ta2GjlJE35lj-kK2H_NVBuYCAjGrFUIFblrFi7/s1600/IMG_1794.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7NfNtnab2PaXtF6SqQQlKQPnENATCZCqXM5NOyzxsLnSnorlmtlr-aJdXhMvLaa7-EZ4tTZytRBi_gbIuAChuJGbIPiIoBhWdy8NA0ta2GjlJE35lj-kK2H_NVBuYCAjGrFUIFblrFi7/s400/IMG_1794.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481173809094686946" border="0" /></a><br />Now I know 'once in a lifetime' is a term thrown around generously when discussing any number of African experiences, but I believe it is safe to say that no one reading this – or even the friends of people reading this, for that matter – knows anyone who's seen what we witnessed. Halfway up the river we passed a full-blown dead hippopotamus, bright pink and bobbing ribs-up in the water. Better than a leopard tenfold in my books.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-3yanekneoWi30uOUZro95z8BWNjFgyWbn1YFwTSKiPUeSFl_BxaL8WsplogexAEUgbdmIeQoNSVpv5GUhG7N9-lzpzfDjRR15ZFyNC2Bd98LLPYGFD8G4QRVE6tKMWLb7FF8-JbKCOu/s1600/IMG_1798.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-3yanekneoWi30uOUZro95z8BWNjFgyWbn1YFwTSKiPUeSFl_BxaL8WsplogexAEUgbdmIeQoNSVpv5GUhG7N9-lzpzfDjRR15ZFyNC2Bd98LLPYGFD8G4QRVE6tKMWLb7FF8-JbKCOu/s400/IMG_1798.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481173811151435170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thar she decays</span></span><br /></div><br />But missus hippo-corpse doesn't win the trophy for most photographed moment – no, such an honour could only be bestowed on when the Red Chilli motorboat intercepted us mid-cruise to heroically replenish the much-depleted beer cooler. While it seemed totally awesome at the time, the photo isn't that great and I won't include it here.<br /><br />Returning down the river we came across a big daddy elephant grappling with some branches right at the water's edge. On our trip we haven't seen as many elephants as I'd expected, given that they're dangerously <span style="font-style: italic;">over</span>populated in some areas, but even one alone was pretty breathtaking. Not only are they huge and majestic and all that, but there's something in the way they move about that I as a human can identify with. Whereas many monkeys share more body language in common with squirrels than people (to the untrained eye at least), I feel like if I were trapped in an elephant's body I would act basically the same as the elephants we've seen. Which is comforting, for whatever reason. Anyway, this elephant seemed a bit grumpy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_AUdsmFNdmqR-1Dg7Uq43s3URR6UKAwYA75d7RTlW1dhcM2r3krboS7cR4pSA6cUQITV1RS1CQgLRv0t32Lo1q8JAPiVzUjjKE7_mJz7peYpLhgEaYBPagMUOZjqLUXXUbbas4GAgVz20/s1600/IMG_1854.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_AUdsmFNdmqR-1Dg7Uq43s3URR6UKAwYA75d7RTlW1dhcM2r3krboS7cR4pSA6cUQITV1RS1CQgLRv0t32Lo1q8JAPiVzUjjKE7_mJz7peYpLhgEaYBPagMUOZjqLUXXUbbas4GAgVz20/s400/IMG_1854.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481173816432333970" border="0" /></a><br />On day three on the way back to Kampala we stopped for some 'Rhino tracking' at Siwa Rhino sanctuary. In my mind, I saw this as sneaking through the jungle on the heels of a guide who'd be busy analyzing snapped twigs and rolling balls of dung between his fingers. But because the rhinos in the park are under 24-hour scrutiny, it was more like a guy in green fatigues radioing his buddies in the bush and us marching directly to the animal. Our guide was no doubt a rhino expert, and probably had much interesting information to convey, but most of this was directed at the handsome Dutch couple at the front of the line and we couldn't hear anything. We reached the rhino and met two more armed rangers who until our arrival had been lounging on a mattress in the shade with some snacks. The rhino too was installed under a tree, pup at her side, the day being too hot for either animal to move more than an occasional ear. We couldn't get too close, and the animals were difficult to see in the mottled shade. But what can you do. Everyone hung around, took photos, asked a few questions, and then we turned around and trudged back. Personally I was just as excited by the trio of frogs I discovered miraculously living in the water tank of a toilet back near the parking lot.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39Vp2bSmDvLfCmLrn2HFg2q0dwP4gE1P8Gw5SkNgXQnB7lAy4W60-7wNcRE4Pupw0DrO8N9k-5x_wNa4iR6DbG0tiTe9C4Ev3R-p1u6MncEut7OexJk4Q816L5rvFKvKxf4MUWG9yeYeZ/s1600/rhino.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39Vp2bSmDvLfCmLrn2HFg2q0dwP4gE1P8Gw5SkNgXQnB7lAy4W60-7wNcRE4Pupw0DrO8N9k-5x_wNa4iR6DbG0tiTe9C4Ev3R-p1u6MncEut7OexJk4Q816L5rvFKvKxf4MUWG9yeYeZ/s400/rhino.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481174405490951186" border="0" /></a><br />We'll never really know whether our money could have been spent on something less hit-and-miss, but we had fun, and I don't think we realize how lucky we were to have an entire park to ourselves for a game drive – my impression of the more popular parks in South Africa or Tanzania is that they get, er, busy. We briefly discussed doing another safari in Kenya, but both agreed that unless we doubled our budget, we'd find ourselves doing much the same thing. Maybe on a next trip we'll be financially stable enough to do some magical ten-night refuge in the Serengeti – but until then, the geckoes hunting moths around hotel lightbulbs will keep me just as happy.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-88657649345466309772010-06-07T03:58:00.000-07:002010-06-07T04:19:52.716-07:00Into Uganda<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >The Night Boat</span><br /><br />From Zanzibar, we chose to return to Dar Es Salaam via the night boat, a ferry that leaves the island at 10pm, sits offshore for a few hours and then sails overnight to Dar Es Salaam for a 6am arrival. In theory, this meant we could sleep during the voyage and save on a night's accommodation. Our seats were comfortable enough, but due to several factors, it didn't go as planned.<br /><br />Firstly, there is the issue of air-conditioning. I am perplexed about how the bodies of Africans work. Seeing as they stroll around in dress pants and sweaters in the kind of heat us Canadians can barely endure in shorts and tshirts, I would assume their systems are accustomed to warmer temperatures. But whenever there is an opportunity for air-conditioning, they really crank it, and seem to delight in icy-cold air that Alanna and I, again with our minimal clothing, find it hard to fall asleep in.<br /><br />Secondly, Africans will happily fall asleep anywhere, irrespective of comfort level or surrounding distractions. (This is easy to explain, once you've seen the conditions under they're expected to take their naps as toddlers – Africa babies spend much of their day strapped to their mothers' backs with an expertly knotted sheet or blanket, and we've seen children dozing peacefully in this manner while their mothers hoe patches of soil on a hillside.) As we were getting settled, a TV at the front of the ferry treated us to a martial arts film, and we assumed once it ended bedtime would officially roll around. But they kept coming, at substantial volume, one after another (one of which, for those who care, featuring the gratuitous toplessness from a former high school classmate), throughout almost the entire night. And everyone slumbered on regardless.<br /><br />Finally, it was a very rocky journey. Alanna and I both have fairly sturdy stomachs, but even I was feeling the quease. Alanna had to visit the bathroom, and in the morning described it rather nightmarishly as this chaotic, vomit-coated chamber full of angry squatting women.<br /><br />So anyways, we arrived in Dar Es Salaam at sunrise with barely any sleep at all, which was too bad.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Uganda</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjejdmROrpuixK6jGXqoXiA6xwbASBMIwjGrNt3ef_OORmIRRfVupexvkmNBs_2l79Fqzp8GY_a67Vmtb4JyssWw1KDr-4q1GCH_33e26Khg6_FFV4Z9DF70WRhyphenhyphenUu9Y1tCA3bymK0ibdf/s1600/IMG_1563.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjejdmROrpuixK6jGXqoXiA6xwbASBMIwjGrNt3ef_OORmIRRfVupexvkmNBs_2l79Fqzp8GY_a67Vmtb4JyssWw1KDr-4q1GCH_33e26Khg6_FFV4Z9DF70WRhyphenhyphenUu9Y1tCA3bymK0ibdf/s400/IMG_1563.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479984960030223890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The crowned crane, Uganda's national bird.</span></span><br /></div><br />From Dar Es Salaam we caught a plane (again with the frigid air) to Entebbe, Uganda, bypassing what we saw as a week spent in iffy busses over bad roads. Entebbe is notable as the site of the 1976 hostage-rescue raid by the Israeli army during Idi Amin's reign, dramatized in The Last King of Scotland. It was therefore a historically poignant introduction to a country, but not surprisingly the airport was a pretty standard airport – though apparently there are still a spray of bullet holes in the command tower.<br /><br />Prior to guidebook blurbs, our knowledge of Uganda amounted to its depiction in Last King of Scotland (the book of which Alanna and I have since read) and the excellent documentary War Dance, exploring the lives of refugee-camp children as they prepare for a national dance competition. And this is Uganda for most people – if your mind doesn't immediately come to rest on the horrors of Idi Amin regime, then you may instead think of the more recent bloody civil conflicts, such as the atrocities committed by the super-evil Lord's Resistance Army. Or the AIDS epidemic, or the general hunger, poverty and malaise associated with much of the continent. 'Tourist Mecca!' does not rank high on the list.<br /><br />But the country has been stable and relatively peaceful since the 80's, and our airport shuttle led us through trim suburban greenery on our way to the hostel, past roadside flowerbeds and within view of Lake Victoria's sparkly shores. A far cry from the smog and grit of Dar Es Salaam – not to mention whatever pitiful dustbowl I'd had in mind. (One would think we'd have moved beyond the whole 'exceeded expectations' schtick, but apparently not.) Most African countries have a bigger middle-class than one would imagine, and Entebbe came across as a clean, comfortable town, quiet and cool. On our walk into town we passed a squad of jogging soldiers – public singing in Africa, whether it comes out of a church or from a mass of buff sweaty army dudes, always inspires a potent envy – and were introduced to Uganda's healthy population of marabou storks, teenager-sized and pretty disgusting.<br /><br />We also became acquainted with a new (questionable) mode of transportation, the motorcycle taxi, or boda-boda. At African borders, the two countries' respective posts are often separated by a wide no-man's land, and the name comes from their origin shuttling passengers between the two posts, border-to-border. Like minibusses, boda-bodas are often painted bright colours and decorated with Christian or Muslim (or nonsense) expressions. Also like minibusses, they appear in varying states of roadworthiness. The accident rates for these things are appalling, but everyone uses them: businessmen, the elderly, and many mothers, who use them as a school-bus system. Women always ride in dignified side-saddle fashion, although we read an amusing newspaper article recently about 'hot-blooded' drivers blaming the wandering hands of their female passengers as a leading cause of collisions. Helmets for both driver and rider are supposedly the law.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpW0WO4W7niPBe0Z6V0etwWCTZAEsHX0NAeuTl6v9_t3vza8No4FJQO0EcdJSMEh8p8sVBSq-5Lhol3dMmohMa9MzHe4D4Hy5brafl3loTqFJoLIp_Tv92z0QIoVbd_wpL-l1WQPoavLq9/s1600/bodabodas.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpW0WO4W7niPBe0Z6V0etwWCTZAEsHX0NAeuTl6v9_t3vza8No4FJQO0EcdJSMEh8p8sVBSq-5Lhol3dMmohMa9MzHe4D4Hy5brafl3loTqFJoLIp_Tv92z0QIoVbd_wpL-l1WQPoavLq9/s400/bodabodas.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479984953040487394" border="0" /></a><br />In Entebbe we visited the Wildlife Education Center, a facility the locals call a 'zoo' though it is in fact a rehabilitation center and sanctuary for injured or rescued animals (the difference amounting mainly to the quantity of guilt one feels in attending). While it wasn't cheap – twenty bucks a pop – it was a most gratifying animal experience. We were able to gaze at most of the creatures you'd hope to see in Africa, including lions, rhinos, crocs, deadly snakes, and a ton of monkeys and chimps. And while one's typical zoo experience involves staring at a bored, lonely, motionless animal, these primates were active. They put on a show. We watched a group of red-tailed monkeys, and then an island of rescued chimps, for the better part of two hours. We were so, so happy. As icing on the cake, a troupe of vervet monkeys – a species we're almost not excited about anymore – wanders freely about the property, and are more comfortable with human presence than we're used to, letting us get very close.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharjOEfio42zPq-OMj19OrGmML_A_MPrfbuw15o1cDH2I7cYWTJQkAcDFUHa5w7codk6w4dgrkSp2eYAtmqfZtwLNwgKPcQC_ywk4W_U1bn5f6R605MyoRfr062plHAn9qB3ztYr002XwL/s1600/IMG_1598.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharjOEfio42zPq-OMj19OrGmML_A_MPrfbuw15o1cDH2I7cYWTJQkAcDFUHa5w7codk6w4dgrkSp2eYAtmqfZtwLNwgKPcQC_ywk4W_U1bn5f6R605MyoRfr062plHAn9qB3ztYr002XwL/s400/IMG_1598.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479985553507535458" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSHXUIP30AIKFOkn0ZvKF8NFYHhqIL4nEc0Iad7iNz5R5qjm_ExEY10QEDDqedUsyHf81AhsHoJprGTXPTSElYgMOdIgEeW-LU3Dfv4hfAzWA3hgoDt3wGeMALX_6AulFGkH-RQPiCcpS/s1600/IMG_1596.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSHXUIP30AIKFOkn0ZvKF8NFYHhqIL4nEc0Iad7iNz5R5qjm_ExEY10QEDDqedUsyHf81AhsHoJprGTXPTSElYgMOdIgEeW-LU3Dfv4hfAzWA3hgoDt3wGeMALX_6AulFGkH-RQPiCcpS/s400/IMG_1596.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479985549251846818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">red-tailed monkeys</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VfjLd_sAcaEL_81WAUbV3C5wn239QXVUxNYlIQIqNTi7pFF1ni2Mzk2jcaxuqnt2hoasyGUVVEyq-43dQS1aki7vGnHc_q8StSKgY8xTL7sb_LKuExWIBsXyQmv9d3DGEcd4S2tE1zsW/s1600/IMG_1586.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VfjLd_sAcaEL_81WAUbV3C5wn239QXVUxNYlIQIqNTi7pFF1ni2Mzk2jcaxuqnt2hoasyGUVVEyq-43dQS1aki7vGnHc_q8StSKgY8xTL7sb_LKuExWIBsXyQmv9d3DGEcd4S2tE1zsW/s400/IMG_1586.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479984962484421538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Vervet monkey, chimps in the background.</span><br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOwUKSbyZNdNO3Ww4z3gX21E5XACHRuOMGTSblBzgMzTDwbEMh1lsFP7RkRiITE_3nrlUblKjine27bUHTyQWtnvylKHRUPivHP0CFJN8RQwKr3S2PBUdjofaHjgy7LPNL62pO_jFdW2b/s1600/IMG_1590.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOwUKSbyZNdNO3Ww4z3gX21E5XACHRuOMGTSblBzgMzTDwbEMh1lsFP7RkRiITE_3nrlUblKjine27bUHTyQWtnvylKHRUPivHP0CFJN8RQwKr3S2PBUdjofaHjgy7LPNL62pO_jFdW2b/s400/IMG_1590.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479984970326872802" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjducxXwVlow5x5E976r96R1gYHUQsaguGzmVvbnBYT9WE9fXmKOVy9MWmJLZIM5jRrnmuf1iwKkMNbPXc2W_aMTdRDpdMeRHeXcFLn3BNLbEAf0i2fcfiyy7CPatgSZ3VTTTPwJO9awmCq/s1600/IMG_1600.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjducxXwVlow5x5E976r96R1gYHUQsaguGzmVvbnBYT9WE9fXmKOVy9MWmJLZIM5jRrnmuf1iwKkMNbPXc2W_aMTdRDpdMeRHeXcFLn3BNLbEAf0i2fcfiyy7CPatgSZ3VTTTPwJO9awmCq/s400/IMG_1600.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479985559126299794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">At the WEC we went on a 'nature walk', basically a short dark tunnel through the hugest, creepy spiderwebs, populated by equivalently huge and creepy spiders.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJONSaT_P2-shsBxxQBvi7BeiRNoMIMGqbBVBJS5RdfgcVOz5OFR7rnOGi4wgyv5g83VSVZDmdeI5Jljn4SvnQ825v3OFB-i3-gu_WVEiCNQ_nrEcLNd7sBG5fLoRCn3Sw5b9nRQ93Pjw4/s1600/IMG_1593.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJONSaT_P2-shsBxxQBvi7BeiRNoMIMGqbBVBJS5RdfgcVOz5OFR7rnOGi4wgyv5g83VSVZDmdeI5Jljn4SvnQ825v3OFB-i3-gu_WVEiCNQ_nrEcLNd7sBG5fLoRCn3Sw5b9nRQ93Pjw4/s400/IMG_1593.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479984975085316002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Camels!</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4UZaY_BZKthQAYsAxi4b4Mmkh3E7LoTSvRL4rvuTrxwtVIsQUbQ6qiudur-haaC4Pkdk7gOu_BOnygO1ZZt0ehvtLFOYkdiIxJIW1Bysn1Xi7zE3DWF5HHQjqHEOjkqI0e1_UpgtKCSU/s1600/IMG_2598.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4UZaY_BZKthQAYsAxi4b4Mmkh3E7LoTSvRL4rvuTrxwtVIsQUbQ6qiudur-haaC4Pkdk7gOu_BOnygO1ZZt0ehvtLFOYkdiIxJIW1Bysn1Xi7zE3DWF5HHQjqHEOjkqI0e1_UpgtKCSU/s400/IMG_2598.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479985563896514642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This group of </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Australopithecus</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> were rescued in Mombasa. They're allowed to hunt certain kinds of protected antelope because "it's part of their culture" and "they've been doing it for literally millions of years."</span><br /></span></div><br />Our plan after Entebbe was to visit the Ssesse archipelago in Lake Victoria, hoping for a similar experience from we'd had on Likoma in Malawi. We made it all the way onto the boat before turning back. We'd wanted to get to a specific place – Banda Island – and the men in charge of the boat headed there were dubiously vague about departure time, price, and trip length. The first quote was a ten-hour voyage, but once hearing we weren't interested, the man somehow let us barter him down to two hours, and then an hour and a half. If only it were always that easy. Not to mention the route has an unconvincing safety record – Phillip Briggs, our most trusted guidebook author, says he straps himself to a big plastic jerrycan every time he makes the trip. Plus there was a guy hassling us for money after carrying us both into the boat unsolicited. It just seemed like an all-round bad idea. We'd already created our share of not-fun boat memories for the trip, so we relocated all our valuables and electronics into chest pockets, waded to shore, and gave Banda Island a pass.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8eJy3w_JirzllsQcKcdcXAPxt-JaCMUop9e6BtXPSMH0RgIL5DmbrvLJRB8hyecgDOIm1W9GDfVSVEkr6w7MivZ1i7alcN7if7MPP7PRJoiIrg1qCg4OGLoEtGwhuBGPnsCW_ZipqFcfK/s1600/IMG_1609.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8eJy3w_JirzllsQcKcdcXAPxt-JaCMUop9e6BtXPSMH0RgIL5DmbrvLJRB8hyecgDOIm1W9GDfVSVEkr6w7MivZ1i7alcN7if7MPP7PRJoiIrg1qCg4OGLoEtGwhuBGPnsCW_ZipqFcfK/s400/IMG_1609.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479986642613213346" border="0" /></a><br />Which was fine, because someone else told us later the place was crap anyway.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-65461829662522936642010-06-06T04:14:00.000-07:002010-06-06T04:34:13.078-07:00JambianiThe morning we left Stone Town for the legendary beaches of Zanzibar's east coast, it rained. For the next three days, it rained. On the fourth day, the sun shone through and we caught a glimpse of what we were beginning to think we might only see on postcards, but mostly our beach holiday was characterized by rain, at times heavy, giving way to light showers and drizzle in the afternoons, with a 90% chance of an evening thundershower. Or y'know, just plain old heavy rain.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuG7dbeggI/AAAAAAAABDA/N6wpzs36hQY/s1600/weather.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuG7dbeggI/AAAAAAAABDA/N6wpzs36hQY/s400/weather.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479621727696617986" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Needless to say, there was a lot of Toto singing going on.<br /></span></div><br />We had known going into this that we would be visiting Zanzibar in the low season, a period known – quite aptly as we would find out – as 'the long rains'. Hailing from the Pacific Northwest, we figured we knew what rain was and how to deal with it (brellies, wellies, Gore-tex and the like), but I think it's safe to say that Africa has redefined our concept of wet weather. When it rains, it pours. And as for that rain jacket you've been toting around for three and a half months thinking that you can't send it home because you'll be happy you have it when the rainy season comes? The fact is that no matter how water-proof you manage to make yourself, when the rains come, there's really no avoiding getting wet, soaked, saturated to the bone. This is no pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, this is a tall glass of more-than-you-bargained-for and getting caught unprepared.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEQrteZdI/AAAAAAAABCA/TAWGwc0RqBw/s1600/IMG_1450.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEQrteZdI/AAAAAAAABCA/TAWGwc0RqBw/s400/IMG_1450.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479618793772574162" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEPjEY7-I/AAAAAAAABBo/kZFiH7_aHCQ/s1600/IMG_1397.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEPjEY7-I/AAAAAAAABBo/kZFiH7_aHCQ/s400/IMG_1397.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479618774272896994" border="0" /></a><br />Jambiani village is stretched over a few kilometers of coastline, and is described by Lonely<br />Planet as “a sunbaked and somnolent collection of thatch and coral-rag houses”. (The writers of Lonely Planet seem to have an affinity for the word 'somnolent' and will use it any chance they get, regardless of whether or not it actually applies – in this case, unlike Dar Es, it does). Arriving in Jambiani in the rain, we were met with the definition of somnolence: boarded-up shops, empty streets, women and children huddled under leaky awnings – everything wet, everything grey, everything not looking at all like the postcards.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEQWE714I/AAAAAAAABB4/9TpWvHX5Emc/s1600/IMG_1433.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEQWE714I/AAAAAAAABB4/9TpWvHX5Emc/s400/IMG_1433.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479618787965392770" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEQPWHG9I/AAAAAAAABBw/JWmRh44vS2c/s1600/IMG_1422.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEQPWHG9I/AAAAAAAABBw/JWmRh44vS2c/s400/IMG_1422.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479618786158386130" border="0" /></a><br />We had hired a car and driver in Stone Town to tour us around our beachfront accommodation options in Jambiani, and hopefully score us a deal. The first place we went was a lovely 2-bedroom suite, with bathroom, kitchenette and private yard that usually went for $80/night. It was offered to us for $40, but as we didn't really need that much space, and $40 is still a little more than we're used to paying, we decided to move along. In total, we visited five places, two of which were closed for the season, two of which were open for business but completely vacant, and one of which won our vote with free breakfast, wireless internet and imitation Vache Qui Rit cheese. I'm pretty sure I can withstand just about any meteorological condition nature can conjure up if there's cheese to be had – especially if that cheese is packaged in cute little wedges and contains what is probably 150% of your annual recommended intake of saturated fat.<br /><br />Despite appearances of being shut for the season, on our walk through town we met numerous people who invited us into their homes/restaurants and offered their services as tour guides, dhow captains, taxi drivers and in the case of Mr. Fruit, deliverers of fresh Zanzibari produce. In search of a place to eat lunch one afternoon, we passed the 'Karibu Restaurant' – a pile of saturated plywood and moldy thatch topped by a family of goats. Naturally, we figured Karibu Restaurant was no more, and continued along on our search for food. It was only on our way back to our hotel that we met the restaurant's proprietor, Hassan, who informed us that he was very much open for business and urged us to let him cook us dinner. Unable to say no to home-cooked fish masala, we gave him a few dollars to buy seafood, and promised to return at seven.<br /><br />As it turns out, Karibu Restaurant is undergoing an extensive renovation thanks in part to the generous donations of travellers from all over the world who have eaten Hassan's food over the past 15 years. Therefore, we were welcomed (or Karibu-ed) into the family home, and seated in a makeshift nook decorated with faded photos of satisfied customers and a deflated beach ball inexplicably hanging from the ceiling. Unusually for Africa, the food was delivered to our table very promptly, and in copious quantities. We had each ordered a serving of curry, one with rice, one with chapati, and Hassan had cooked us an additional eggplant dish “as a gift” – he did not want us to leave hungry. The food was delicious, but far too much for two people, no matter how hungry. Apparently, huge portion sizes are a point of pride at Karibu Restaurant, where you eat, as the sign states, “antil you say Hassan please don't kill me with food”. Hassan is also quite proud of the fact that a photo of his sign exists somewhere on the Internet, and I suppose I should write to tell him that now it exists twice – with all this publicity, he should expect a big turn-out for his re-opening.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuFo5x7lTI/AAAAAAAABCw/48ZiyeLAlGc/s1600/IMG_1541.