Into Afrika

The final curtain

2007-05-31T14:16:00.000-07:00

Thirty thousand words later, and Into Afrika is over. Just like that.

You can find me at my new space in London.

Welcome to London

2007-05-30T04:59:00.000-07:00

I’ve been playing Monopoly for the past few days, bouncing through Waterloo, Bond, and Piccadilly.

Before leaving, I asked my brother for some advice. He laughed. “You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.” Too right. Gumtree is what he offered. Hey, to be fair, he did throw me more tit-bits, and laughed some more, but gumtree was the important thing. It’s the trademe of London. And so with little fanfare, off I went.

The red-eye from Cape Town left me dehydrated and sleep-deprived. What better way to enter one of the greatest cities in the world. I had disappointingly converted my Rand to Pounds before I left, and when I arrived, I disappointingly converted my remaining US dollars. I had left the Kwacha, and Shillings alone, they wouldn’t even touch that in South Africa. I didn’t even think about my Zim dollars.

Let’s get the basics over with. London. Eight million or so, drab, cold, wet, concrete, grey, thanks for asking. Just add ‘home’ to that list for a while. I took the tube from Terminal four to Paddington station, amazed at how subterranean the developed world had become. It wasn’t difficult to get to my backpackers, the Mapesbury Hostel, and with a simple transfer or two, I was staring at my new home for the week. A four-bunk room, empty juice cartons on the floor, and an assortment of clothes thrown around like a bomb; it was like being nineteen all over again. With my thirty kilos of worldly possessions thrown into a corner, I was light-footed and eager to explore.

If you had to be proportional about your London experience, you would talk mostly about the tubes. Perhaps you’d begin animatedly, and mention the intercom system, the ease of jumping on and off the stations, the escalators which go on forever, and the stairs you always seem to be climbing when you’re off. It takes about an hour to get over it, by which time you’ll realise that these musty and sweaty sardine tins will be your life for the next few years. It’s also about then you’ll notice that London thrives on that other social phenomenon: queues.

The pinnacle of human development is the queue. Millennia’s of civilisation produces a person who can stand directly behind another to gaze vacantly, and step forward unconsciously onto the footprints of their predecessor. This is performed in spirit-quashing silence. If you live in the city, this will be referred as ‘normal’. Depressingly so.

I went to Piccadilly Circus to explore. I bought a coke for £1.99, which on my coke scale makes it the most expensive coke I’ve drank. Let’s quickly remind ourselves:

New Zealand - NZ$2 (US$1.45)
South Africa - R5 (US$0.70)
Zambia - Kwa2000 (US$0.50)
Zimbabwe - Z$5,000 (US$0.25 at time of purchase. It’s probably quadruple that by now)
Tanzania - Tsh1,000 (US$0.80 )

And now add:

London - £1,99 (US$3.94)

And everything here costs crazy amounts. My handy rough guide is keen to point out that this is one of the most expensive cities in the world. Hoo-bloody-ray. Stalls outside were selling half-price tickets to the West End. Stomp, Chicago, Mary Poppins, Lion King. It’ll set me back a cool £30, cash I should be saving for important stuff, but let’s face it, I’m not going to resist for long. Queues stretch away in every direction. There are a dozen stalls offering cut-price tickets with dozens of people neatly lined up, suffering in silence under the rain.

I continue to wander, and find myself blinking often. I don’t think much of it and continue walking, drinking in the visual. Then the migraine begins. My eyes feel hollow so I stop to close them for a second. Down went the eyelids, and immediately I am sucked into the oblivion. I opened them with a start. My body had been complaining, and was finally turning the screws. I return to Leicester square, and join a queue at the Odeon. It’s for the latest Pirates movie, not that it matters. Taking my seat, the house-lights already dim, I quickly lose focus. The feature begins, as I sink into the darkness.

Jack Sparrow wakes me with a bang, and my head clears. I control my body and take stock, remembering in an instant my past month. Amidst high seas and whirlpools, I am taken through dusty roads in Kabwe and to the reef around Zanzibar. I zoom through Pretoria and Cape Town as cutlasses clash in front.

I am in one of the largest cities in the world. I am homeless and unemployed, a minnow in an ocean, and I need to begin swimming soon. The clock is ticking.

The Beginning of the End

2007-05-25T04:56:00.001-07:00

In Zanzibar, it doesn't take me long to fall into the routine of swimming, snorkelling, and dining with guests. The holiday spirit has finally arrived, and for once I embrace it.

The hotel is almost completely vacant. One evening I find that I am the only guest in the Corel Rock. I spend the evening alone in the restaurant, eating my dinner: grilled calamari with rice and chapatti (a less sweet roti). In the solitude civilisation seems an eternity away. I listen to the waves crash in the distance on the shelf. I idly flick ants from the table top and read a few pages from Lord of the Flies. Another guest briefly makes an appearance. A crab. It scuttles across the restaurant floor in its armour plating, before disappearing through a drain in the wall.

Guests trickle in and out in ones and twos every couple of days. A couple from Holland arrive. An elderly American. Canadians. We form our own coalitions, strength being found in numbers.

Klaude is from Holland, is a field officer for an aid organisation and has been based in East Africa for the year. We go snorkelling together with his wife, and that night we join for dinner. Over kingfish and calamari, he tells me of his work, and of the logistics of setting up refugee camps in the region; the politics of international aid. He speaks four European languages, and several African. Far from the archetype tie-dye and bandana-wearing hippy, Klaude is bestowed with intelligence, a caustic sense of humour and a strong sense of pragmatism.

Over several beers, he tells me about the Heineken factories in the Democratic Republic of Congo. They're an anomaly. Highly profitable, and to date the only untouched targets in the Congo war. I was amazed that these places can exist in a country which, I was told, only has four real roads. Even the warlords, it seems, are wise enough to know the consequences of robbing their country of a good brew. More spectacular is when Klaude discloses that Heineken once diverted its water supply to a local refugee camp when a shortage was foreseen. I ask why I'd never heard of this benevolence.

"They denied it."

"That makes no sense. Why?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it doesn't benefit their company."

I'm dumbfounded. A brewery saving lives then denying all knowledge of its spectacular civil service. It's almost unbelievable.

The Canadians made an appearance for an evening; a couple on their own grand-scale adventure: Cairo to Cape Town. They'd booked eight months for this trip, and had already been gone for four. They'd been through tourist anti-hotspots such as Libya and Uganda.

Africa is safe, they tell me. Their surprise is just how safe it's been. I ask whether they popped into the Congo for a beer. They admit they missed a few less idyllic spots in their itinerary. But they do tell me about billboards of Colonel Kaddafi's face plastered along the motorways, and spending time camping in the deserts in North Africa. They're great storytellers, and soon they make me want to abandon my plans and recklessly continue north.

The Canadians were in Zanzibar for a couple of days before taking my old friend, the TAZARA express to the Zambian border. They were going to detour south to Malawi and Mozambique, places which still held an air of fantasy to me.

One evening, Khazim approaches. "You want to go Stone Town tomorrow?" And why not. The following morning I jump aboard the shuttle and am driven to the capital of Zanzibar. It's where Arabia meets Africa. We are dropped outside the market where a clean-cut man in his late twenties becomes our guide. Ramadan is dressed immaculately in brown pants and shirt, and spends the next few hours weaving us through the town, teaching us its history. The roads are thin and uneven, and buildings squeeze into impossible gaps, creating a maze of alleys and boulevards. Bikes and scooters scream down the alleys, honking their horns to warn pedestrians. Several times Ramadan has to grab me and push me out of the way of a scooter's path.

In Stone Town, the mosque and the church are so close they're practically neighbours. It's a feature of this place, which Ramadan proudly points out: "Hakuna Matata. It's how we live. See, even Christian and Muslim exist in peace." He walks us through the Anglican and Catholic churches, and I listen to his stories about the slave centre in the town, and the pirate history of the island. Tourist fodder. We leave the churches and start to walk away. I stop Ramadan and ask whether the mosque, like the churches, allow guests. Ramadan shakes his head and smiles.

We finish the tour of Stone Town. I want to be cut free to explore by myself, but we are not allowed. Our shuttle is waiting. Ramadan grabs a ride with us on the return journey, and we chat away. His English is excellent, and we chat about the local customs, history, and politics. While on the road, it starts raining fat drops of water that explode into vapour on the ground. The locals seem to continue their work, the rain more an annoyance than a show-stopper. The rainwater is warm, and adds to the already swelling humidity. We pass through a ramshackle village and I am surprised when we stop. Ramadan jumps out of the shuttle and turns to shake my hand. I thank him, and watch as he smiles, then turns to walk into his village in the rain. He steps around the water-filled potholes, past the chickens and disappears amongst the decaying houses in his dress pants and immaculate shirt.

***

Six nights pass quickly, and before long I'd found my number was up. It was time to return to the real world.

If I were to be honest, I was a little relieved. I could handle the thirty degrees, the pool and the beach making it quite comfortable. The humidity, however, was the killer. Each breath feels laboured. You inhale and exhale and they both taste hot and wet. Your clothes also suffer. They become soaked in damp and feel wet to the touch – even the stuff you don't wear. And after several days, they begin to smell of damp. I had a ticket booked for Johannesburg, and frankly, it was about time to leave.

I say my farewells to Khazim, Ali, and the staff, and the following morning, I am taken to Stone Town's relic airport. The arrivals and departures board is a whiteboard. Check-in is little more than kiosk stalls. I queue under the sun, and once I receive my boarding pass, I enter inside a ten by ten room where a security guard points me to the different stations. Baggage check is on the right. Airport duty is an about turn, and five meters away. Once performed, a sidestep to the left and you're in immigration. Obligations fulfilled, I am pointed in the direction of the departure lounge, which looks a little more like the real thing. In African predictability, the power is out, so everything is performed manually. My bags could have been packed with heroine and high explosives, and the security guards wouldn't have noticed. They peer into the top of the bag with mock interest, then wave me along. It's not what you'd call meticulous.

My last action in Zanzibar, in East Africa as a matter of fact, was to go to the loo. I have to pass back through the security checkpoint, where the guard doesn't even acknowledge my presence. As I enter the guy's lav, I find a lady in an apron mopping the floor. I make to leave and she stops me. "No, you go. No worry." I walk into a cubical and find there's no toilet paper so I exit and tell her. She walks to a utility cupboard outside and hands me a roll. I re-enter the cubical, and pray that she leaves.

No such luck. It's a free world, and I suppose I'm a liberated being, but with the growing demise of discrimination, the bathroom has become one of the few sanctuaries left to man. This lady's presence broke every sacrament of the segregated loo. I perform my business and leave the cubical to find her mopping over the same spot. She hands me a paper towel to assist with the hand-washing ritual, and stares as I apply the soap and water. I turn to exit and find that she's manoeuvred her bulk in front of the door. "You pay tip. Just one thousand."

I almost punched her. Half an hour later the plane takes off with me safely on board. It took me a day to travel the twelve thousand kilometres from Auckland to Cape Town. Almost three months later, I found that my wanderings had led me six thousand kilometres north, and midway through the continent. I was tired and unkempt. My clothes badly needed a wash, and for once, I was missing the luxuries of the west. Level roads, clean water, flushing loos, even faceless malls. I had lived the extraordinary, and was missing the mundane.

I had brushed lives with political activists, religious leaders (both corrupt and benevolent), long-lost family members, and con-artists, the latter in their dozens. I had met Afrikaans, Xhosa, Sutu, Shona, Vemba, Tanzanian, and Masai. Each thoroughly different from one another. I was returning to civilisation with a lump in my throat and a promise to return. My African days were ending, the adventure almost over.

It was a five hour journey to Johannesburg airport, not that I remembered much; I dreamt most of it away. I still had a couple of weeks left in South Africa, time spent not in travel, but preparation for the next adventure. This has by far been some of the best months of my life, but this isn't the end. To quote CS Lewis, this isn't the even the beginning of the end, but rather the end of the beginning. My sights turn north.

To London.

And Relax! Zanzibar, Tanzania

2007-05-21T05:43:00.000-07:00

I open my eyes and wait for the world to come into focus. I’m lying in a four-poster bed, covered in a thin white sheet. Through the mosquito net overhead I see a fan swinging on its axis like a propeller. It’s seven in the morning and already it’s in the late-twenties. My breathing is slow and the air is hot and wet. I take stock of the previous night.

It was a like bad dream. I was whisked aboard a shuttle after the Cessna had landed, then driven through Stone Town by night. Objects flashed past in the darkness: cars without headlights, bikes, motorbikes, pedestrians. Groups of people sat outside, illuminated in phosphorescence as they stared at television sets. My eyes desperately wanted to close, to fall into the abyss, but I was clutching my seat, my nerves worn thin. We took a side street and drove through flooded dirt roads, my life yet again in the hands of complete strangers.

An hour of travel, and the moon had risen like a orb. We entered a village of cracked walls and decaying houses, and the shuttle stopped outside a high white wall. The sign on the wall read ‘Corel Rock Hotel and Restaurant.’ The gates opened, and my memory faded.

“How are you todey?” My concentration broke. I had made it out of my room, and into the restaurant, a mug of coffee in my hand when Khazim found me. Our events manager. One of his eyes has a cataract of sorts, his gaze consequently is dull. Khazim had approached me the previous night, so his appearance this morning was a shadow of darker times. I tell him I’m still tired, and he gets to business. “We leave soon. You ready?”

I wasn’t. I wanted another day of sleep, but I wasn’t given the luxury. It was off-season and I had agreed to go on a boat ride around the islands. I rise and follow Khazim to the shuttle.

Johan introduces himself to me. Fifties, barefoot, shorts, and a loud red shirt. He is not out of place. Here the board room makes way for board shorts. In Auckland you may be an accountant, a teacher, a builder. In Zanzibar, you just are. We’re joined by a few others, a contingent of Afrikaners. Johan himself is from Johannesburg, and seems to know the staff. He sits in front with Khazim and makes conversation for the hour journey to the boat.

We arrive in another village and park by the shore. Khazim points to a banana boat. “The red one. Short walk.” The tide is out, so our short walk is ten minutes out on the shelf. My head was clearing and I was slowly registering the world. It’s a postcard. The sun is shining down on us, the seawater is warm and clear. Palms and other trees line the shores, and the sand is white. We board, and before long we’re cutting across the waves.

Paul is a geologist from Cape Town. He’s been working on this side of the world for a while. His wife, Jackie appears to share a part of her husband’s spirit, but is certainly not the outdoor type. Mark and Kate are a honeymoon couple from Johannesburg.

The two stroke on the boat is noisy, so the journey is made mostly in silence. White sandy islands pass by, each one as beautiful as the next. Khazim looks more relaxed, and tells me that in peak season there would be hundreds of tourists in dozens of boats, searching for that idyllic island spot. I had heard that people go to Zanzibar to swim with dolphins, so I ask him about it. He tells me that each peak season is like a dolphin hunt, the waters filled with boatloads of tourists itching for their two minute experience. You get pushed into the sea, you spot a dolphin, then you move away to let another person live the moment.

We reach a desert island and disembark to spend the day in leisure. Our crew plays and dines with us, the boundary between servant and master broken. The reef teems with fish in their thousands. Under the water, we spot schools of Nemo-like fish, and several dozen trumpet fish. On land, we are served with fresh produce: coconuts, mangoes, bananas, and fish. Johan wants to find some mangroves to plant outside the hotel, and so for the return journey the boat is taken into a lagoon. We shoot between a gap in the rocks, like threading a needle, and Johan jumps overboard in his flippers. I join him, my body already burnt, but deciding that any moment untaken is a moment lost. The wind picks up a little, and our boat is regularly battered by waves crashing over the hull. They soak us in salt water, but this is refreshing in the afternoon heat. We make our way south, and back to Zanzibar.

In the real world, Johan is a zoology professor. He lectures on human physiology, and happens to be managing the hotel for a while. It’s a side project for a few weeks. I join him that night at the bar, and he tells me about his experience of teaching in South Africa. As with most Afrikaners, he rues for the day when colour-politics doesn’t interfere with education. He tells me about dropping standards, and increasing problems within his classes where students are unable to write to even Matric standard. Johan is good-humoured, but he can see a bleak future ahead.

Frederik joins us, orders a beer and lights his cigarette. Twenties, Aryan, Danish. He had a bag stolen with his valuables, leaving him and his wife with a single credit card to make their way through the next few weeks. He reported it to the local polisi, but is frustrated with their lack of progress in writing a report. It’s urgently needed in order to file an insurance claim. In Denmark he works as a fire-fighter, an irony, since he is sunburnt from head to foot. Johan makes pains to repeatedly point this out to him.

Our contingent chats into the night, but eventually we retire, leaving me to return to my room and take my first long shower in ten days. My hair is coarse and stiff, and I am shocked when I wash it to feel how soft it becomes. I hear a knock on the door and donning a towel, open it. A man stands outside, he tells me name is Muhammad, and he wants to know whether I want to swim with dolphins tomorrow. I smile, and shake my head.

Zanzibar photos.