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuFo5x7lTI/AAAAAAAABCw/48ZiyeLAlGc/s400/IMG_1541.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479620309377848626" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuFomIKiJI/AAAAAAAABCo/zhfjB6mNKuM/s1600/IMG_1538.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuFomIKiJI/AAAAAAAABCo/zhfjB6mNKuM/s400/IMG_1538.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479620304102394002" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuFoDNqHKI/AAAAAAAABCg/vdltlIlg044/s1600/IMG_1533.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuFoDNqHKI/AAAAAAAABCg/vdltlIlg044/s400/IMG_1533.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479620294730194082" border="0" /></a><br />The following day, we awoke to a welcome change of scenery: what once had been dark and grey and dismal had given way to vivid blues, greens and the whitest sand I have ever seen. The Lonely Planet is in fact spot-on with their description of the sea's “ethereal shade of turquoise” and with the sun finally shining, we hurriedly pulled on our swim suits for the first time since Likoma and made a beeline for the water. Unfortunately, the ocean we encountered was not at all like the ocean we were expecting – at home, you are rewarded for a bold dive into the depths with invigorating refreshment, in Tanzania, you just end up feeling sticky, and even more uncomfortably hot than before. It's not luke-warm, it's just plain warm, and with the long tides, getting out to dive-able depths would likely take you hours of wading through thigh-deep bathwater. It was probably one of the least satisfying dips I've ever taken, but the scenery was indeed some of the most memorable.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuG7BjLODI/AAAAAAAABC4/P0gXxo4QOSo/s1600/IMG_1515.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuG7BjLODI/AAAAAAAABC4/P0gXxo4QOSo/s400/IMG_1515.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479621720212715570" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEQ8jftsI/AAAAAAAABCI/H92jJnvqkTU/s1600/IMG_1512.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuEQ8jftsI/AAAAAAAABCI/H92jJnvqkTU/s400/IMG_1512.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479618798294120130" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuG7rY342I/AAAAAAAABDI/y3NNiXkzJ3o/s1600/week+14+apr+23-30.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuG7rY342I/AAAAAAAABDI/y3NNiXkzJ3o/s400/week+14+apr+23-30.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479621731443794786" border="0" /></a><br />So that was our vacation from our vacation – a little disappointing, slightly more indoor reading than we may have counted on, but enough colourful characters and subtle adventures to make the rather expensive cab ride worthwhile. Plus, being the only patrons to an entire stretch of resort accommodation, willing to brave less-than-ideal conditions for the promise of cheaper prices and an empty stretch of sand, we were made to feel like the intrepid travellers we like to imagine we are. And there's no shaking that feel-good feeling of being someone's first customer in weeks – never a waiter more happy to see you. Of course, we tipped generously, our travel egos reaching critical mass.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuFn2KmFkI/AAAAAAAABCY/GowN2e4lGds/s1600/IMG_1532.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/TAuFn2KmFkI/AAAAAAAABCY/GowN2e4lGds/s400/IMG_1532.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479620291227686466" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-39759107925331201242010-05-31T00:25:00.000-07:002010-05-31T00:55:10.771-07:00Zanzibar: Stone TownZanzibar has been a standout destination for Alanna and I ever since we began our Africa research. The name alone conjures an old-world exoticism shared with the likes of Timbuktu and Casablanca. These are places about which I know nothing, but prior to the trip Zanzibar seemed to be a member of the same club, and evoked the same vague ideas of coastal African decadence (incense, steamer trunks, monkeys with hats, et cetera). I still haven't a clue about the other two (they may well not even exist anymore!) but at least we've got Zanzibar pegged.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZKNXTLguPVfgkUcmGYAZGrbhDUC-Mp14MoI9G4JEKDnThE0Z0ay_yDc19en-YHNQlcgfe-b_ZhqOhMCvC1AeVR4wT6yPe6UgMk1Q3mXoMQz1fsrNrg-9K-2LRoXJWqByzZy3dJ-FXYM-/s1600/IMG_1269.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZKNXTLguPVfgkUcmGYAZGrbhDUC-Mp14MoI9G4JEKDnThE0Z0ay_yDc19en-YHNQlcgfe-b_ZhqOhMCvC1AeVR4wT6yPe6UgMk1Q3mXoMQz1fsrNrg-9K-2LRoXJWqByzZy3dJ-FXYM-/s400/IMG_1269.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477333052858750114" border="0" /></a><br />The tropical island, part of an archipelago of the same name, is as historical as it gets – it's been a major player in intercontinental trade routes since the first century and Stone Town, the island's largest and most famous settlement, has been a town for about as long as people have been naming things 'towns'. At various points in its history the island has belonged to Persian and Arab traders, Omani sultans, the Portuguese, and the British, who controlled the island under a protectorate until it unified with newly-independent Tanzania in 1964. Zanzibar is a significant world supplier of spices, most notably cloves, and is famous for its carved doors and implausibly beautiful beaches.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-SUqIU-jYeeXGPDwzpFwQscDvaVwZoBj1m1xsqiVilUbSluwSBurk0hUeIaLXyPN3y5Ny7o0eKDo5cAxuFMOft3sTU7VcTdNn85l7G4DWSOSbzplfJYQnx2dpjFAPrvK0gdZD2-emdl7w/s1600/IMG_1374.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-SUqIU-jYeeXGPDwzpFwQscDvaVwZoBj1m1xsqiVilUbSluwSBurk0hUeIaLXyPN3y5Ny7o0eKDo5cAxuFMOft3sTU7VcTdNn85l7G4DWSOSbzplfJYQnx2dpjFAPrvK0gdZD2-emdl7w/s400/IMG_1374.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334927557443298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Door!</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-BaV9Do0gO1WsDKcaCB6Bq1U4MimiO1mlXR3c6rnzlbIe_LPmQ52n-2evX5I6durQqGvoSxytIH6q0ggYP8U0RR54X6zWPDvEuech8iCZHX2d6kdtVOkB0HNuEmPShEBoXsN2Tl69vs0/s1600/week+15+may+1-8.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-BaV9Do0gO1WsDKcaCB6Bq1U4MimiO1mlXR3c6rnzlbIe_LPmQ52n-2evX5I6durQqGvoSxytIH6q0ggYP8U0RR54X6zWPDvEuech8iCZHX2d6kdtVOkB0HNuEmPShEBoXsN2Tl69vs0/s400/week+15+may+1-8.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477335224061292802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">More doors! The brass studs are to deter war elephants, obviously.<br /><br /></span></span></div>Zanzibar operates partly as an independent state – I'm not sure how it works but we had to pass through customs upon arrival after a four-hour ferry ride from Dar Es Salaam. We spent the trip cooped in a comfy VIP section (VIP-ness and caucasian-ness being synonymous, apparently) while Muslim prayers played a little too loudly on small TVs. The 'MV Flying Horse' docked in the harbour next to a huge pile of shipping containers, an introduction that didn't exactly scream either 'old-world' nor 'exoticism'. After entry formalities we rapidly became best friends with a middleaged tout who was more than willing to lead us to our hotel. Assuming he'd demand payment for his services we were apprehensive, but another man in the crowd yelled, “you can follow this man, he will not ask you for money!” so off we went. Our impromptu guide hurried us into the narrow maze of streets, all the while providing us with a detailed itinerary of the Zanzibar spice tour (the long-winded explanation of the Zanzibar spice tour is an area of expertise of all touts, we would soon learn). The info was nice and all, but he kept our attention to a point that, once reaching the hotel, we had no recollection of how we got there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VWpvg1NHCtTEyGx5xrkutpTsz1pYwLWcSiu4U5uCEf8LEr-7JEqxnNxy2iTCQGOuqDQjVc8i5Qn4Jcru9tyytJUQ25qOwUEGhytzL47DauTTSPnOg6IDHJsxcYk5uFupIHRNZpxUZMyv/s1600/IMG_1227.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3VWpvg1NHCtTEyGx5xrkutpTsz1pYwLWcSiu4U5uCEf8LEr-7JEqxnNxy2iTCQGOuqDQjVc8i5Qn4Jcru9tyytJUQ25qOwUEGhytzL47DauTTSPnOg6IDHJsxcYk5uFupIHRNZpxUZMyv/s400/IMG_1227.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477333034125424066" border="0" /></a><br />For me, Stone Town was beyond disorienting. The map in our guidebook resembles a bunch of carefully arranged shards of broken glass. It took us a few tries to figure our way back to the ferry dock, where the street was wider and we could find our way to the more touristy shops. Stone Town has what I've heard described as a 'tourist ghetto,' a sterile, compact district of air-conditioned souvenir stores and restaurants seldom visited by any local who's not a security guard, a taxi driver or one of Zanzibar's merciless touts. But Stone Town's tourism setup is such that this was virtually the only place we could find to eat – possibly because if any restaurant opened in more stimulating surrounds, no one would be able to find it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGchWCL71to61yUfCTpjuYhoIXbp1Qa4KmXzFcWZCVnA-ILunxUR-2zF1JzsiFyUzhlzqjabno4f7jlauO9styRUxhgTu1O_d_47VUng1hkHH3V48mVZsSzl3dt7_kmg55ZgwgQvm2Tdxs/s1600/IMG_1285.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGchWCL71to61yUfCTpjuYhoIXbp1Qa4KmXzFcWZCVnA-ILunxUR-2zF1JzsiFyUzhlzqjabno4f7jlauO9styRUxhgTu1O_d_47VUng1hkHH3V48mVZsSzl3dt7_kmg55ZgwgQvm2Tdxs/s400/IMG_1285.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334092038045394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The view from our hotel's rooftop terrace.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbU5uarLQiEaqOJu1eRUf0Y__HVcOhpU-3v4XSAbBmGioRkmS5Oddp1PNiTRC0-uohTDoHY6ng84xVs9JPLNVSkjdQEZG9joVbsDJT5HfOZ7KTDt86WKBcNoaOagsRbfDr1jIN1z7GDVYM/s1600/IMG_1236.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbU5uarLQiEaqOJu1eRUf0Y__HVcOhpU-3v4XSAbBmGioRkmS5Oddp1PNiTRC0-uohTDoHY6ng84xVs9JPLNVSkjdQEZG9joVbsDJT5HfOZ7KTDt86WKBcNoaOagsRbfDr1jIN1z7GDVYM/s400/IMG_1236.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477333040518772082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Drinking coconut from a vendor. First he hacks off the top with a knife and hands it to you with a straw. Once you're finished you hand it back and he expertly scrapes all the meat out of the inside and gives it back to you. It's different from coconuts at home, the meat is soft and gelatinous.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMKzVpjvGZLTO0CHbKmifn516hz2QEKvnXgAYPJCzwzqdA89ChMJEewwDYWfAoBkmazeEL7UCHvu6hWmeGZK5Tohdls4HYsLEOovTj6-fPjotQTEdyXCCea3542YvsY2CwvrRgaar_hGg/s1600/IMG_1228.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMKzVpjvGZLTO0CHbKmifn516hz2QEKvnXgAYPJCzwzqdA89ChMJEewwDYWfAoBkmazeEL7UCHvu6hWmeGZK5Tohdls4HYsLEOovTj6-fPjotQTEdyXCCea3542YvsY2CwvrRgaar_hGg/s400/IMG_1228.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477333034899770018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">common sights: texting, unrefrigerated meat.</span><br /></span></div><br />Stone town is noted for its unique mix of Arabic, Persian and Swahili architecture, which all seem to be variations on large dim multi-storey buildings with few windows. Often, if it weren't for the many storefronts at ground level, exploring the deeper reaches of Stone Town would feel like walking a narrow alley between two old prisons. It's only once you get above the buildings, or manage a peek into an open door, that you realize that most have courtyards, and the balconies and windows face inwards. The shops themselves – when they aren't a row of needy curio vendors – are suitably old-fashioned: closet-sized convenience stores, woodworkers' shops, and tailors seated at antique Singer sewing machines.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCHE7GKy55SlY_f_JKpfiWsrbsqrpBKtEUIntwNG6-wmp_LYhLKgSvJm97bDnCUslp5vH9L4wDwdCokqPWMSbWK3SymJ9cOChsT7YRemIMWQUFBRK6NnCRwJgt7bgd72rqyRBU-Pb8oSn/s1600/IMG_1242.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCHE7GKy55SlY_f_JKpfiWsrbsqrpBKtEUIntwNG6-wmp_LYhLKgSvJm97bDnCUslp5vH9L4wDwdCokqPWMSbWK3SymJ9cOChsT7YRemIMWQUFBRK6NnCRwJgt7bgd72rqyRBU-Pb8oSn/s400/IMG_1242.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477333050049183186" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiTrLhMrffAobdn56zDOWg_zFSyT5aO9lGgdmnyoBo2KGEL9w0UQkKpQGDhd7MFD6FYX0lU_8Ip2aRDs9v02eIyv7QX0eleXD1U4dCl6TwZGTRE38A4SKMr0KaM76XtSfjek7hmDzTaKUe/s1600/IMG_1543.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiTrLhMrffAobdn56zDOWg_zFSyT5aO9lGgdmnyoBo2KGEL9w0UQkKpQGDhd7MFD6FYX0lU_8Ip2aRDs9v02eIyv7QX0eleXD1U4dCl6TwZGTRE38A4SKMr0KaM76XtSfjek7hmDzTaKUe/s400/IMG_1543.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334930872780482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">One of the dozens of curio vendors, all hawking the same stuff we've been seeing since Zambia.</span><br /></span></div><br />A definite highlight – and the one instance where we were able to participate in something not reserved for tourists – were the meals at Forodhani Gardens. Every night at sundown the harbour-side park converts into a street-food market, where forty or so tables sell variations on a few themes: chapati rolled with egg, skewers of fruit, and, most popularly, barbequed seafood. The men behind the tables are all polished salesmen, assuring you of the freshness of the day's catch and the dedication and integrity of that table's respective team of fishermen.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHKdsgCX8DhbQI_lkkXNe31zY3VOxfE-qxz7V7Tc2p4FpVwRt-UyguN8gS5ulUaiDSyii20Vo7CpQMcai5L9qi-0oxjmnAtVZQpPPTSF2pQeRB9B48U9PyXgCf3pelnEYe-KWmmrX72Oy/s1600/IMG_1550.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHKdsgCX8DhbQI_lkkXNe31zY3VOxfE-qxz7V7Tc2p4FpVwRt-UyguN8gS5ulUaiDSyii20Vo7CpQMcai5L9qi-0oxjmnAtVZQpPPTSF2pQeRB9B48U9PyXgCf3pelnEYe-KWmmrX72Oy/s400/IMG_1550.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334940539122082" border="0" /></a><br />The spreads at some of the seafood tables are astounding: lobster, shrimp, octopus, calamari, and often five or six kinds of fish including marlin, swordfish and shark. As with the rest of Africa's fishing industry, it does make one a little worried at the amount of seafood left in the sea. All is precooked – your selection is reheated over a grill and served with sauce and salad over your choice of flatbread, all for about three bucks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpLkbikLOKpo61zLh8p54fmZSNLxxmt95zB2XdZ41oOgReKzrJiX5tOF7o5bV3gMYcPz_UCjeO_wG5e-mXGg-3KtqMFA6_IP2XdImysLrtv1EjJgCcIkXcQ-T0XAxfpa_89JeAfhboiLf/s1600/IMG_1279.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpLkbikLOKpo61zLh8p54fmZSNLxxmt95zB2XdZ41oOgReKzrJiX5tOF7o5bV3gMYcPz_UCjeO_wG5e-mXGg-3KtqMFA6_IP2XdImysLrtv1EjJgCcIkXcQ-T0XAxfpa_89JeAfhboiLf/s400/IMG_1279.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334091092730754" border="0" /></a><br />Cane juice was something that Alanna discovered in Dar Es Salaam, and is a most refreshing and perfectly-balanced beverage. The long cucumber-width cane is pressed mechanically with a few key limes and a shard of ginger and sieved straight into your glass, a large beer-mug's worth for about fifty cents.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmV59UKk3wkEmFuI5S7UAP4RxHf-y6uYK5OelsWiD4tzw0-8RqT0z-FCOcOPRuAiWHZZrbko86n7NimkU1jFzNwzK8QfsfCJafySMvwpJKAnLuK5p0skxqhLxKuHu5Io_Xmuvp65stYtB/s1600/IMG_1276.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmV59UKk3wkEmFuI5S7UAP4RxHf-y6uYK5OelsWiD4tzw0-8RqT0z-FCOcOPRuAiWHZZrbko86n7NimkU1jFzNwzK8QfsfCJafySMvwpJKAnLuK5p0skxqhLxKuHu5Io_Xmuvp65stYtB/s400/IMG_1276.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334086567883394" border="0" /></a><br />Our other activity of note in Stone Town was the world-famous spice tour, which was half fascinating, half making fun of a high-maintenance family of Americans. Instead of visiting a true spice plantation, our guide walked us through a demonstration forest, showing us a plethora of spices in their living form, peeling bark and crushing leaves for us to smell and taste. Never have my fingers been more aromatic! Not surprisingly, most spices look pretty boring when still in the ground.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyUqi-6w7jWG2ej8gnA4IVB7JN8YzV8MfnW5WMKrelJ2F9WAFdt8mVy74bHBrcNKs7U2r8Jo7Ppw2G5gtrPwmBQouVIX9kGZb0SejcMKtvZ_WayDcZDnMOy5GACEMhOwMzKHTMjlBuUT3M/s1600/IMG_1316.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyUqi-6w7jWG2ej8gnA4IVB7JN8YzV8MfnW5WMKrelJ2F9WAFdt8mVy74bHBrcNKs7U2r8Jo7Ppw2G5gtrPwmBQouVIX9kGZb0SejcMKtvZ_WayDcZDnMOy5GACEMhOwMzKHTMjlBuUT3M/s400/IMG_1316.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334106903003218" border="0" /></a>vanilla!<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JKz0Bew9l6iWfmADVP7E28t8kKtMw_grz74ca4i4oRDufpamo6A1GNWOO_TxSHsk49HQPNRSHVq60n3iP97fCysBsbBv0zxU3cCP5LOeSeWbqX2TdbkO7x0wKFfta9GNf9AZIugK-f7M/s1600/IMG_1329.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JKz0Bew9l6iWfmADVP7E28t8kKtMw_grz74ca4i4oRDufpamo6A1GNWOO_TxSHsk49HQPNRSHVq60n3iP97fCysBsbBv0zxU3cCP5LOeSeWbqX2TdbkO7x0wKFfta9GNf9AZIugK-f7M/s400/IMG_1329.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334920122224834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">peppercorns</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUk4itFJQO7lO0kmui5PGDyl0pBWNYDykDeM6LqI9UElC4r2QC1suXW4d4QRY9TyvCuvKvfeGSOqvR8uNc5TRAFPuMy1NOeZtpt7XnSqisfJApzAv2j3bgR5QcJot85UStkaRsjGL9n9V/s1600/IMG_1287.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUk4itFJQO7lO0kmui5PGDyl0pBWNYDykDeM6LqI9UElC4r2QC1suXW4d4QRY9TyvCuvKvfeGSOqvR8uNc5TRAFPuMy1NOeZtpt7XnSqisfJApzAv2j3bgR5QcJot85UStkaRsjGL9n9V/s400/IMG_1287.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334099153134578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">nutmeg</span></span><br /></div><br />After a visit to some very dull Persian ruins we were served a delicious lunch, cooked by some local women and incorporating many of the spices we'd just seen. To cap the day off we were to visit a beach – Alanna and mine's first saltwater since South Africa and our first Zanzibar Shore Experience. Well, after a long backroad drive we emerged onto possibly the filthiest, most unswimmable, least appealing stretch of sand on the island. Alanna and I, being the easygoing, non-complaining type, would have probably plunked ourselves on a maggoty log and sat there for the allotted hour, but luckily a talkative older woman in our group demanded to be taken to a better beach. Our driver obliged, and we were bussed to a more suitable spot. The new beach was divided down the center, split between an upmarket resort and a crowded fishing village. On your left, people are using the beach as a surface on which to sun themselves and nibble tapas, on your right people are using the beach to <span style="font-style: italic;">stay alive</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6aHdENayIVu5G7WbWJE2xqSNLfH-2t5bO_59p6TLj-xhVDapVeY0w3K3qWNjSp4Qmyv5ZQ3zmNR8rBtIPf6WSmCuXlQsCzezuP3lR9lDubTsmedbYZufr9XNVsfqjnC6W6jX1VeeWJhw/s1600/IMG_1337.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6aHdENayIVu5G7WbWJE2xqSNLfH-2t5bO_59p6TLj-xhVDapVeY0w3K3qWNjSp4Qmyv5ZQ3zmNR8rBtIPf6WSmCuXlQsCzezuP3lR9lDubTsmedbYZufr9XNVsfqjnC6W6jX1VeeWJhw/s400/IMG_1337.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477334924495058658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">dirty beach</span><br /></span></div><br />In flowery guidebook introductions the world over, Stone Town is unanimously exalted for its magical, time-capsule quality. Possibly the victims of lofty expectations, we found this to be a little exaggerated. Yes, it's a spectacular place – one does get the impression that life has been rolling along without much variance for centuries, and the carved doors are indeed the handsomest things on hinges, but at the end of the day a narrow stone street is just a narrow stone street. (But what was I expecting? Dancing girls with bells on their toes? Cardamom tossed from the rooftops?) I'll admit that the robed, soccer-playing children and noble old men congregating at the mosques did make one reflect on one's modernity (and, come to think of it, one's exposed ankles). In the end, with all it's become, we felt it was difficult to access what makes Stone Town so special. There's a funny paradox to traveling: the places attempting to cater to tourists are always the places we don't want to be. Imagining Stone Town fifty years ago, we probably would have enjoyed it a little more, when the hassle involved would simply have been the challenge of getting by in a culture different from one's own – for us at least, a much more appealing option.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-49885053083545546292010-05-24T08:22:00.000-07:002010-06-01T02:50:04.329-07:00All Roads Lead to Dar-Es<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br /><br />Into Tanzania</span><br /><br />We've traversed this continent in many a vessel – plane, train, boat, bicycle, and every manifestation of bus imaginable – but until recently one mode of transport was noticeably absent off the list: the automobile. (Okay, so we've caught cabs, but for the sake of this introduction's success, let's say those don't count.) Lucky for us, a pair of Israelis with a pickup truck offered to give us a ride across the Tanzanian border to Mbeya, where we were planning on taking the train to Dar Es Salaam. Turns out they were headed to Dar as well, and while a train ride offers a certain romanticism lacking in a four-door Isuzu, logic outweighed sentiment and we joined Adam and Aviel on the 900km journey that comprised our triumphant return to coastal Africa.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRw4c2a4um_wfnUhM-e5pSX_7lEtkHw4hfVc3tBrEJHiOdocLDRpnImrAA4XHSi5pOB-WqwGzrf0A30uIwtORNkvq50L12NRvFiZnKowpw7DxmZN-XYNHw6zXMbak-G09lqHMeAWxO57v/s1600/IMG_1125.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNRw4c2a4um_wfnUhM-e5pSX_7lEtkHw4hfVc3tBrEJHiOdocLDRpnImrAA4XHSi5pOB-WqwGzrf0A30uIwtORNkvq50L12NRvFiZnKowpw7DxmZN-XYNHw6zXMbak-G09lqHMeAWxO57v/s400/IMG_1125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858406648431346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Guiness in Malawi!" I thought, but it was a strange non-alcoholic malt drink tasting like carbonated Ovaltine.</span></span><br /></div><br />Crossing into Tanzania we left the lake views behind in favour of lush, deep-green hills dense with crops of banana, tea leaves and the ever-present maize. It also meant moving from a country of zero traffic-law enforcement to one with police roadblocks every half-hour. Up until now we'd seen self-driving as a glorious and carefree method of travel, but after contemplating the risks of flaunting foreign license plates through a continent rife with corruption, we realized how much potential hassle we were avoiding by choosing public transport. But we can happily report no incidents, and most of the traffic police were more amusing that intimidating (“the family of Jesus!” one officer exclaimed, upon learning Adam and Aviels' country of origin).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABfKwCze8EBvs72m8-GMp_JgLYcXZyuaMMDJWh8wN5xQScuSYIBoiBpSasRKUTxeGuwVv94bTHERkwgu12nmB-QUkFo_0-1Mo0DJFJtns4mGtXox-_w2D6IpJuiA8TcmXfOpV7yv0bafn/s1600/IMG_1132.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABfKwCze8EBvs72m8-GMp_JgLYcXZyuaMMDJWh8wN5xQScuSYIBoiBpSasRKUTxeGuwVv94bTHERkwgu12nmB-QUkFo_0-1Mo0DJFJtns4mGtXox-_w2D6IpJuiA8TcmXfOpV7yv0bafn/s400/IMG_1132.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858409873749618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">road-trip compatriots</span><br /></span></div><br />We stretched the drive to a leisurely three days. Our two stopovers served more as refill stations (stomach and wallet as well as gas tank) than anything else but that didn't mean they weren't memorable: Mbeya will hold a special place for introducing us to the avocado milkshake (sorry, guacamole, but we won't be seeing you around the house much anymore) and at our hotel in Iringa we encountered a most puzzling breakfast: a small bowl of beef soup, followed by a plate of plain white bread, half a boiled potato, spaghetti, and a slice of watermelon:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8cgjId7_8AvqvuQPRHCc1LKFvD3yezpK9PVfzb7TQprqb2l4ZpLHpbOKH1PdjZSyacrS3TCJ_yD-x1GCpiJ9pvE9kIBsItalZeh8mK_DBSlO8dhY-WYHF4d3RcQS3WC8X3S8GPSbOI2-/s1600/IMG_1139.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8cgjId7_8AvqvuQPRHCc1LKFvD3yezpK9PVfzb7TQprqb2l4ZpLHpbOKH1PdjZSyacrS3TCJ_yD-x1GCpiJ9pvE9kIBsItalZeh8mK_DBSlO8dhY-WYHF4d3RcQS3WC8X3S8GPSbOI2-/s400/IMG_1139.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858415317059234" border="0" /></a><br />On top of getting across the entire country in comfort and under budget, our Israeli hosts were great travel companions, both generous and entertaining. Adam (in the middle) piloted a tank in the Israeli army for three years only to fail eight consecutive driving tests – he points out, with a tinge of disappointment, that pedestrians and drivers react differently to an automobile than they do to a rolling piece of war machinery. Needless to say Aviel does the driving (though we caught him discussing the four-way-stop as this strange and irrational concept, possible only in a society of wussies, and it showed). The two funded their travels selling cosmetics at a department store – “easy money,” apparently – and much of this wealth seems to be spent on ice cream. In their company we settled into a happy habit of seeking the stuff out two or three times a day.<br /><br />One advantage to catching the train to Dar Es Salaam, we'd believed, was that it passed through Mikumi National Park, and that wild game was often visible from the tracks. We were pleased to discover the highway bisected the park as well, and for a short section of the drive on our final day we zipped along with buffalo, zebra, warthog, baboon and elephant visible from the road– and all for free! What helped make the moment a highlight (and an extra touch unavailable on a train) was having Paul Simon's Graceland playing on the car stereo, setting the mood oh-so immaculately. I mean, it wasn't a safari or anything, we were traveling at a good clip, so the animals are sort of tough to spot in the photos:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsxfgXtMKDm1qG4Fz_-SdSla-a-CBITeK2fGEJhcJnANkNZ9rxizr3DGhNmgd4Os7TgP68WNWFCLDdk_cWFuGb9syv-lYJdLMA7mU5BilWIwdhfy0EBI15ZOZrSnrVfbhpR1BHSTlFJh8/s1600/elephants.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsxfgXtMKDm1qG4Fz_-SdSla-a-CBITeK2fGEJhcJnANkNZ9rxizr3DGhNmgd4Os7TgP68WNWFCLDdk_cWFuGb9syv-lYJdLMA7mU5BilWIwdhfy0EBI15ZOZrSnrVfbhpR1BHSTlFJh8/s400/elephants.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858402438036434" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsxfgXtMKDm1qG4Fz_-SdSla-a-CBITeK2fGEJhcJnANkNZ9rxizr3DGhNmgd4Os7TgP68WNWFCLDdk_cWFuGb9syv-lYJdLMA7mU5BilWIwdhfy0EBI15ZOZrSnrVfbhpR1BHSTlFJh8/s1600/elephants.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsxfgXtMKDm1qG4Fz_-SdSla-a-CBITeK2fGEJhcJnANkNZ9rxizr3DGhNmgd4Os7TgP68WNWFCLDdk_cWFuGb9syv-lYJdLMA7mU5BilWIwdhfy0EBI15ZOZrSnrVfbhpR1BHSTlFJh8/s400/elephants.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858402438036434" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRlyS9RAwuJEteUEi_TmPu6wfWNw14xycXIF4Rfm9XEC-yBiQQRq_aGizYu_tpbKcYpRnkBSNXpOChwnF4zdC7yPkTMbLQ22YcyUL-vLL0Wk-QoMox1OijogIYI_OffqT9uNCGsNQ50CC/s1600/baboon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRlyS9RAwuJEteUEi_TmPu6wfWNw14xycXIF4Rfm9XEC-yBiQQRq_aGizYu_tpbKcYpRnkBSNXpOChwnF4zdC7yPkTMbLQ22YcyUL-vLL0Wk-QoMox1OijogIYI_OffqT9uNCGsNQ50CC/s400/baboon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858394568608834" border="0" /></a><br />The transition from wild African highway to urban congestion was quick – one moment we were cruising through valleys of baobab trees, next to alone on the highway, and then all of a sudden we found ourselves sandwiched among the slow churn of semi-trucks and minibusses destined for Tanzania's most populous city. The sides of the road were still thick with foliage, but we sensed we were near (the gps helped, naturally). The freight drivers are basically suicidal in Tanzania – they jostled among each other on the narrow road with bold disregard for the wellbeing of everyone involved. If I'd been driving, I would have given up, pulled over, burst into tears and possibly vomited out of anxiety, but Aviel navigated the situation admirably, and with limited expletives.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Dar Es Salaam</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2MfI2O_UtpjK6RazLLPLvG49EmQ0XWpcECrc5BCDCwP_YivZAq1Cm92PBX90AYvNM7SBTApdrl46xHoBRSAr_KI2JhrWQptEAf3VTHCjS8VIKUSGcOpHViFPDWjB6vW9rd2djytQUtrE/s1600/IMG_1197.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2MfI2O_UtpjK6RazLLPLvG49EmQ0XWpcECrc5BCDCwP_YivZAq1Cm92PBX90AYvNM7SBTApdrl46xHoBRSAr_KI2JhrWQptEAf3VTHCjS8VIKUSGcOpHViFPDWjB6vW9rd2djytQUtrE/s400/IMG_1197.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858869050421346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">skyline from Cousin David's hotel</span><br /></span></div><br />Once in the city, we found our hotel tucked among a busy cluster of auto-spare dealers doing business out of shops barely larger than the vehicles they carry parts for. We spent two nights in 'Jambo Inn' before moving around the corner to 'Safari Inn,' basically an identical hotel (same noisy ceiling fans, cold showers, and friendly staff) for less money. For such a major city, Dar Es Salaam has almost zero tourist draw. Nevertheless we spent a total of six nights in the city, doing little else, now that I think about it, other than eating curry and walking to the post office and back. At Mushroom Farm in Malawi we spoke with a traveler whose main qualm about the city concerned the amount of mud flicked onto the rear of the leg via sandal, and he was right. The roads are often just big long potholes and every morning, April being the rainy season, a short-but-brutal downpour ensured everything stayed good and frothy – we'd return from our daily post-office jaunt with chocolatey veins crusted down our calves. (The locals seem to have modified their flip-flopping technique to avoid this, as everybody's legs but ours were spotless, but their method escapes me.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_sbwnldcBjw8E3EbrL_gft2TOOiumguJC0cMVYzts_ZgGa88znfTgRqWUtmEYlA2AA9Ssv_AQPr542ke7bk9If_fMKAz-6bnxVfeAKBd6oqAPFB4WnwrOrr46Tw234zjlvrhLBfuF0W3/s1600/IMG_1191.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_sbwnldcBjw8E3EbrL_gft2TOOiumguJC0cMVYzts_ZgGa88znfTgRqWUtmEYlA2AA9Ssv_AQPr542ke7bk9If_fMKAz-6bnxVfeAKBd6oqAPFB4WnwrOrr46Tw234zjlvrhLBfuF0W3/s400/IMG_1191.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858860634101554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxAG9QpEB9LUy9p-wfVq83ocZT7NVpQVHeI5p43LnScIy1Zkf2meigVTR8SYjxx4u-MMIFXQG0hhFgsbKnJKHMP-hbR9qhXEZYibSsImt7HE-C9wCqNh61NU7susFHf5cBM0FZTWhEHRL6/s1600/IMG_1195.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxAG9QpEB9LUy9p-wfVq83ocZT7NVpQVHeI5p43LnScIy1Zkf2meigVTR8SYjxx4u-MMIFXQG0hhFgsbKnJKHMP-hbR9qhXEZYibSsImt7HE-C9wCqNh61NU7susFHf5cBM0FZTWhEHRL6/s400/IMG_1195.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858863464571554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">being smart, concealing our valuables</span></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJFQLiFL3RZDMm-udoI5GhBkOjfNNKKiuK-r2K83CZMXuBoB5Tcy5ecZ__MAj3Kqhjh3WzevPjOPZW2ZtSJOIpkoYg4uPHam2FigEHFmnd27pnjTbTxldJ2HHtbWih8P0X4nU-PPK_5EW/s1600/week+13+apr+15-221.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJFQLiFL3RZDMm-udoI5GhBkOjfNNKKiuK-r2K83CZMXuBoB5Tcy5ecZ__MAj3Kqhjh3WzevPjOPZW2ZtSJOIpkoYg4uPHam2FigEHFmnd27pnjTbTxldJ2HHtbWih8P0X4nU-PPK_5EW/s400/week+13+apr+15-221.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858878770109490" border="0" /></a><br />Though Dar is not all mud and boredom – in fact out of the cities we've visited it was one of the more memorable. Over the centuries, with nods to the ivory, spice and slave trades, East Africa has garnered a strong Indian and Arab presence, and Dar Es Salaam could at times be mistaken for somewhere in the Middle East. You feel as though you're in the shadow of a mosque wherever you go, and all of a sudden chapati and roti have replaced maize porridge as the starch of choice. Plus everyone is wearing robes. And did I mention it's hot? A heavy, tropical humidity that ensures the flow of sweat out of your pores is as steady as that of blood through your veins. Cold showers in our hotel, yes, but we wouldn't have it any other way.<br /><br />After many anticipatory emails, Dar Es Salaam is where we finally met up with my second-cousin David, who is currently amidst a <a href="http://gsguy.wordpress.com/">sort-of-crazy, pretty-much-everywhere-in-the-world motorcycle odyssey</a>. Alanna and I graciously accepted his offer to buy us drinks at the rooftop bar of his hotel (pretty swanky, a/c and all the rest, but no Safari Inn). We were able to introduce him to Adam and Aviel, and they exchanged some gps software doohickey, the cause for more celebratory beers. That's what friends/relatives are for! It was good to see a familiar face, even if you haven't seen that face in several years and that face is covered in notably more facial hair than you remember.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgww2L4EKiJrACwBTT7cXMUYtuKhEOavrH8Pc_IEPro0dMXpC9vWIHh1kBp7ekAAmS3jCQ4bs7UgSO2dHQgzX25HK4SnIjHkU_4wgu5aJyscH7-sA_GMHF7sjBVf_PQmGKs9ppnmX8X5c5X/s1600/IMG_1198.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgww2L4EKiJrACwBTT7cXMUYtuKhEOavrH8Pc_IEPro0dMXpC9vWIHh1kBp7ekAAmS3jCQ4bs7UgSO2dHQgzX25HK4SnIjHkU_4wgu5aJyscH7-sA_GMHF7sjBVf_PQmGKs9ppnmX8X5c5X/s400/IMG_1198.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474858871789463458" border="0" /></a><br />Dar Es Salaam was christened (allah'd?) as such by a Zanzibari Sultan in the 1860's, and means “Haven of Peace.” While it may have been the case at the time, it is a slight misnomer at present. Not that Dar is an unpleasant city, but after a while it just got tiring, for the same reason it's appealing: its density, its hustle, its energy. I had to sort of psych myself up just to walk to the bank. We visited the nearby mall – and the movie theatre within – three times, for respite just as much as to pass the time. I could get used to it all, yeah, but I could also get used to a mud hut, and at least then I'd have a good excuse for having the stuff all over my legs.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-72950725529310891982010-04-30T11:43:00.000-07:002013-12-01T22:48:14.073-08:00Leaving the Lake<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8gNnB-5FVzuEhWn_ibMpCD2fDx8MJgM6ALgLESFawFC2tAXNWB0J8EEi2KR1DfJrzF7dX3Nwt3-9RSo4UtmkjkycQZJ4IXU8j8cWWPyzDLetXHYTkeTnOIJDXpggP8HK9MYQ4WtIldXd/s1600/IMG_0966.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466004717287928050" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8gNnB-5FVzuEhWn_ibMpCD2fDx8MJgM6ALgLESFawFC2tAXNWB0J8EEi2KR1DfJrzF7dX3Nwt3-9RSo4UtmkjkycQZJ4IXU8j8cWWPyzDLetXHYTkeTnOIJDXpggP8HK9MYQ4WtIldXd/s400/IMG_0966.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Nhkata Bay</span></span></div>
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When confronted with the prospect of leaving our glorious island retreat after a seven days, Alanna and I shared a similar sentiment: why bother? Here's a place where you're on a first-name basis with each of your fellow guests (and your bartender), where the village kids bring you roasted Malawian tree-nuts with no motive other than to expand your worldly food knowledge, where the beach could be mistaken for somewhere in the Caribbean except <i>no salty residue!</i> These things add up. In our eyes, to return to mainland Africa was to willfully subject ourselves once again to the gauntlet of cramped minibusses, hassling curio vendors, scary border posts, prospective muggers, ticks, warlords, pushy prostitutes, the lack of french toast, et cetera. But the itinerary prevailed, and after one last stop at the bar for something for Dad (can't you hardly wait, Dad?) we shipped out.<br />
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Well, it did not take long for the dreaded gauntlet to close its walls around us (contingent, of course, on a gauntlet being something that has walls). The Ilala ferry was four hours late, and boarding the ship was just as perilous as getting off a week before, except it was carried out in complete darkness. (On top of this, Alanna and I had the extra challenge of maneuvering on and off the lifeboat while attempting to hold our styrofoam takeaway containers upright, but that was of our own doing.) We reached Nkhata bay at 3 o'clock in the morning. The ferry was meant to pull up to a jetty (which makes disembarking quick and painless) but it was currently under repair, and unusable. The Ilala lowered its lifeboats and just... sat there.<br />
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We bobbed around in the tiny bay for four hours. Word eventually came round that using the lifeboats on this stretch of shore was deemed unsafe (ha!) so the plan of action was, evidently, to bide our time until the earth's natural cycles gently eroded the beach into a less hazardous shoreline. I guess it was decided that was going to take too long (Malawians are <i>so</i> impatient) so the Ilala moved to an adjacent bay and disembarking began. The happy ending to this episode is that we were picked up in a private rowboat that took us directly to our hostel and that we will never have to get into an Ilala lifeboat ever again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOlPLuhRCcQyhx0EW_zLUushraMrXq-655mrkMx1P007lseynKrXae6y9_jGbda_KV4qVh5a1KyF3oz_qEfqa7Tl6ho_HUBR6bEAxRdXN9uipPVoYdj1edNsrU_iuhAz09-PecuJgK6Q4/s1600/IMG_0894.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466004033951367346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOlPLuhRCcQyhx0EW_zLUushraMrXq-655mrkMx1P007lseynKrXae6y9_jGbda_KV4qVh5a1KyF3oz_qEfqa7Tl6ho_HUBR6bEAxRdXN9uipPVoYdj1edNsrU_iuhAz09-PecuJgK6Q4/s400/IMG_0894.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">Looks so innocent, don't she?</span></div>
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Nkhata Bay is a popular stop with those traveling through Malawi, and the lakeshore is dotted with much budget accommodation. We secured ourselves a lovely double room with views of the lake at Mayoka Village. We'd heard unkind things about the area – swarms of pushy vendors and that it is, in general terms, a “dunghole” (I've polished the language some), but our experiences were all positive. Walking into town meant passing a long strip of curio hawkers, but they were mostly of a Rastafarian persuasion and reluctant to leave the shade of their huts. In town, we took our business to a womens' crafting collective (oh how I love you, price tags and indifferent salespeople!). Having prepared ourselves with returning to meat-and-maize for three meals a day, we were happily surprised at the food (homemade pumpkin ravioli and zucchini-flower tempura, anyone?) and fresh fruit juice, long-overdue.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYFWFMZwVNzn-QK_26nmaTyWqfQ4qPbcOPnUiP5bpV8oeQe_SPs2jkhnplSAwcUIi1lPFueYeARhDnfgFAUnP6mGirKKCERWS5E_-kC0IiezlheDEIxl7co9ZJo7FOjkHg2It9VBb4f86/s1600/IMG_0942.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466004052175217170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivYFWFMZwVNzn-QK_26nmaTyWqfQ4qPbcOPnUiP5bpV8oeQe_SPs2jkhnplSAwcUIi1lPFueYeARhDnfgFAUnP6mGirKKCERWS5E_-kC0IiezlheDEIxl7co9ZJo7FOjkHg2It9VBb4f86/s400/IMG_0942.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1muzsVjkuc9c_ofuzXhFE2MS0K7m-ufAVAfhUyBDWybGxSlJHXt7y0HpwBdVDP-12bHNc-jf8P7vFxZZifltXY1Ukaff9zfT5kzGGnUgY1zly0jo2e9jBQFemEa_6D3itVR-YJIWrNv3/s1600/IMG_0903.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466004039734835874" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1muzsVjkuc9c_ofuzXhFE2MS0K7m-ufAVAfhUyBDWybGxSlJHXt7y0HpwBdVDP-12bHNc-jf8P7vFxZZifltXY1Ukaff9zfT5kzGGnUgY1zly0jo2e9jBQFemEa_6D3itVR-YJIWrNv3/s400/IMG_0903.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">Lunch in town, a regional soccer match for entertainment</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5s11FzxnNIWHZSoDJ_4N8DZV5KLxxr11ZYUYAnyT3FtLGZBk8n-hMoCtwQHtJVX8PmtWqqbQ8z_APccp6lVm9tYzu6clVZ8-LdHMphyphenhyphen-QGre2wEerFrw3iGeZg6otY749jLpl_PVJOEeS/s1600/IMG_0923.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466004043959109810" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5s11FzxnNIWHZSoDJ_4N8DZV5KLxxr11ZYUYAnyT3FtLGZBk8n-hMoCtwQHtJVX8PmtWqqbQ8z_APccp6lVm9tYzu6clVZ8-LdHMphyphenhyphen-QGre2wEerFrw3iGeZg6otY749jLpl_PVJOEeS/s400/IMG_0923.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Life's essentials at the market (spot the sleeping man)</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOYgLGMVqfE4Fm2tWPpUKmIoIj0EvtBYIdC8Dp_nNPhH48GB6bESj2NLOTsoJ1lle9VE3_AUkg01xE4VAUtJROwUxNwenzg2CbT8LmC1n9W93HeTdWlFToETSTiD5B6JPxw6Y3dz5yNx5/s1600/IMG_0954.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466004711068302674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOYgLGMVqfE4Fm2tWPpUKmIoIj0EvtBYIdC8Dp_nNPhH48GB6bESj2NLOTsoJ1lle9VE3_AUkg01xE4VAUtJROwUxNwenzg2CbT8LmC1n9W93HeTdWlFToETSTiD5B6JPxw6Y3dz5yNx5/s400/IMG_0954.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Mayoka Village shoreline</span></span></div>
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Our next destination was Livingstonia, after a short stopover in Mzuzu, where we slept at a strange hostel run by a pair of severe alcoholics (or did we just catch them at a bad time? I don't think so). Like the town of Livingstone in Zambia, it's named after David Livingstone, the explorer/missionary/much-admired Doer-of-Good who, like Cecil John Rhodes, seems to have left his mark all over the continent. Livingstonia is perched sort of in the middle of nowhere atop a plateau overlooking Lake Malawi, and is most easily accessed by a 15km-long dirt track that begins at the lake's shore and snakes up the side of a mountain to the village, 700m up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1-X9Ian3MMXAOOg4aOk_pnrUIXOQuLoiJ-KSdG4LfB8oEFKvCf73fjK9B5aoaRXY3PMjGWDKyfd01a-d_9rHJAldy90rOV4f5A7uoaU5JYyhRXlPwhzKnOBYZLov3ORVeTzkzeVwymgf/s1600/IMG_1008.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466004720167662962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1-X9Ian3MMXAOOg4aOk_pnrUIXOQuLoiJ-KSdG4LfB8oEFKvCf73fjK9B5aoaRXY3PMjGWDKyfd01a-d_9rHJAldy90rOV4f5A7uoaU5JYyhRXlPwhzKnOBYZLov3ORVeTzkzeVwymgf/s400/IMG_1008.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
In the blistering sun, that's a decent hike. All our guidebooks warned us that transport up the hill was scarce and walking was often the only option, but we'd met many travellers who had either been to Livingstonia or were headed there, and there was a hostel of good repute a little ways out of town, so we decided to give it a shot. We disembarked our minibus at the turnoff, and after a snack of Coca-Cola and <i>mandasi</i> (semi-sweet balls of deep-fried bread) we ventured forth. The first thing we encountered was the first thing we often encounter wherever we go: children (there are a lot if them in Africa, if you haven't heard). And the script is always the same: “hello! Hawayoo? Give me money! Give me sweeti! Give me pen!” The delights of Africa children probably deserves its own post, but I'll say this – the kids ask for these things but I'm sure it's just a shot in the dark, a 'might as well try' situation (on Likoma all we ever heard was “give me ballooni!” meaning one legendary person at some point got off the Ilala with a big bag of balloons and everyone since has had to deal with the repercussions). It's part of the ritual of interacting with kids here, and once they know you don't have anything to hand out they're just as open and sweet. Anyway, on the road to Livingstonia it was different: a small group of kids ran up and asked for the usual (funds, confections, writing utensils) and on learning our pockets were empty, they settled for “hugs?” Long story short, Malawi is great.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzN6lOolT0olHXUOOL1m6Vr0YQ4gxNJ-Hni_IQXkf3ojp0PoJsdaCVoQMczFoUORJMiAw1hVFmC1SaUGJxB6BhHUSnxubcgKzbOT5uc7tuJMxV7I4Y4Dua52F-HnSusY5lbL-sv_kyW6aw/s1600/IMG_1009.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466031374813443522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzN6lOolT0olHXUOOL1m6Vr0YQ4gxNJ-Hni_IQXkf3ojp0PoJsdaCVoQMczFoUORJMiAw1hVFmC1SaUGJxB6BhHUSnxubcgKzbOT5uc7tuJMxV7I4Y4Dua52F-HnSusY5lbL-sv_kyW6aw/s400/IMG_1009.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
After an hour of swimming up the mountain in our own perspiration, we flagged down a shiny new pickup truck, a Livingstonian driving his British holidaying friends up the mountain. They were more than happy to let us cram into the back with their luggage and supplies. They invited us into the cab but we gestured towards our armpits and politely declined. So we summitted in style, passing many more unlucky souls, all locals, trekking up and down the road, often with heavy-looking head-cargo.<br />
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We spent three lovely nights at the Mushroom Farm Campsite, a rustic, small-scale non-mushroom-farming place with picturesque compost toilets (there's a word combo!) and a kitchen running entirely on wood heat. They provide tent pads (we rented a tent for $4) and a few thatched huts, all perched on the edge of a spectacular cliff overlooking at what felt like half of Malawi. Here we rendezvoused with friends from Likoma (one of which we've been running into periodically since Pretoria and just recently said our final farewells here on Zanzibar) and made a few more. Dinner each night was served by candlelight around a tiny table and we could have stayed much longer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLkYE_UJ7kPVGgp2kKFcsBwhMsEdp9lv9tiYSxIsGzAWMf7HF4oN04rQZqNJslUc8LKpEbfjso5vi0r6aZ9OvNrFnCw5OZCA4t3HbU3Zv-D0nY7DuehrXmtIetyhJTzQS6AebD2BjBRZM/s1600/IMG_1025.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466004730913503810" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLkYE_UJ7kPVGgp2kKFcsBwhMsEdp9lv9tiYSxIsGzAWMf7HF4oN04rQZqNJslUc8LKpEbfjso5vi0r6aZ9OvNrFnCw5OZCA4t3HbU3Zv-D0nY7DuehrXmtIetyhJTzQS6AebD2BjBRZM/s400/IMG_1025.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A view like this...</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTTfDGmgy_BAO4yf2q9KZlx710RHTJzvIdgJ-ZxMJd7bH7Z6Al0yimTYYJ1_XnhzbAjB2SNBObGt5KIquLOW6Z0gkW-VyZsjE528gnDvcSBYw5B_M9guZe4NZ20HQtSy4ioboOoKQEBMWI/s1600/IMG_1033.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466005325222103970" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTTfDGmgy_BAO4yf2q9KZlx710RHTJzvIdgJ-ZxMJd7bH7Z6Al0yimTYYJ1_XnhzbAjB2SNBObGt5KIquLOW6Z0gkW-VyZsjE528gnDvcSBYw5B_M9guZe4NZ20HQtSy4ioboOoKQEBMWI/s400/IMG_1033.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">...means a sunrise like this</span></span></div>
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On the second day we walked into Livingstonia, another two hours up the road on foot. Originally settled by the Scottish as a mission, there was much ado in various literatures about the architecture ('charming' and 'colonial' were thrown around a lot) and what we found was a long, sleepy avenue dotted with muted brick buildings and many pine trees (I've detected a strong correlation between white missionaries and pine trees and it is a mystery). Nothing revelatory – if I'd lugged my entire life up a mountain on horseback I wouldn't be in the mood to worry about ornamentation either – but pretty charming indeed. There was a small museum displaying a creepy old decaying latex anaesthesia machine.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3cWXKTpExvS0bmw8lpBUaReDdCfXJfcM69SKKqFB8Lw6kEqVsGjy_swdbS7r_Q4Cf6gVssni4T1UtCy5hQKhy7XDOvZuG9tJhyAvRGJQsYPSXm8A9DxmM5vPTu0SlrowLFhmi-0acFY7_/s1600/IMG_1063.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466005348477688594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3cWXKTpExvS0bmw8lpBUaReDdCfXJfcM69SKKqFB8Lw6kEqVsGjy_swdbS7r_Q4Cf6gVssni4T1UtCy5hQKhy7XDOvZuG9tJhyAvRGJQsYPSXm8A9DxmM5vPTu0SlrowLFhmi-0acFY7_/s400/IMG_1063.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">On the walk to Livingstonia. It had just rained, and the mud was perilously slick, but this kid ripped past on his way down screaming his head off. And oh look, a view!</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWo9DqzuAxfsD7nqJpu3gaR08Fbn32mDiFgEchx9UKxZ09QaH2u9Pg9POKu4MqER8Hwnx2B-W0ktOWVn7UoWD2pXSPCUQ4YLJKnVwEUfA0sSPJ6jbg63QSM5iHci4z_FuuOWzLxFiiHe-O/s1600/IMG_1068.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466005340820160754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWo9DqzuAxfsD7nqJpu3gaR08Fbn32mDiFgEchx9UKxZ09QaH2u9Pg9POKu4MqER8Hwnx2B-W0ktOWVn7UoWD2pXSPCUQ4YLJKnVwEUfA0sSPJ6jbg63QSM5iHci4z_FuuOWzLxFiiHe-O/s400/IMG_1068.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEies49hzhTjyGfqqC_LruMXtreAoG0nT4GTK-T0vW4Ab6R9l_eShusfzfBj_UDB77jvexR-nrvbV9cGgepWs0Ftm_EwCOKXweJMyEyF0afWdrH88XFI6-ZBACfY49g_GrtG6nrnBFN-BcCs/s1600/week+13+apr+15-22.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466005824027770850" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEies49hzhTjyGfqqC_LruMXtreAoG0nT4GTK-T0vW4Ab6R9l_eShusfzfBj_UDB77jvexR-nrvbV9cGgepWs0Ftm_EwCOKXweJMyEyF0afWdrH88XFI6-ZBACfY49g_GrtG6nrnBFN-BcCs/s400/week+13+apr+15-22.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 283px;" /></a></div>
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The other thing to do near Livingstonia is to visit the waterfalls, a twenty minutes' walk from the mushroom farm. Nearing the trailhead to the falls one undoubtedly gathers a throng of young “guides” (indispensable, really) who will lead you down a short path to the top of the falls, a swimmable pool above, and a couple of small caves behind the falls themselves. What with South Africa's drought and Victoria Falls' excess, we've been starved of some good waterfall-viewin', and this certainly fit the bill. Lots of water plunging a great distance into an amazing lush valley, with more views than you can shake a small child at.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWKxz4Yv1ztfPxeVV1Dp9_YmcabR1sRhwYjkMPWqUY2clNlPZLNxZuPe0Pw9YAFq12c8pUCFTJq8yrBkHVq22RudY5gTFBXPSeTNtWZsMflMCai2mWo753koGdu5UXTTLLtnYHO-Gr8Hh/s1600/IMG_1080.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466005336792533538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYWKxz4Yv1ztfPxeVV1Dp9_YmcabR1sRhwYjkMPWqUY2clNlPZLNxZuPe0Pw9YAFq12c8pUCFTJq8yrBkHVq22RudY5gTFBXPSeTNtWZsMflMCai2mWo753koGdu5UXTTLLtnYHO-Gr8Hh/s400/IMG_1080.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">From the top of the falls...</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYlwV74Ij5vgAcHFttuH1P_WcDtoSsLlGBpGyCYRc0Va2AGr6HveaF8VQWLGh__YC3yytYre_Jmcj5tAXfmcxWlE_v6xsqMWyCYzmdCcs7lvbsT8_JISPKclvz1PxBuRcVfyZ0cWc9ByB/s1600/IMG_1091.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466005818052301346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYlwV74Ij5vgAcHFttuH1P_WcDtoSsLlGBpGyCYRc0Va2AGr6HveaF8VQWLGh__YC3yytYre_Jmcj5tAXfmcxWlE_v6xsqMWyCYzmdCcs7lvbsT8_JISPKclvz1PxBuRcVfyZ0cWc9ByB/s400/IMG_1091.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">...and looking back.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAs6GwRuUpQf6M2OYxWt60OaWvXcnJheW1TmPtuvY90SZ_DYekX-MxYcFSwMxYa409El8oH6j1ef8ijSOzi6DeAvLUFppBZ_H6PyJExnHBvBv0b8hmkQfnUiwnEo7I42U-4t-Vz22dIQ5/s1600/IMG_1083.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466005330258380786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAs6GwRuUpQf6M2OYxWt60OaWvXcnJheW1TmPtuvY90SZ_DYekX-MxYcFSwMxYa409El8oH6j1ef8ijSOzi6DeAvLUFppBZ_H6PyJExnHBvBv0b8hmkQfnUiwnEo7I42U-4t-Vz22dIQ5/s400/IMG_1083.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">An aerial acrobatics demonstration. The pool was about a meter deep.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_Mq0YmXW1-TKoyljR-XqvSIJ8EHdG1xSUyrBvSKNoQlkMZzhjKcRZeLT2Qegrps_QEP9oCyKaeSOe2d6Ei-dcVFitRO8zrpFuanDitjxhxj9xJ4wHEbHi5KVnSab5raAdLjgyMw3oX5i/s1600/IMG_1098.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466005821227027106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_Mq0YmXW1-TKoyljR-XqvSIJ8EHdG1xSUyrBvSKNoQlkMZzhjKcRZeLT2Qegrps_QEP9oCyKaeSOe2d6Ei-dcVFitRO8zrpFuanDitjxhxj9xJ4wHEbHi5KVnSab5raAdLjgyMw3oX5i/s400/IMG_1098.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">These hard-working guides led me to a cave behind the waterfall.</span></span></div>