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

2007-05-14T00:09:00.001-07:00

It's hot. Not the dry heat of Harare or Kabwe, but sticky and wet. The temperature outside is a muggy thirty degrees, and in this claustrophobic office my body is a sheen of sweat and dirt. My shirt sticks to me like a second skin, and I can feel the grime of several unwashed days wear me down. I'm surrounded by Tanzanians arguing fiercely in Swahili. They gesticulate, point, and shout. I understand nothing except that they're arguing over me. The man with the missing teeth laughs, slaps my back and shakes my hand. "Hakuna matata! Hakuna matata!" he cries. His friend disappears with my ferry ticket and as he darts out the basement office I know I won't be seeing it again. The kingpin of the operation, a large bearded man across the desk, smiles broadly. I return it with a stare. I'm still standing, the thirty kilos of my pack heavy on my shoulders. My back and legs ache, but I resolve not to give the bearded man the pleasure of knowing how defeated I feel. His sinister smile tells me the game is up. He speaks to me in English, "I think... we can fix this."

***

After entering Tanzania via Tunduma, the TAZARA express makes its way northeast, and through the rural mainland. Kids run out to the tracks in every village we pass. Some are content to stare, while others throw sticks at the carriages. When the train is slow enough, the kids shout at us. "Sop!" They yell. Unsure, I ask, "You want soap?" "Give us sop!" They respond. When I shake my head, they hold their hands in the air and rub their fingers. "Give us maa-nee!" They don't stop, and I hear their voices yelling their demands in the distance as the train leaves each village.

The kids are the most worrisome experience of the rest of the trip. The Tanzanian express continues at its sedate pace, and I make myself at home on in the lounge, reading much of the journey away. Another bumpy and sleepless night, and I find the following morning that the landscape has changed. Instead of acacia and jacaranda trees, the vegetation has become a forest of ferns and palms. The temperature has also increased by several degrees, and the air is thick with moisture.

The journey is uneventful. After almost two thousand kilometres and forty-four hours the express finally pulls into Dar es Salaam station. It stops with a halt and sits eerily still, my body conditioned to the motion, is still moving to its rhythm.

I grab my pack, jump off the train and within seconds I am accosted by a taxi driver. "You want Texi!" It's not a question. I tell him I need to get to the ferry terminal via a bureau de change, and ask for his price. He ignores my question and attempts to take my pack off my back. "Hey, wait!" I cry, twisting away. He pulls a card from his pocket. "You teke charter plene, very cheep." I refuse, I'm not interested in being ripped off. "But very cheep, get you good deal." I tell him to take me to the ferry terminal. By now a few taxi drivers have caught up with me. An argument ensues between him and his colleagues, and within two minutes only one young man remains, still passionately shouting at my driver. Unperturbed, he ignores this protest and guides me through the station terminal and to a taxi. It turns out he's only the sidekick in this operation, with a portly elderly man in a kofi, managing affairs from the driver's seat. There is more arguing amongst themselves, but eventually my pack is transferred to the trunk and me in the back. We settled on a price of Tsh30,000 (US$28) for the ride, and I know I'm being ripped off. As we pull away, I discover a gap where there ought to be a seatbelt.

The roads in Dar es Salaam are narrow, and populated by the same insanity of motorists I am getting used to in other African towns. Bicycles and pedestrians occupy the same space as vehicles, and cars constantly hoot to ward slower vehicles off the street. After a ten minute journey through the dirty metropolis, my driver pulls through an intersection, and stops his car in the middle. If I find this unusual, no-one else does. Cars and bikes merely twist around this new obstacle. He points to a building with a bored security guard outside. "Bureau. You change there."

I step out the taxi, avoiding the traffic, and thinking how my pack was still in his trunk. Inside the bureau, I am given bad news. They won't buy my kwacha. I had withdrawn a million Kwacha (US$250) from an ATM in Kabwe with the intention of exchanging it in Dar. I ask a few times, but they won't touch the stuff.

I return to my taxi, relieved that it hasn't driven off with my possessions, and we drive to another bureau. To my relief they are able to take my kwacha. We continue through the narrow streets, avoiding collisions with bicyclists and pedestrians, and arrive at the ferry terminal. I want to pay the driver now, but his companion jumps out the taxi and tells me to follow him. "No thank you," I reply, clearly suspicious, "I'll be alright from here." "No. You follow. Get you tee-ket" He responds. I don't know why, but I step in line behind him.

We walk to the ticket counters; rows of rudimentary boxes with slits for windows. Before we reach a counter, he takes a hard right, and down a flight of stairs in an adjoining building. I have to jostle past several men to follow, and find myself in the basement. We walk down an ill-lit corridor through a small office, and into another. It's like an oven. A large bearded man is sitting at his desk, a computer screen to his right, a fan to his left. The walls are plastered with travel posters. Dubai, London, Paris. "Welcome!" he booms. My guide sits to the side and they talk loudly in Swahili to each other. I take a seat and await my fate.

Eventually the bearded man turns to me. "You want to go to Zanzibar." He pronounces it 'san-si-bar'. I tell him that I want to book a ferry ticket. "But ferry, ferry take two, maybe three hour! You charter plane, I get you a good price." He proceeds to tell me about his career as a traffic controller, and concludes with a promise: "I give you good price, good price." It's a set up. I tell the bearded man that I'm not interested in playing his game, and tell him I will be taking the ferry. We argue, and I try and maintain my cool. I am in a foreign country and am effectively trapped in this room. I simply cannot afford to become angry.

After some argument, he sighs and tells me his price for the ferry. "Fifty US." I accept, and it sets forth a flurry of activity. He bellows to his staff in the corridor, and within five minutes they return with a ticket, most likely bought for half the price from the booking offices upstairs. The bearded man tells me the departure time. "Three o' clock. Come back at three." My watch tells me it's one. Two hours to kill.

I leave the building, and take out my wallet, ready to pay the taxi driver. "No, you go to ATM first." I complain, but realise that I may not have much opportunity to withdraw money. My driver takes me two blocks down the road. In the taxi, he starts to bargain. "You know," he begins, "we drive you places and we weet for you. We weeted at bureau. We weeted at ferry. Now we teek you to ATM." I tell him that he needn't have waited at the ferry terminal, and we'd agreed to a price. "But we weet long, for long time. Thirty ez too little. We want fifty shilling." I balk and refuse to pay, and so we begin arguing. I eventually agree to forty shillings, provided he takes me back to the ferry terminal afterward. I'm being ripped off, but I have little choice. I am becoming angry, and need to retain my composure.

We work as planned. I withdraw my maa-nee from an ATM, am driven back to the terminal, and am dropped off, where I am immediately scooped up by a beanie-donned man with missing front teeth. Like the taxi-driver, he cries his mantra, "Porter! Porter!" and attempts to pull my pack off my back. I yank away, and tell him I don't need one. He follows, and I can't shake him. "Where's the nearest hotel?" I finally ask. He points to a building a block away. I thank him and walk off, but he follows closely. We reach the hotel and I enter. He enters with me. I ask the doorman where the restaurant is, and he points to the elevator. "First floor," and advises, "you can leave your pack here if you like." Not bloody likely. I take the elevator up, and find that the toothless man has slipped inside the elevator with me.

"I'll be okay from here," I tell him. He tries talking, he wants to be my friend, he can help me. I walk to a table, and he pulls up a seat by me. Controlling myself, I sternly rebuke him. "Look, I need to do some work. I need to be left alone." To my surprise he walks away, leaving me to order a drink and grab a moment's respite. The waiter, a kid in his teens, looks on in sympathy. His English is brilliant, and after a minute he comes up to me and advises, "That man is still here. If you don't pay him some money there's a chance he will try and rob you." Sure enough, the man had taken a table around the corner, and was waiting for me to conclude my business. Incised, I pull Tsh1,500 (US$1.20) from my wallet and shove it in his hand. "Two thousand," he replies. "I don't think so." I turn and walk away. He leaves, hallelujah.

I eat a buffet lunch for Tsh5,000 (US$4) and relax for a while. I chat to the waiter and he warns me, "Don't trust people in Dar, especially if you're a tourist. They will take your money."

3pm arrives far too soon. I pick up my pack and take the five minute walk back to the ferry terminal. The toothless man was waiting for me outside. He runs toward me, yelling "You late! You must run! Come! Come!" I tell him he's being brash, but he pulls me along. "See," he points, "ferry! It's gone now! You miss!" I don't believe him, so I walk to a guard at the terminal and show him my ticket. A lump forms in my throat as he points to a boat just pulling out from the harbour. "But..." I stammer, "it's leaving early!" The toothless man takes me along, past the booking offices, and back down the stairs to the basement, through the narrow corridor, and back into the muggy office of the large bearded man. He is in a meeting with several of his colleagues as the toothless man interrupts. They start shouting in Swahili, and most of the message is lost in translation. I stay standing.

Soon enough, there is laughter. The man with the missing teeth turns to me and slaps my back. "Hakuna matata! Hakuna matata!" he cries, clearly happy. The bearded man asks for my ferry ticket, and soon enough it disappears out the door, while it is being 'checked'. I notice the clock behind him. It reads 4 o' clock. I ask him for the time, and he tells me, "Four, four o' clock. You hour late." He smiles broadly as I stare back. My back and legs ache, and my world spins around me. I am in a new time zone, my watch is an hour behind. "I think we can fix this," he tells me.

***

He will subsidise a charter plane with my ferry ticket. He thinks for a moment and tells me his fee. US$85, taxi fare inclusive. I'm cornered. I hand him my money and grab the receipt. "You call before you leave Zanzibar, one, two days before you leave. We make good deal for trip back. Okay?" Clenching my fists, I tell him I will certainly be in touch.

I head to their taxi, and discover the bearded man wants to join in for the ride. It's almost rush hour, and if traffic was bad on the way in, I find a new standard of chaos as we speed to the airport. The taxi driver, unshaken, motors along, cutting through lanes, overtaking on the right and left. One intersection, he loses patience and veers onto the footpath, honking his horn at pedestrians unlucky enough to be occupying the space before his car.

The taxi finally pulls into the airport. I get out, and the bearded man sticks his head through the window. He shouts at someone nearby, then points to me. "You! Follow thees man, he take you from here." I'm led into the departure terminal, and he points me through the security checkpoint. I walk through, unmolested, and am led to the ticket booth. A official greets me, "welcome, we need to weigh your luggage. Just pop it on the scale." I comply and he tuts. "It's over the limit. Feef-teen kilo limit." I protest, but he cuts me short. "We bargain later." He takes me to the departure terminal and promises to return. I have an hour's wait, but am tense and frankly, looking for a fight.

He returns, bringing up the subject of the overweight baggage, and I let rip. I ask to see my ticket, to see the weight limit, to read the CAA baggage rules. "This is ridiculous," I tell him, explaining how everyone wants a piece of my wallet. I finally lose steam and stare at him. He speaks in a small voice. "You give five thousand shilling, we call even, okay?" I shove the money in his hand and plant myself on the seat.

The time passes, and I am led out the terminal and to an awaiting Cesena. The sun is low, and I realise I have spent my entire day in Dar being ripped off. As I climb inside this six-seater, I vow never to return.

Flying is therapy. We spring off the runway, and I feel the weight of the day lift from my shoulders. The sun is a disk low in the sky, the arc of the earth magnifying the orb to twice its size. I stare at it, and wonder whether Zanzibar will be any less manic. The sun sinks further west, and for an instant everything turns red, then darkness covers the earth.

The Tanzanian Express

2007-05-08T12:54:00.001-07:00

As I enter my cabin in Tanzanian Express, I choose a bunk, and shove my pack underneath it. The room is barely larger than a prison cell, and sleeps four. For the first ten minutes I'm the only passenger in my cabin, and I hope that it stays this way.

A Tanzanian enters. I could tell because his dress is starkly different to what I've previously seen. It's a thin colourful cotton garb, more Moroccan than Zulu. Under his arm he carries two black leather bags, and a large black leather jacket. In thirty degree heat I wonder what the jacket is for.

Minutes later, an Asian man enters. He looks inside cautiously and spots me. "Heei." He waves. He's dressed in full khaki gear, vest pockets bulging. He clearly looks nervous, so I attempt conversation. I discover he's from Japan, and has been in Africa for two days. His English is awful, very awful, and I pity him. In Southern Africa, English is spoken throughout, but in Tanzania, it's hit and miss, with Swahili being the official tongue. This man was in for a helluva ride. I try to give him some advice. "Keep your bag with you at all times." He smiles and nods his head furiously, "Ya, ya!" I continue, "Don't change your money on the train, it's illegal, and anyhow, you get a bad rate." His head continues to rock up and down, and his eyes are lit up in a smile. I have no clue whether he understands a word I'm saying. "Do you understand a word I'm saying?" His head jackdaws like a spring, "Ya, ya!" Clearly.

The Tanzanian express runs from Kapiri to Dar es Salaam. It leaves on a Tuesday afternoon, and arrives more or less at lunchtime on Thursday. It skirts through Zambia, before jumping the border, and cuts across Tanzania and the Selous national park. The train leaves on time with a jolt, and we are catapulted forward. After ensuring my pack is firmly wedged under my bed, I take my day pack with my valuables to the lounge and kick back.

The first day of travelling was sublime. I stare out the window, help myself to soft drinks from the bar (a steal at US$0.50 a coke), and set my teeth into a local book on the Rhodesian war. The train rattles and screeches along. It's metal on metal, and it shakes so much I wonder whether bits are springing loose and flying off. Because the train is Chinese built, the rail gauge is narrow, meaning that the train rocks sideways, and lumbers along like a dying horse. At times I could easily jump off and jog along my carriage.

After several hours of slow progress, I need to relieve myself. I make my way to the bathroom, wrench open the door and survey what I assume must be the facilities. Stainless steel, no seat, no lid. Two buckets of water sit next to the toilet. One has a rudimentary scoop, a sawn-off plastic coke bottle floating on top of one of the buckets. I'm too afraid to discover what the purpose of the buckets are, but as I continue to assess the situation, I make a more distressing discovery. There is no toilet paper. The journey is about 44 hours. I wonder how long I could possibly hold on.

My bathroom experience is just a part of this utilitarian journey. The Chinese government have a knack for making things look ugly. The length of the bunks seem to be created by a torturer, designed to be just about too short for comfort. You lie on the bunk and feel alright for about five minutes before the cramps set in. The doors for the cabins are stiff and often requires the effort of two people to open and close. Signs are etched in mandarin, and everything is painted in drab greys. I get the impression that I'm in a submarine, with thick clanging doors between the carriages, and mysterious creeks throughout. I wouldn't feel amiss if I saw sailors in uniform run by to arm the torpedoes.

The first class lounge is the only respite. It contains large red couches, and the bar. Consequently, it becomes my home for much of the journey. With day one of my train journey almost nearing an end, I scoff a dinner of chicken and rice in the restaurant (US$2.50) and retire for the night. I enter my cabin to find that in my absence the leather coated man has taken residence in my bed. I take the vacant and pillow-less top bunk and imagine ways in which a less cowardly man would take his revenge as I try to fall asleep.

But sleep is another luxury you don't get on the Tanzanian Express. You bump and bounce on your bed as the train judders along. There is no peaceful slip into the ether, but rather a series of convulsions, enough to rob you of that precious moment where memory turns to fantasy. The following morning I find I must have passed out at some stage, because I awake to find we're nearing Mbala, the Zambian border.

I'm still lying half naked in my bunk when a stranger enters our cabin. "Change money?" he asks. The Japanese man flaps his hand in the air excitedly, the universal sign for 'screw me over', and proceeds to empty his vest pockets of vast quantities of Kwacha. The cabin window is open, and so is the door. My cabin-mates and I have barely spoken a word, but now we stare at each other in a language we both understand: shock.

The money changer sets to work, grabs the fistful of cash, and proceeds to count. He takes a roll of Tanzanian shillings out of his pocket and makes the exchange. After a few minutes he asks, "Change US?" Our Japanese friend's eyes light up as he understands. Out of his other pocket he pulls a large wad of US dollars. It's Christmas to the money changer, and leather jacket man and myself just stare at the Japanese man's naivety.

Leaving this scene, I make my way to the lounge and prepare myself for immigration. Shortly, a young Zambian enters. He falls down on the seat opposite me and smiles warmly. "How are you?" He asks. I respond that I'm tired, but enjoying the trip. We make conversation, which appears to be the Zambian way, and after a few minutes he asks for my passport. Digging it out of my bag, he promptly stamps it and wishes me well. My stay in Zambia is officially over.

Half an hour later, we've rolled into the Tanzanian border town of Tunduma. A man in different coloured uniform walks in, takes a seat and asks for my passport. Tanzanian immigration. He smiles as he leafs through my passport, but it doesn't set me at ease. "You have entry visa?" he asks, turning pages. "No, I need to get one." I respond. "Fifty US." I hand over the money as another official enters, an older man. They speak to each other in Swahili, and the younger man hands my passport to his senior. The older man flashes a smile, but his eyes are hard. He tells me he'll bring my passport back shortly. I begin to protest, but he pulls out his warmest tone, chilling my blood in the process, and asks, "Do you trust me?" I want to yell 'Hell no!" but all I manage is a pathetic whimper. "I get nervous when people take my passport away," I tell him. Another smile, a promise to return shortly, and off goes my passport.

I try and return to my book but find I'm too anxious to read. My fingers drill on the table, on the window. I scratch my itchy scalp, well aware that it hasn't seen a good wash in over a week. My mind flutters, "your passport, your passport, your passport, your passport." I can't stop it, so I check the time and bargain with myself. Ten minutes. If I don't see the immigration crew in ten minutes, I'll begin the hunt.

I console myself by asking the barman about the officials. "They took my passport. Is that normal?" He shrugs and tells me that there's nothing untoward about it. It settles me a little, but I still can't relax. Ten minutes pass, and I reason with myself.

"Perhaps I was too hard on them, they look legitimate."
"Aha! They appear to look legitimate. How can you tell?"
"But there were several of them. One had a stamping device."
"A prop, to fool tourists like yourself."
"But the barman, the barman..."
"Perhaps he's in on it too, you only met him yesterday. Who can you trust?"

My mind is playing games and I become more worried. I approach the barman again and ask where the immigration officials are. "Third carriage down, last compartment." I take a seat and decide to wait a few more minutes.

Half an hour passes, and I can't stand it any longer. I jump to my feet and stride out of the lounge. I count the carriages, one, two, three. As I near the end of the third carriage, my nerves are playing up. "You're being robbed!" they sing. I'm considering life without a passport in Tanzania and curse myself for not writing down the number of the local embassy.

A compartment door slams open and out comes the gang of immigration officers. The senior officer immediately sees me and strides toward me, shaking his head. "You didn't trust me, did you?" In his hand is my lifeblood, my passport. I could have hugged him, but instead in my relief I blather reams of apologies, take his hand and shake it like a pump. He's given me a visa for three months.

Like the flick of a switch, the world changed. The hallway became lighter, and I could see that these men were as relaxed as the Zambians. The older officer carries himself in a grandfatherly manner. His smile wasn't diabolical, but genial, as of a well-mannered officer. "I've been doing this for five years, you shouldn't have been worried," he tells me. We move to the lounge where they laugh at my expense, the break in tension is palpable. I return to my seat buoyant.

The officials take a set of couches behind me and chat amongst themselves. I want to join them, but a wave of drowsiness has just swept over me. I open my book and within minutes I find that my head has dropped. The clanging of the train becomes a distant noise, and my thoughts slip through the fingers of consciousness, and gently succumb to the void.

Jesus is King! Kabwe, Zambia

2007-05-06T03:32:00.001-07:00

“Welcome to Kabwe, Where Jesus is King!” says the sign outside the town. If Christ reigns here, he rules over a poor kingdom. Inside, it’s a dirty, dusty town in the middle of Zambia. Shops lack the sophistication of any you’d find in developed nations. They’re rudimentary buildings, whitewashed and crumbling. Indecipherable posters hang, half torn on the walls. Few areas in the town are grassed, and for a westerner like myself, fewer are maintained.

But there is a magic to this place. My host, Jabez, has accepted me into his family, and I spend a leisurely week with him as my escort. Jabez works with the Ebenezer Tabernacle, one of the largest churches in a town, which to no surprise, is predominantly Christian. I pass signs everywhere to that effect including, notably, a grocery called “God Knows The Rest,” and a truck with “My dream comes true, thank Jesus,” painted on the back. In the shops there are God posters on the walls and Christian tracts on tables. Jabez tells me there are fourteen Christian television stations that broadcast into the area. Flicking through the stations, I’m taken aback by the amount of expensive suits, attentive audiences, and forthright preachers I see. I turn the telly off, mostly to avoid my rising cynicism.

The broadcasts from God TV and TBN are a poor reflection on the type of people I meet in Kabwe. They’re just so friendly, by far the friendliest I’ve encountered in Africa. I’m regularly stopped in the streets by locals who don’t want to sell their wares or beg for money, but just to chat. I’m obviously a stranger, and with untypical good grace they’re interested in finding out about me.

Take this: a few days into my stay, I discover I need to get my visa extended. We turn up to the immigration office, and I end up in conversation with the immigration officer. After chatting about our respective countries, he stamps my passport for an extra fortnight and shakes my hand like an old friend. No administration fees, the African byword for a bribe, and no dirty looks, which is the typical fare. The procedure was so smooth, in fact, that I felt like I somehow cheated the system.

****

In Kabwe, it’s hot, well over 25 degrees. For several hour stretches during my week’s stay, I’m left to my devices in Jabez’s home. Reading books in the shade quickly makes me restless, so it wasn’t before long that I decide to wander around the town.

The people in Kabwe don’t have cars, so transport by foot is the most common method. The sun is low in the sky as I walk out Jabez’s house and down the street. I was envisioning walking into town, but as is custom, I find myself instead trekking the opposite direction, and through its back streets.

There is a liveliness to the place which cannot be experienced in a safari, a guided tour, or a town centre. Walking down these dusty roads, I pass a group of kids playing soccer in a local field. Sticks have been tied together to create rudimentary goalposts, and children chase en masse after a soccer ball. Further down the road, I pass a Roman Catholic church and hear choirs practicing outside with gusto. Here people are relaxed, and smile as I walk past them.

Two teenagers are playing chess by the side of the road. I stop and ask whether I can take a photo. They’re rather amused by this, and fix me a quizzical stare. “Where I come from, we also play chess,” I blurt realising only too late how stupid it must sound.

One of the teens asks whether I want a game. I refuse at first, but he persists, and soon I am lost in amongst pawns and knights with my newfound nemesis, George. He takes the black pieces for himself and offers me the white. I don’t know whether he saw the irony.

The game begins, and I play as someone with the air of confidence. Soon enough, I lose all sense of time while sitting on a block of wood next to the dusty road. We plot and battle over the chequered board as we attempt to dominate each other. It’s a stalemate for a while, but eventually George strikes, and minutes later it’s all over, leaving me to hold back my disappointment. As I shake his hand I realise that I still hold a notion that poor black Africans are primitive, and while I walk away, gingerly rubbing my wounded ego, I appreciate his lesson.

But time had passed, and the sun now wanes in the sky. I backtrack but for once I am not lost, so I stop by a street vendor. They operate tiny stalls, the size of two phone booths side by side. His name is Godfrey, and we soon fall into conversation. I want to buy a Fanta from him but he refuses to sell it to me. It’s too warm, he tells me, so instead we chat. He’s a thoughtful youth, and we continue to talk about his life in Kabwe until the sun begins to set. I’ve been out for a few hours, and wonder whether my host family might be getting worried. Not at all, it seems. I make my way back to discover dinner has just been served, and relax while eating mishna, chicken, soup, and stew. A feast.

Each day, I would wake at around seven thirty, and Jabez and myself would have breakfast. Eggs, baked beans, toast, and corn flakes. While eating, we would craft our plans for the day. One day he told me that he was heading to Lusaka, capital of Zambia. He explained that he was going to be gone until sundown because he was asked to speak to a family on behalf of the suitor of their daughter.

“Our custom eez deferent to youz,” he explains. Amongst most Zambians, a suitor has to enter negotiations with his future family when he wishes to betroth their daughter. The negotiations can last several days, and often become heated affairs. The family supposedly acts in the interests of their daughter, probing to discern whether the suitor can fulfil his obligations to his potential wife. It actually sounds wise, like pre-marital counselling, something I’ve seen work very well in New Zealand. I tell this to Jabez.

But that’s not the end of it. Jabez continues. After sufficient justification is provided of the suitor’s suitability, the poor man has to settle on a price for the daughter’s hand in marriage. This is, provided he still wishes to unite after arguing for days with his prospective in-laws. The bargaining begins, which typically lasts another day. Jabez was asked to mediate the process. Several days later, I learn that the family had accepted the marriage offer, and had settled to agree to hand the daughter over for a reasonable price of five cattle. I ask Jabez how the negotiations went. “Tiring.” He responds.

****

On Sunday morning Jabez takes me to his church for their three hour service, God help me. The music is mainly in Vemba, so I don’t understand a word, but the congregation sings in beautiful harmonies, and before long everyone is up and dancing. The front of the church before the stage is filled with dozens of men in suits and women in their Sunday best dancing their African jigs. There’s a backing band, but because the choir doesn’t bother performing with a band, it struggles to perform with the singers. Songs often begin in acapello while the band hits random notes in a mad effort to find the key of the tune. The result is a discordant mess for the first minute, frustrating everyone but myself. I actually enjoy the spectacle; the dirty looks between the musicians, and the sideward glances from the choir. But when the band finally starts pumping, it’s quite a site to see. The crowd is animated and happy, and I wish I could bring some of this enthusiasm back to New Zealand. After an hour or so of this, the musicians walk off stage, and a lady gets up to speak.

She screams down the microphone and I wince. The volume is so loud that my ear drums are being torn – what’s with Africans and loud noise? She’s praying for the offering they’re about to collect for the church, and I’m horrified as she recites: “We pray for raises and bonuses; we pray for dividends and surpluses; we pray for jobs and promotions...” she continues on this theme for a while. It’s certainly not the meek and mild faith I was expecting, and I worry whether the mainly poor congregation feel as though they have to pay God off for the chance of a better lifestyle. Whatever reason, it just feels wrong. She yells down the microphone for another hour or so, barraging my ears with her cries, and then just as suddenly, it’s all over. Freedom.

****

The days pass quickly, and I find that my time in Kabwe has nearly ended. I spend some more time with my New Zealand friends, mainly playing with the kids and watching rugby, and I wander some more in town by myself. Even on the edge of nowhere, life had begun to settle into routine. I was already used to being the only white guy around, and I was used to having people stare at me. It was a sign that complacency had set in, a sign that it was about time to move on.

Kabwe also marks two months of solo travel in Africa, and I had previously decided to make it my turning point before I head southward, and back to Cape Town. I was becoming restless and knew I needed one last adventure before I returned to civilisation. My plan was to cut through Botswana and maybe Namibia, but I wasn’t interested in seeing yet another game park. While contemplating my next destination over a map of Africa, a name jumps out: Dar es Salaam. The name sounds exotic. It’s the capital of Tanzania, and more alluring, it’s in East Africa.

I investigate and discover a flight to Dar for US$90 from Lusaka. When I tell my kiwi acquaintances, they add an additional attraction. “Don’t bother flying. If you go to Dar, you have to take the train.” It’s a two day journey, and the station is in the town next door, a mere sixty kilometres from Kabwe. I take the plunge and book a ticket.

The Tanzanian express is a two-day sleeper, with restaurant and lounge. First class cabins cost K180,000 (US$45), and sleep four. It’s anyone’s guess how colourful the journey will be, but I intend to find out.

Shortly after booking, I learn exactly how colourful it could become. An American who’d lived in Tanzania told me about the perils of the Tanzanian express. Trains break down multiple times a journey, thieves steal your bags as you sleep, pickpockets take your wallet in the lounge, border officials refuse you entry without a bribe, or worse, men dress as officials take your passport, and never return. It’s the type of stuff that makes travellers’ blood run cold. I ask around, and these stories are all corroborated.

And then I hit a real roadblock. Two days before I leave I discover that I need a yellow fever certificate. This is a major problem. Yellow fever is a live vaccination. The good doctor doesn’t inject you with a vaccine, but rather with the virus itself. I was advised that subjects routinely fall into a fever for several days as the (admittedly weakened) strain courses through their body. Finally, the immune system kicks into gear and develops the antibody to destroy the encroaching hoard. Voila, a week later you are immunised, and earn yourself a stamp for your troubles.

I don’t have a week. This is a problem, so I tell my hosts that Dar is out and Botswana is back on the menu. Jabez is two-minded. He’s been across a number of times and thinks I ought to take my chances. I have a restless night where I began to plan an alternative Botswana route through Maun and to the Kalahari desert. The following morning I tell Jabez that Dar is definitely out. He responds by taking me to a clinic to talk to a local doctor.

A tall man with glasses and greying hair steps out of his surgery. Jabez shakes his hand like an old friend and proceeds to enlighten the doctor about my predicament. I’m travelling tomorrow, and need the vaccine. The response is animated, and after some discussion the doctor turns to me and tells me his thoughts on yellow fever in Tanzania. “It’s ridiculous. There’s barely been a case of yellow fever in Dar es Salaam. You’ll be fine.” He continues to mutter to himself about paranoid officials and senseless bureaucracy. It doesn’t make me feel any better, but apparently I should be safe.

Still, border guards might ask to see a yellow fever certificate. Jabez has to busy himself with work for the afternoon, but he can still help. “I teke you to Pastor, he can teke you the hospital and get you yellow fever certificate.” Shortly thereafter, I’m driven into Kabwe’s town centre and introduced to Pastor, a short dumpy man with a gruff voice. I never learn his real name, but I’m told to follow him.

Pastor takes me to the local hospital where he stops a nurse on her duties. He explains my problem, and the nurse says she will help. “Fifty, fifty kwacha.” For a yellow fever book? “Yez for everything.” She disappears for a few minutes and we are left in a waiting room inside the hospital.

While sitting in the hospital, contemplating my peculiar fate, I discover that Pastor must be some minor celebrity. Women approach him and bow low as they take his hand. Some kneel before him to speak. Several guards are escorting convicts in the local maximum security penitentiary, and abandon their prisoners to walk over to shake Pastor’s hand. Clearly this is a man of influence, however I’m disturbed by the reverence they afford this man. In Kabwe, Jesus is king, but his shepherds, it would appear, don’t mind cashing a little credit on the side.

A few minutes later, the nurse reappears and asks us to follow her. In her office, I’m handed a yellow fever book, and inside is a stamp. It’s backdated. I’m not sure if this is finable, or a imprisonable offense, but apparently I’m now inoculated.

The train leaves the following morning. A part of me will be sad to farewell this tiny town, but most of me wants to move on and see new things. The only thing I know at this stage is that the following afternoon I will be on a train to Dar es Salaam, and two days later, I’ll be on the tropical island of Zanzibar for six days.

Lusaka and Kabwe, Zambia

2007-04-28T01:02:00.001-07:00

The bus from Livingstone to Lusaka leaves at 9am. What this appears to mean is that people get on the bus at 9am, then the bus driver disappears for a while. Half an hour later, he reappears in order to tell us to board another bus. We comply, only to wait for another hour. At least the bus is only half full, and consequently the seat next to me is free. Time to spread out and rest.

We finally leave, almost two hours later than scheduled. For a while we shoot down the main highway to Lusaka. I catch some sleep and watch endless kilometres of bush and villages roll by. In South Africa you'd spot a rondavel (an African thatched house), and it would be a treat. Here, it's the norm. These places are tiny wisps of settlements. A few houses, a few fields, and stalls by the side of the road. When they are larger, I see market stalls and general stores. Watermelon and sweet corn are sold on the street as well as tomatoes and sugar cane. The cane is a treat for kids here, and I see many children walk down the street tearing strips of it off with their teeth.

Our in-drive entertainment happens to be a pirated copy of 'Predator'. The driver puts a tape on, and pushes the volume to excruciating. Bored, I watch as Arnie and his gung-ho American crew rip apart large portions of South America to show the locals how it's done in the States.

The bus stops, a dozen people board, and we continue. Half an hour later the procedure is repeated. This time a large-framed lady waddles down the aisle. "Ez thes seet teken?" She asks. "Yez", comes the response. To the next row. "Sorri, ez thes seet teken?" "Yez, etz teken." She continues down the bus, and I wrinkle my eyes and pray, "Oh, no. God, please no. Not me." Fearing the worst, I push down the divider between the seats.

"Excuze me. Ez thes seat free?" I look up as I find her rotund form before me. I hate myself, but I can't lie. "Yes, it's free." She promptly waddles her bum backwards pushing between the gap in the rows, and with exhausted effort, manages to plant herself on the seat next to me. Her elbow is stuck firmly on my lap.

You think it'd stop there. Once comfortable (her, not me), she proceeds to open her handbag and pull out a tray of sausages and chips. She slowly devours her meal, licking her fingers after every few chips. I want to gag. Nonplussed, she finishes her meal only to reach once again into her purse and retrieve a box of biscuits. For the next hour she slowly consumes the contents of the box. My only recourse is to stare at the TV ahead, and to Arnie, who is now clearing large chunks of forest away with his machine gun. I envy him.

Hours pass by, then a number more. Morning turns to afternoon, and the sun arches through the sky like a being possessed. I don't realise it, but it's almost six o' clock by the time the bus arrives in Lusaka. I've managed to rest in the bus, but the experience has left me drained. The plan was to catch a connecting bus to Kabwe, but after nine hours of numbness, my palms clam up when I consider any more travel.

I catch a taxi to the nearest hostel, a place called 'cha cha cha'. It has the good fortune of having a New Zealand flag above the bar, and I decide to make it my home for the night. I meet with some Germans and then some Americans and we have a great time chatting till late.