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The slogan on the Mushroom Farm's business cards is “Tired of the Beach?” Impossible, of course, but it was refreshing to get into the mountains, up where it's cooler, greener and 'humid' rather than 'muggy.' Livingstonia was our last stop in Malawi, a country that lived up to every high expectation, with possibly the world's best inland beaches, its friendliest people, and one unforgettable old boat. And we got (almost) through without mentioning Madonna.</div>
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<span style="color: #ffff99; font-weight: bold;">Hey! You've made it to the end of the post!</span><br />
<span style="color: #ffff99; font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Crazy Awesome Contest Time!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #ffff99;">Malawi once had a president named Banda. He declared himself to the post for life, and got a little senile and did some iffy things, like commissioning a brand-new, sort of weird 'capital city' to be built next to the existing capital, Lilongwe.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #ffff99;">He also ordered a nationwide ban on a certain song.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #ffff99; font-size: 180%; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">What was that song and why?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #ffff99;">The first person to comment with the correct answer will receive a handmade card handwritten and addressed to you from Alanna and I (the card was not handmade by us, Malawians did it). Parents, I think you're getting cards already, so maybe leave the playing field open for now.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #ffff99; font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">The game is on, Huzzah.</span>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-49643833168871626452010-04-28T04:57:00.000-07:002010-04-28T22:34:24.638-07:00Lovely Likoma<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gpLffqJyI/AAAAAAAABAo/BWJY3Ptg6lI/s1600/IMG_0812.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gpLffqJyI/AAAAAAAABAo/BWJY3Ptg6lI/s400/IMG_0812.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465163425223681826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Teaching the local kids to be sun smart</span></span><br /></div><br />If it weren't for the scorpion-spiders, I could have easily kicked off my sandals and settled into a lakeside hammock on Likoma Island for the rest of my life. Plunging into the lake at 7am each morning, a giant mug of coffee and two slices of French toast for breakfast, devouring books, magazines, travel guides, in and out of swim suits, walking to town, buying giant avocados and miniature bananas, games of cribbage and bao, waiting for the sun to set, the placid water reflecting the painted sky and finally the stars. We were initially concerned that we'd grow restless on tiny Likoma, sick of the set menu and sand between our toes, but after a week we learned that it's pretty hard to get bored in paradise – especially with spider-scorpions scuttling around your toes. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9goiJ9WXeI/AAAAAAAABAg/M-iJc3DKZ5I/s1600/IMG_0806.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9goiJ9WXeI/AAAAAAAABAg/M-iJc3DKZ5I/s400/IMG_0806.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465162715067997666" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hands down, the most comfortable beach chairs in the world. </span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gnFl2AEQI/AAAAAAAABAI/iKmH3WiDe-8/s1600/IMG_0733.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gnFl2AEQI/AAAAAAAABAI/iKmH3WiDe-8/s400/IMG_0733.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465161124825534722" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:78%;">Scott developed a bit of a posse of local boys during our stay. Being flung into the water was one of their favourite activities.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gntuaM1LI/AAAAAAAABAQ/0EJAfTuseq4/s1600/IMG_0737.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gntuaM1LI/AAAAAAAABAQ/0EJAfTuseq4/s400/IMG_0737.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465161814319617202" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">We call this one the Jesus, for obvious reasons.</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Likoma lies a few kilometres off the Mozambican shore, about halfway up Lake Malawi – known as the Calendar Lake for measuring 365 kilometers long, 52 kilometers at its widest point, with 12 estuaries flowing into it. The island's only link to the mainland (besides dug-out canoes and local fishing dhows – neither of which have a great safety record) is the ancient, battered, but undoubtedly enduring Ilala ferry, which covers the Monkey Bay to Chilumba route once a week in either direction. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gjT-TJnjI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/ig9gYqjtwr0/s1600/IMG_0630.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gjT-TJnjI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/ig9gYqjtwr0/s400/IMG_0630.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465156973861903922" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The mighty MV Ilala, running a mere 3 hours behind schedule at the time of boarding.</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We boarded the Ilala at Chipoka, and purchased two first class deck tickets, which meant we'd be spending the night in the open (blissful under a blanket of stars or freezing under a thin cotton sarong, depending how you look at it). Downstairs, the economy deck was dense with farmers, traders, children, crates of empty bottles, bags of maize and cassava, basins of fish, furniture, clothing and chickens. The steamer is very much the lifeline of the lake and I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the boat were to break down or be taken out of service for any length of time. Given its age (it was assembled with parts from Scotland in the 1950s) this doesn't seem too far-fetched. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gjuHO4TGI/AAAAAAAAA_g/bnV5GfWW15s/s1600/IMG_0637.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gjuHO4TGI/AAAAAAAAA_g/bnV5GfWW15s/s400/IMG_0637.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465157422936509538" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Apparently, on another sailing, they played "My Heart Will Go On" on repeat throughout the night. Probably not the best song selection given the fact that the the Ilala only has two operational life boats and was without a doubt exceeding its capacity.</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Twenty-four hours later, the Ilala pulled into Chipyela Bay, Likoma Island. As there is no jetty and the water in the bay is too shallow, passengers and goods must be loaded and offloaded in the lifeboats. There's a lot of yelling and pushing and throwing, and I'm sure even if I did understand Chichewa, I would find the whole process chaotic. The boats are designed to carry a maximum of 22 passengers, but the Ilala crew seem to regard this as a bare minimum, and only when rounded out with several dozen sacks of maize and cement mix. By the time the boat is 'full' and the boatman points it towards shore, there's usually mere inches inches of clearance from the water.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gkUCMQsXI/AAAAAAAAA_o/dWTR99WRYps/s1600/IMG_0711.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gkUCMQsXI/AAAAAAAAA_o/dWTR99WRYps/s400/IMG_0711.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465158074418377074" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">One of Likoma's slogans is “Turn your watch ahead one hour and back a hundred years,” and stepping onto the beach, you feel as though you are discovering a strange and exotic land that has remained unaffected by the passage of time or the proliferation of technology. Notably, Likoma is the last place on earth with a single-digit telephone system and until recently, the only vehicle on the island was the hospital ambulance. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But Likoma's main claim to fame is its cathedral – a building as impressive as it is out of place. Built by Scottish missionaries in the early 1900's on a site previously used to burn witches, the church served as the headquarters of the Anglican Church of Malawi until 1940. It is a grand and beautifully constructed building, featuring intricate stained-glass windows, carved wooden pillars and pews, and a crucifix made from the wood of the tree beneath which Livingstone's heart is buried.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gqDHLy8XI/AAAAAAAABA4/GV4aPlFoO0A/s1600/IMG_0849.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gqDHLy8XI/AAAAAAAABA4/GV4aPlFoO0A/s400/IMG_0849.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465164380770595186" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Unfortunately, we arrived on Likoma a few weeks late – mango season had just ended. The beach where we stayed was lined with mango trees, which (had they been bearing fruit when we visited) may have canceled out the scorpion-spider issue and convinced me to put down my roots for good. But there were no mangoes to be had, and the scorpion-spiders proved to be a menace I could not imagine contending with long-term.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gl2tvTDWI/AAAAAAAAA_4/yq1RkoNqKRw/s1600/IMG_0719.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gl2tvTDWI/AAAAAAAAA_4/yq1RkoNqKRw/s400/IMG_0719.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465159769735236962" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Our beach hut teeming with scorpion-spiders</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I really have been making progress with my fear of all things that creep, crawl and slither – I recently watched a man put a snake in his mouth and didn't cry, vomit, or run screaming from the scene – but scorpion-spiders? Scorpion-spiders are a whole new breed of terrifying. Like almost any animal that evokes human fear, they are ten times as afraid of you as you are of them. They are less than one hundredth your size and you can squash them with your sandal. They are virtually harmless to humans. And still... and still. When you have to go pee as many times during the night as I do, the stress of crossing the floor in the dark is too much for one woman to bear. More than once, I made Scott get up and run around the room scaring them into the corners so I could dash outside to relieve myself. I mean, LOOK AT THIS THING. If that doesn't make you whimper and recoil in fear, nothing will.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9goIq0n4gI/AAAAAAAABAY/PIQZxXXJRAU/s1600/IMG_0783.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9goIq0n4gI/AAAAAAAABAY/PIQZxXXJRAU/s400/IMG_0783.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465162277213168130" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Simply horrifying</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Well, except maybe this.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gqot9CwwI/AAAAAAAABBA/oP3WWU9dJi8/s1600/week+11+mar+31+-+apr+6.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gqot9CwwI/AAAAAAAABBA/oP3WWU9dJi8/s400/week+11+mar+31+-+apr+6.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465165026832859906" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Scott shaved his beard! Fortunately, the end result is much more attractive than these in-progress shots, and I'm very pleased to report that my boyfriend's face is back and better than ever. However, it's good to know that he can pull off the hillbilly look, should circumstances ever demand it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Each day on Likoma was much like the one that preceded it and like the one that followed. There were no surprises, nothing that really merited a letter home or a blog post. We went snorkeling. We drank a lot of Coke and Fanta. We played cards. We ate, breathed and slept. And yet it was one of the most memorable parts of the trip for me thus far. It was just so... nice. I probably couldn't come up with a blander, less meaningful way of putting it than that – nice is what you say about something that there's nothing else to say about – but for me that's what it was: nice. Just nice. And when it comes down to it, not even the scorpion-spiders can detract from this view.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gpnX0LQNI/AAAAAAAABAw/xoh47QgSAg0/s1600/IMG_0814.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gpnX0LQNI/AAAAAAAABAw/xoh47QgSAg0/s400/IMG_0814.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465163904198590674" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gmkq1EfoI/AAAAAAAABAA/FSS9rCqmPNM/s1600/IMG_0723.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S9gmkq1EfoI/AAAAAAAABAA/FSS9rCqmPNM/s400/IMG_0723.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465160559228124802" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-47567834957917060282010-04-20T05:30:00.000-07:002010-04-20T05:58:47.329-07:00Dreams of ZambiaThere's this little term thrown around over here, a concept exchanged knowingly between travelers wherever we've been, called 'African Time.' It's a simple and sort of charming notion that time just works differently in Africa, and when dealing with any kind of schedule – pick-up or departure times, opening/closing hours – things are going to be slightly more, let's say, relaxed. We've found this to be too true, and aside from companies geared specifically at uptight Western travelers (namely the BazBus), to be in a hurry in Africa is to be doomed. Minibusses always leave only once they're full, and it's uncommon to sit in one for any less than 45 minutes before it rolls out (our record is three and a half hours). The coach busses we've bought tickets for have been anywhere from an hour to three hours late. That's a long time to sit with one's luggage in a cramped van or at a bus depot, yes, but this is Africa, it's just how things work. African Time had been until recently a mildly amusing quirk of sub-Saharan culture, like the kid we saw wearing a busted soccer ball for a hat. Until Zambia, that is, where it reared its ugly, sluggish head.<br /><br />Like good travelers, we bought our bus tickets from Lusaka, the capital city, to Chipata, around 700km away near the Malawi border, a day in advance. Eight-thirty departure time, be there at seven forty-five, easy, no problem. (We arrived actually at more like seven thirty-five, because that's just how good we are at traveling.) Mornings at the Lusaka bus depot are hectic and crowded, but our taxi driver dropped us off right in front of our chosen coach. One tout grabbed our bags while another led us onto the bus. A pair of Zambian men already occupied the best two seats at the front, which they were ordered to vacate so that us tourists may have the finest view. The tout insisted over our protests, proclaiming, “because this is an adventchah!” and the two evictees didn't seem too grudging, so we installed ourselves. I confirmed the departure time, which the tout said was half-past nine, not half-past eight, as we'd been told the day before. But what's an hour in Africa?<br /><br />We waited on that bus for over SEVEN HOURS. Seven hours, doing close to nothing but staring onto the same patch of pavement for the temporal equivalent of a full session of secondary school, or a transatlantic flight, or four feature-length films. It's important to note that the bus sat idling as we boarded, and remained so the entire day, tauntingly, as though it would leave at any second.<br /><br />Over the course of the SEVEN HOURS, these are the events that occurred:<br /><br /><ul><li>Someone handed me a baby.</li><li>Since there is more than one bus company at a time bound for one destination, we watched the mob of bus touts and their scary-aggressive tactics in convincing undecided customers to board their respective vehicles. This includes much yelling, shoving, the grabbing/dragging of limbs and luggage, often borderline physical abuse aimed both at each other and at potential passengers. Needless to say we were relieved to have bought tickets in advance.</li><li>At 8:30 sharp the driver appeared, sat down, and got nice and comfortable behind the wheel, only to nudge the bus sideways a foot at disappear again, the tease.</li><li>We were subjected to plenty of Christian programming (“the woman's role in the household is that of a helper”) through ear-stabbingly small speakers.</li><li>We turned down a multitude of hawkers who came onto the bus selling everything from electric razors to lollipops to large framed mirrors.</li><li>Alanna (ever the daring one) ventured out and peed three times. I only went once. She also located us some meat pies, the only thing we ate all day aside from unsweetened oatmeal that morning. (Have you ever had sugarless oatmeal? It's an atrocious food.)</li><li>One of the touts came onto the bus to demonstrate Zambian dancing and to discuss the American method of dancing of standing with one's arms crossed and bobbing one's head, which he could still pull off much better than I.</li><li>On one of her urine trips Alanna met two Zambian men whose cunning icebreaker was, “hello! Do you only like white men?” Later when she was reading under a tree across the road they came by to chat, and offered her a free cola. She promised she'd say goodbye to them before we left, she did not keep her promise.</li><li>The woman sitting across from us dispensed a superhuman amount of breast milk into her baby (the one I'd held, though she was not the one to pass it to me – the passing around of babies by strangers is common practice in Africa). We were exposed to a single, yet entirely odour-free, diaper-changing.</li><li>I took a total of zero photographs.</li></ul><br />Ready for the clincher? The bus DID NOT LEAVE. EVER. Over the course of the day we learned the bus would only leave when full (hence the touts' desperate measures for gaining passengers), and those in charge, after seven hours of presumably hanging around with their fingers crossed, had decided that a trip to Chipata wasn't likely before nightfall. We were informed of this just before three o'clock in the afternoon.<br /><br />A fellow disgruntled passenger who was going to be very, very late for a job interview took us under her wing and negotiated for our tickets to be transferred to a different company's bus, one that was full enough to leave that day. Within ten minutes we were on a different coach, I on a heap of luggage in the aisle, as they'd run out of seats (After an hour on the road I did get to sit down properly, but the air conditioning was broken and I endured much of the ride with cold water dripping from the overhead vent onto my crotch).<br /><br />The seven-hour trip took ELEVEN HOURS. The only point of interest on the drive was a refreshment stop at a long row of stands piled with Zambia's favourite road-trip snack, some form of dried spatchcocked fish. This is where I took the second of our two photos to remember Zambia by:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJUCoQmHEiV8E8oYoBz7b0Mjl3DwZywNN2jBWEaAb_80Qf7GGhsFTRgjJ217jlRUrnHivAMu8ueuTURQiNbWjyecSEBsduaA_RAtsJm8wqGu4mEKZs4c10_leMg-Ipo5wTPwWoS2LpSDx/s1600/IMG_0500.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJUCoQmHEiV8E8oYoBz7b0Mjl3DwZywNN2jBWEaAb_80Qf7GGhsFTRgjJ217jlRUrnHivAMu8ueuTURQiNbWjyecSEBsduaA_RAtsJm8wqGu4mEKZs4c10_leMg-Ipo5wTPwWoS2LpSDx/s400/IMG_0500.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462197962771029522" border="0" /></a><br />The coach pulled in to Chipata at 2am (we'd scheduled, doe-eyed that morning, for a 4pm arrival). Alanna had researched a scenic guesthouse for us, but we basically let our cab driver take us wherever he darn well pleased as long as there was a mattress. He dropped us at a sparkly chain motel with remote-control air conditioners. Our bodies and luggage had taken on the scent of dried fish during the voyage, but it all seemed natural, somehow.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">And you might ask, "what's your other photo from Zambia? Adorable children? Memorable African architecture? A sunset? At least a sunset!"<br /><br />Of course not:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDn8-ldfuAdPiQlCGHq5k1NisL3PgkTMCgQ4uDIADmTxBdNobCPrJz3YM_cB3vSTyxuNYiJt4F4HvnvsWYtsjOS-2b9WD7UtuFJcEi4Shrgch7cfTnGHcc33puXTuKQwysvEkaLROfJNct/s1600/IMG_0499.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDn8-ldfuAdPiQlCGHq5k1NisL3PgkTMCgQ4uDIADmTxBdNobCPrJz3YM_cB3vSTyxuNYiJt4F4HvnvsWYtsjOS-2b9WD7UtuFJcEi4Shrgch7cfTnGHcc33puXTuKQwysvEkaLROfJNct/s400/IMG_0499.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462197390938092642" border="0" /></a>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-74606187705270024432010-04-14T15:27:00.000-07:002010-04-14T15:27:00.448-07:00Trains, Touts and an Invisible Wonder of the WorldBack in Bulawayo following our sojourn at Great Zimbabwe, Scott and I may very well have purchased the cheapest first class rail tickets in the world. At $10 US apiece, we reserved a private 'coupee' compartment for the 12-hour overnight journey to Victoria Falls. The bus could have gotten us their in a third of the time, but speed and efficiency be damned, we were going to arrive in style.<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L2lrNqMVI/AAAAAAAAA9g/WTxJuMuZSLI/s1600/IMG_0394.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L2lrNqMVI/AAAAAAAAA9g/WTxJuMuZSLI/s400/IMG_0394.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459196825442070866" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L2lrNqMVI/AAAAAAAAA9g/WTxJuMuZSLI/s1600/IMG_0394.JPG"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></span></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L12KeZNjI/AAAAAAAAA9I/zQ5QVMNTqhQ/s1600/IMG_0389.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L12KeZNjI/AAAAAAAAA9I/zQ5QVMNTqhQ/s400/IMG_0389.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459196009200039474" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">After a long and sleepless night next to the sink-toilet.</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Arriving at the station after dark on the night of departure, it became very apparent very quickly that we had not in fact scored the deal of the century. Once we found our compartment (we only got it wrong, maybe, four or five times?), we had to dig our headlamps out of our bags to see what it actually looked like. Chartreuse and white speckled paneling covered the walls to almost-match the hospital green mattresses on the beds that folded away from one wall. On the opposite side, in the corner, was some sort of metal receptacle, which we deduced was not a toilet but a sink that happened to smell suspiciously of urine. Not surprisingly, the tap, like the light switches, did not work and probably hadn't since the 1970's – a time when 'Rhodesian Railways' (their insignia is still everywhere) wasn't horribly out-of-date. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Aside from spotting an elephant at Hwange sometime around 6am (our first Big Five! Very exciting!), the train journey was fairly unremarkable. It was cold, there were a few cockroaches, and when I couldn't sleep, I tried to list all fifty states. I couldn't. We arrived in Victoria Falls around 11am, just four hours behind schedule – not bad, if our more recent experiences are anything to go by. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Walking out of the station, we were struck by just how different the town was from anything else we'd experienced in Zimbabwe up to that point. There were sprinklers watering manicured lawns, Land Rovers cruising up and down the main drag, and a large, unsightly travel/shopping/restaurant complex mimicking the style of Great Zimbabwe. What wonders tourism can do for a place. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Ambling around with our backpacks and guidebook, it didn't take long for the touts to spot us and come running over, waving billion dollar bills and salad spoons at us. After Coffee Bay and Hogsback, I had thought that we were reasonably well-versed in hassling, haggling and the art of saying no, but until we met the relentless 'artists' of Victoria Falls (everyone we met claimed to be a carver or a weaver or a painter), we really had no idea just how persistent, constant and intense the harassment could be. Once safely inside the gates of our hostel, we were reluctant to leave – they were quite literally waiting on the other side for us to come out.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But after half a day sparring with pool noodles and downing soft drinks (in the bizarre and unfortunate absence of fruit juice, we've been getting our liquid calories almost exclusively from Coke and Fanta) it was time to get out and see the falls that give the town its name. We headed out early and managed to avoid too much hassle, but at the gates to the park were met with a competitive bunch of raincoat-renters, all vying for our $3/coat. Trying to be fair, we split our business between two different guys, only to be told that it all goes in one pot. I guess that's just how they do things in Victoria Falls – relentlessly, competitively, desperately.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L2P9FS-pI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/6O9OM-az2Mc/s1600/IMG_0426.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L2P9FS-pI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/6O9OM-az2Mc/s400/IMG_0426.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459196452281711250" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Livin' it up with Livin'stone.</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L2v7EbvlI/AAAAAAAAA9o/COA7LLuZpXE/s1600/IMG_0429.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L2v7EbvlI/AAAAAAAAA9o/COA7LLuZpXE/s400/IMG_0429.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459197001497034322" border="0" /></a></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Mostly, this is what we saw.</span></span><br /></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L2v7EbvlI/AAAAAAAAA9o/COA7LLuZpXE/s1600/IMG_0429.JPG"><br /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L3CXvoL6I/AAAAAAAAA9w/DsXsgxIkwzI/s1600/IMG_0437.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L3CXvoL6I/AAAAAAAAA9w/DsXsgxIkwzI/s400/IMG_0437.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459197318432042914" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">For a brief moment, the mist cleared and we were able to snap this shot. Ooh! Aah!</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once suited up in ultra-chic head-to-toe yellow plastic, the deluge began. It wasn't so much that the heavens opened up as that the water crashing down over the falls was sent splashing skyward and back down on our heads. Apparently, viewing the falls at the tail-end of the rainy season does have its drawbacks – there is such a thing as too much water and the spray made it nearly impossible to get a clear view of the falls. But the $20 park fee wasn't a total waste – we got a shower with unparalleled water pressure, and were treated to a highly entertaining display of monkey acrobatics.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L3Y7YeG1I/AAAAAAAAA94/kiHgJNCJoTM/s1600/IMG_0453.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L3Y7YeG1I/AAAAAAAAA94/kiHgJNCJoTM/s400/IMG_0453.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459197705955711826" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The next day, we crossed the Zambezi, leaving Zimbabwe behind for good. I wish that I could urge people to put aside their reservations about this country and discover it for themselves, but having seen what tourism has done for the one corner of the country whose international reputation has not diminished under Mugabe, I hesitate. Zimbabwe needs your tourist dollars desperately (just ask one of the dozens of so-called artists) but in our experience, the best part about Zimbabwe (Vic Falls excepted) is the virtual non-existence of tourists. In most of the country, people are friendly, sincere, and eager to help out, not because they want to make a buck or sell you their wares, but because that's just how you treat guests. So go to Zimbabwe, explore its ancient ruins, discover its stuck-in-the-50's cities, meet its charming people – just keep it on the down-low, it would be a shame to see the country become one big adventure mall.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L31W6O7RI/AAAAAAAAA-I/TgqJu6afAuc/s1600/IMG_0485.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S8L31W6O7RI/AAAAAAAAA-I/TgqJu6afAuc/s400/IMG_0485.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459198194381417746" border="0" /></a> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Next stop, Zambia!</span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-6302137124921185432010-04-12T02:57:00.000-07:002010-04-12T03:21:37.161-07:00Great ZimbabweAs well as being the country's namesake, the ruins of Great Zimbabwe are supposed to be the nation's second-most visited attraction, next to the tourism behemoth of Victoria Falls. That may be so, but in keeping with our experiences in Bulawayo, we didn't exactly have to sweat over other foreigners crowding our photos. Lodging within the park consists of double-bed huts, dormitories, en-suite chalets, and a campground, all spaced generously across manicured lawns with views of the ruins; and fives minutes towards the main road sits a four-star hotel with white-linen restaurant, bar, tennis court and swimming pool. There was a large village's-worth of beds available in all, but aside from a brief conference of some sort at the hotel, our only neighbours among all this accommodation was one other young couple with a tent. Needing a kitchen to reheat our can of curry, we ended up in a spacious chalet that along with a stove (which we only used once) had two bedrooms and a television. We've grown accustomed to the twenty-square-foot life of dorm-hopping and by no means needed the space, but the ability to scatter our meagre belongings across the surfaces of three separate rooms was a luxury in itself. I had a candle-lit bath. The TV had only one channel, the Home-Videos-Of-Church-Sermons Superstation. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5opPXG9WathsjWJ1W6yzKPGdStaO1gxzuEALGuAk8QL_kyxs5-JcLzForniRClR3srk2Df7UMTX4Yc7P9cCoyxWFjPnou_FZIYxbrWMmIRpNDgFJcpvV9eksy3688DYbcEw5qnhqzWEWU/s1600/IMG_0310.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5opPXG9WathsjWJ1W6yzKPGdStaO1gxzuEALGuAk8QL_kyxs5-JcLzForniRClR3srk2Df7UMTX4Yc7P9cCoyxWFjPnou_FZIYxbrWMmIRpNDgFJcpvV9eksy3688DYbcEw5qnhqzWEWU/s400/IMG_0310.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459191541755139810" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQhNukSlH-H-PUstQhXKY_tc9lt6Q0m7svZYRw_xhV4E4Cot__OrdQeU8iL4onrmtAlkt4dXlXovGhWptkvT9P2ixVylvMWQbOzh0bg-mUexy5WNBE7vSvIQCa419SPx8HrUlMWehyphenhyphen66Z/s1600/IMG_0136.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQhNukSlH-H-PUstQhXKY_tc9lt6Q0m7svZYRw_xhV4E4Cot__OrdQeU8iL4onrmtAlkt4dXlXovGhWptkvT9P2ixVylvMWQbOzh0bg-mUexy5WNBE7vSvIQCa419SPx8HrUlMWehyphenhyphen66Z/s400/IMG_0136.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459188753779726450" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Why this amused me? I don't know. It's a flaming billy club!</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We welcomed Great Zimbabwe's sprawling emptiness, aside from the tinges of pity towards the armies of idle hospitality staff and overalled men raking the same patch of soil day after day. Though the term doesn't usually bring to mind anything outside Europe, GZ is indeed a medieval city, dating back almost one thousand years, and is the largest ancient structure in sub-Saharan Africa, home to 20,000 at its peak. Research shows the sophisticated structures were built by the local Bantu people of the area (though colonial authorities of yesteryear were eager to prove otherwise) and there is much evidence pointing to healthy trade routes through Mozambique and beyond – a museum displays ornate artifacts from India, Persia and China, all excavated from the ruins. Also in the museum are a set of treasured soapstone birds, one of which is reproduced on the country's flag. Their significance as national emblems was offset somewhat by their being modestly propped within a dim, stuffy papier-mache 'cave' diorama, dead moss glued to the walls.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1BaLQqDft2A2KAx7EPDD4xNV5Zsdol9pzonGmdtA-yzAz58H1Om_ATC7o4yTLt4gMjyOqfzIj04UqvjPRH3cZOMQurt_5kwspeF1PMxw8Jdrf2ciNdG_PN0OMLdg0bppDBM9oV9O1hD3Q/s1600/IMG_0155.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1BaLQqDft2A2KAx7EPDD4xNV5Zsdol9pzonGmdtA-yzAz58H1Om_ATC7o4yTLt4gMjyOqfzIj04UqvjPRH3cZOMQurt_5kwspeF1PMxw8Jdrf2ciNdG_PN0OMLdg0bppDBM9oV9O1hD3Q/s400/IMG_0155.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459188951040448690" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Watch out, mid-century British man!</span></span><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The ruins themselves are epic. Divided into two 'enclosures,' one laid whimsically on the peak of a huge stone 'whaleback' and the other more bulky and spread out within a valley, they satisfy all the criteria for a good castle romp: winding passageways, narrow doors, and the sense that you're the first to move among their walls in centuries. What differentiates Great Zimbabwe from similar European structures is their classification as 'free-stone,' meaning no mortar or sealant was used in their construction. Everything we explored was built of stacked, free-standing granite, at times two meters thick and eleven meters high, and all we had for company were a community of blue-tailed lizards and more loftily dropped baboon dung.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCG170Iro7eyA3d3L6gCwCwdGZeaS2S4fYoP_uN39y9-33uwBZJXQrX_uwY_SGNQBr9cEF6bkbpwwEsHjJWR8vWxATugc5sepvtGzdESXlWSw6ewGEvtbfnc0XSU1GYTjAoPzzXRguiACw/s1600/IMG_0173.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCG170Iro7eyA3d3L6gCwCwdGZeaS2S4fYoP_uN39y9-33uwBZJXQrX_uwY_SGNQBr9cEF6bkbpwwEsHjJWR8vWxATugc5sepvtGzdESXlWSw6ewGEvtbfnc0XSU1GYTjAoPzzXRguiACw/s400/IMG_0173.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459189264442894242" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Making use of the natural landscape in the Upper Enclosure</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-SH7xDvyYJF2VY77y_qmI3GjcQu0FmCrd_7fgXPVcNOgnBUfCSBmLijoRThdZfMv3B0Ak0frbPErKV9WSCk3PYUFjfspXYJxhgKkbmTRysFjmnQ3S6npxJfL7P_duLSpeozbmgsQeJHlR/s1600/IMG_0222.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-SH7xDvyYJF2VY77y_qmI3GjcQu0FmCrd_7fgXPVcNOgnBUfCSBmLijoRThdZfMv3B0Ak0frbPErKV9WSCk3PYUFjfspXYJxhgKkbmTRysFjmnQ3S6npxJfL7P_duLSpeozbmgsQeJHlR/s400/IMG_0222.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459190131784349506" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibuGU0lNL62sRFFsZwWoSqnu-MajTrHPJzcfXAAEhnOUV-qpoxKXJBvEX8IpEGpPLd6Imn6xKb73Q64-4hYCm6via_kKhVZco7qMFFgzUt-ARYX18PELZp0HRdnuI_OqDD6E8Y2tr9lgW7/s1600/IMG_0227.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibuGU0lNL62sRFFsZwWoSqnu-MajTrHPJzcfXAAEhnOUV-qpoxKXJBvEX8IpEGpPLd6Imn6xKb73Q64-4hYCm6via_kKhVZco7qMFFgzUt-ARYX18PELZp0HRdnuI_OqDD6E8Y2tr9lgW7/s400/IMG_0227.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459190334119847314" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSLYbvan0gxtWmfgm_nWpKmviSNNgAYvyu8dDurGswYyzL3LCSB9nDsOSUU7ptR9ndaMgu4z6SBEvTrhJcsGAukn0dKsdiMcIElcRlUiJo6jmefrObxEve6AUTK8QPb94KZb_MkMO8bns/s1600/IMG_0187.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSLYbvan0gxtWmfgm_nWpKmviSNNgAYvyu8dDurGswYyzL3LCSB9nDsOSUU7ptR9ndaMgu4z6SBEvTrhJcsGAukn0dKsdiMcIElcRlUiJo6jmefrObxEve6AUTK8QPb94KZb_MkMO8bns/s400/IMG_0187.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459189593385488466" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Poo with a view</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpLdgre5aGmhyM6ySybzV3NxHSPsnnC8aKSuct3hINZCypbJ3hiHD2VfTb9rYskPJpBr_XZaqmDE0rW50OSrZb-xiDowsdACk_acN0l5GBiUlR1aVFkO6HVRAP-HgX_TSjCYf16BOtriZ/s1600/IMG_0255.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwpLdgre5aGmhyM6ySybzV3NxHSPsnnC8aKSuct3hINZCypbJ3hiHD2VfTb9rYskPJpBr_XZaqmDE0rW50OSrZb-xiDowsdACk_acN0l5GBiUlR1aVFkO6HVRAP-HgX_TSjCYf16BOtriZ/s400/IMG_0255.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459190919794282514" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg364zEgIjEuMkwBiOHjLhV-XTrE3tg-l3PR_t3r1wkSa9ap5At2sVTSc3fuh319uhQ3iWrTyrkYLZhICptjLGJPjLzRPqvq0iH3qhMrWZ1anqR5vLC5-5Md1JCoDLEVz-Ijp_jC3wODtq5/s1600/IMG_0243.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg364zEgIjEuMkwBiOHjLhV-XTrE3tg-l3PR_t3r1wkSa9ap5At2sVTSc3fuh319uhQ3iWrTyrkYLZhICptjLGJPjLzRPqvq0iH3qhMrWZ1anqR5vLC5-5Md1JCoDLEVz-Ijp_jC3wODtq5/s400/IMG_0243.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459190695929588290" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWPK77nq6xRseo9ro0UyZlrxL4k3YLxVG3I9lCoRza2mJRC11TUYqrRBq0XeU7yXk7eT9Tehsw02SpkOP3MXqUjkuKaLnu6vt1GJoysM2iXlEkQOIEhXiyWl4jZj8un3m60ogFl-UqQdt/s1600/IMG_0260.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWPK77nq6xRseo9ro0UyZlrxL4k3YLxVG3I9lCoRza2mJRC11TUYqrRBq0XeU7yXk7eT9Tehsw02SpkOP3MXqUjkuKaLnu6vt1GJoysM2iXlEkQOIEhXiyWl4jZj8un3m60ogFl-UqQdt/s400/IMG_0260.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459191121214385346" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">While the state of Zimbabwe's tourism economy sometimes overshadows the sights themselves (in commenting about our visit since, “we were all alone!” is often the first thing from out mouths), visiting the ruins was an affirmation of what the country has to offer – we visited a solid, world-class attraction, with a singularity and historical resonance that no game lodge or snake park can match. So please, come to Zimbabwe! And maybe do a little littering while you're here, or scuff a footpath at least – tell the groundskeepers Scott sent you.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Xm_WgoVeY3hKN5wtbw5EKoChGtHtO_RJLKpbCiy2FvfOdgLp3SB_vHZQhnnXFqCM6EigF__pTvWnIJprKrKTmMD8eHaqOjlRhndcYbJ-F0I5g3MbkeZprP-QYNf74akmEZPJ8M1SVvPs/s1600/IMG_0329.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Xm_WgoVeY3hKN5wtbw5EKoChGtHtO_RJLKpbCiy2FvfOdgLp3SB_vHZQhnnXFqCM6EigF__pTvWnIJprKrKTmMD8eHaqOjlRhndcYbJ-F0I5g3MbkeZprP-QYNf74akmEZPJ8M1SVvPs/s400/IMG_0329.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459191735413356738" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">While waiting in a minibus this guy wanted his photo taken, so here he is.<br /></span></div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-87793885640146709542010-03-30T11:08:00.000-07:002010-03-30T12:51:33.291-07:00Into Zimbabwe: Bulawayo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMXZhnxb7e8NDfGur_3HSpNjlYrR9SBw8Iajf4yvqMWPD-LVaSv5lgShz6ZlOTCTMh49lgNzA9NYaUl9pcjpYa9nGgoB3GxmbTNC1-UMfHpopojj3E1dKgVf-XKByNPslXdme_aLYlsP4N/s1600/IMG_0060.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMXZhnxb7e8NDfGur_3HSpNjlYrR9SBw8Iajf4yvqMWPD-LVaSv5lgShz6ZlOTCTMh49lgNzA9NYaUl9pcjpYa9nGgoB3GxmbTNC1-UMfHpopojj3E1dKgVf-XKByNPslXdme_aLYlsP4N/s400/IMG_0060.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454494824026862018" border="0" /></a><br />We had no kitchen at our accommodation in Bulawayo, where we spent the first of our days in Zimbabwe, so we were often looking for places to eat. In areas of Africa less touched by tourism, sit-down restaurants are scarce, most eateries being of the take-out variety: bare concrete floor, stainless steel counter and rarely more than a Coca-Cola poster for decor. Many had good-sized menu boards on the wall with a wide variety of options, all for $1-$3 a serving: meat pies, beef stew, vegetable curry, samosas, and sadza (stiff porridgey maize meal, an African staple). But whenever we stepped up and tried to order off said menu, the woman behind the counter would look at us like we were out of our minds. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “We don't have it.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “What do you have?” We'd ask.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> She would then have a quick exchange with a man in the back room.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> “Chicken and chips?” She'd say.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Chicken and chips, chicken and chips, chicken and chips. Regardless of what the menus show, apparently all Zimbabweans eat is chicken and chips, meaning a piece or two of anemic fried chicken and some soggy fries, freed at last from their heat lamp and stuffed into clear plastic bag. The one time we decided to eat at a sit-down place (you know, with tables, chairs, laminated menus, etc.) we told our waiter after he'd brought our drinks that we'd like to order food as well. He got a bit frantic and scared, ran to the kitchen, and came back saying, “here's what I can get you– I can get you chicken, some pieces of fried chicken... and some chips on the side. Yes?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Disregarding the argument of whether these menus should stay posted, I assume they at one time more accurately reflected the repertoire of the establishments upon whose walls they were nailed. This is Zimbabwe, however, and while the situation has improved plenty, the menu boards above Bulawayo's take-out counters are evidence that, possibly in more stable times, the veggie curry was once available. In the same way, there is evidence of a once-healthy tourism economy in Zimbabwe: outside our hotel, a safari company's sandwich-board advert had been given a permanent home hidden behind the locked grate of a neighbouring doorway. On the highways we passed countless disused rest-stops, their picnic tables and garbage bins shrouded in overgrowth; in the tourist-info pamphlet rack there sits a fantastic brochure for Zimbabwean golf which likely hasn't been moved since 1973, and in the three nights we spent at our two-storey, fifty-room hotel right downtown, we were utterly alone.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyrK__kqSalKi9HPrrDH9kPWMWfN8qbhtJhovdDVKGw0msfyzcXudLn_dyGQrx3dhYoGXzA-6gus0MzYAmE4aAW8E_WCsLEmqLlEihEdTW5ni7lEeIdskcZgKzCP0yO_KFiWQzPaA0kRq/s1600/IMG_0371.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyrK__kqSalKi9HPrrDH9kPWMWfN8qbhtJhovdDVKGw0msfyzcXudLn_dyGQrx3dhYoGXzA-6gus0MzYAmE4aAW8E_WCsLEmqLlEihEdTW5ni7lEeIdskcZgKzCP0yO_KFiWQzPaA0kRq/s400/IMG_0371.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454508569614435490" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">In the courtyard at Berkely Place</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">People evidently just don't go to Zim without a reason. Prior to going ourselves, we'd met only three people who'd crossed its borders: a young woman who was born there and had gone with her boyfriend to visit relatives (fair enough), and one other Irish fellow who'd been on the road for over a year, traveling overland all the way from Europe (and who was contentedly riding minibusses with a backpack the size of a Frigidaire, therefore fitting into the 'crazies' category and needing no reason). President Mugabe's reckless tampering and the country's general economic and political woes have tagged the country as one best avoided. And as many a local will eagerly relay, this was true as recent as 2008, when inflation peaked at five billion percent (someone please explain to me how that is possible) and the supermarket shelves were barren. People are happy to complain about Mugabe, and use similar rhetoric to folks at home complaining about any disfavoured Western politician. “This is a peaceful country,” is what we heard time and time again, and while we're sure life in Zimbabwe is not all singing and dancing, as tourists we experienced a country as easy, friendly, and pleasant as one could hope for.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Upon arrival in Bulawayo, one of the first things that struck us was the money: since the Zim dollar is altogether worthless (more on that to come), the country now runs on US currency. We were armed with mint-fresh notes from home, but the first domestic bill we received (as change for a serving of chicken and chips, of course) was the soggiest, most worn out little one-dollar we've ever seen. The date said 2006 but it looked like it had spent the last four years taped to the forehead of a coal miner. While US money is dominant, no American coins are used – we received South African change, eight Rand going into one dollar. To help with the confusion, many stores accept Rand as well, the exchange rate varying from 7:1 to 10:1.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9bsOeopBS70A0_QG9wxzMjZuUFFql7lkju_O11WSMdUafR4ned5Rx3KYXs09rR5QfOuYU-pdnhlFwWk4jfpHucaIu6FOMBtlwqxGK5OC642U5EMIwk2SyGqpG6IhmeVOsrZHCsYuvU2H/s1600/IMG_0331.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9bsOeopBS70A0_QG9wxzMjZuUFFql7lkju_O11WSMdUafR4ned5Rx3KYXs09rR5QfOuYU-pdnhlFwWk4jfpHucaIu6FOMBtlwqxGK5OC642U5EMIwk2SyGqpG6IhmeVOsrZHCsYuvU2H/s400/IMG_0331.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454506519111095858" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">That extra year can make all the difference!</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Bulawayo is striking in that the city has apparently undergone zero development since the 1950's. I'm no expert, but the entire downtown core hearkens to a single era of architecture, with little modification over the years. Boxy buildings, rarely extending higher than six or seven storeys, are graced with evocative art-deco lettering, and the double-wide boulevards are lined down the center with turquoise lampposts. In amongst the time-capsule edifices are a few Victorian buildings from the Southern Rhodesia gold-boom years (Zimbabwe has only been called so since 1980). At the edge of the city sits a mammoth relic of a power station that, while apparently plagued with mismanagement and inefficiencies, sure looks cool. The freshest and most contemporary additions to the city are the beer ads.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDG0g8hmkNRFgkhHiFNY6V5PNgNOpwla2U8Nv3_ikp-nUU21K5J6Zh6Go4m6IIvLMwLiBsDslxBkwMxcyksveSciZYLEpP-xf4dFwM-97xn40nuFMhVZOqVM7FPlBU5yZcm_uahvY_vrZ/s1600/IMG_0360.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDG0g8hmkNRFgkhHiFNY6V5PNgNOpwla2U8Nv3_ikp-nUU21K5J6Zh6Go4m6IIvLMwLiBsDslxBkwMxcyksveSciZYLEpP-xf4dFwM-97xn40nuFMhVZOqVM7FPlBU5yZcm_uahvY_vrZ/s400/IMG_0360.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454508057561225586" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Whether or not said ads can be erected level is another story</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMZLoejSD50LlGgPqgWHXDMggySMXLzsR06Tjq5KZBMAGa4PUlkua4KakRM0khjb-bQ-qsjpydNooy8w__d7F8GPi8ovZNJ7YVzBJ1VFbqT5omGsGmnnR7ELZOHB_hyphenhyphennNuwPAyw2h82_l/s1600/IMG_0064.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMZLoejSD50LlGgPqgWHXDMggySMXLzsR06Tjq5KZBMAGa4PUlkua4KakRM0khjb-bQ-qsjpydNooy8w__d7F8GPi8ovZNJ7YVzBJ1VFbqT5omGsGmnnR7ELZOHB_hyphenhyphennNuwPAyw2h82_l/s400/IMG_0064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454495385239274338" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlo0PBe7fkinyigyrA5mRLZdTyJf5nX7EkjeQ_RWIoNAiwH0f3kNT-wrLugv7iM3K3mLaH6gJ3atDq64gCMRSaqySyMHQWjq_NsOvQSFKMLQnIMeEWO_dX7p3RrtndX0uSXoRbIlL5FmJ/s1600/IMG_0359.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlo0PBe7fkinyigyrA5mRLZdTyJf5nX7EkjeQ_RWIoNAiwH0f3kNT-wrLugv7iM3K3mLaH6gJ3atDq64gCMRSaqySyMHQWjq_NsOvQSFKMLQnIMeEWO_dX7p3RrtndX0uSXoRbIlL5FmJ/s400/IMG_0359.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454506989538874242" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">We took a train from this station. More on that soon!</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggFR9ly0McrUZklkDfs7iTY-FzzLChDEC4mea6XWRkP7uAIBd7KtQrnKiOBUFR_P8KOtpfFn8MW9eQlfJT7EiM4gUuDvYXplKoIJA_5exhq4JYbOKZLs01h35btWqPcYRk-tMfYObvZr8i/s1600/IMG_0066.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggFR9ly0McrUZklkDfs7iTY-FzzLChDEC4mea6XWRkP7uAIBd7KtQrnKiOBUFR_P8KOtpfFn8MW9eQlfJT7EiM4gUuDvYXplKoIJA_5exhq4JYbOKZLs01h35btWqPcYRk-tMfYObvZr8i/s400/IMG_0066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454499969279238098" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZS5E7fgbmc5m5o9iN8w6jffySdtxZbJrxzJi6g8TQ03baJ8JwOD6Byc7CQCj-1nmAyQy0XI_LqHKc_TGWTbd_ffKJILTZJRBBA-tZBnDO1Zm54AhWFj5iNVb94FBB1hDfVHB3Y7w1-UBg/s1600/bulawayo+blog.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZS5E7fgbmc5m5o9iN8w6jffySdtxZbJrxzJi6g8TQ03baJ8JwOD6Byc7CQCj-1nmAyQy0XI_LqHKc_TGWTbd_ffKJILTZJRBBA-tZBnDO1Zm54AhWFj5iNVb94FBB1hDfVHB3Y7w1-UBg/s400/bulawayo+blog.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454493237855336578" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">If the company we kept at our hotel was any indication, it's safe to assume we were the only travelers in the entire city. There is not a great deal to do in terms of traditional sights, but we did make it out to the Bulawayo Railway Museum, behind the train station. Neither Alanna nor I have ever been ones for steam engines, but it was good fun, and pleasing in how it differed from anything similar at home. One of the museum's most significant possessions is the luxury rail car used by <a href="http://tomorrowisanothercountry.blogspot.com/2010/01/cape-town-in-review.html">our pa</a><a href="http://tomorrowisanothercountry.blogspot.com/2010/01/cape-town-in-review.html">l</a> Cecil John Rhodes in his travels around the country. Given the man's stature no expense was spared, and the car remains outfitted with piles of original silverware and crystal. The car's value must be astronomical, and we would have been satisfied simply gazing into the windows, but the museum's 'acting curator,' a guy my age, produced a key, and led us through a casual tour of the car, encouraging us to touch or pick up anything we pleased. Any such exhibit at home would have been sequestered with velvet rope, but in Zimbabwe, Rhodes' most precious cutlery is fair game.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKE4SJFMF48JEkn3AuQNULV8hB78TeUJPl5SLKrt4Dj4tsi_ohVVI1SoRHuBKyYg0osxdScztfmiRkRZjZVdz_b-rLX6LnKR453-ryjyaEX5wDBqizSo_m2F2pimZmpfkJJdGrZNJtiugh/s1600/IMG_0077.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKE4SJFMF48JEkn3AuQNULV8hB78TeUJPl5SLKrt4Dj4tsi_ohVVI1SoRHuBKyYg0osxdScztfmiRkRZjZVdz_b-rLX6LnKR453-ryjyaEX5wDBqizSo_m2F2pimZmpfkJJdGrZNJtiugh/s400/IMG_0077.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454503014910600066" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After the Rhodes car, the curator left us alone to snoop around the acre-plus yard of train cars and engines on our own. Some were locked, some weren't – we were permitted to wander as we pleased, force doors open, and climb over things. I wouldn't doubt that we browsed the best and biggest large-scale train collection on the continent, and in terms of bang-for-buck and pure explorability one would be hard-pressed to find an equal anywhere. Many a four year-old would have thought they'd died and gone to heaven, and there there's something alluring about big weighty machines that even a flimsy art student like me can't deny.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTDY-92438mZoArR3ZpHYei1rY1VNoEoKfgPL3pgFs_DcN1LCJ0pq0VwbBl0KK8FXXIcXtBxO2b8qyeI1OP1kHUcoZsXSD557TSK5T0veyRY3NPyzpbNCBXrnQnZXD7CBxTA6R0km8NS9/s1600/IMG_0090.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTDY-92438mZoArR3ZpHYei1rY1VNoEoKfgPL3pgFs_DcN1LCJ0pq0VwbBl0KK8FXXIcXtBxO2b8qyeI1OP1kHUcoZsXSD557TSK5T0veyRY3NPyzpbNCBXrnQnZXD7CBxTA6R0km8NS9/s400/IMG_0090.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454504626561006818" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-Gy3roTB7Jf8fe_JPLZ6BPTUUPlDD_FtWvFzNl_YwzPgm4PjHfzJN7fN4PohkCiMpRqQCOQkEt99Y1IKIJeZExu9pgcjQKYHrTKwiSM4Xb10EROgit3kFzHAmcjf5v9vtS2OMkAD_ScU/s1600/IMG_0095.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-Gy3roTB7Jf8fe_JPLZ6BPTUUPlDD_FtWvFzNl_YwzPgm4PjHfzJN7fN4PohkCiMpRqQCOQkEt99Y1IKIJeZExu9pgcjQKYHrTKwiSM4Xb10EROgit3kFzHAmcjf5v9vtS2OMkAD_ScU/s400/IMG_0095.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454512981246716050" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUG6_OgeRwF8R6RVFoZMUJh759J4KV4Gcm5ATcDpR0d5nc8kDnyNYS3ySdIpd5otJf1LKZZLEt14CvpNY5bZGc-t6HTwZXLQv_zyuZBzhcIAULJkK-lthTPDWQBym0WmSgvcjGsOJIwbMA/s1600/IMG_0123.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUG6_OgeRwF8R6RVFoZMUJh759J4KV4Gcm5ATcDpR0d5nc8kDnyNYS3ySdIpd5otJf1LKZZLEt14CvpNY5bZGc-t6HTwZXLQv_zyuZBzhcIAULJkK-lthTPDWQBym0WmSgvcjGsOJIwbMA/s400/IMG_0123.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454505411783121730" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As far as food goes, we did manage to find some more diverse meals, including a very decent fast-food pizza chain that had – gasp – a vegetarian option (though the chicken and chips thing still plagues us, we're in Malawi now and thought we were ordering shawarmas for lunch today but received what was basically chicken and chips with fancier seasoning). Bulawayo was the first real instance of us being without certain amenities we'd become used to on our travels: namely any form of self-catering kitchen, or hot showers, or toilet paper in the bathrooms, or cheese in the supermarkets (we are going to miss you, cheese!). I felt we were on the brink between the “well-established backpacker circuit” form of traveling and something different – 'harder' may not be the right word, but at least more alone, more expected to step out of our comfort zone a smidgeon. But who am I kidding, there was fast-food pizza, so really, how hard can it be?</p><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7iPYhq0rHgtd7ksv5vZ5jGNssi9p5uv4xGqZVzwkD9UGhncrJJgUnSxbFUHjS63shGFahFyruc68PW8rDh1Z0DdRwClOcHGDL1eSgOQva_B_5poyl8ZC8ZRF0ucgvjOhqSlKEXTJme79q/s1600/IMG_0072.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7iPYhq0rHgtd7ksv5vZ5jGNssi9p5uv4xGqZVzwkD9UGhncrJJgUnSxbFUHjS63shGFahFyruc68PW8rDh1Z0DdRwClOcHGDL1eSgOQva_B_5poyl8ZC8ZRF0ucgvjOhqSlKEXTJme79q/s400/IMG_0072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454500700176706898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></div>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-22942553632271155092010-03-27T12:01:00.000-07:002010-03-27T12:01:00.125-07:00Black, White and Gold: Johannesburg in a DayIn South Africa, just about everywhere you go, the word on everyone's lips seems to be 'crime'. Crime in the cities, crime in the country, crime with guns, knives and fists, sex crime, gang crime, war crime...You begin to wonder what people would talk about at the dinner table if it weren't for rape and homicide. You also begin to wonder how much of this dinner-table gossip has directly contributed in the erection of high cement walls trimmed with electrical fencing, and how much of it might well be entirely unnecessary. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Nowhere is the topic hotter than in Johannesburg, where the extremes of poverty and wealth compounded with the ubiquity of illegal firearms make for an often deadly combination. Although we remain skeptical that Johannesburg is in fact overrun with gun-toting criminals who would kill for an iPhone, we were swayed by the stories of fellow travellers (some of whom were mugged before even leaving the train station) and decided to base ourselves in Pretoria, about 50k from the madness. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">With its colonial government buildings, wide tree-lined avenues and malls teeming with moneyed teenagers and familiar brand names, Pretoria did have a safe, sedate feel. Walking in the suburbs, passing the dignified embassies of Algeria, Slovakia and Singapore (Canada's was a mauve, stuccoed eyesore straight out of Richmond, BC) you couldn't possibly feel further from harm. But aside from the city's graceful gardens and buildings, and a handful of uninspiring museums, our attention was inevitably drawn to its louder, more vibrant and extravagant neighbour: Jozi, Jo'burg, eGoli – Johannesburg. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Given all the negative things we'd heard about Jo'burg (and the fact that we lacked our own transport) we opted to stretch our budget and sign up for an organized tour. Not ten minutes in, we were regretting our decision, as our tour guide – a doddering Afrikaaner woman who had apparently been in the business for 25 years – turned out to be about the least informed 'local expert' one could possibly imagine. Half of the things she told us either came from the tour brochure or were written on a plaque right in front of us. It was like like paying $500 for a university course, only to be read to from the textbook by someone with a PhD in the subject. However, we did have to give her credit for knowing where all the stars stay when they come to Johannesburg – and for having an (almost) close encounter with Richard Branson.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Despite our guide's inability to tell us a single thing we didn't already know, and her blatant disrespect for, well, just about everything, she did serve her purpose of getting us to the sights and home again. First, we visited the Hector Pieterson museum, which commemorates the struggle for equality, with particular attention paid to the role that youth played. In June 1976, school children in Soweto marched to the police station to protest against the implementation of Afrikaans as the medium of instruction in their schools. More or less completely unprovoked (accounts differ – some argue that the children captured/beat/set fire to a police dog) police opened fire on the children. In about fifteen minutes, 23 children were shot and killed, including Hector Pieterson, a 13-year old boy who became an icon of the struggle when this picture was published in newspapers around the world.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://mariekeinsuedafrika.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/hector-peterson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 311px; height: 400px;" src="http://mariekeinsuedafrika.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/hector-peterson.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A few blocks away from the museum is Nkagane street – the only street in the world where two Nobel Prize winners have lived (Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu). The Mandela home has been turned into a museum, where tourists can wander through rooms showcasing photos and memorabilia of South Africa's favourite political family. Of particular interest are the letters between Nelson Mandela and his daughters Zeni and Zindzi, and certificate from the CIA apologizing for their part in his arrest and subsequent 27 years of imprisonment. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Both museums offered sobering insights into South Africa's turbulent past, but for us, the most affecting experience came late in the day at the Apartheid Museum. Deliberately constructed to reflect the sombre, restricted atmosphere of apartheid, visitors enter the museum through either the 'Blankes' or 'Nie-Blankes' entrance – race is assigned at random. Scott is white and I am black. Through the first corridor, I can see and hear him, but a wall of bars separates us – whites and blacks do not mix. Reunited, we spent the next three hours immersed in the horrors of (and eventual triumphs over) apartheid. At every turn, you are confronted with candid black and white photographs of township life, shockingly racist excerpts from Nationalist Party speeches, video clips of resisters being gunned down by police. In one room, below a series of hanging nooses, you learn about the 121 political prisoners who died under apartheid rule, many of them at the hands of the authorities who created cover-up suicide stories to mask the true circumstances surrounding their deaths. Despite feeling a bit overwhelmed with information (the museum spans about 300 years of compelling history) it is the personal accounts of those who lived it that resonate for long after you leave the museum. You can't help but be absolutely awe-struck by their perseverance in the face of such crushing oppression. You also can't help but be similarly awe-struck by how long it was allowed to continue, finally coming to an end a mere 16 years ago.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Regardless of Johannesburg's reputation for brutality and lawlessness, there's no denying that it's the country's – and perhaps the continent's – epicentre. People aren't leaving the city, they're flocking to it. Long after the gold mines (which were the city's initial raison d'etre) have closed, people from all over Africa continue to be drawn to Jo'burg, for its reckless consumerism, its vibrant arts scene, its endless possibilities. Sixty years after Nelson Mandela and Walter Sisulu opened the country's first black law firm here, in a society divided along racial lines, Johannesburg has emerged from apartheid a complicated city, scarred, but forever promising.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-654609449621874372010-03-25T08:43:00.000-07:002010-03-25T10:57:00.677-07:00Durban<span style="font-size:85%;">If this entry comes off as coloured slightly in the negative, it is possibly only partly the fault of the city – in Durban we had to endure the final in a series of camera woes, where we were charged R200 to be told Alanna's year-old Canon (which she'd carried from Port St. John's, where it came in contact with a very mischievous Indian Ocean) was basically unfixable. Alas. We've since shelled out for a new one and the photos will resume as we get up to date. Since we have no photographic evidence of Durban, I'll throw in some random photos of the trip so far, and we can all pretend they're relevant.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw42-fWDNjA9bkd0qqlFm5DupGaTJtwQt7bFfD1To3sC3WTTFsEsS_48awuvPDnkRn_fCpDpvSmnB2fbVOBLp0qEmAMfG9Q9OvffK2qYNLhLqrKJMyrie3UAxqmJ9uKldTVk12Gu7jh1u/s1600/IMG_1865.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw42-fWDNjA9bkd0qqlFm5DupGaTJtwQt7bFfD1To3sC3WTTFsEsS_48awuvPDnkRn_fCpDpvSmnB2fbVOBLp0qEmAMfG9Q9OvffK2qYNLhLqrKJMyrie3UAxqmJ9uKldTVk12Gu7jh1u/s400/IMG_1865.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452599201796918370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">In Cape Town, in the Castle of Good Hope Prison. All the wooden beams in the cells were covered with delightfully typographic carvings, and were often not without a sense of humour.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0Xe_rH-lr-BWB48ES4JLk28I9_c9zH9gMyBLHh5dmdR-fYrygQ1B9LpFFxuB6qeXfKvTvMMc94ypivFZ5UvDQh1_D1Wtohyy_FCPKh_7hZwSMcARNIrY7XGPj6LT_IF7Jy1o86jSLR8V/s1600/IMG_1897.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0Xe_rH-lr-BWB48ES4JLk28I9_c9zH9gMyBLHh5dmdR-fYrygQ1B9LpFFxuB6qeXfKvTvMMc94ypivFZ5UvDQh1_D1Wtohyy_FCPKh_7hZwSMcARNIrY7XGPj6LT_IF7Jy1o86jSLR8V/s400/IMG_1897.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452599492836538178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">In Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, Cape Town. A botanist with some family issues?</span></span><br /></div><br />We both knew little about Durban before embarking on our trip, but over the course of our journey it has earned itself a mediocre reputation, and looks to be hot on Joburg's heels as the least safe place in the country – the big wall-map at our hostel had suggestions of where <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> to go. Much of the tourism literature markets the city as a beach-time summer-fun city, less for backpackers and more for those with a vehicle and a family and an eye on resort accommodation. The city sports an urban beachfront in the tradition of Waikiki and Miami Beach, and dolphin imagery abounds.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMgtDWgRw7Prrn9ZL518xS3cuW1uBCVH80YlrQmflcbjiXxKT8zao_3rBW1ohI29rouIuUN2DG481fgtlOjNUi8ammF19G8XB3EX9XjxEtkJ4CNIVlxlgPVFQKRlS3r2qHpMd_VDd0xT6/s1600/IMG_0212.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVMgtDWgRw7Prrn9ZL518xS3cuW1uBCVH80YlrQmflcbjiXxKT8zao_3rBW1ohI29rouIuUN2DG481fgtlOjNUi8ammF19G8XB3EX9XjxEtkJ4CNIVlxlgPVFQKRlS3r2qHpMd_VDd0xT6/s400/IMG_0212.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452598614456985410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ostrich eggs at the supermarket in Outshoorn, the 'Ostrich Capital of the World.' R29 is about $4.</span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8BwUdlfIPPsUxThHY5QtKx-A2O2u6DmrlmNxEiUiaNoDr8Ae0iBTlllD4v_sJsWLDOKo7GLauzsVNe-NzxgvnU_xe3TqjQ77ukPnNuumnxvXO9G_Xhp3LNrYoDsbXaxiXukBTGFs4-2SA/s1600/Week+2+Jan+20-271.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8BwUdlfIPPsUxThHY5QtKx-A2O2u6DmrlmNxEiUiaNoDr8Ae0iBTlllD4v_sJsWLDOKo7GLauzsVNe-NzxgvnU_xe3TqjQ77ukPnNuumnxvXO9G_Xhp3LNrYoDsbXaxiXukBTGFs4-2SA/s400/Week+2+Jan+20-271.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452599649640414130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">In Cango Caves, Outshoorn. Crawling through tiny holes very far underground, lots of fun!</span></span><br /></div><br />Behind the beach, the downtown core is a dense grid of drab apartheid-era office towers, dusty Victorian architecture, and a significant (so we're told) number of Art Deco buildings, in all stages of repair and lack thereof. Like every South African hub, Durban is in the midst of a comprehensive facelift prior to the World Cup – most noticeably in the renaming of streets to reflect a more historically representative nation. Bid adieu to the anglo comforts of Alice Street and Point Road, say hello to Masabalala Yengwa Avenue. The marathon-long blocks are crammed with tiny businesses, and, as is common in these parts, those unable to afford retail space simply set up shop in the gutter. Opposite the supermarket a man had established his own, and on a shanty plywood table was milk, cheese and other perishables laid out in the 28-degree urban swelter. Cell-phone faceplates seem to be big business, and often we passed young guys on the sidewalk holding a single leather belt or polo shirt, ready for barter.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjIclU9zlSGOFZBe8hEHwtWoUeCpZYzeWejowake2ouSxSXySJEcmdl2kLooxCyva4s9VfhoQFeugi3Zcxb23EGGay4FkVi94s4PoBB-H9_HXMRKOBbsCmDvTm2akdeZCBhs6xFFxzvb-/s1600/IMG_0517.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjIclU9zlSGOFZBe8hEHwtWoUeCpZYzeWejowake2ouSxSXySJEcmdl2kLooxCyva4s9VfhoQFeugi3Zcxb23EGGay4FkVi94s4PoBB-H9_HXMRKOBbsCmDvTm2akdeZCBhs6xFFxzvb-/s400/IMG_0517.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452598867963087538" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">In Storm's River, among the drab general stores and tourism facilities there was a storefront dedicated solely to some guy's Cadillac collection.</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApJmfqEQQKvYvKELPnCOuq22sE1kqrU4vSeotQvO0CGTdpDo1n9qoufq09Y9sFQfQRYrZUVCtriJTKixTpcSMq-4vr6uEDeMPER6gpRirAx0YkWFDgmujSnJQ-nxpjJBu7tShNdaJ5RIV/s1600/IMG_0037.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiApJmfqEQQKvYvKELPnCOuq22sE1kqrU4vSeotQvO0CGTdpDo1n9qoufq09Y9sFQfQRYrZUVCtriJTKixTpcSMq-4vr6uEDeMPER6gpRirAx0YkWFDgmujSnJQ-nxpjJBu7tShNdaJ5RIV/s400/IMG_0037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452598466627849250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A bathtub at the edge of a cliff at our hostel in Hogsback, a strange Tolkien-themed town way up in the forest. There was a drought and we'd have felt bad filling it up.</span><br /></span></div><br />For those less keen on sandcastles, Durban's claim to fame is its Indian population, the largest outside of India. The city's novelty dish is 'bunny chow,' basically curry in a bread-bowl (which we didn't eat), and there are a few beautiful mosques around (which we didn't see). We spent most of our tourist hours trudging through areas we ought not to be, grappling with an info-booth clerk's incorrect directions to the pick-up point for a city tour (which we didn't find). The only real worthwhile thing we had time for was the Victoria Street Market, a two-storey curio mecca in a bland pinkish building. Apparently, the original market had a little more historical pizzazz, but became too unsafe for tourists, though the new one is still rather close to one of our hostel's no-go areas. Inside we browsed dunes of souvenirs: an endless maze of Big Five carvings and salad spoons. One can only hope whoever makes all this stuff is earning a fair wage. The rules of African retail apply, and if the stall owners were any more coercive they'd have lassos. We explored the less foreigner-centric fish and meat market next door, but the four-dozen-too-many severed sheep-heads on display (skin on, skin off, your choice!) made our visit somewhat brief.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAq1AUBHDiGHfCyzmd4aa3fJhLZBfzuQEFUkxwDRJtxGocPXZBdIfuzLvflTsXN_EG1AtX2PzQ_h8Py7D9iJXaMBKXt57-2GDqDKcdau_tSxc7gFJIQH6V_b8AyX2UIF5vUtU7kQcgAD81/s1600/IMG_1351.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAq1AUBHDiGHfCyzmd4aa3fJhLZBfzuQEFUkxwDRJtxGocPXZBdIfuzLvflTsXN_EG1AtX2PzQ_h8Py7D9iJXaMBKXt57-2GDqDKcdau_tSxc7gFJIQH6V_b8AyX2UIF5vUtU7kQcgAD81/s400/IMG_1351.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452599037123866354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">At Bulungula we met Evan from Hamilton, Ont. who was in the process of fashioning a cribbage board with scrap wood and a hand-drill.</span><br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogMg-KazmukDBWALML9zjUcg7lh-uGj8ri4D9dvXZWvCFFCDBMpzub8qXm_pqrIEMJQYNwRa2Cyhn5OKrOC7Uaf2eT0hL-o5yCgD551UtWc1ia43cQQcdRM1WO1yLGEi3wB-qZH92d4VH/s1600/IMG_0291.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogMg-KazmukDBWALML9zjUcg7lh-uGj8ri4D9dvXZWvCFFCDBMpzub8qXm_pqrIEMJQYNwRa2Cyhn5OKrOC7Uaf2eT0hL-o5yCgD551UtWc1ia43cQQcdRM1WO1yLGEi3wB-qZH92d4VH/s400/IMG_0291.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452598768171472434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Stoney Ginger Beer is our carbonated beverage of choice in Africa. Spicy ginger bite, beats Canada Dry tenfold! They often come in reusable silkscreened glass bottles like the old days.</span><br /></span></div><br />So that was Durban. I feel we didn't completely give it a fair chance, but even if we did, my guess is that the city's most appealing sides would reveal themselves only in the company of an experienced local. For us it was the place that stole our cameras away, the place that overcharged for minibus rides, the place where not even the tourist-centre staff seemed to understand the bewildering city grid.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-21929296320889175572010-03-24T08:16:00.000-07:002010-03-24T09:13:44.689-07:00Up to the Roof<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Southern Drakensberg</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioWCrN7_tC892dH4cmPKRhdpMTb3cjNOmy_jbh8Tnf_IWlNwVs47uyzNb5ceSUnm7XBQ43V9ebxjng-p8UcnmY5rzajdw5OOwmN2d6HINV956CKXbbfATSd7mxRY2c-6VlmaETwp8BtKGa/s1600/IMG_1432.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioWCrN7_tC892dH4cmPKRhdpMTb3cjNOmy_jbh8Tnf_IWlNwVs47uyzNb5ceSUnm7XBQ43V9ebxjng-p8UcnmY5rzajdw5OOwmN2d6HINV956CKXbbfATSd7mxRY2c-6VlmaETwp8BtKGa/s400/IMG_1432.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452223384266754610" border="0" /></a><br />It hurts to say goodbye to the beach, but if it means installing yourself at the foot of the most badass mountain range in the world for a few days, well, wounds heal fast. I speak of the Drakensburg, a crescent of mountains which spoon the northeastern edge of Lesotho. While unassuming on a map, the pure age of these mountains reduces us twenty-three year-olds to mere specks in space and time. In a day's walk one can find dinosaur footprints in the hills, Bushman rock art in the caves, rainbow trout in the rivers (introduced by homesick Scottish settlers, natch) and the firepits of marijuana smugglers hiking their loot overnight into South Africa – basically all of prehistory up until, let's say, fifteen minutes ago. Before passing into Lesotho proper, we stayed at a backpackers' called Sani Lodge just outside and, because we can smell a bargain when we see one, settled into a three-night package deal which included all meals and a couple guided tours.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloqCRYqNS7ledebLXZvSYWOKXwiQZEAUX_P1Oopgk6yniF5OCHPgAoV8EXrJ6lDAQsnWvazfjwiScaETAUelb8KZH8USv5b6ypQFCbClU0DoxAnRZl8cDyajxUim8dacYFCH95mf2FMc-/s1600/IMG_1386.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloqCRYqNS7ledebLXZvSYWOKXwiQZEAUX_P1Oopgk6yniF5OCHPgAoV8EXrJ6lDAQsnWvazfjwiScaETAUelb8KZH8USv5b6ypQFCbClU0DoxAnRZl8cDyajxUim8dacYFCH95mf2FMc-/s400/IMG_1386.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452222082615167202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">And we're barely at the top!<br /></span></span></div>The main draw of this corner of the Drak is Sani Pass, a frighteningly ill-maintained set of hairpin switchbacks that weave up the mountains to the Lesotho border at the summit. The route is 4WD-only, by law. We were lucky enough to have the tour to ourselves – just us, a beige 1970's Land Rover, and our guide Matthew. We gathered that he'd recently broken up with his girlfriend, and the day was nuanced with a subtext of loneliness and regret.<br /><br />The drive to the base of the pass is scenic beyond comprehension, rippled velvet-green slopes topped with stacked plateaus of basalt and sandstone. Being proponents of self-guided travelling we came to understand the value of a tour guide – the amount of knowledge our man Matthew could emit in a single day was astounding. An evolutionary quirk, for example, dictates that the Drakensburg's foliage must burn up once every five years to stay healthy, as certain seeds won't germinate without fire.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdzDSXfSICRsuuD6bcfERjnicwtZmV_0KyXK2euF4ZKtmjOMs22fxH3sI6zgwhhVu2xHPXiuYgmK87j57mUNk-ffgZu9r7ujgodb_JVb8GEa4gMgXzA7aRKH4BLAAfeXaFNz1_Bm0tY3c/s1600/IMG_1400.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdzDSXfSICRsuuD6bcfERjnicwtZmV_0KyXK2euF4ZKtmjOMs22fxH3sI6zgwhhVu2xHPXiuYgmK87j57mUNk-ffgZu9r7ujgodb_JVb8GEa4gMgXzA7aRKH4BLAAfeXaFNz1_Bm0tY3c/s400/IMG_1400.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452222310671988530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The switchbacks of Sani Pass. There was a dead horse at the side of the road.</span></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqk9tmNWyZlsNwgOoPo7i52IIzGY2RwsiQqoDfcKD0kEyWI_twDx1aj-0NTUpg-CVBKRJz0ENy7fKsuRMKFPPEOjzgmFfWbr_otF2A4YOcY2VeOyc8LSQ_4mWqF1eTBH4l6EnJCng1pAt/s1600/IMG_1410.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqk9tmNWyZlsNwgOoPo7i52IIzGY2RwsiQqoDfcKD0kEyWI_twDx1aj-0NTUpg-CVBKRJz0ENy7fKsuRMKFPPEOjzgmFfWbr_otF2A4YOcY2VeOyc8LSQ_4mWqF1eTBH4l6EnJCng1pAt/s400/IMG_1410.