My new hosts, Sam and Gaby Salisbury are missionaries from New Zealand. Through good fortune they were heading into Lusaka the following morning, so we plan to meet in a shopping mall for lunch. I book out of cha cha cha and grab a taxi to town. Finding the Salisbury's, introductions are performed. It's great to hear a familiar accent, and we immediately start talking about the important things in life: cricket and rugby. Before long my pack is thrown into the back of their Nissan Patrol, and I am racing to my new home for the week: Kabwe.

It's not on any tourist maps because there's nothing tourist about the place. Kabwe's fame is that it's the most central point in Zambia. Here there are few tar seal roads, so we mainly drive on sandy variety. There are potholes galore around here, and we often struggle to get past 50km/h.

Nevertheless, this is a town where people know each other, where everyone waves and greets each other. Although I'm clearly foreign, I am surprised by the level of friendliness in the town. I can stop and chat to someone, and they will treat me like a friend. I often wonder why places in New Zealand can't adopt this attitude, it makes it all the more beautiful.

Sam and Gaby don't have room for me in their house, so I'm taken to Jabez Phiri and his family. They're the first black family I've lived with in my trip, my other hosts being English or Afrikaans. It's a great way to understand the local Venda culture and learn a little of the language.

I'm treated to a meal with sadsa, a paste-like food akin mash, but made with maize. It's considered chic in Italy, I've been told, but in Africa it's their staple diet. Later I'm asked whether I want to take a bath. I know that several days of travel have left my body odour wanting, so I eagerly accept. I'm led into the bathroom, and to a large bucket in the bath. "You feel water here," my host explains, pointing to the bucket, "End you shower weth theez." He shows me a jug.

Leaving me to my devices I stare for a while at this enterprise. I can't help but feel a little lost. Do I stand in the bucket? Won't it buckle? How do I wash my hair? It's all part of the experience, so I turn the hot tap on to fill the bucket. The water comes out and it's yellow. I can tell this is going to be an interesting week.

Plumbing, and related matter

2007-04-25T23:17:00.001-07:00

Forget silly tales of travelling across uncharted wilderness and all that romantic nonsense, the truth of holidaying more often than not is revolves around desperate scrambles to find a loo for your busting gut. So when you know you need to go, you are often launched on a quest for the perfect store for your plumbing needs.

It may feel like chaos theory when the urge takes hold, but for the enlightened mind it's a matter of maths. Most would agree that the level of quality of your ideal water closet is directly disproportional to the volume of your waste disposal. That is to say, the more the less, and vice-versa. Simple enough, and for most, it's quite easy to maintain a high standard of toilet choice. The nature of the sojourner, however, often adds additional unwanted complexity to this pressing need.

And here, your traveller's drainage choices are reduced. In foreign territory, most travellers have limited knowledge of the local geography, and therefore limited opportunity to find a suitable facility with which to partake in nature's act. Typically, only a smattering of toilets are known. With these restricted options, when the carnal desire overcomes, you are often left in frantic pursuit for a single working receptacle.

Of course most situations do not require such drastic measures, however such is life that dignity is still preferred when it can be afforded. It hardly helps that the average bowel motion of a traveller is, to put it politely, disrupted and confused. The loud rumbling and groaning of the stomach is like thunder, a precursor to the storm ahead. These weather patterns don't arrive lightly, and you pray to god for a suitable porcelain seat to release the tempest.

While the residential option is still the most preferred, a variety of techniques need to be employed to maintain a healthy relationship between yourself and your hosts. The issue at hand in our hypothetical problem is one of volume. Quiet households do not make for pleasant bathroom experiences when the traveller's gut is active. When you excuse yourself for a moment's solitude in the water-closet, rather than the gentle sea breeze on a skipper in the harbour, your colon spits and heaves like a midwinter squall across a strait. White-knuckled, your natural urge may be to empty the ballast, however the resulting tremor will rock not only the boat, but most likely scuttle it, so to speak.

House designs play vital roles in this respect, and significantly, quite possibly the worst option available is the lavatory situated next to the dining hall. One suffering soul reportedly emptied not his bladder, but his previous meal in lavish oral style, only to discover his hosts, with only a wall's separation, had overheard every gargle and spatter with stunning clarity. Needless to say, when he returned to the dinner table, a tad pale, it rendered polite conversation strained.

The issue at hand is the anonymity with which to do the deed. Public bathrooms become almost the perfect option, often the primary means of business for most travellers. Your actions are overheard by strangers, who often share your preference for the discrete. The drawback, as many would realise, is one of hygiene. Most absolutions suffer from neglect to the point of perilous.

The truck stop outside Polokwane is a case in point and an excellent candidate. Six booths, one with no door to speak of, three with no locks, and five with no toilet paper. Two flooded (it's as bad as you think), and one obese man changing in the doorway. In this demonstration our desperate subject's plumbing was at capacity, and the closest alternative was approximately 1km away, an eternity, for our suffering subject. A compromise was forced, and business accomplished with a generous ream of toilet paper stolen from the remaining booth, and one leg pushing an the working doorway of an un-flooded booth firmly closed.

It's not exactly the magical tale you'll be telling your grandkids. Stories from more forthright travellers revel in honeymoon trips, not comprised of long beaches, and staring into your betrothed's eyes, but of arms hugging the throne after an enterprising decision to attempt the local cuisine. It's an unappetising scene, and strangely neglected in the retelling experience.

By now, you will realise that the aching need hits at inopportune times, with ungovernable rudeness, forcing your poor self into compromising situations. This most basic function renders you incapacitated. It may be as simple as clenching your legs during conversation, to await a suitable gap to perform an orderly retreat. It could also be while booking into your lodgings, biting your tongue as you want to scream at the attendant that you need not a guided, but a solo tour of the facilities.

Possibly the worst, however, is the long-haul arrival. No such pain and anguish has been felt outside a torture chamber in the history of civilisation. Trapped without absolutions on a bus for nine hours is like sticking a knife in your body, and slowly turning it. The pain becomes unbearable, but the shame of asking the driver to stop is unthinkable. So when you jump off with your taut bladder to reacquaint with an old relative, the first words from your lips ought to perhaps be something expressive of your joy or happiness in this reunion. "I'm so happy to see you, " is an obvious choice, and plainly suitable. "I shall explode if I don't pee now," Frankly, is not.

So traveller beware. Your body has little notion of posterity. And like the variety of meal that caused your motion, the smorgasbord of liberation options need to be chosen with care.

Livingstone

2007-04-25T13:55:00.001-07:00

Walking into the Fawlty Towers backpackers in Livingstone was euphoric. I check in, and am shown my room, up a flight of stairs, next to the dining room. It has mosquito nets, and a small fan. The view is nothing to write home about, and because I'm next to everything, I'm guaranteed noisy wakeups. I don't care, I'm out of Zimbabwe. The bed and myself make quick introductions, and shortly become firm friends.

After all my concerns, the border crossing proved to be uneventful. I join a queue, and after a brief wait, stamp, stamp, and out. I'm done. Even though I'm straining with almost thirty kilos of baggage, I feel light-footed. No searches, no questions, and most significantly, no trouble. I feel like skipping across the famous border bridge, but thankfully prudence (and more likely, my heavy load) keeps me steady-footed.

On the Zambian border, things were even easier. My name is on a form for a visa waiver, thanks to Fawlty Towers, so after a brief chat with the immigration official, I'm walking out of the post with a visa for a ten day stay.

Livingstone is everything Zimbabwe should be. There's jobs, shops, people even. I leave the backpackers for a wander, and I fall in love with tiny town. The paths are sandy, the roads are as potholed as they are in Zimbabwe, but the place feels happy. Soon, I leave the town centre and walk the dusty back roads. I pass ramshackle houses, sandy lawns with the merest hint of grass. Jakarta trees surround me in places, and steady streams of locals walk by. I'm the only pale face here, but I don't feel frightened or out of place. Everyone is peaceful, and pottering along with their business.

I return to Fawlty Towers after my sojourn, and spend the rest of my day relaxing by the pool. The following day is a Sunday. I wake, and decide to acquaint myself with the restaurant at the Livingstone Golf Course.

It means I need to walk through the back roads of the town again. This time, the walk to the golf course is accompanied by choirs singing hymns in the churches around the area. Zambia is a predominantly Christian nation, and the churches are full. The singing isn't dull, but rhythmic, and harmonic, with choral arrangements only Africans can pull off. Children playing in the street wave to me. I wave back and they laugh. It's idyllic.

Lunch at the golf course is equally enjoyable, the best meal I'd had in days. I'm having such a good time, that shortly after I leave, I take the wrong turnoff, becoming predictably lost within the endless maze of dirt roads. Backtracking is for the weak, so I plough on, confident that my internal compass will see me out.

Of course, you'll realise by now my compass was stolen at birth and replaced, it would appear, with a bucket of dirt. Half an hour later, I'm still wandering the streets. I know it's a ten minute walk to town, and I know that by now I'm a lost cause. Swallowing my pride, I stop a young lady carrying a baby and ask for directions.

"You need to go dat wey." She advises, pointing in direction I'd just travelled. Uh. I thought I was at least a little more on target than that. She looks at me, probably wondering how someone could be so directionally challenged, and says, "I'm heading your wey. Come. I walk weth you." I meekly take her side and follow. Amidst our conversation about Zambia and New Zealand, she guides me back to Fawlty Towers, before heading off down the road, laughing at my sheepishness. Never fear, I have a driver tomorrow, since the plan is to catch a bus bound for Lusaka, then finding a transfer from Kabwe. It's elementary, I mean, what could go wrong?

On the Zambezi

2007-04-25T13:51:00.001-07:00

It's hot and muggy next to the falls, and even though it cools considerably after dusk, the air still remains sticky and overbearing for hours into the twilight. It means that my nights here are largely restless. After a predictably sleepless night, I rouse at six against my better judgement to set off for a day of canoeing on the upper Zambezi.

While the current was strong enough to render paddling largely obsolete, the twenty kilometre paddle was stunning. I'm finally out of the hustle of the town, and at peace within the bush, joined by a few like-minded companions. The river was in flood, so our task was to navigate through the grade one and two rapids, and between the scores of waterlogged trees. It's wide, in my estimate about two hundred meters. We stick close to the banks for safety and to spot game. We see hippo (at a distance), fish eagle, and many other birdlife. They're not really my thing, but I've been enjoying watching the colourful smorgasbord of birdlife in Africa. It's better than what I've ever seen (which has been limited mainly to ducks, pigeons, and seagull. Not exactly an exciting variety). After an hour of scanning the banks, we give up our hunt, the mere joy of paddling on the Zambezi enough for our troupe.

We break for lunch at a campsite under the watchful gaze of a group of vervet monkeys. "They come, steal your food from your plate. Very quick, like lightning." To amuse ourselves, we place pieces of bread and orange-peel in a tree, and stand a couple of meters back to see what happens. The alpha male would drop from the trees, and after gazing at us to make sure it wasn't a trap, he'd sprint down, grab the food, and run to the upper branches to gorge on his meal. The greedy bastard wouldn't share the food with the other vervets, one of the privileges of rank, it would seem.

We finish our canoeing in the late afternoon, and I return to the rest camp to find that my Zambian accommodation, including the all-important visa waiver had been arranged. Oh, it's exciting – I get to leave Zimbabwe! There have been very few places I have been happy to leave. My job one Christmas, after months of long, painful project work. A town I lived in called Rotorua, after three tempered years. And now, Zimbabwe. I was running low on funds, I had limited forms of communication and, potentially illegal material in my pack (calm down, it's only anti-government pamphlets). Most of all, I just wanted a decent shower.

But I had one more night, time to live it up! I opt to go on a sunset cruise with my friends, and in truth, it was a tad disappointing. The guides were without fault: endearing, knowledgeable, and jovial. The boat, however was small, and we are joined, it seems, by the geriatric society of Cape Town. I should quickly (and quietly) point out that I had to stare at one of the ladies quite intently to ascertain her gender. It's not my fault: she grew better stubble than me.

As the sun took its final steps across the sky, the driver cut the engine. We drift the last few minutes in silence as the white and blue gave way to yellows, then a deep burning red. For a brief moment, everything was set alight, and just as quick, it was gone, and night had fallen.

Darkness falls quickly here. We return to town and spent a good part of the night hunting for a lively place to eat. The restaurants were empty. Even one we spot with a live band was attended by only bartenders and waiters, a shame, these places deserve better than this. We walk to Kingdom Hotel, a four star retreat and use our white skin and foreign accents to get past their security. At US$222 a night it's a little above my budget, but in other circumstances it would be perfect. The hotel has been constructed to appear as though it had been etched along the banks of the Zambezi itself, no expense spared. Rivers ran through the open-plan hotel, lit by incandescent globes. We cross bridges and walkways and soaked in the affluence. I ask the concierge for their occupancy rate, and he tells me it's sitting at 37%. Paltry.

Down the road is the upmarket Victoria Falls Hotel. It's over a hundred years old, and home to the Queen mum when she visits (although I'll assume it's been a while). It's nice, I mean, if you enjoy sweeping balconies, portraits of colonels and similarly-clad British aristocracy, and antelope heads on the wall. I found it overbearingly pomp. We went to the restaurant to look at prices, and found it was one of those, if-you-have-to-ask,-you-can't-afford types. At over US$300 a room ,all I can say is, who'd bother.

We finally find the only lively joint Vic Falls. It's a backpackers called Shoestring, and we decide to make our acquaintance for the evening. It was the type of place where culture is the stuff that grows on the walls.

There's a stereotype in westerns where a cowboy enters a bar, to find the place filled with drunks fighting, a comely wretch or three advertising their wares, and all manner of creature in-between. In Shoestring, the pool was filled with patrons drinking in their underwear, the music was set loud enough to make your ears bleed, and every colour and shade of person sat around the open air bar. A great dane ambled around, hunting for scraps of food in this zoo.

A man sits next to me and introduces himself. After a few minutes he leans close and asks, "Friend, you have drugs? You need?" I decline, it's not my thing. He looks at me like I'm some kind of whack, and tells me such. "Call me old-fashioned," I respond. I don't think we made good drinking partners. A few minutes later, he leans once again and lowers his voice, "You like this girl," he motions to a demure coloured sitting next to him. She glances at me, unsmiling. "You can have her if you want." I feel sick.

My night ends early, I lose my drinking friend, and make my farewells with my companions for the past few days. I walk in the dark back to the peace of my rondavel at the Rest lodge. Tomorrow I cross the border for Zambia, and it can't come any sooner.

Apologies to slow readers

2007-04-22T02:07:00.000-07:00

I should have warned everyone properly. I've been writing like a madman while I was in Zimbabwe, trying to record everything I can, both good and bad.

The result, now that I've crossed the border, is about 7,000 odd words that I have to put to print.

I've placed a few posts online, and will be updating them, as well as adding a few more shortly. Hey, look at it this way. If you're bored at work, you can always kick back and troll through my blog.

Sneak peeks yet to be posted:

Meeting with UNICEF regarding Zimbabwe AIDS situation.
Chat with the burnt-out and persecuted Media Monitoring agency in Harare.
Introductions to the opposition MDC.

Stay tuned.

Stuck in the Falls, Zimbabwe

2007-04-20T12:54:00.000-07:00

Kabwe, Zambia. Right now it exists as a place of terror in my mind. This is because, while I can find it quite easily on a map (go to Lusaka, and head north about 120km. Alternatively, type ‘Kabwe’ into Google), I simply don’t know how to get there.

This is relatively important, since it’s my next stop. In my haste to enter Zimbabwe, I lacked the wisdom to book fares in South Africa. Only fools and horses rush in, and right now, I’m not sure whether I am the former or latter. Entering Zambia is doubly important for me, since I am running low on US dollars, and procuring such tender in legal means in Zimbabwe is a hopeless task. Credit cards are a thing of mystery in most places in Zimbabwe, and exchanging money at a bank is not only expensive, but ludicrous.

I spend the morning in an Internet cafe pouring through Google searches. Here, I hit another stump. I forgot about things like organising visa’s, and other ‘minor’ details. I discover I need to apply for a visa to enter Zambia. I work through the fine-print to find that, yes, British citizens need to not only apply, but also pay for visas. Woo-bloody-hoo, US$65. Furthermore, I read that for the pleasure of leaving Zimbabwe, I have to pay US$35. My mind starts working on combinations of profanity, and my fists are beginning to ball. This is a nonsensical sum. For what purpose do I need to pay this amount -- can someone explain? Curtailing my anger, I press on to find a bus service to Lusaka.

Nothing. Nothing on the Internet. The Zambian tourist website I found (and I believe it’s the official one), recommends I visit the bus depot in Lusaka for coaches and timetables. I almost scream. My problem is getting to Lusaka! It doesn’t bode well. I panic, and my mind races to my dwindling funds. I have a few pounds, some US, a couple of hundred rand, and several hundred thousand Zim dollars (which I hope by now I’ve established, has the value of Monopoly money). I envision myself stuck in Victoria Falls, forever harassed by street vendors and beggars, unable to leave Zimbabwe, and rendered destitute, merely because I can’t access my bank account.