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452222591881765890" border="0" /></a><br />At the top of Sani Pass, vehicle and bowels intact, we crossed the border. Once again, the shift in scenery was abrupt: the lush grasses gave way to barren rock, and stark shrubby mountains extended into the distance at unlimited visibility. We were in Lesotho (le-su-tu), the most elevated country in the world, the so-called 'Roof of Africa.' The country is completely surrounded by South Africa, but maintains a distinct and unique culture. On a stop for lunch we were met by three Basotho shepherds (the Basotho being the people of Lesotho, their language being Sesotho). The Basotho are a herding culture, and boys as young as fourteen are sent into the mountains to graze sheep and mohair goats, working alone or in pairs and living in makeshift stone huts, hours from the nearest town. Their get-up is the instantly recognizable combination of balaclava, heavy wool blanket draped over the shoulders, and galoshes, all in drab grey or brown. We saw them throughout the country, out on the hills or mounted on ponies next to the highway, and they have a timeless air about them, both grubby and dignified. One of the fellows we met played a homemade musical instrument made from string, a stick and a tin can. From their looks, one imagines them confounded by simple kitchen appliances.<br /><br />All that said, I am still not accustomed to poking cameras into the faces of strangers, so I'll have to (bashfully) rely on this poached photo from a <a href="http://johnqueenan.wordpress.com/">photography blog</a>, where you'll find another informative post about the area surrounding Sani Pass.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://johnqueenan.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/basotho-shepherd-boy-2-lesotho-2007.jpg?w=480&h=318"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 480px; height: 318px;" src="http://johnqueenan.files.wordpress.com/2009/12/basotho-shepherd-boy-2-lesotho-2007.jpg?w=480&h=318" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks, young shepherd! Thanks, John Queenan!</span></span><br /></div><br />On the same tour we also had the privilege of visiting a village and popping into a local home for some homemade bread (cooked in cast-iron over a sheep-dung fire, very tasty) and traditionally-brewed sorghum beer (think very watered-down bread dough and you're getting close). Because of the short shelf-lives of such items in a landscape without refrigeration, any household with a surplus of perishables will sell them off, signaling the sale with a coloured flag outside the hut: red for meat, green for vegetables, white for beer, and yellow also for beer.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMvR9WPmOXc64AvPKdbvR4GwyKPdMl7r0nBBzy8RZ7CC24y4xjWJC3QKSppiAvi7zRvX8xwkl18MUHpaSPz0qkY7uJo_ts5sPEupqwJHX2vMrw2Q5VccEU4_SEQ35jNNVlyVS8XjZpNph/s1600/IMG_1426.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMvR9WPmOXc64AvPKdbvR4GwyKPdMl7r0nBBzy8RZ7CC24y4xjWJC3QKSppiAvi7zRvX8xwkl18MUHpaSPz0qkY7uJo_ts5sPEupqwJHX2vMrw2Q5VccEU4_SEQ35jNNVlyVS8XjZpNph/s400/IMG_1426.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452223067048618194" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOQu63ot6cY4SCYfRUa-rHZw9GpHUwL3oI4dpcO9lXchQv5f32M7sIHMVt6xwiDgaBHlQgspxXT3usPUvafqo2dzjt4S19gyCA0QRVUeN8p-KXebUQFiGRXzbS6W9z5vcoofCS4DuOdeJ/s1600/IMG_1422.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOQu63ot6cY4SCYfRUa-rHZw9GpHUwL3oI4dpcO9lXchQv5f32M7sIHMVt6xwiDgaBHlQgspxXT3usPUvafqo2dzjt4S19gyCA0QRVUeN8p-KXebUQFiGRXzbS6W9z5vcoofCS4DuOdeJ/s400/IMG_1422.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452222857122502370" border="0" /></a><br />The following day we set out on a hiking tour through the Drakensburg foothills, and were once again alone with our guide. We explored the scenery and learned about the Bushmen, the true indigenous people of the area who hunted and gathered for millennia until as late as 150 years ago, when they were rendered basically extinct by white settlers and emigrating tribes from the north. While the Bushmen, or San people, lived all the way out to Namibia, The Drakensberg shelters the largest and most well-preserved collection of their paintings, and is a World Heritage Site because of it. There occurs much speculation over the paintings' intent, but the reigning theory is that they're depictions of witch-doctors' trance-fed hallucinations. In keeping with early rock art elsewhere, they look to be hunt fantasies – fat, healthy animals, in this case eland, pursued by armies of muscular men. Being somewhat of a big-game enthusiast myself, I got hot under the collar just looking at them, and had to go dip my head in a creek.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilIYLpYzEIeAWwLV6FQ_1LCTYfoHLDqBBKQRFLGLYQdCaEln-rkCjS6HUbks64f2Fp8MK51Tir-bw1fB73Faa3YgRcquq_Kw2eOgG6wBc07eWexEXaqDjSxltZb2jXC0cBrqerSKodc0P9/s1600/IMG_1449.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilIYLpYzEIeAWwLV6FQ_1LCTYfoHLDqBBKQRFLGLYQdCaEln-rkCjS6HUbks64f2Fp8MK51Tir-bw1fB73Faa3YgRcquq_Kw2eOgG6wBc07eWexEXaqDjSxltZb2jXC0cBrqerSKodc0P9/s400/IMG_1449.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452223630425966930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">On the hike we spotted three species of antelope, they all looked basically the same but our guide was excited.</span></span><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GKgZY0ARuHqMBLKrAlMBCJC_iCxnTTgAFduT9r6kiNDou8gAVvCQChHW-TWbZfWBVeUtsSsOQlTC108tYw_rY2t028htRNCPA9Pja622eGEByjkSmaTZMPb0gQmYB9Y8MR9k1ANzs5qI/s1600/IMG_1486.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GKgZY0ARuHqMBLKrAlMBCJC_iCxnTTgAFduT9r6kiNDou8gAVvCQChHW-TWbZfWBVeUtsSsOQlTC108tYw_rY2t028htRNCPA9Pja622eGEByjkSmaTZMPb0gQmYB9Y8MR9k1ANzs5qI/s400/IMG_1486.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452223930842926722" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Lesotho</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvR8YPxc-ZGp3sIMvasR_dptxaoW0E8tzRAx_3zm6ZSge8i53heHA-BwQI_laTVV09RP9uSyZS-U3JPWUyu5yKPGy1ALPcxzyUfeaJmFdBAp3PC1sioB10PRs6bhyphenhyphendNK2pyUjJ2d5IkREW/s1600/IMG_1526.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvR8YPxc-ZGp3sIMvasR_dptxaoW0E8tzRAx_3zm6ZSge8i53heHA-BwQI_laTVV09RP9uSyZS-U3JPWUyu5yKPGy1ALPcxzyUfeaJmFdBAp3PC1sioB10PRs6bhyphenhyphendNK2pyUjJ2d5IkREW/s400/IMG_1526.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452224157534388066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The taxi rank at the foot of Sani Pass is a decomissioned trade station from when the shepherds would bring their wool down on horseback in exchange for goods. This occurred until the 80's, now the wool is transported directly to Durban, the nearest city.</span> </span></div><br />For most people one trip up Sani Pass is enough, but we did it doubly – first in a Land Rover, spacious, and with snack breaks; and two days later, crammed into a rickety van with our backpacks and fourteen other people. While Sani Pass is a scenic and thrilling tourist attraction (I've so far neglected to mention the “The Highest Pub in Africa” waiting for foreigners at the summit), it is also a functioning border post and the most viable way in and out of Lesotho for many of its residents, who travel to nearby Durban for supplies. The minibus taxis running up and down the pass are outfitted with four-wheel-drive, but they do lack the turning radius of the SUVs, and we had to pull three-point turns around some of the switchbacks, reversing tooth-clenchingly close to the precipice. Through customs at the top, we were met with women selling homemade balls of bread and maize porridge. The summit of Sani Pass is barely a kilometer away from the highest point on the continent south of Kilimanjaro, and it was foggy and vaguely Mongolian.<br /><br />We came to spend over a week in the country, for the first time relying solely on the local minibusses to get around. We slept everywhere from a local Farmer's Training Center to an prim thatched-roof guest cottage, to a puzzling B&B in a building that would have passed for abandoned had we not known otherwise. We did feel Lesotho lacks the tourism infrastructure of its lone neighbour, especially for those without their own transport. But who can blame them, as the country gets few visitors – many travelers opt to visit Swaziland, South Africa's other doughnut-hole country, instead. Accommodation was ill-marked and restaurants were scarce, and there was often just not that much to do for a couple of budget sightseers as us.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp9Cah7LR21zr3P6jZ0amlMg88P8QraEHa6lEifRWtk0PXakQCweo0DA57z2qHzgbhq81jF4SA-6oK8DHzuno-0lU5aROnfAzniFxLOY1G3RnY1lIETHzqV46BGsfxqzyzw3UV0ZKoVj6/s1600/IMG_1540.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp9Cah7LR21zr3P6jZ0amlMg88P8QraEHa6lEifRWtk0PXakQCweo0DA57z2qHzgbhq81jF4SA-6oK8DHzuno-0lU5aROnfAzniFxLOY1G3RnY1lIETHzqV46BGsfxqzyzw3UV0ZKoVj6/s400/IMG_1540.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452224666270661122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sunrise over Mokhotlong</span> </span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZpSPCvlZRiKZiZd5qMfTDfetrDgTDZL8rN4d7x4bDRod5u8L0plGPiTwWclA8k02SpR7shh1c8ccNB4nGw48ulyh_8CIoHq5NNeydwAPLkb7ngavk5nCwSdemVuXgBVX1NQJf7Q1L-Ay/s1600/IMG_1578.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZpSPCvlZRiKZiZd5qMfTDfetrDgTDZL8rN4d7x4bDRod5u8L0plGPiTwWclA8k02SpR7shh1c8ccNB4nGw48ulyh_8CIoHq5NNeydwAPLkb7ngavk5nCwSdemVuXgBVX1NQJf7Q1L-Ay/s400/IMG_1578.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452224839022351650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Morija Guest House</span> </span></div><br />Though whatever Lesotho lacks in conventional sights, it makes up for ten-fold in its friendliness and its people. While we met many wonderful folk in South Africa, the country can't rival Lesotho in the almost unanimous warmth and openness of its citizens. From a bumbling tourist's perspective, the sight of a determined group of young men marching with conviction in your direction (in a large, dirty, overwhelming African capital city, no less) is supposed to be a signal to flee. But in Maseru, after we'd unveiled our guidebook to get our bearings, the men tromped up and proclaimed, “why are you looking at that book when you could so easily be asking us?” Each member of the group introduced himself with a handshake, and we received a set of clear and eloquent directions, and they offered their phone numbers if we happened to lose our way again. Each time we wore a lost look, someone would abandon their post to help us on our way, and all we had to do at the minibus ranks was show our pale Canadian faces and we'd be asked our destination and guided to the correct vehicle.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53RZkGutW34n3csV5zAsZHOOTCC0m5mnN0lggUTAv1jwEOl2wph5xKiIZEJ8DGmBd26IGRpHOt_jj4Yfuf-6Ix5f0FkvT2x4b308gFHBTt2nj4NNPcNX7FCJbJq6uRYBB9Nq6cBQ0QurR/s1600/IMG_1529.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53RZkGutW34n3csV5zAsZHOOTCC0m5mnN0lggUTAv1jwEOl2wph5xKiIZEJ8DGmBd26IGRpHOt_jj4Yfuf-6Ix5f0FkvT2x4b308gFHBTt2nj4NNPcNX7FCJbJq6uRYBB9Nq6cBQ0QurR/s400/IMG_1529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452224493688612018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A Mokhotlong taxi rank, under one of Lesotho's spontaneous and short-lived storm-clouds.</span> </span></div><br />The bad news is that I decided to abandon my camera on one such minibus, and, with Alanna's out of commission from water damage, we are short on photographic evidence of this pretty little country and the dinosaur footprints, crazy spiral plants, and god-awful breakfasts contained therein. It is depressing how much the lack of a little piece of electronics can hamper one's experience of a place, but at least we were without in Lesotho, a country that, while admittedly not all photogenic all of the time, left its indelible mark in other ways.Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-74490874982473051902010-03-01T08:38:00.000-08:002010-03-01T08:38:00.368-08:00Bulungula<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tt9OdPnyI/AAAAAAAAA4U/xD6J8B71WRo/s1600-h/IMG_1316.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tt9OdPnyI/AAAAAAAAA4U/xD6J8B71WRo/s400/IMG_1316.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443565473227579170" border="0" /></a><br />When you're traveling for six months in Africa, and simply updating your blog sets you back about eight dollars, you're constantly on the look-out for ways to save a few bucks. So when we heard that Bulungula Lodge offers free first night accommodation to those arriving by public transport, we jumped at the opportunity. The hostel staff in Coffee Bay (our departure point) were skeptical that it could be done, but with a simple set of directions sent to us by the staff at Bulungula, we hailed our first ride with confidence. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I should probably clarify what I mean by 'public transport' for those of you who might, like I did, mistake it for an organized, safe and comfortable way of getting from point A to point B. When it comes to public transport in South Africa, organization, safety and comfort are all quite literally foreign concepts. There are no timetables, formal stops, regulations about baggage or alcohol consumption, and certainly no capacity limits. You will never see a 'Bus Full' sign here. What you will see are customized vehicles emblazoned with things like 'Thanks God!' and 'Shut Up!' careening around pot holes at break-neck speed blaring everything from gangster rap to gospel. And unless you're claustrophobic or you really have to pee, it's really not a half bad way of getting around.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The first two minibus trips were surprisingly quick and painless. Disembarking at the taxi rank in Elliotdale, we were greeted by two lively Xhosa men who were extremely eager to take us to Nkanya (the closest town to Bulungula) non-stop, straight away, for the low price of R400 (about $60). Unfortunately for them, we're not as gullible as the colour of our skin would have them believe, and after telling them that R400 was much too much several times, they released my bag and let us find our own way. In the end, the two-hour trip cost us R25. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Nearing the end of the terribly-maintained rural road to Nkanya, the driver asked us where exactly we were trying to get to. When we told him Bulungula, he informed us that we should have gotten off a long time ago, that it was too far to walk, and that there was no transport that could take us there. He knew nothing of the river we were supposed to cross, or the ferry that allegedly operated there. Not wanting to abandon two clueless tourists on the side of the road, he called his friend, who thankfully knew a bit more about the area, and assured him that we had not in fact gone too far, and that we were still very much on track. From the end of the road, we need only hike a kilometre down the hill to the river, where we would be met by the eskepeni (ferry) operator, who would point us in the direction of the lodge.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tqXayJMJI/AAAAAAAAA3k/HgzYQlT3Koo/s1600-h/IMG_1240.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tqXayJMJI/AAAAAAAAA3k/HgzYQlT3Koo/s400/IMG_1240.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443561525166551186" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />When we got to the river, there was no sign of any type of conventional ferry, and the only people around were two very energetic kids monkeying about in a nearby tree. When Scott asked them if this is where the ferry came, they said 'yes'. When Scott asked them if he should just shout for the ferry, they said 'yes'. It quickly became apparent that the answer to every question was going to be 'yes'. Thankfully, after less than five minutes of wondering what to do, a boy seemingly sprung from the reeds on the opposite riverbed, waved at us and pushed a rowboat into the water. When he first reached us, he seemed like a very serious, diligent little ten-year-old, but once he'd ensured that we were safely in the boat and that the mud had been cleaned off my sandals, he became very chatty, albeit mostly in a language we did not understand. By the time we left him, about all we had ascertained was that he had babies in his family, watched boxing on TV, and was good at fishing. Also, I am a girl and Scott is a boy. It was nothing short of a revelatory journey.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">From the shore, it was about a forty-five minute walk through undulating green hills dotted with multicoloured rondavels, maize fields and roaming donkeys and cattle. Before we even reached the lodge, we could tell that we were going to regret our decision to stay only three nights.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tqzhMnD9I/AAAAAAAAA3s/pL_7_oOswiY/s1600-h/IMG_1245.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tqzhMnD9I/AAAAAAAAA3s/pL_7_oOswiY/s400/IMG_1245.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443562007924510674" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We were greeted by a very bubbly and animated host, who excitedly showed us around the property, making stops at the paraffin-powered rocket showers, the composting toilets and the rain-water collection system. It seemed as though every form of natural energy was being harnessed, and that the environmental impact of the lodge was very consciously being kept to a minimum. In fact, from the very beginning, we could tell that Bulungula was hands down the least intrusive (socially, culturally, environmentally) place we had stayed and almost seamlessly integrated with the place and its people. Literally, figuratively, and in the best way possible, it was miles away from anything we had experienced.<br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tsDhUY8jI/AAAAAAAAA38/GXfiykgGmyY/s1600-h/IMG_1298.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tsDhUY8jI/AAAAAAAAA38/GXfiykgGmyY/s400/IMG_1298.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443563382346674738" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Recognize this guy? All the photos in our header were taken at Bulungula, and this could very well be the same donkey that appears up there.</span></span><br /></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4trd9to03I/AAAAAAAAA30/qTniq-1Ucnk/s1600-h/IMG_1269.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4trd9to03I/AAAAAAAAA30/qTniq-1Ucnk/s400/IMG_1269.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443562737133736818" border="0" /></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Our humble abode for three nights</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Bulungula just seems to be doing everything right. While our hostel at Coffee Bay also claims Fair Trade accreditation and extensive community involvement, Bulungula did things a bit differently, and in our view, a bit better. While Coffee Bay created jobs for locals to clean, cook and run the hostel, Bulungula encouraged locals to create their own, by setting up their own separate businesses, running village tours, taking guests on fishing trips, or operating a restaurant. Since these are private businesses, guests of the lodge pay them directly, eliminating the middle man, and empowering them in a way that I don't think is fully achieved by employing them as housekeeping staff. The other obvious difference was that the lodge was physically within the village. There were no gates or barriers separating the tourists from the locals – village children and dogs ran freely through the lodge, and guests were encouraged to wander the hills and talk to the locals (who as a community own 40% of the lodge). Notably, this was the only place so far where we were encouraged to pick up any of the local language.</p><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4ts2rVbz_I/AAAAAAAAA4E/tNC7W558ChA/s1600-h/IMG_1310.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4ts2rVbz_I/AAAAAAAAA4E/tNC7W558ChA/s400/IMG_1310.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443564261208739826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Miles and miles of sand, why not practice your hand stand?</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4ttfYOWd1I/AAAAAAAAA4M/aNQ4zUZ8894/s1600-h/IMG_1312.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4ttfYOWd1I/AAAAAAAAA4M/aNQ4zUZ8894/s400/IMG_1312.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443564960453392210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A morning dip in the Indian Ocean</span></span><br /></div><br />On our second day, we signed up for a guided village walk, where we met some locals and developed a deeper appreciation for their way of life – much of which seems virtually unchanged for centuries. We visited the home of the sangoma (traditional healer), the headman (second-in-command to the chief) and the shebeen (the village pub, where men and women congregate to talk and drink Xhosa beer out of a communal recycled paint can). We were warmly received wherever we went, and were made to promise that we'd come back, and next time, with friends. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We were also taken to various projects either initiated or funded by the lodge. There was a lemongrass farm used for producing rooibos tea, a restaurant serving tea and pancakes, an agricultural diversification project, and most recently, an impressively-equipped and well-run pre-school. The school fees are entirely covered by proceeds of the lodge and donations, and the only requirement of enrollment is that at least one parent makes him/herself available once a month to come to the pre-school to work in the kitchen or help out as needed. It was pretty cool to step into a classroom that looked identical to one you would find in Canada, save the fact that all the posters for fruits and seasons and animals were in Xhosa (plus, you know, it was housed in a thatched-roof rondavel). 47 children aged 3-6 attend the school daily, with additional after-school programs running a few days a week for older children.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tuQFjmmLI/AAAAAAAAA4c/Jf_FfgLVEQc/s1600-h/IMG_1343.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tuQFjmmLI/AAAAAAAAA4c/Jf_FfgLVEQc/s400/IMG_1343.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443565797255846066" border="0" /></a><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">While Bulungula is probably far from most people's ideas of a utopia (clothes must be washed by hand, electricity is scarce when it's cloudy, the toilets kind of smell), you can't help but feel a sense of peace here. In the modern world, we are supposed to be increasingly connected, but when you visit Bulungula, you realize that in fact, in many ways, we are moving in reverse. When you talk to the people and see the way they live – close to the earth and each other – you'll find yourself wondering how and why we have deviated so dramatically from such a harmonious existence. Although there are no doubt problems here, you feel assured that they will not be glazed over for the benefit of tourists, and that the solutions will be both democratic and sustainable. More than anything, you will leave Bulungula with the memory of an ineffably beautiful place, and the inspiration to lead a more grounded life.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tuj2S_mNI/AAAAAAAAA4k/TJUHI8ueSgs/s1600-h/IMG_1345.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S4tuj2S_mNI/AAAAAAAAA4k/TJUHI8ueSgs/s400/IMG_1345.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443566136757033170" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-83230036969292170202010-02-28T14:16:00.000-08:002010-02-28T23:40:22.477-08:00A Walk on the Wild Coast<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7sZmi3kKvDqX9UBFOwg9McO5sw4KRBUE3G1ZMB-s-ckOTjFugIP2-iLrdd5fc4fU_5b6GrNdDb94eu9lS-bO8Y9XitWC-8EyAb_BpDzGUKvCBao-yB9_aBJyB3QroPPASGbGhOHna81n/s1600-h/IMG_1175.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7sZmi3kKvDqX9UBFOwg9McO5sw4KRBUE3G1ZMB-s-ckOTjFugIP2-iLrdd5fc4fU_5b6GrNdDb94eu9lS-bO8Y9XitWC-8EyAb_BpDzGUKvCBao-yB9_aBJyB3QroPPASGbGhOHna81n/s400/IMG_1175.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443423131943991794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A typical skyline on the Transkei, each home with its own small crop of maize.</span></span><br /></div><br />Whoever draws the borders in South Africa has an easy job. I assume the process is longer and more involved than simply swatting at a map with a felt pen, but all the boundaries through which we've passed, both interprovincial and international (as this entry comes to you from the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho) have been lessons in contrast. The first border we crossed (and it's the first that's most memorable, don't you find?) was from the Western Cape – home to metropolitan Cape Town, the moneyed Winelands, and the aforementioned Garden Route – to the Eastern Cape, South Africa's poorest province, and for good reason.