I was, you can tell, a tad irrational. I walk to a local adventure travel shop, and have a chat with one of their staff. Vincent, from Shearwaters was my saviour. He was one of the first people in Vic Falls to not only not want to sell me anything, but also to go out of his way to make sure this sullen white tourist from the land of plenty could solve his transport issues.

Let’s put this in context. We have the greatest waterfall known to man three kilometres down the road. It’s bordered on one side by Victoria Falls town, a tourist-friendly settlement, temporarily home to yours truly. On the other side of the Zambezi river, and hence the falls, is Zambia. I am less than half an hour’s walk to Zambia. Livingston, the closest town is a mere ten kilometres from the Zim/Zam border. I am pathetic.

Victor makes several phone calls, and explains the visa process to me. He tells me that I can waive the (still bloated) visa fee if I book twenty-four hours in advance into the Fawlty Towers backpacker Lodge. Victor makes another phone call, and gives me the Lodge’s details. Minutes later, and I have emailed the backpackers with my request for accommodation, and for waiving the Zambian visa fee. With any luck I will be in Zambia in full health, and staying in lavish backpacking style.

The painful part of the day done, I turn myself to more leisurely pursuits. I was given a number of a few friends-of-friends, who would be travelling through Vic falls during the same period. Companions are always a welcome, and so I meet my new friends Kerry and Nicky. After brief introductions, I am persuaded to join them on a canoe safari the following day. I accept, and book a ticket (my dwindling funds no match for their charms). We decide to kill time and visit the local market.

It’s another bad move. Warding off vendors and beggars, we approach the market to discover this is their proverbial lair. Scores of eyes light up, and for the first time in my life, I can see them sum me in a single word: prey.

Before we can escape, we’re drawn in by dozens of merchants. Bowls, necklaces, and statues are shoved before us. “Walter, my name is Walter, how are you? You like my elephant?” “Hallo! Where you from? You see here, very cheap, you want to buy from me.” “Shop five, remember Yo-Yo, Yo-Yo is my name. ” Some of these men begin with more sinister openings, “I like your bag.” Said one quietly. “So do I,” I replied, holding ever tightly to it. Others would stare at my trainers and exclaim, “I like your shoes. I give you anything in shop for shoes.” Barter appears to be the method of commerce, and in this country everything is for sale. The only three items not asked from me were my glasses, shorts, and boxers. I assume, had I spent more time they would eventually persuade me to part with them.

Peculiarly, the one item many of the vendors asked for were socks. “Socks?” I replied. “Yezz, I want socks. Here, you sit here, and I take your socks. You have anything in shop for socks.” Several of them went through the same performance. It was unbelievable, but I suppose in a country where your day is spent scrounging enough for the evening’s meal, luxuries are made of even the humble of apparel. My heart was bleeding, but I could not relinquish my clothes.

I ask a few vendors about business. “It’s bad, you see, you the only tourists here. No-one visits Zimbabwe, it bad for us.” He’s correct, we were the only tourists in the market. They had lined their best pitches to the only three people who would cross their paths in an hour. True too, that tourist numbers had plummeted. You can’t buy tour guides of Zimbabwe, you can’t buy books or gain advice for backpackers and transport. Since Mugabe’s sinister land reform programme, the place has emptied of foreigners. The tourist industry, like many others is suffering.

I part with my friend for the day as they depart for an overnight canoe trip. I join them the following morning for breakfast along the Zambezi, and vendor-less day on the river.

Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

2007-04-19T12:53:00.000-07:00

I’m flying Air Zimbabwe, so you’ll forgive me if I show some nerves. This is the same airline which stops half-way between Harare to London to pick up cheap gas. It’s a bittersweet day. Today, I leave the company of my uncle and his wife in Harare, and head to one of the seven wonders of the world: the Victoria Falls.

I depart, and I’m happy to see Harare disappear behind me. It could be a jewel in the African crown, but apathy hangs over the city like a cloud. It doesn’t make me happy; I can’t be content in a place that is essentially dying before me. My hope is that change occurs before the city truly atrophies . It is a hope that only a few people I’ve spoken to share.

My journey to the falls becomes one of nostalgia. The twin prop I’m flying in makes a scheduled stop in Kariba, a town on the path of the Zambezi river, and home to a enormous man-made dam, allowing me to travel back two decades to my previous visit here. Seeing Kariba from above is like gazing at the wild-west. The roads are yellow gravel, houses are patch-worked together, and the place has the air of the frontier. Houseboats are moored to makeshift jetties, and the lake trails to the horizon.

Many years ago I spent several days here on a houseboat. We’d caught barbell and tigerfish, and saw hippo and crocodile. Our guides were friendly and took us around the coast. Their son accompanied and befriended us. One evening he sagely advised us how to make a good first impression at high school: “You figure who the bully is, walk straight up to him, and punch him -- knock him down. He won’t touch you after that. No-one’ll touch you after that.” Thankfully we never took his advice, but we admired him like a god.

Finally, we arrived at the Vic falls airport. It was a hot and decidedly muggy 31 degrees as I stepped out the airplane. I had a shuttle organised, and once my pack was collected, he zoomed down the 20km road to town. He and his other passenger were talking loudly in Shona, while the radio was crackling some African dance tune, horns and choirs raging in the background. No-one spoke a word to me.

After abandoning my luggage, at the Victoria Falls Rest Camp, I ask for directions to the falls. “Fifteen minutes, dat wey.” the receptionist advised, pointing down the road. Thanking her, I started walking.

You can hear the falls for kilometres as a distant thunder. If you didn’t know any different, it sounds like a motorway in full swing, a constant, but dim roar of traffic. But as you close in, it gets more engulfing, until your ears are engulfed. I pay the US$20 to enter the falls reserve, round the corner to the statue of Livingstone, and in breathtaking glory, there it is.

It’s a mile long, and at its peak, boldly surges three cubic kilometres of water over a hundred meter precipice every second. Smoke billows from the caldron of water below, drenching the surrounding forest with sheets of water. Livingstone was the first European to discover this, and he was told of its name, now synonymous with the falls: Mosi-oa-Tunya, ‘the smoke that thunders’.

Due to the amount of energy of water descending every second, the falls has gorged a ravine for itself, allowing spectators to walk parallel from end to end. It’s only a mile long, but it takes two hours to walk, and is truly spectacular. You stroll through jungle occupied by baboons, past wetlands with constant rain, so as to be flowing with a green array of water plants. Emerald and crimson dragonflies in their dozens hover by, and everything is glistening with life.

The wet season has just ended, so the falls are in full swing. Some of the views mid-falls are so exposed after the rains that you can only see white spray. A hint for visitors: bring a waterproof jacket. The Indian family ahead of me arrived with dad towing their kid in one hand, video camera in another. Within seconds the camera was whisked away in his bag, and the kid abandoned. Seconds later, his shirt was soaked, and he finally succumbed. The family spent the next two hours drenched to the skin, in a state of mad euphoria.

With plenty of photos taken, and myself wet to the skin despite bringing a jacket, I left the falls. The walk back, however, proved less romantic, since as I left the entrance, I was bombarded by a half dozen street vendors hawking their wares. Even after several polite refusals, they continued walking with me, in turn persuading, then arguing for custom. “We a poor person! You must give, you must have something to give us poor people.” Another would respond, “I not eat for two day now, you have ten thousand, just ten thousand to give.” It was harrowing, and even though I was making ground, I was by myself on this path, and surrounded. I said no. I became firm, and demanded they leave me alone, to which a couple left. I became angry, and a few more left, but some stayed. One walked for almost ten minutes with me, arguing for my money.

And they’re everywhere. They walk alongside you, and all pretty much start in the same way, “Hallo, how are you today?” It’s followed by the soft sell. “You need anything? You like this necklace?” It’s followed soon after with bargaining, and finally begging. You refuse constantly, but they are truly remorseless. If they don’t want to sell you wares, they want to trade. “You have a shirt, a shirt you don’t need? We trade for shirt.” Some ask discretely about currency exchanging. One offered me some peanuts, which I tentatively accepted, then asked in conversation whether I had any drugs to sell.

My heart goes out to these people. They’re obviously poor, but the longer I spend here, the less tolerance I have toward their tactics. They manipulate, they beg and harass. You can’t be polite, and almost every time, I feel a twinge of guilt as I abruptly demand some street vendor leave me alone. It gets under my skin that because of my pale face, they see an opportunity to make money. I am not their friend, I am their wallet.

I return to the Rest Camp after a wonderful day, marred slightly by the street hawkers. Tomorrow I do the boring stuff of figuring transport to Kabwe, before continuing to explore this fascinating area.

Flicr’d here.

Harare on foot (draft)

2007-04-15T13:57:00.000-07:00

“You need to talk to Abel.”

I’m sharing a beer with my uncle by his pool. Dusk has settled, and another power cut has rendered the house candlelit. I don’t want to tell him I think it looks better that way. For him, the romance has long gone. We’re busy talking about freedom of the press, and he happens to know some of the guys who run the Media Monitoring agency in Zimbabwe. A phone call later, and an appointment is made.

Because we’re low on gas, the following day I am dropped off in town to spend the day on foot. Fuel is a precious commodity. I didn’t realise at the time, but my uncle must have made a special concession driving around the game park over the weekend.

I had to ask a security guard along the road where the Media Monitoring agency was. I felt a little nervous, since it’s a touchy subject with the government. He had no problems showing me the way. Transparency, however, seemed to be the order of the day. I walk through the open gate of the converted house, nestled between foreign embassies, and straight into their main office. Abel isn’t around, but I’m introduced to Andy Moyse, the project coordinator. He’s in a meeting, and I have to wait several hours before I can get my fifteen minutes of fame with this man.

Sporting long dishevelled hair and matching white beard, Andy could have just walked out of a gunfight in the wild west. While we chat he works his way through cigarettes like a ventilator. The topic is press freedom.

Oh, it’s bad. Very bad. While Zimbabwe’s constitution entrenches the right of freedom of expression (but does its best to limit that expression to non-critical types), it is declared a privilege to be a journalist. You need accreditation from, guess who, the government. Hence anyone critical of the government doesn’t get their accreditation. Working without your rubber stamp could earn you two years in prison on charges intended to keep opposition voices out of the spotlight.

I’m told that two Botswana journalists were caught in Zimbabwe without license while attempting to hunt for information about cross-border cattle rustling. They were tried and convicted in the town in which they were caught: Plumtree, Zimbabwe, where – and here it gets interesting – the local magistrate decided to teach them a lesson and fine them to the tune of Z$5,000. Twenty-five US cents. It seems that justice was not blind, nor in this case dumb.

In response to my questions on the agency, Andy gives me a stack of books and articles to read. It’s almost comical: I ask a question, and he potters away on his Mac, prints an article, and waits for me to read it. Although I made the appointment yesterday, Andy appears absent-minded, even skittish. He apologises for his behaviour, and frankly I don’t blame him. He tells me that a month ago, the Central Intelligence Office (think Gestapo) raided his office, threatening to close the agency down. He is involved for not only looking after his staff’s well-being, but for providing the qualitative and quantitative evidence of government control and abuse of the press.

I leave his office with a dozen reports, a few pamphlets and a couple of books. I wonder what would happen should I get searched at the border with blatant anti-government material. Pays not to think about these things, really.

To UNICEF! When I was in New Zealand, I talked to UNICEF about their work in Africa. There’s a whole lot of red tape to wade through in order to be a UNICEF writer, so I decided to do the next best thing and just drop by and ask a few questions.

I wait for an hour, and amuse myself with Bill Bryson’s Made in America, an endearing look at American English. Eventually, a lady named Tsitsi contacts me. I explain that I am a New Zealand writer, and am looking for information on AIDS in Zimbabwe. I get a scoop: she promises that if I return the next day, she can give me an unpublished UNICEF report.

So I make my way out of UNICEF, and eventually find my way into town. I discover that a local performer is putting a play on in the Harare gardens. It’s entitled “The Good President”, and sports an impression of a guy with big square glasses, and a funny upper lip. I wonder....

I can’t spend too much time on it, because a man introduces himself to me. He’s working for a child aid organisation and wants me to buy cards. His clothes are falling apart, and nothing about him gives me the inclination that he works whatsoever. I ask for identification, and he tells me, “just ask those guys there, they’ll tell you I’m right.” He points to his friends he’d just left. Sure.

I refuse him, but he’s persistent, so I refuse him several times. Getting nowhere, he tells me about a festival next month in Harare. It’s in the gardens to my right, and he wants to show me around. Under duress, I follow him. The gardens are closed for preparation of the festival. While he sweet-talks the security guards, one takes me aside. “Don’t trust this man.” He tells me. “He not good.”

I take the advice, and find a way to shake him. A meeting I’m late for. Yes, a meeting. Sorry, no. Sorry, I have to leave. No, I have to leave now. Goodbye. The security guard strikes up conversation with my guide as a decoy, and I walk away.

Later that night, I return by car to watch the play. In truth it’s not very good, but my heart goes out to the performers who tell the story of a policeman who beats an opposition party member, and has to live with the moral consequence. It’s poorly attended, and after the play, we’re invited to ask questions about the performance. Questions are coded. One British man asks, “So, does your character’s father still vote for the President?” The actor unhappily responds, “Yes, he does. He tells me he will vote for the President until he dies.” There’s a murmur of remorse at his answer. The President, ‘in this play’ is still popular because once he was a liberator. People, it seems, are loyal in this country, even to their detriment.

Chivero Recreational Park. Harare, Zimbabwe

2007-04-14T12:12:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, my uncle took me to Chivero Recreational Park, about an hour from town. He’s promised that today would be the day I would see Rhino.

The warden tells us a story. Earlier he was walking along the road, and spotted a baby rhino. Keeping his distance, he noticed it was soon followed by an overbearing mother. The mother, not keeping her distance, did not take too kindly to the poor warden’s intrusion and attempted to gore the man. His only means of survival was to rush headlong into the thick bush, where the Rhino’s bulk would make movement prohibitive. I ask the warden whether rhino are normally aggressive. “Oh no, friendly, very friendly.” I’m sure.

The park shares the fate of Zimbabwe’s economic drought, and is overgrown and dilapidated. The dirt tracks are overrun with grass, in some places almost two meters high. Our Toyota ute makes easy work of the tracks, but our vision is chronically impaired. We struggle to see anything aside from innumerable spiders, and a few stick insects which land on the bonnet as we drive.

But I kind of like it. When you go into the wild, you want things to be, well, wild. A carefully manicured trail does little to give the feeling of being out there, and even while I agree that a tar road on more popular trails is ecologically wise (it cuts down on dust in the air), this jungle of grass, however difficult it was to navigate, certainly made us feel truly isolated from the world.

Eventually we spot game. A few giraffe heads peek over the grass, always inquisitive to strangers. They sit, staring at us, most likely in the same manner we sat, staring at them.

Arriving (eventually) at Chivero dam, my uncle stops the ute. We’re to go wondering on foot here. I ask if it’s safe. Yes, I’m told, of course it is. I ask if it’s allowed. Not so much, he admits.

We spot a fish eagle. In fact, it spots us and swoops overhead. Further down the track we spot Zebra, however by far the coolest finds were the smallest. At one point, my uncle screeches to a halt, and we get out. “Do you see the beetle?” he asks. On the track is a dung beetle, a wad of carefully compacted fertilizer at its heels. A few minutes later, he stops again, and we disembark to see a family of caterpillars. Giant, hairy, orange and red caterpillars. These things are four inches long, and look as cuddly as a teddy bear. Unfortunately, their hair happens to be venomous, so no stroking the invertebrate.

We managed to spend the entire day at the game park. After seeing my uncle in various states of apoplexy with work, I find him notably relaxed in the wild. I too, am continually finding the bush a wonderland. It seems every time I enter, I learn a dozen more ways nature has found the means to survive against the odds.

But we still hadn’t seen Rhino. We left the ute to go hunting for some San drawings on the rocks, which remained mysteriously elusive. We spotted a dead Zebra on the side of the road. We even got the ute stuck in a hole (presumably dug by an anteater or something similar). What we didn’t manage to spot were the bloody Rhino.

On the way out, I cheerfully lamented, “It’d be nice if we saw some game.” A minute later, a heard of Impala come rushing out into the road, leaping effortlessly across it. We drive on, and I repeat the mantra, “It’d be real nice if we saw some bigger game.” And prophetically, out came the Rhino.

Two of them appeared, right next to the ute. We stopped. If they noticed us, they didn’t seem to care. These monsters were slowly ambling along, oblivious that they were crossing about ten meters ahead. Their hides are thick and rough, giving the appearance of armour plating. They were bulky, but appeared deceptively gentle. Comical ears jut out their oversize heads, and while they look formidable with their trademark horn above the nose, their mouths appear pursed, more ridiculous than ominous.

They were beautiful creatures, and we watched them saunter off into the bush, tails swinging with their gait. It made the day complete, and left us only with the sorry task of leaving the park, and returning to Harare and the world of man.

Photos flickr’d here.

The illegal post. Harare, Zimbabwe

2007-04-12T05:48:00.000-07:00

A sign outside a gas station reads “Petrol: yes. Diesel: yes.” It would be a punch-line in any other country, but in Harare it’s a fact of life.

I’m spending a day in the life of a Zimbabwean, and I’ve already had my first taste: power is off so no hot water for a shower. It doesn’t matter much in the scheme of things, since the water is also off. On the cards is grocery shopping in Borrowdale, an upmarket suburb north of the city centre.

At the onset, I should disclose that my host holds the title of professor of law in the University of Zimbabwe. In other countries this would assure a reasonable salary, and thus a reasonable standard of living. With a country in hyperinflation neither is occurring. He takes multiple jobs to make ends meet, and hence is thoroughly overworked. That he makes any time for me is more than merely charity. Most of my stay, it would transpire, would be spent with his enigmatic and spritely wife.

Feeling a tad grimy, we take her beat up Nissan Sunny through the maze of potholes to Bon Marché, one of the better local supermarkets. Contrary to reports the shelves are brimming with milk, biscuits, yogurt, soap -- the stuff of said stores. Yet I’m startled, since I had read a report that several years ago that the isles were largely barren. It’s a delightful shock.

But there’s a sting. Fresh stock is becoming rare. Bread, although baked daily, disappears quickly. We buy nectarines only to find that they are rotten inside. Ditto with the oranges. Carrots are on their way off, and most other vegetables are undersize and show signs of waning. Prices too, are equally prohibitive. A block of butter can set you back Z$150,000 (US$7.50). It means, at local wages, you could invest your month’s pay into a block and a half of the stuff.

The shopping district turns out to be next door to the Australian embassy. Feeling decidedly brash, I decide to pay a visit. I talk past the security guards, explaining that I needed to speak with the consulate, mumbling something about importance and national security (at most, a white lie). After a few minutes I’m introduced to Ann Sheppard.

Ann is a warm, chatty Australian, and wife of the consulate. Needing talking fodder, I notice a sign about ANZAC celebrations so I ask about registering. It’s another white lie, since I will be in Kabwe on ANZAC day. Ignoring the guilt, I convince myself that, yes, should fate take me back to Harare I shall certainly attend. After a few minutes of conversation, and with some embarrassment, I blurt the real reason for my intrusion: “Do y’know where everyone’s watching the cricket?”

She laughs and flashes a smile. She tells me about a local pub which she guarantees will be attended by like-minded fans. We chat for a few minutes about working as an Australian in Zimbabwe. It must be a challenging task, particularly so, since John Howard’s recent attack on the Mugabe government. Unperturbed, she deftly responds, “Sure, but where else in the world can you pop out for the weekend to catch tiger fish?” It’s s sidestep, but touché.

We leave Borrowdale, but not before I pick up a copy of The Herald. It’s the national paper, owned by the government, and consequently favourable to the incumbent. It contains a ghastly amount of stories about how well Zimbabwe is doing, despite the onslaught from western-funded insurgents (such as the opposition party, the MDC). Robbers are caught, using, and I quote their corny idiom, ‘the long arm of the law’. Grain is being harvested, and education is still the best in Africa, so I discover. Well hooray then; I wonder why things are so bad?

The answer, reiterated repeatedly in The Herald, is the West. According to the government, the country of tweed, and the nation of fast food are to blame for rampant state-sponsored massacres, kangaroo courts, redrafting of the constitution, and several scores of crimes against humanity. I continue to read, and discover that SADC (a collection of southern African states), is backing Zimbabwe’s anti-west agenda; a tad unusual, since the papers in South Africa claim the opposite. In another article, they quote the need to stand fast against the West by supporting Mugabe. I could go on, and I have already, but as I’ve briefly alluded, most of this rag is b-grade propaganda. It’d be a good substitute for toilet paper should stocks ever wane, however I know no-one who would un-dignify their ass by wiping it with this offal.

But tragically, this is gospel to many. Balanced television stations exist, but it’s expensive, so few can afford. Balanced newspapers also exist, however their circulation is highly limited, effectively preaching to the choir. Radio used to be the ideal means of providing critical reporting to the masses, however this is now being jammed, leaving – surprise – government-sponsored radio on the airwaves. The rural folk, in short, have no alternative media to assist in discerning fact from fiction, and that, frankly, is a very bad thing.

But enough! I need to change money to Zim dollars. The fixed rate between US and Zim currency is 1:250, meaning that my hundred bucks gets me Z$25,000, a miserly sum which could procure me a packet of green beans, and two cokes with which to wash it down. The trend is to change money on the parallel market where the rate is exponentially greater. It’s illegal, but like ripping CD’s, everybody’s doing it. I make a contact for a money changer, and am given an address to perform the transaction.

We arrive at a large suburban house, a beautiful place on a hill with a large veranda overlooking a jungle of trees. We buzz at the gate, and a white man with two missing teeth and dreadlocks lets us in. We walk through the lounge, occupied by similarly fashioned men performing no task in particular. My mind races through a score of mafia stereotypes, and I wonder whether any of these men are carrying, and whether, if the transaction goes sour, I would be shod with concrete boots, and made to go for a swim.

My host and I are led to a back room. It contains a desk, and three chairs. A well-dressed lady smiles warmly, and enquires us about our business. We want to exchange a hundred green (US$). She knows somebody who can perform this task, and will make introductions. We’re given another address, another smile, and we make our exit. Hastily.

I cannot tell you how bizarre it is to be sitting in the lounge of a stranger’s house, toys sprawled across the living room carpet, clothes drying outside on the line, while indoors, you are busy counting large wads of tens of thousands of dollars. Daylight is streaming through the chinks in the curtain, but it only serves to heighten the clandestine nature of the task, much more I cannot say. It was a surreal moment, and one I thankfully never have to repeat. On the positive side, I am now a millionaire.

We leave, and with groceries and other business concluded, we retire home. The power is on, hallelujah.

Night falls in Harare, and while drinking a beer on the deck, I’m treated to a display of robins and sunbirds singing and dancing in the branches of the trees surrounding me. The robin’s song is lyrical, and this avian performance simply beautiful. New Zealand has birdlife, but until I arrived in Africa, I’ve never noted how stunning these flighty creatures were. I’ve since seen scores of heron, swallows, duck, and many colourful species I quickly forget.

My plan tonight was to find ‘the Keg’, a pub where presumably I would be able to watch the cricket. For this I needed a car, directions, and a good deal of courage. I was able to source the first two.

Here’s a travel tip for driving at night in Harare: don’t. The street lights, for the most, don’t work. Neither do the traffic lights. When they do, generally it’s only one or two survivors hanging on -- better to burn out than fade away, I guess. You drive in a blackout. Chances are low that you even spot an intersection until you’re half way through it, and even if you happen to correctly identify one, you spend your valuable seconds madly scanning the lights to discern whether it’s dead or alive.

And it gets worse. The street signs largely don’t exist, so any hope of finding a particular road is fanciful. Then there’s the potholes, which, a nuisance by day, transform into a terror at night. So as you drive, vainly attempting to negotiate the roads, the void, the holes, the intersections, you find yourself periodically blinded by oncoming traffic, hi-beams a-burning. And remember, this all happens at the same time. Driving in Harare at night, is like playing Russian Roulette with a bullet in the chamber.

Alive and demoralised, I found the pub, had a meal, noted that the Australia cricket team were routing Ireland, promptly paid my bill, and left. I had an ordinary day as a Zimbabwean, and frankly, I want a refund.

Make a Plan. Harare, Zimbabwe

2007-04-11T14:25:00.000-07:00

Crossing the border to Zimbabwe via Beit Bridge is unwise, so after five hedonist days in Pretoria, I'm shuttled to Jo'burg international where I take a British Airways flight to Harare. Before I left, I had received an email cautioning me that 'the political situation here is rather tense.' What an understatement.

Like clockwork I start to feel tired in the departures terminal, and manage to catch an hour's sleep in the plane. It doesn't help, so by the time the plane touches down I'm exhausted. I swear there's some curse that drains my energy when I travel. As I step out of the plane, however, it abates for a moment. My mind sharpens and I realise I'm suddenly here. I'm in the lion's den.

The arrivals gate in Harare is a ghost town. A large enclosure, the only sounds you hear are the repressive hum of the air-conditioning, and faint mumblings of staff. The other passengers perform their duties in whispers. British citizens have to pay US$55 for a visa, a sting in the tail in response to sanctions imposed by the United Kingdom. None of the duty free shops are open, in fact as I look around, I notice that this place is lifeless, absolutely lifeless. I imagine tumbleweeds billowing between the luggage carousels. The terminal building is the size of half a rugby field, and has the warmth of a cemetery.

On my way out I was singled for a random search. I was taken to a room where a lady asked me whether I was taking illegal items into the country. I wisely responded, enquiring what manner of items were considered illegal, and she declared, "Porn, any porn. Books? Magazines?" It sounded like an offer, however her eyes were downcast when I joked about my FHM collection. I showed her my media. It was Preez and Huxley, as opposed to Penthouse and Hustler. She poked nonchalantly at my bag for a while without bothering to look inside, before declaring me safe. The searches appear to be a formality since almost every white person on the plane was escorted away for similar interrogation.

Minutes later I'm released into the wild. What a shock! Roads are pockmarked with potholes. Cars, held together by rust and faith, navigate between the pits on the street. The grass on the side of the road is overgrown and wild, and many of the street signs are missing – stolen for their metal.

My aunt is my guide for the afternoon. I'm taken past the road to the presidential palace. Armed guards patrol the entrance of the road, fingers on the triggers of their bayoneted automatics. It's covered with security cameras and barriers. I spot caltrops in the middle of the grassy bank between the lanes. Pictures are illegal here, and the road is closed from 6pm – 6am. Here, no-one smiles.

The joke: Mugabe is kidnapped. A ransom note is sent to parliament demanding US$10,000,000 for his release. Failure to comply will result in Mugabe being doused in petrol and set alight. Broke, the Zimbabwean government calls to the good citizens of the country for donations. They respond, each offering five litres of unleaded.

Such is the feeling. We drive on a few minutes to the house I'm staying in, where I get to experience my first taste of Zimbabwean life. The power is off. It cuts out almost every day for hours at a time. Water too is cut off for long periods, sometimes a couple of days. A combination of the two often occurs. As it gets dark, candles are lit. If it weren't so tragic, a technology-free house is actually a beautiful thing. I wander around with my candle as my guide, its tiny flicker causing the surroundings to glow softly. It's a whisper of light, but it's enough.

This is merely the start of my experience. I'm advised that inflation in the republic is shooting past 1,700%. The government has decided to suspend further calculations of inflation, but an unofficial news bulletin, ZWNEWS, believes that it could rise to 4,000% by next year. It means that, like Germany under the Treaty of Versailles, currency has become meaningless. People walk around with thick bundles of Zim dollars in their bags (forget stuffing it in your wallet, you'd rather need a bucket). Z$8,000 will get you a coffee, Z$5,000 a coke. It's a gargantuan sum when you consider that the wage for a hotel receptionist is Z$500,000 a month.

"We make a plan." That's the catchphrase I begin to hear. There are shortages of common items. Bread, sugar, petrol. The government has fixed the exchange rate between the Zim dollar and other currencies. One green (US$1) gets you Z$17,000, so there's no comparison. It was becoming so bad last year that the government slashed the dollar by
three digits because basic calculators couldn't handle the sums. The real-life effect of a collapsed economy is tragic. Entire pension funds are reduced to pocket change, leaving elderly penniless. A house sold for Z$4 million five years ago is rendered worthless. Prices of commodities change on a daily and weekly basis. I spot a sign for lotto, 'making instant millionaires.' A million dollars buys you fifty blocks of margarine. In a week's time, it could buy you thirty.

You make a plan. The reported 80% unemployment is a smokescreen, since many Zimbabweans now operate on the parallel market. This is survival. No statistics exist to calculate the extent of the illegal activities citizens are forced to employ, however since the alternative is starvation, black market trading has become rampant. I enter a travel agency to ask about tourist activities in Harare. When I ask about prices in Zim dollars, the agent doesn't blink as he
quotes me black market rates. This month the government has imposed an 80% tariff on luxury imported
items. Significantly, this includes cars. It's another nail in the coffin for the public, since it makes purchases almost impossible. There's little hope left amongst the Zimbabwean people. Strikes have been organised to protest against the regime, however like everything else that doesn't work, no-one bothers to stay home. Apathy is the attitude in the air in this troubled region.

Whites are still a target. 'Glow', a popular night club attended by many whites was stormed a week ago by the police. They were hunting for drugs, weapons, and underage drinkers. A troupe of 150 suspects were arrested and led off on a police bus to detention cells. Reports are heard of beatings of some of these partygoers. It is the continued strategy of intimidation of the ruling party to the non gratia. I walk past the club. It's empty. Not just of people, but of tables, chairs, everything. The place is a shell.

Despite all this, Zimbabweans survive. They are resilient people. The Shona that I've spoken to have a sense of grace that outclasses any other person I've met; they are truly a wonderful people. In the next few days I've planned a number of activities. For now, the days are long, and my eyes have been opened.

Pretoria

2007-04-11T14:24:00.000-07:00

There's no better feeling than sleeping in a clean bed, eating fresh
fruit and seeing old faces. My time in Pretoria was spent with my
cousin and her husband. It's a green city, filled with parks and
trees. For the next five days I am shuttled between reserves and
gardens.

My tenure in the capital was altogether too brief. It was a respite
between South Africa and Zimbabwe. I'm embarrassed to say that life
here was, well, normal. People have jobs, they have broadband, café's
and everything you would expect of a developed world. It was, in
fact, largely reminiscent of Cape Town.

There's nothing much to say except I had a pleasant time and watched
far too much cricket. My seemingly endless itinerary was abandoned
for these brief days. There was no visiting of museums, reading
history books, or hunting journalists as I had intended. I found that
for a rare and special moment, I was actually on holiday.

Mokopane Game Breeding Centre. Limpopo, South Africa

2007-04-10T02:24:00.001-07:00

It's not advertised in the brochures, but more than your friends, more even than your mum and dad, or even the girl that you like, the biggest thing you miss when you travel, is sleep.

The by-product of travelling is fatigue. Everything is new, interesting, otherworldly, and more often than not, tiring. Your basic survival tasks like finding transport and organising accommodation suddenly becomes a monumental effort. You might well plant your ass on a bus seat for three hours, but instead of feeling wonderfully rejuvenated, your first desire on arrival is to find a bed to pass out in. The sting in the tail, however, is that you don't want to waste a moment because everything is new, interesting, and otherworldly. For your entire travelling experience you are trapped in between lethargy and orgy.

So after monstrous day of game viewing in the Waterberg, I managed to sleep in for an extra hour the following day. The sun was streaming through my bedroom window in Mokopane when I woke. Birds were fluttering outside, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a beautiful day.

My host, Rentia, had invited me to visit the Mokopane Game Breeding Centre today. I didn't realise at the time, but had been co-opted in a tree-hugging programme for the morning. We drive to the centre where we're met by Dr Jolanda Roux, a biotechnology scientist from FABI, the Forestry and Agricultural Biotechnology Institute.

We are on the hunt for Euphobias. Large cactus-like trees with thick waxy branches stretching to the heavens. In the Limpopo the Euphobias are mysteriously dying. A third of these native trees are infected. Not only are these trees in danger, but the ramifications of its extinction could be far more devastating. Euphobias are a natural food source for the already endangered black rhino.

Driving around the breeding centre, we discover no shortage of infected trees. Almost every euphorbia in the park has turned from its natural luscious green, to a brittle grey. Samples need to be taken, and Dr Roux has brought her chainsaw along to take them.

Her t-shirt reads 'keeping trees healthy.' As she hauls the chainsaw across the veld I point out the irony of the slogan. She laughs, "I know, it looks bad, but this is a necessary part of conservation." Spying a suitable specimen, she sets her mask on and proceeds to saw down a diseased tree. The infected tree topples, oozing acrid milk from its wound. The sap of euphobias is poisonous. Contact with skin causes a mild rash, but contact to the eyes will cause blindness. We take care not to let the milk touch us as we handle the specimens. This tree is one of three she will need to fell in order to analyse what could be causing the damage.

It's not that easy. As the tree slowly dies, a multitude of secondary and tertiary infections occur. The once-proud euphorbia becomes home to a myriad of parasites and fungi. It's her job to sort out the culprit from the immense line-up of suspects. It's a job that will take months.

I feel like a child as I'm walking around the velt. Your average tourist, of which I certainly qualify, hunts through the trees for the lure of spotting game. You may appreciate the dry red soil, the dusty earth teeming with acacias, and jakartas, but this is merely the garnish on the plate. Your main meal is the rhino, the lion, and the buffalo.