<p></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">During apartheid years, much of the province was cordoned off as an independent nation, the Transkei: a 'homeland' where millions of black South Africans – those unable to contribute economically – were relocated, essentially making them foreigners in their own country. It was reincorporated in 1994, though the area is still over-populated, with little industry and infrastructure, and its inhabitants, mainly of the Xhosa tribe, live in traditional round thatched-roof huts. As we passed into the Eastern Cape the difference was almost immediate: the dense mountains, forests and numerous gas stations gave way to shallow hills of grassy farmland, dotted with livestock, small villages, and women with various cargo balanced on their heads. Moving into the Transkei (the old border post sits across the Kei River, literally 'trans Kei') meant another shift – less money, more huts, and even more livestock, often on the road. (A favourite joke here is the Transkei Big Five: goats, sheep, cattle, horses and donkeys.) Both Nelson Mandela and his successor Thabo Mbeki grew up in the Transkei, and the house-arrest compound where Mandela spent the final years of his sentence sits not far from the highway – we passed it on the 20<sup>th</sup> anniversary of his release.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In the Transkei we spent our time on the Wild Coast, a section of coastline between East London and Port Edward that, with an unfortunate thank-you to its disenfranchised past, is so pristine and undeveloped one forgets they're in the 21<sup>st</sup> century. The Africa we felt we'd been missing was finally at our toes: an endless exchange of rocky cliffs and empty beaches in both directions, with barely a four-sided building or stretch of pavement in sight. The Indian Ocean is warm, the beer is cheap, and an ATM is hard to come by.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAEdQVy28SkwJW93EjfwrCXWhRZ2G7JoWmUi1Gg4i9qkHz0PR1eR7g4Pzcp4L1TDQomtUaW24FBQgNePPnZksxSPfbSnXp1RbvXo3RtbFuOApxZ8ndR7B1oHBP8en8NSHJgrtIjCByzI7Y/s1600-h/IMG_0755.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAEdQVy28SkwJW93EjfwrCXWhRZ2G7JoWmUi1Gg4i9qkHz0PR1eR7g4Pzcp4L1TDQomtUaW24FBQgNePPnZksxSPfbSnXp1RbvXo3RtbFuOApxZ8ndR7B1oHBP8en8NSHJgrtIjCByzI7Y/s400/IMG_0755.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422475237379570" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgayD3sFvLHKcfvKsAnKE8exmzbaSAirRp0BC6DSxXdbSh3LISzxukpp5o3wU6MuJd6oq8XfztSKmNRWEETEKJauwBrxR_J-ypcN81pt74Ah8hW1J4yWtdNh14v_4VPJfDse1luXQITHi91/s1600-h/IMG_0753.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgayD3sFvLHKcfvKsAnKE8exmzbaSAirRp0BC6DSxXdbSh3LISzxukpp5o3wU6MuJd6oq8XfztSKmNRWEETEKJauwBrxR_J-ypcN81pt74Ah8hW1J4yWtdNh14v_4VPJfDse1luXQITHi91/s400/IMG_0753.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422384292852290" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Looking both directions on Cinsta Beach</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEPXs9GApHCghGt7ZtXZ387hc8iWnrYI2-lJRN1PbEO-qOgoaBmz9VpnCiReCLVgJ7TdBFvKqvzGaY-et6ZO1eKDTNWRCh8ChOkivE_7R7H6OvlPXyGpKJ9IgjHlG0Rl_KZyDicCNHY1WI/s1600-h/IMG_0725.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEPXs9GApHCghGt7ZtXZ387hc8iWnrYI2-lJRN1PbEO-qOgoaBmz9VpnCiReCLVgJ7TdBFvKqvzGaY-et6ZO1eKDTNWRCh8ChOkivE_7R7H6OvlPXyGpKJ9IgjHlG0Rl_KZyDicCNHY1WI/s400/IMG_0725.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422198902657570" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Private 'safari tent,' Buccaneer's Backpackers, Cintsa</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The cows come down to the beach in the afternoons to cool off and deter ticks, who don't like the salt in the sand. There are dogs everywhere, and if you're a well-fed Transkei dog you may be the happiest dog alive. The dogs here have owners, but no master. We often went for a walk and unwittingly brought a stranger's dog along with us. That said, there are innumerable strays, many in rough shape.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBybGSG4G2WcMIZ9qJnefX7L8ut8C_arap4vPT8EQywLHWXmQaxdKltEzjZm0yL1xcyKYDV-5O-dKbOywVX0atV1xdFH1R52N23fpvLXmoL5ITZzukuiowrUZnQdCW7TtUxyXJ-yvmWjMt/s1600-h/IMG_0987.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBybGSG4G2WcMIZ9qJnefX7L8ut8C_arap4vPT8EQywLHWXmQaxdKltEzjZm0yL1xcyKYDV-5O-dKbOywVX0atV1xdFH1R52N23fpvLXmoL5ITZzukuiowrUZnQdCW7TtUxyXJ-yvmWjMt/s400/IMG_0987.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422575288045266" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Lonely beach cow in Port St. John's</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRjfFtAVa2jYWhTubfPZhB5ONE9PpiA-k1pXea3vIcIxJw094hU32e7VFLBcW3jBXwpAswcOLCy7KyI5dvxH2JGg-FKX5Rj1GcrcNw4Ldh3zTIB7v3Fadvsl4uBKB0iy55bl3elCNeZ6h/s1600-h/IMG_1249.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRjfFtAVa2jYWhTubfPZhB5ONE9PpiA-k1pXea3vIcIxJw094hU32e7VFLBcW3jBXwpAswcOLCy7KyI5dvxH2JGg-FKX5Rj1GcrcNw4Ldh3zTIB7v3Fadvsl4uBKB0iy55bl3elCNeZ6h/s400/IMG_1249.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443424050841255570" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A village dog near Bulungula.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOBTUg5X1Jp8OiEuyNNh0SneW-jASrzcmZ2zqoeXYkCkK0g4bGCanlBUAXbB3sgAflLOMaEoO590UG0l7oYn5j7aEyV8AQIH5V1s-YDA2JOss_3lEso1qNqmJU7WQSZOlGqxrN6KOMeWO/s1600-h/IMG_1085.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOBTUg5X1Jp8OiEuyNNh0SneW-jASrzcmZ2zqoeXYkCkK0g4bGCanlBUAXbB3sgAflLOMaEoO590UG0l7oYn5j7aEyV8AQIH5V1s-YDA2JOss_3lEso1qNqmJU7WQSZOlGqxrN6KOMeWO/s400/IMG_1085.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422670058812706" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">On a hike to The Gap, a rock formation not far from Second Beach, Port St. John's. On this trail we encountered people headed the opposite direction, as there is a village on top of the hill and this trail is part of their everyday commute. Beats the Massey Tunnel.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNm784Ro6f1y8f_ff_LfPQT1Ft7kndLZ6I2bzo2gVf8zUAtDZ92qORyP_9gODHNf2jUPTUzetznyonBevIqlY6r8RZWXfAwqTQarbkXuyLB_3bD-KN9pJBphFfq928XiX27GSm83SZ8eI_/s1600-h/IMG_1107.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNm784Ro6f1y8f_ff_LfPQT1Ft7kndLZ6I2bzo2gVf8zUAtDZ92qORyP_9gODHNf2jUPTUzetznyonBevIqlY6r8RZWXfAwqTQarbkXuyLB_3bD-KN9pJBphFfq928XiX27GSm83SZ8eI_/s400/IMG_1107.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422766170726130" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">After crossing The Gap.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">All our accommodation was in or near small villages, but moving between them often required a two-hour drive inland to Mthatha, the former Transkei capital, and back out again, as only hiking trails or four-by-four roads connect each stop. The towns in the area serve mainly as supply outposts for the villiages, often no more than a general store, a bottle (liquor) store and a row of grubby vendors' booths. The poverty on the Wild Coast is apparent, but the people are cheerful and welcoming, and the little tourism the area gets looks to be mostly (but not completely) beneficial.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-w9Rxamn0wn2_gYMQB-cNSGYBZ0hsiBQVWTZxmJ15BNRROjbi9bB7mTPPm4f_NSbbHj6Nm_UMFg5tpJLOc1OVMBTRDXuo-rjp_5ZhqaZ3H8owfNH_9alrA-rJNIKzmmyj6teTYfuYnJX/s1600-h/IMG_1152.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-w9Rxamn0wn2_gYMQB-cNSGYBZ0hsiBQVWTZxmJ15BNRROjbi9bB7mTPPm4f_NSbbHj6Nm_UMFg5tpJLOc1OVMBTRDXuo-rjp_5ZhqaZ3H8owfNH_9alrA-rJNIKzmmyj6teTYfuYnJX/s400/IMG_1152.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422859578541730" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A cloudy day at the cliffs in Coffee Bay. Goats and Donkeys graze dangerously close to the edge.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9BMe4KXIIfJluZfTToxXkevtSocGJiR3yhZNxH7Ga6simNIPz2RTQ7R5S0rnZCIEkbhQOm7SU5KLPKa33MxaMU5qsZienhyphenhyphenyqCvsekn0BmkoaXOb5RsmYcgRU3t2Zz-V6tJYY3pOhybB/s1600-h/IMG_1171.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9BMe4KXIIfJluZfTToxXkevtSocGJiR3yhZNxH7Ga6simNIPz2RTQ7R5S0rnZCIEkbhQOm7SU5KLPKa33MxaMU5qsZienhyphenhyphenyqCvsekn0BmkoaXOb5RsmYcgRU3t2Zz-V6tJYY3pOhybB/s400/IMG_1171.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422954474169234" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">On a hike to Hole In The Wall from Coffee Bay. Our guide was Joseph, who grew up in the village and now works at the hostel, leading daily excursions to points of interest.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXNSFR9wUf95qkkG-nY-5n1OdXexrV6K5nfbH_vK8LfLKS-P9XBXOqhDkyv8-8Ld2eu8956RXpLOzUMhCo4Xv2JS-NHTtjhEh4KW2W1sMHIKOVnWsl6dEYaSDbxQuVYftiR__k2v_dkOu/s1600-h/IMG_1203.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXNSFR9wUf95qkkG-nY-5n1OdXexrV6K5nfbH_vK8LfLKS-P9XBXOqhDkyv8-8Ld2eu8956RXpLOzUMhCo4Xv2JS-NHTtjhEh4KW2W1sMHIKOVnWsl6dEYaSDbxQuVYftiR__k2v_dkOu/s400/IMG_1203.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443423250192771602" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hole In The Wall</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWkfT60fVIfvhfXoas1QyHjFz_5aTX4Tkdi8-jmc-1gJePSG3JXgja68HMm6gL7bOMAGMN411UWOhPlFvPgKYbU5KUlG3Mgx1U6SFORPD7Q7TnO7qZNZNo9Uy4NRdtqZqw8jg00TbSNYG/s1600-h/IMG_1199.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWkfT60fVIfvhfXoas1QyHjFz_5aTX4Tkdi8-jmc-1gJePSG3JXgja68HMm6gL7bOMAGMN411UWOhPlFvPgKYbU5KUlG3Mgx1U6SFORPD7Q7TnO7qZNZNo9Uy4NRdtqZqw8jg00TbSNYG/s400/IMG_1199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443424340049149394" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Joseph bought a few fresh crayfish from some local men and cooked them over the fire. Technically they're out of season and it's illegal to catch them. Alanna and I, not wanting to be complicit in the depletion of the ocean's natural resources, only tasted a little bit.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">One hostel employee in Port St. John's (you may remember him as our braai friend from the last entry) says he's been searching for a decade and he's found his paradise, there in the Transkei, next to the beach. It's easy to see why: there's a special atmosphere to the Wild Coast, a rhythm that moves through the virgin scenery and into its people and makes it a hard place to see in your rear-view. Its remoteness and its unhappy history are both a blessing and a curse, and as a tourist, despite the industry's efforts and assurances, one can't help but feel only a little intrusive. But it is a healthy feeling, I think, and merely a symptom of being somewhere so precious.</p><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFV77Xy4pAMkquXb9bFBrDP55FXJZRuURyENApQr2T6MLWVO3e0OfNheX4j46XCAs03iaUzvh1EBaiav1fUY80rGmCCw2lnut9RoyI_vsoSoXzLCrXsw60ni_TqIcf4YIf_sy5ike09-Le/s1600-h/IMG_1223.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFV77Xy4pAMkquXb9bFBrDP55FXJZRuURyENApQr2T6MLWVO3e0OfNheX4j46XCAs03iaUzvh1EBaiav1fUY80rGmCCw2lnut9RoyI_vsoSoXzLCrXsw60ni_TqIcf4YIf_sy5ike09-Le/s400/IMG_1223.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443424142815510642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">View over the hills on the drive back from Hole In The Wall.</span></span><br /></p>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-45534837153836739462010-02-27T11:23:00.000-08:002010-02-27T12:01:43.043-08:00Coals NotesAside from Cricket and calling each other “broo,” the national pastime of South Africa has got to be the braai. All over the country we've sensed much buzz over this near-sacred ritual, and it seems to be a significant pillar in SA's national identity, an activity for all South Africans from all backgrounds to enjoy. Naturally I wanted to learn more, and of course partake in a braai myself.<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Though once I got the gist of all that a braai is, I thought, guys, what the heck, that is just a barbeque, people do that all over the world, your national pastime might as well be 'doing the dishes.' And that is mainly true– for those who are unfamiliar with the term braai, a local can say 'it's a barbeque,' and things are settled. But Alanna and I have since participated in a couple braais ourselves and, while there is meat and flame and beer involved, I've picked up on a few distinctions.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Firstly, South Africans are rigourous meat-eaters, and they appreciate their meat unadorned. Both times we braaied there was nary a salad in sight, and in Knysna when a fellow traveller suggested tossing a few veggies on the grill, he was quietly ridiculed behind his back (though he did win in the end, much to Alanna and mine's quiet delight). A good braai is either solo meat or meat wrapped in a plain white roll, garnish and condiment-free. At the Knysna braai this is the only picture I managed to snap:</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_fQJnlAFuspuOaybXh0GzJdhLJ0CIJfYkRy_A4P8MYxD2yv2dIpx_OJm5DScJ9Qzdlk-MK6nBAKjvVJoYjYgYKKd87pEDZ7dqDpLahBp08RLTfQjdUwx1WeAuAE28Iq_xCp0AfB-atfWx/s1600-h/IMG_0282.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_fQJnlAFuspuOaybXh0GzJdhLJ0CIJfYkRy_A4P8MYxD2yv2dIpx_OJm5DScJ9Qzdlk-MK6nBAKjvVJoYjYgYKKd87pEDZ7dqDpLahBp08RLTfQjdUwx1WeAuAE28Iq_xCp0AfB-atfWx/s400/IMG_0282.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443007921135913202" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">While hamburgers are widely consumed at restaurants, a beef patty is not for the braai. The protein of choice here is the boerwors, pronounced boor-vors, in the best Dutch accent you can muster (and not to be confused with the Boer War, fought between British colonialists and Dutch farmers between 1815 and 1914, slightly bloodier). It is a long, spiral sausage, well-seasoned, and made of pork, though I'm no expert.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Also, South Africans are passionate advocates of charcoal grilling, and wood is best. In every town we saw signs for 'braaiwood,' and the two in which we participated were over wood fires. Gas seems to be the preferred choice for indoor stoves, but a South African with any dignity wouldn't be caught dead using it for their precious meat.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpynShh2m2g2VK5Ceb7ebyuMMfB5Q1zwr1TmCsw_AJolIMzZss3Db8zkcIiJfaTU-x15jjkuexmrADYtRGi1p2cYU29y09f0MhcCfuuY8S705HjClgNi1L-XbY0_m3DZWgT4H8B1pzRrGP/s1600-h/IMG_0980.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpynShh2m2g2VK5Ceb7ebyuMMfB5Q1zwr1TmCsw_AJolIMzZss3Db8zkcIiJfaTU-x15jjkuexmrADYtRGi1p2cYU29y09f0MhcCfuuY8S705HjClgNi1L-XbY0_m3DZWgT4H8B1pzRrGP/s400/IMG_0980.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443009172130068402" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The site of our second braai, In Port St. John's</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbJx-bAiusq_kc-9vQeqWRhgCakaeQuBEVwdcjBlN5IgozfmhvMAi_a_vi1ZRw8sBLTXZX423WgIBbPyCQlju4sY5z1c1SrZvxJ2Ib1iHQmJ5pWgkkPwRTYLt1NwrY0hC4_f-GWhtVtf1/s1600-h/IMG_0985.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbJx-bAiusq_kc-9vQeqWRhgCakaeQuBEVwdcjBlN5IgozfmhvMAi_a_vi1ZRw8sBLTXZX423WgIBbPyCQlju4sY5z1c1SrZvxJ2Ib1iHQmJ5pWgkkPwRTYLt1NwrY0hC4_f-GWhtVtf1/s400/IMG_0985.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443009681338412434" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Clint, our Braai-bassador at Amopondo Backpackers, gets things started.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZZKrs-F_MX9590qD6VHC5TVnmj6ydtze2o0TFCFC2bdl-nE6qpDG3wM55M8aTCXTRlvnbIfvZRpMDyqBScVSQN_UGpYMr2ijaie99p95TX24jWKhlToJriVfPANMyA2r0eH2f9aBZVsey/s1600-h/IMG_0986.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZZKrs-F_MX9590qD6VHC5TVnmj6ydtze2o0TFCFC2bdl-nE6qpDG3wM55M8aTCXTRlvnbIfvZRpMDyqBScVSQN_UGpYMr2ijaie99p95TX24jWKhlToJriVfPANMyA2r0eH2f9aBZVsey/s400/IMG_0986.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443010007687345778" border="0" /></a></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Braai number two. We couldn't find any rolls at the supermarket so we used whole wheat loaf-bread instead. Tasted fine!</span></span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Finally, a noticeable difference between our bbq and the South African Braai – and the one I most appreciate – is the acknowledgement that such a social ritual exists within the braai at all. While Canadians and Americans gather for a barbeque to chew, chat and have a cold one, not giving it a second thought, South Africans take pride in recognizing the active cultural role such a ritual plays: the socialization and sharing that takes place, and a surrender to the feasting instinct that has manifested itself since the first human stepped out of the Great Rift Valley and speared an antelope. While a barbeque is an outdoor meal with fire, the braai is a candid prayer to the joy of food and community – and something worth ditching the relish for.</p>Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07734957646445948407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7068166003077175284.post-10880419439410494222010-02-19T07:54:00.000-08:002010-02-28T23:41:17.560-08:00The Not So Secret GardenEast of Cape Town, the stretch of coastline between Mossel Bay and Port Elizabeth is seen by some as a backpacker's paradise. A combination of hikeable parks, surfer-happy beaches and an efficient network of quality hostels make South Africa's 200k Garden Route a hotspot for beach bums, adrenaline junkies and nature lovers alike. This is where the bungee jumping, whitewater tubing and wave-riding top the to-do lists – though you certainly won't get funny looks for opting to spend the day on the patio, beer in hand. The cherry on top may well be the popular BazBus service – a daily hop-on/hop-off shuttle (with an unlimited time-frame as long as you're moving in one direction) that makes transportation a bit of a non-issue. Naturally, we moved west to east and hit some popular spots as well as some a little off the beaten path.<br /><br />Our first destination was Knysna (NIZE-nuh), which is situated at the far-end of a sprawling lagoon, flanked at its entrance by two stone outcroppings known as 'the Heads'. Believing they were only accessible by car or pricey paddlewheeler, we didn't arrange to see them, but a wander to the touristy waterfront area turned into a lengthy trek and we did manage to reach this dramatic rocky gateway on foot. <div><div><br /></div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439988961227581714" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S365I1AEKRI/AAAAAAAAA10/ukW69UU3iTA/s400/IMG_0018.JPG" border="0" /><br />The lagoon itself is pretty, though overdevelopment tarnishes the landscape some. The summer homes that crowd the shore (and the likely-mistitled Leisure Island) are also a threat to the Knysna seahorse, who makes its home in the lagoon's sea grassy shallows. There were two live specimens on display at a deli in the waterfront area, much to Alanna's delight. They are bizarre and fascinating creatures.<br /><br />On the stroll home we detoured into the town's industrial district to pay a visit to Mitchell's Brewery, South Africa's largest (and possibly sole) independent brewer, hoping for a tour. It proved a little pricey – especially since we'd splurged for a scenic lunch at The Heads an hour earlier – so Scott bought a few bottles instead and settled for a poolside tasting. A couple of the beers held shades of homebrew, but it was a refreshing change from the status quo. <div><div><div> </div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px; display: block; height: 400px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439985320393930578" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S361051rd1I/AAAAAAAAA1E/WBu5COz-N-U/s400/IMG_0302.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />From Knysna, we headed to Nature's Valley, which, judging by the view from our room, is an accurate (though bland) name for the area. </div><div><br /></div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439986295048415698" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S362totaqdI/AAAAAAAAA1M/Bxj73GJ6qdU/s400/IMG_0304.JPG" border="0" /><br />While this isn't where the granola bars come from, Wild Spirit Lodge certainly did cater to the granola-eating, djembe-tapping crowd. Fresh off the hostel party circuit, the serenity and old-world hospitality were a welcome change, as were the comprehensive recycling and composting facilities. </div><div><br /></div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439986970687520962" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S363U9qVQMI/AAAAAAAAA1c/J6FiN4T8a6c/s400/IMG_0468.JPG" border="0" /><br />The main draw of the area is its well-maintained network of trails through the indigenous forests of Tsitsikamma National Park. Our longest hike led us along a river and across a beach to a(nother) lagoon -- sandy, crystal-clear and full of splashing local children. <div><br /></div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439986660459062082" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S363C5-Go0I/AAAAAAAAA1U/Hb6-p7A97LU/s400/IMG_0341.JPG" border="0" /><br />After a quick swim, we resumed our hike, forging onwards along a dried-up riverbed in a steep jungle valley. Alanna put on a brave face clearing spiderwebs, while Scott sang the Indiana Jones theme. The trail out of the valley was a grueling stepped climb under the hot mid-afternoon sun, with spectacular views we were too winded to fully appreciate.<br /><br />While many hostels offer a nightly home-cooked meal for guests (at varying costs) we usually prefer to self-cater. At Wild Spirit, however, we opted to join in for their wholesome and generously portioned vegetarian curry dinner, which did not disappoint. It also gave us the opportunity to chat with some of the other guests – both locals and foreigners – discussions which, wherever we go, inevitably turn to crime, safety, and the realities of South African life. We would assume that most locals would have grown weary of such topics by now, however, the few we've spoken to have been more than willing to provide an insider's perspective on the issue. At Wild Spirit, we talked to a Capetonian currently working as a civilian pilot in Afghanistan, who had a unique perspective on the dangers of working in the Middle East (one stray bullet through his fuselage in 10 months) versus those of living in his home country (where his family, friends and co-workers fell victim to numerous break-ins and assaults over the same period). <div> <div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439987182909235730" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S363hUP7ohI/AAAAAAAAA1k/-vbs9t1Qqn8/s400/IMG_0483.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />After three great nights at Wild Spirit we hopped back on the BazBus (but not before receiving hugs from staff!) and rode to Storm's River, a mere twenty minutes along the highway. Most people we met on the Garden Route had given themselves six or seven days from end to end, whereas we had two weeks and could afford such dilly-dallying. On the way our driver slowed as we passed over the Bloukrans River bridge, site of the bungee jump, so we could have a look at the drop – all 216 meters of it - advertised as the highest in the world. There was much nervous giddying among those who'd signed up for the jump. </div><div><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439985067611858162" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S361mMJvJPI/AAAAAAAAA08/SG4elplKxFI/s400/IMG_0103.JPG" border="0" /><br />Storm's River Village, a single fresh-paved road with a few scattered stores at the end, seems to exist mainly for the sake of tourists and the many 'extreme' outdoor activities they're willing to pay money for. Bungees, bikes, quads, innertubes, abseiling (rapelling), and zip-lines through treetops and across waterfalls were the attractions advertised on the walls and flyer-stands at our hostel. These were all well outside our daily budget, so we again did what we're best at – we hiked to a body of water via a forest. Still within the bounds of Tsitsikamma NP, we touched down at the mouth of Storm's River, where waves against raw rock sent juts of froth hundreds of feet into the air. <div> </div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439984895013025474" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S361cJK99sI/AAAAAAAAA00/CzqZ49MaGjU/s400/IMG_0089.JPG" border="0" /> <div> </div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439984677407497058" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S361PehxG2I/AAAAAAAAA0s/HvguoSjaeoo/s400/IMG_0085.JPG" border="0" /><br />Our second day we hiked into Plaatbos Nature Reserve and swam in the river. We'd seen posters advertising blackwater tubing, and now we knew the reason – because of tannins in the earth, the river was tinted a deep red-brown, and when swimming you couldn't see your feet.</div><div><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px; display: block; height: 300px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439987433312243106" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_v3hHJ08L8NQ/S363v5EqTaI/AAAAAAAAA1s/2KCrcGKCdyU/s400/IMG_0678.JPG" border="0" /><br />While we enjoyed the natural beauty and the ease of travel along the Garden Route, at times the jewel of South Africa seemed a little too shiny, pre-packaged and tourist-geared. While a few areas we visited appeared unspoilt by tourism, many locations seemed to have been tarnished by overdevelopment and commercialization. The upside to this influx in tourists is that many locals are able to earn their livelihood on our dollar – hawking local crafts, acting as guides and providing other valuable services. However if it's fantastic scenery and culture you're after, leave the Garden Route to the surfers and skydivers and find your own piece of paradise further east along the Wild Coast – which is where we headed next. </div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0