But not here. We're exploring on foot from the ground up. Black ants the size of grains of rice scuttle across the ground in their thousands, mobilising around a corpse of a beetle. They work with the precision of an unseen hand to carry the body to the nest. Spiders in vivid yellow weave their webs between the bushes. Anteater holes pockmark the terrain. Here on many scales the many tunes of these different creatures sing in beautiful harmony. I'm told about the trees, the significance of bushes, of the water system, the way these hundreds of creatures have adapted to survive this terrain. Every bush, every tree tells a story.

It makes this place even more majestic; it's no secret that I've fallen in love with the veld. We spend several hours in the noon heat gathering samples. We do spot buck and warthog, but are too busy to take much notice. When we finally leave, it's with regret, which quickly turns into nostalgia. My guides have explored this area for their entire life. I've whetted my tongue for a matter of hours.

By comparison the days following appear mundane. The road signs outside Mokopane point to Zimbabwe, but I need to travel back to Pretoria to meet with family and organise transport to Harare. I jump on a bus to Pretoria with the promise to return. Indeed, as my eyes give in to slumber, I find I'm already there.

The Waterberg

2007-04-05T03:22:00.001-07:00

On my first day in Mokopane I spot two donkey carts riding down the road. Cheaper than cars, it's one of the ways people here make do to get around in this rural town. The municipality offers WOF's for these 'vehicles', I'm told, even going to the trouble to set up courses with the local animal welfare office to teach the owners how to best care for their ass.

I'm up early as I spy the carts through the windscreen. I'm grateful that our mode of transport is the more luxurious car. It's a big day. We're travelling west into the Waterberg district.

This is the heart of the Limpopo. If you want game, you could go to the Kruger National Park to the east, but frankly the Waterberg is bigger, older, and ecologically more magnificent. Geologists have discovered the oldest dated rocks on earth in this region, concluding that this was one of the cradles of humanity. Fossil records from the Makapan valley, for example, reveal the existence of early humans, as well as giant animals such as sabre-tooth cats, and buffalo with 12 foot horn-spans.

Of course we won't be seeing animals on such a scale, but understanding the heritage of this land certainly adds to the journey. We drive through the mountains, and I feel as though I'm really at the start of somewhere different. Everything before was multi-lane roads, bars, malls, and tourists. The thin road we're screaming down on snakes into the distance. There are no buildings here, rather to each side stand red cliffs, alien against the green of the trees surrounding them. So sharp is the contrast with the surrounding savannah that these mountains appear to have been punched through the ground. They tower above us, cracked and weathered in ancient glory.

The first stop is the Rhino and Waterberg Museum, just over an hour's drive from Mokopane. It's a tiny old Afrikaans school in the middle of nowhere, converted to educate visitors about the plight of rhino in the district. It's a little creepy, since it contains a score of rhino skulls, an adult skeleton, as well as several foetuses. A number of jam-jars on a bench are filled with preserved snakes including cobra, and the infamous black mamba.

The population of rhino in the area was in sharp decline due to hunting, in part due to the belief that the horn contained aphrodisiac powers. Numbers dwindled to a couple of thousand. A couple of thousand worldwide, you realise. White rhino were numbering less than a hundred at one stage, purely due to hunting. The museum displays many giant colour photos of rhino with their faces hacked to pieces. It's all very real and very sobering.

Seeing live animals, I think you'll agree, is far more satisfying. We set off from the museum south to the Entabeni game breeding ground. It means more travel through dusty roads in the savannah, which I don't mind in the slightest. This part of the world is full of wildlife. We drive along, and stop a dozen times to look at baboons, velvet monkeys, klipspringers, eland, warthog, and impala. I swallow my pride and take photos of the baboons. In South Africa they're viewed with the same appreciation as New Zealanders toward possums, so there's a silence in the car when I make my request. "No, no, don't worry, we can stop. After all, you are a tourist." Bang. Judgement. I don't mind. My hosts have been generous to a fault with me. We pull up to Entabeni in the mid-afternoon. The heat is starting to subside, and before long we're met by the game warden.

Entabeni is a game private game reserve. We're visiting the breeding centre. The warden, a tall soft-spoken Afrikaner, greets us, then pulls out a pipe and has a long discussion with du Toit, my host. It's in Afrikaans, so I can't really follow it. It turns out du Toit has organised to see a feeding at the breeding ground. Soon we jump on the back of the warden's bakkie (ute), and head into the game enclosure.

The park is 10,000ha, but the breeding ground is a fraction of the size. The warden pulls up to a herd of sable, and we fall silent. Animals don't like intrusion, and are especially jumpy toward noise. A single spoken word could make an animal bolt.

Sable are remarkable animals. Standing as tall as a horse, the bulls have long horns, and a fierce attitude. I'm told in whispers that adult bulls can't stand sharing the herd with equals, and will fight to the death for dominance. The warden jumps out the ute, grabs a sack of feed, and slowly makes his way to the herd. They scatter, but a bull mock-charges in protest. The warden yells loudly to stop the charge. Things turn awkward for a short while, but soon the feed is out. Spying a gap, the sable are replaced by eland, a more gentle antelope.

We are about to drive to buffalo feeding ground, but the warden spots a flattening tyre on the ute. He takes the wise option to drive out the park to fix it, but discovers that recent rains have broken the pneumatic pump. An 8-year old kid spies us and asks if he can come for the ride. My eyes widen, but the warden asks the parents, who are suddenly keen to join us too, and are more than happy to give up their son to our company. They trail behind us inside their air-conditioned ute.

I love kids, but have decided this wasn't one. It was a hell-hound in disguise. This little shit decided that he was the kingpin in this ride, and would loudly –brashly— declare his intent to us. It was a non-stop torrent of questions and demands. He ordered us to "go there, go there!" Or else, he wanted to touch the buffalo (which we were quite happy to comply with). A number of times he wanted to jump off the ute to walk with the animals. We made him cry when we pulled him back into the ute. "Trust me, we're just as upset," I whispered to myself. A hostage situation couldn't be more tense. You have a game warden walking along with bags of feed, and thirty hungry buffalo, massive hulking creatures, stalking him. In this delicate moment, this little prick yells, "Look there! Oh that's a big one! Ooooooh!" to our amazement, causing the warden to jump back in the ute for fear of his life.

We lose patience and the kid gets a gagging order, sent to the corner of the ute and threatened with torturous death if he were to move. While he sulks, we're finally given some respite to view the game.

What a scene. Shortly, the buffalo are joined by two zebra. A small herd of blue wildebeest come later, then a herd of impala. Warthogs are seen darting under the trees in the distance, and before long, an inquisitive giraffe lumbers to the fray. The impala jump over the buffalo in this zoo unfolding between us, and a pecking order starts to develop. My jaw is hung open as I watch these species feed together.

We spend hours inside the reserve watching the animals. It's probably the closest a person can get. I could reach my arm out at one stage and touch a buffalo. Time, however, caught up with us. Sadly, we make our way out of the reserve and back to Mokopane, stopping at Vogelfontein, a bird-viewing area, to watch the dusk. It's a magical moment when the African world stretches from its daylight rest, and comes alive. Flocks of birds fly about in the distance. Wildebeest, warthog and roan appear in plain sight and walk freely through the plain. We hear a jackal howl in the distance. We stay here a while to savour the dusk. This spot is idyllic, the Africa you see in magazines and brochures, and I don't want to leave.

Flikr photos here.

Jo'burg to Polokwane

2007-04-03T01:02:00.001-07:00

I have decided that I was born to hate Jo'burg. It's not that it's a bad place, but rather it's an awful place. It just sprawls from horizon to horizon, endlessly filled with high security walls, barbed wire, and electric fencing. It's a city of opportunity, but it's also a city of distrust. The popular thing to do is create gated communities, tiny islands of safety amidst a sea of suburbia. Several blocks of houses are walled off with 9-foot monoliths, then adorned with a creative assortment of anti-personnel spikes, razor wire, glass shards, and really, you name it. Security guards will be hired to patrol the borders, leaving you inside with the wife and kids, far from the barbarian hoard.

I book out of Shoestring, and catch a ride to the airport. I need to make it 300km north to the city of Polokwane, in the Limpopo district. I heard the buses were going to be on strike this week, so I hadn't booked a ticket. Instead, I decide to shell out on a car for the day. My goodness what a beautiful mistake that was.

I grab a Budget rental and find they don't come cheap. For the privilege of driving yourself for the day, exceeding their 200km limit, and dropping the car off in another city, I was set to pay almost R1,000 (NZ$200). It's extortion, but I meekly comply, providing only the smallest whimper of protest as the lady across the counter kept adding on costs. "Dropoff to Polokwane ezz tree-handred en feefti dollar." "We only haav B group car, dey more expensive, too handred and feefti dollar." And so it continues. I almost lose it, however, when right at the end, the lady pointed out the mysterious R28 (NZ$5) 'administration' fee popped atop mountain of cash I had already forked out. It wasn't as much the amount more than the incredulity of the thing. It's like they beat me, dragged me through the gutter, leaving me without my wallet, mobile, and watch, only to return five minutes later to pick the loose change out my pocket.

There's only one car left in their fleet, a 1.6l Nissan Tiida hatchback. It's brand new, with only 2,000km on the clock. I pull out of the airport carpark, set the iPod to The Black Seeds, and rocket up the motorway, leaving Jo'burg smoking behind. Good riddance.

And what a drive! I bypass Pretoria, taking the three-lane N1 motorway northbound. The city around me is fast disappearing, and before long I start to enter the open country. The Limpopo district consists of savannah's, stretching as far as I could see. Here, the earth takes the appearance of a watercolour, highlighted in musty yellows and reds. The sheer scale of the plains is staggering, and I lose myself for a while in the fields.

Reality hits an hour later in the form of a concrete toll booth. It's a nominal fee of R5 (NZ$1), but I soon find out it's one of many, which get increasingly expensive. The second toll hits me for R21, and I ask the guy in the booth how many of these I'm likely to expect. "Two, three, who knows," he shrugs. The next takes R28, not a large amount by any means, but enough to put a dampener on the ride.

After a brief lunch, I pull up to Polokwane in the early afternoon. Although this is the capital city of the Limpopo district, Polokwane has the look and feel of a frontier town. I drive through the dusty streets, gazing at the hoards of open markets. Hundreds of ill-dressed people are walking the streets, and a cyclist ambles along almost in the middle of the busy road. Cars stop seemingly at will, all proving that here, law is merely optional.

I've organised to stay with family here. My uncle and his family live in an nearby town, Mokopane (ex. Potgeitersrus). I'm excited to be here, merely because my Rough Guide wrote this:

The N1 formally ran right through the centre of town, but the new highway smoothly bypasses it, an act you should have few qualms about following, unless you are bound for parts of the northern Waterberg or have a perverse desire to check out one of the country's racist hot spots.

Fun. My uncle works as an economist within the eco-tourism industry. His wife is a conservationist, writing her MA on the black rhino. Between them, and this town, I'm guaranteed an interesting time here.

Jo'burg in a day

2007-03-30T14:27:00.000-07:00

I have one day in Johannesburg, a city of 8 million. I wanted to get out of the backpackers so I signed myself for a mini-bus tour of the city.

For a tourist sum of R480 (NZ$96), you get thrown into a van and paraded around extortion hotspots for the day. Our guide was characteristically friendly, I'm guessing due to the quantity of cash he would make from us, and the remarkably sharp wit he used against the New Yorker sitting next to me.

Johannesburg was built on gold. It was discovered here in the form of rift gold about 120 years ago, and caused a flood of immigration from across the globe. The rift is massive, and a hive of mine tunnels has been honeycombed for kilometres under the CBD. A hint at its size are the dozens of hills created from the earth extrusions. The modern name for the province takes its name in Sothu from this feature, 'Gauteng' literally translated means 'place of gold'.

But a city is a city. Cars, traffic lights, tall buildings, all unsurprising. My New Yorker friend remarks about how surreal it feels, since some places are a spitting image of his home town. He then tells me about his last week in a children's conference in Jo'burg, pressing flesh with the likes of Roy Disney and other aluminates. Then he tells me about his University major in communications, focusing on children's media. Then he talks about what he wants to do for his spring break. About the Danish girl he was flirting with last night. About the hot Asian in the van. About beer. My New Yorker friend, you may tell, has a problem shutting up. I, you too may tell, have a problem with his incessant yabbering. The bus drives on.

We stopped outside a medicine shop in downtown Jo'burg and notice the sign above the wholesalers store next door. It reads, "NON-WHITE SHOP." The shop is filled with animal skins, hooves, heads, tree bark, and large amounts of undistinguishable items. No-one bothers to ask what they are, the sensible notion amongst the group is that ignorance is bliss.

After the thankfully brief stop in the CBD, we're taken to Soweto. "Welcome to my home." The tour guide tells us with a smile. We drive in and are bussed around the township for a quarter of an hour. Our guide is quick to dispel notions of wanton crime and poverty in the region, and we are carted through streets upon streets of red brick houses. Home to 4 million people, it has the population of Cape Town living in a fraction of its size. It's not Beverly Hills by any means. The sheer scale of size makes comparison difficult, but imagine a poor but not dilapidated housing estate, then make it a thousand times larger, and you get the picture.

Shanties still exist, however. We arrive at a one close to the hospital, and are dropped off for quarter of an hour. Now not too long ago I may have written, in not so many words, that rich foreign tourists invading a shanty town wasn't kosher in my books. I may have used words such as 'repugnant', and 'repellent'. I understand then if this seems rather hypocritical, but I ask you to suspend judgement for a moment. My opinion remains unmoved. People do need to be educated about the conditions the poor live in, however invading some old lady's house to gawk and take pictures was revolting, and left me with a bitter taste.

The group is led through a street, and pointed to the infrastructure of the development. Shanties are built with scrap metal, corrugated iron, and little else. There is no electricity. Food is cooked with paraffin stoves, and lighting other than the overhead pylons are provided by candles. There is no heating, unless you count blankets and human bodies. A few millimetres of iron ensures that these dwellings retain the heat during summer, and keep frozen during winter. Water is provided by taps interspersed throughout the slum. Port-a-loo's too, dot the scene. Unemployment is high, and literacy, as you'd expect, low.

We are made to feel guilty as we walk through this place. It's partly an unfair sentence, but we are given reprieve in the form of making donations toward the community. The kids run out to us, hold our hands and play as kids can only do. Some of the older ones reveal an ulterior motive. One pretty young girl holds my hand and asks demurely: "Where are you from? What is your name? May I have some money?" Declining, she moves to the next guy, and repeats her act.

It's depressing, not only to see kids beg, but to see how they have reduced us to walking cash-dispensers. Our guide asks us not to give money to the children. "They form bad habits. They think they can make money this way so they don't go to school. You must not give money to the children." We are asked instead to make donations to the community leaders. Many of us open our wallets, and R50 (NZ$10) and R100 (NZ$20) notes are flashed. We are told this money will go toward developing facilities to the community, as well as paying for the children's education. My sense of scepticism is piqued, but I let it rest.

We visit Nelson Mandela's house, converted by Winnie Mandela into a museum. It's a small four-bedroom affair, and has been adorned with paraphernalia. SEE MANDELA'S OLD SHOES! LOOK AT MANDELA'S BED! TOUCH MANDELA'S STOOL! It's wearing a little thin now. An industry has developed to create an icon from the man. I call it 'Mandela Inc.' It would be interesting to know how much money the ex-President of South Africa inadvertently pulls into South Africa from tourism in his name. We are carted through his home to the garden outside, where lo and behold, we are offered a gift store with which to purchase Mandela t-shirts and baseball caps. We also pass Winnie's house, but little else is said aside from, "She was married to Mandela. Look how she still lives in Soweto!" To live in his shadow.

Off we go again to the school that started the Soweto riots, then to the spot 13-year old Hector Peterson was killed, and where the iconic photo was taken. Just minutes down the road, we are taken to the Hector Peterson Memorial and Museum, and left to wander for half an hour. I end up spending it with a German girl. While walking through the images of police and teargas, we talk about her idea that black people smell different. We pass a glass cage with Sten guns, while we were comparing Rand to Euro. I can't remember much of the museum.

Back on the bus, then through to the Apartheid Museum where a few of us brave souls hopped off and elected to spend the next three hours. There were only five of us: An middle-aged Canadian couple, and a young Welsh brother and sister, plus myself. We form a friendly international community and have lunch together before venturing inside.

Three hours is a long time to venture, and while the museum is fascinating, it's too much. Too much reading. There are hundreds of displays, yet I didn't feel as though they had enough depth. Events appear airbrushed. Whining is never popular, I know, so let me give just one example. I was inquisitive how they would explore the notion of how Afrikaners perceived Apartheid, how these terms would be justified, how the cultures of the time operated which made such separation a grand idea. I hope you'll agree, it's an important question, and there was indeed a room entitled '[The] Introduction to Apartheid'. I was disappointed to find, however, that it contained only a few minutes of news footage from the SABC and the BBC. Little was done to rationalise the notion of separate development to a modern audience.

Time was swallowed far too quickly, so we skipped the final few rooms and made our way out. It was a long day, so the bus was quiet for the hour's drive back to Shoestring. I'd forgotten yet again to buy something for dinner, so I consoled myself by making a cup of tea and drinking it very slowly while everyone around me cooked their food. The couple from Kenya and Columbia threw away a plateful of spaghetti, exclaiming, "what a waste!" I enviously peered inside the bin and wondered... perhaps... no. No that's revolting. I remained hungry for another night.

I make my way out of Jo'burg tomorrow, and north 250km to the Limpopo district for several days. From here on in, I know I'll be leaving civilisation and start to see what the real Africa is made of.

On the move - Cape town to Jo'burg

2007-03-29T13:35:00.001-07:00

The list of things to do in Cape Town is endless. There’s a dizzying drive round the twelve apostles to Cape Point, where it’s popularly claimed the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet in their fury. In the city there’s the array of theatre and music, as well as a visit to the Bo Kaap, the old Capetonian suburb noted for its lively colours and Dutch-inspired houses. If I wanted, I could still spend time visiting the endless list of museums that seem to make up this place, or perhaps the beaches around the Cape. I elected to do none of these and instead stay in Stellenbosch.

But you can’t blame me. The town is small to the point of quaint, the Dutch architecture is shrouded by trees, and the town itself is surrounded by wineries and mountains. It’s reputed to be the second oldest European town in South Africa. It’s rustic, and it’s beautiful.

Walking down its streets, I pass an old bookstore and curiosity makes me wonder inside. I ask about travel books on Zimbabwe and the shop assistant shows me the section on Africa. There’s nothing. Nothing for tourists, that is. I should be unsurprised, but since I’ve stayed in hotels in Zimbabwe, I know such places used to exist. Unsurprisingly, replacing the Lonely Planets and Rough Guides are books on politics. I scan through the publishing dates, find two modern books and buy them both. Today has become a reading day.

As fate has it the next few days are reading days. Guardian journalist Andrew Meldrum has written a heart-wrenching personal account of his twenty-three years as a reporter in Zimbabwe in Where We Have Hope. He was the first journalist banished from Zimbabwe under their new repressive media legislation, and he tells a grim tale of a nation once reputed to be the breadbasket of Africa becoming reduced to desolation. In short, it’s worse than you think. Even Rwanda is doing better than Zimbabwe. This is poignant, since it’s only a few weeks before I plan to be there in person. Common sense will prevail, and if the situation is such that my life will be at risk, I will have to change my plans. It’ll be a shame because I know that the people are friendly, and the country is breathtaking. Still, I prefer drawing each breath without an iron lung, so safety is paramount.

But to better things. Several days prior, I was catching up with an old friend, and we got onto the topic of music. I was asked if I wanted to accompany him on guitar for a gig he was playing in a cafe. It’s a small time thing, low key acoustics, very bohemian I was assured, which typically means loose (musically speaking). So acquiescing, I found myself in my last Saturday in Cape Town with my books packed, a guitar on my lap, and an audience of inquisitive locals in a cafe named Mamu.

It’s a spacious place, nestled in the corner of the trendy Tygerburg falls development. Even though there was no rehearsal it was fantastic to play solo guitar again. Max, a Cape Coloured and the establishment’s owner, sat by for our 2-3 hour set, and once it finished, we ended up in the nearby bar, Cubana, talking until two that morning. He spoke at length about getting mugged in Cape Town and had me crying with laughter most of the time.

“Muggings,” he told me, “they’re just business. They want something, you want something. You trade. They ask for your phone, you ask if you can have your SIM card before you give it. You ask even if you can call ahead on it to say you’ll be late and they let you. You don’t get stabbed, and they don’t go empty-handed. Just business.”

Max seemed to like my style. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was just fooling around with scales, but I was surprised when he asked for a date for a return gig. I pencilled one in for late May. It was a fantastic night, and I was chirping away to myself for the half hour drive back to Stellenbosch.

All good things, however, must come to an end. After a month I was getting too comfortable in the Cape, and needed to start moving again. One of my goals has been to perform some form of journalism while I was here, and I certainly couldn’t do it in the Cape. I booked a ticket for Johannesburg to start my second leg.

I had little sleep the night before I left, owing, I’m guessing, to the bottle of Durbanville Hills Peonage my brother and I drank to toast the end my visit. The flight to Jo’burg the following morning was therefore sedate. The hostess cracked jokes throughout the normally bland safety procedure demonstration, which seemed to be corporate policy for Kulula airlines. Oxygen masks were apparently intended to muffle our screams, and cameras had allegedly been installed in the toilets for the Capitan’s viewing pleasure.

I thus arrived in Jo’burg uplifted. It wasn’t to last. I had booked into the Shoestring Backpackers for two nights. It’s a large converted house close to the airport, and has a nice homely feel to it. In chatting to the owner (I didn’t catch his name. I hate situations like these – I never want to ask because it’s common courtesy to remember when a person tells you their name. It’s their name for goodness sake!) Sorry. He was a kindly spoken British man and fantastically friendly. About two minutes into our conversation, however, I hated him. I realise it’s a little extreme. I hate him because he told me he had agreed to host thirty teens from Yorkshire for a night. They were arriving in two hours.

Thirty stinking teenagers invade and life turns to hell. I then discover that because the backpackers would be so full (and I’d love to know why they didn’t tell me this before), I had been placed in a house across the road. I was spending the night with the neighbours. A bed is a bed. It was getting late in the day and my stomach was complaining because I had skipped lunch. While moving my bags to the neighbours, I ask the owner whether there are shops nearby I can get food. It turns out not in the slightest. So that night, while thirty teenagers feasted on a cauldron of spaghetti, I was to go hungry.

It doesn’t stop there. In I take an early night, and as I’m checking my bags, I notice immediately one of my locks are missing. Someone from the bloody airline must have snapped the lock off. I take an inventory and discover nothing missing, but I fall asleep fuming, tired, with a disturbingly empty stomach.

My plan for Jo’burg was to leave as soon as possible. God help me if I don’t.

Robben Island

2007-03-22T05:16:00.001-07:00

There were two things I would crawl over crushed glass to do in Cape Town. The first, achieved last week, was to climb Table Mountain. It was an exceptional day. The 600m climb was steep as could be imagined, and the mountaintop a plateau, lush with flora and views to kill for. The only other thing remotely comparative would be to visit the prison of Nelson Mandela in Robben Island. I was going to be there next day.

I had been given a copy of Long Walk to Freedom, and at my aunt's insistence, had spent the night reading the book. It was a godsend. Mandela's account is moving, as he explains life and politics inside the prison. It's such a fantastic account that every so often you had to remind yourself that it wasn't a work of fiction, but biography. It was spellbinding. Without Mandela's prison memoirs, all I would have been able to do was walk through dark hallways and look at empty cells.

The ferry trip to the island was uneventful, save that I think I spotted every American onboard. Why, and someone please explain, why do the Yanks always manage to be the loudest, most obnoxious tourists you ever meet? I've met many amazing Americans, but regrettably few US tourists I wouldn't want to strangle with their camera-straps. My worst encounter was ten years ago on the long-haul from Kuala Lumpa to Auckland. An American couple were sharing the seats behind us. The in-flight movie was showing some awful slapstick, and in the quiet drone of the flight, all that could be heard for two hours were these retards, punctuating our peace with their absurd commentary.

"George! George! Did you see that, oh how funny! He hit his head on the railing!"

"Oh yeah, Martha, that was great!"

"Oh look at that! He's chasing the man round the garden now, oh that's just great!"

And so forth. I do not hate Americans, but in this occasion, I took much pleasure fantasising their life-expectancy reduced if I were to suffocate them with their sick bags. How can a plane of otherwise placid people not rise up against such annoying travellers? It's a sad fact of life that people will mysteriously continue to tolerate assholes.

We landed on the island and were ushered into buses. Our tour guide took us around the island, stopping at a few places, notably the limestone quarry which the prisoners were forced to mine, and the house of PAC leader Robert Sobukwe.

Amidst the modern history of South Africa, it has been largely forgotten in the international public that Sobukwe was the man behind much of the early protest against Apartheid. Educated in Fort Hare, and lecturer at University of Witwatersrand, Sobukwe turned to activism, and became the founding member of the PAC in 1959. Most famously, he initiated the pass law protests in townships nationwide on March 21^st, 1960.

In the spirit of peaceful mass protest popularised by Ghandi, blacks turned up to police stations around the country in their thousands without their passbooks, and asked to be arrested. In the township of Sharpeville, police, in panic, accidently opened fire on the crowd, killing 69. In the ensuing investigation many dead were found shot in the back as they fled for their lives.

Sobukwe was arrested, and eventually kept in Robben Island without charge, and in isolation for six years. His cottage was kept separate, and in secrecy from other inmates. Later, what could only be a sadistic move, wardens set up their dog kennels next to his house. Although eventually released, his health was poor and he died from lung cancer in 1978.

Robben Island is a dry, desolate place. The soil around the prison is coarse and dusty. Although trees were introduced to the island, little around the prison has been attempted to be nurtured. The vegetation, where it exists, struggles to grow, tempered by the lifeless dirt and harsh sun.

The prison was a collection of tall, thick walls and barbed wire fences. The concrete floors shone with polish, and we were told prisoners were forced to keep the place religiously clean. The corridors were wider than I expected, but the cells themselves were little more than broom cupboards. Everywhere were heavy barred doors. The prison was old, and every piece of metal was rusted and peeling.

Walking through barren hallways, the story of the prison seems like a distant memory. The walls and cells don't do justice to Robben Island at its height. Every aspect of the prisoners lives were subject to torture. Prisoners were given ill-fitting clothing, were denied newspapers and other reading articles, were allowed only two half-hour visits a year, were underfed and forced to hard labour. They were both verbally abused, and some beaten. The prison was designed to destroy the body, crush the soul, and break the spirit.

To bring it to life, our prison guide was a man named Vincent. A short man, Vincent wears thick glasses, obscuring his eyes. He is missing his front teeth, and speaks slowly. Vincent was a university student, and a member of the ANC. He was arrested for recruiting South Africans to the then-banned organisation, and himself sent to Robben Island in 1980, still a teenager. He was released in 1991 when he was 30, eleven years after incarceration.

He takes us through A-section, and shows us the cell he was locked in. He tells us that while he's still on the island, the cell will always be his. He shows us the thin mats they slept on, describes the gruel they ate, and the battles they fought to improve conditions. Black, coloured, and Indian prisoners were given different portions, the rationale being that different ethnicities preferred different food, but the reality being that all things being equal, black people were given less.

In the final years, political prisoners were given more freedoms. They had a tennis ball, which they had cut a tiny hole into, and would stuff with messages for other prisoners. They would throw the tennis ball to different block sections to keep other prisoners informed of events both inside and outside the walls.

Vincent leads us to the infamous B-section, home to the leaders of the ANC. Vincent walks us to the courtyard where prisoners chipped stones for their first few weeks. Mandela, a lawyer, and founding member of Ummkhonoto we Sizwe, the military arm of the ANC, never gave up fighting, and in his years on Robben Island, had managed to bargain many improvements for political prisoners. Eventually, he was given permission to tend a small garden in the courtyard. It was this garden that we were standing in now, a small patch of green amongst the grey.

One wall of the courtyard was built while Mandela was in prison. He had hidden his memoirs in the courtyard, and was alarmed that the wall's foundations were being dug at the same location. The game was up, and some of the memoirs found. Vincent smirks as he tells the story, then leads us away, through the different rooms of B-section before stopping outside Mandela's cell. It's a tiny thing, enough room to lie down, and still touch your head and feet on either side. A bed, a desk, a stool, and some lockers. That was the life for the president of South Africa for nearly two decades.

Taking us to the games room, a late addition to B-Section, he sits us down to finish his own story. He was released from prison in 1991, and served firstly with the ANC, but later with the Independent Electoral Commission as a community project manager. He was sent to the townships around Cape Town to teach people about what it means to vote, and about what it means to participate as a citizen in the new republic.

But with the election over, Vincent returned to Robben Island. It's been his home for many years of his life. We're told that political prisoners return to put to death the memories of their horror. I ask Vincent why he returned, and after a long pause, he answers.

He's not bitter, he tells us. He then talks of the machines of government and fear that produces the police that arrested him and the wardens that abused him. He talks of forgiveness, of how he had to forgive so that he could move on. He then tells us about his decision to return to Robben Island as a means to serve his time retelling his story each day.

The ferry takes us from the island as another arrives. It's a tale worlds apart from western life. Thousands of visitors tour Robben Island each week. Thousands, tens of thousands have probably already heard Vincent's story, yet, I imagine, it hasn't lost its potency.

In 1991, all political prisoners were freed from Robben Island. Nelson Mandela, in becoming President of South Africa, ordered the island to be closed as a prison, and reopened as a monument for educating the world. In 1999, the United Nations ratified this decision and declared Robben Island a world heritage site.

Cape Town and Table Mountain

2007-03-17T08:55:00.001-07:00

After a quiet few days in Stellenbosch I decided to do the tourist thing in Cape Town.

I’ve been given a car to use for my time in the Western Cape, a godsend. While I could be in the heart of the city at a backpackers, staying in sleepy Stellenbosch has been good for the soul. I've been living in the chaos of my aunt and her family, which has been a joy, even with the 7am wake-up calls by my ten-year old cousin.

But enough, to the city! I take the N2, purely because my innate sense of direction led me to the wrong turn-off. It still goes to the CBD, but it passes the township of Khayelitsha. It's the first slum I've seen in Cape Town, and it strikes me that nothing appears to have changed since I last saw it ten years prior. Sheets of ruthlessly attached corrugated iron still form the bulk of the dwellings in this dusty area. Tall pylons have been erected with floodlights atop to illuminate the township by night. As a white person I know I'm not welcome, so while curiosity wants to drag me through its streets, self-preservation keeps me at arm’s length.

The tourist office offers 'township tours', where I can experience the real township culture. It seems repellent, to reduce a poverty-stricken area into a tourist destination. "Now look at these people, hut dwellers -- the real thing, but keep your distance, half of them probably have Aids! Now to your left you'll see glorious Table Mountain...." It sounds callous, I know. There might even be more to the story, but doesn't anybody else feel, well, like it’s a little repugnant?

Hypocritically, I'm seized with the need to take a photo, so with one hand on the steering wheel I fish my camera from my bag. With my eyes glancing in front for the traffic, and to the left at the township, I wait for a gap in the median barrier, to freeze the moment in pixels. Only later I discover I managed to snap a crisp photo of my passenger door.

Off then through the maze of streets to the waterfront, then off through the maze of shops to the Robben Island ferry. I've been told a visit to the facility is a must for any visitor. It was declared a world heritage site in 1999, and ex-convicts now operate the tour, explaining their experience of apartheid and prison life. The boat leaves on the hour, but due to its popularity the waiting list is several days. I scrape a booking for the following week and leave a tad dejected.

So I negotiate the insane Cape Town traffic and park in the CBD. By some miracle I park in a building containing a travel doctor. In my wisdom, three days before I left New Zealand, it occurred to me to check into the doctor for shots. She almost had a fit when I told her I was intending to visit Zambia, screaming something about yellow fever and excruciating death. The nurse she sent me to filled both my arms with enough drugs to kill a herd of buffalo and in this stupor, I was sat down for a full hour to explain the many, many ways in which I will die in Africa. I promised to buy the shopping list of medications she gave me. To be fair, I got malaria tablets and something antiseptic to wash my hands with. As I die of Ruptured Brain Fever or something equally unpleasant-sounding, I'll be sure to tell her I was sorry.

The travel doctor in Cape Town laughed at me when I asked her about yellow fever. Maybe they're made of different stuff here. To contradict my death-obsessed doctor in Wellington, this one assured me that malaria was the highest risk I'd be facing. It was a little too easy, so I promised myself a second opinion later.

There's a castle somewhere in the city. It's called the 'Castle of Good Hope'. Quite why, I don't really understand. To me the concept of a castle means fearing for safety, if-shit-hits-fan-I'll-be-in-here. It's large enough so that even someone like me can find it, so with this intellectual motivation I decide to pay it a visit.

Of course, my bumbling predictability takes me the indirect route, and I end up walking the streets and end up inside the railway station. I've been told this is a popular area for muggings, so I hold my bag tight and although I'm a few skin tones paler than any person inside, I make look like I belong. Crime in South Africa is massive, and has very little indication of reducing. 2003/4 stats reveal that 2,800 murders and 6,300 rapes occurred that year. Half a million South Africans are the victim of crime each year. Aside from the 36,000 assaults with intent to commit harm, and 52,000 'regular' assaults, the most alarming statistic for me was the one with the vague description "all theft not mentioned elsewhere." Since 1994, it has risen from 58,000 to 121,000 incidents, a staggering amount by any standard. The only two crimes that show any decrease are theft from work premises, and theft from cars. I've been told this is due to ADT, a security company so proficient that they've been employed to look after the police.

In the station I stumble upon the Greyhound bus company and spend a little time looking at options for travelling north. It's all pretty cheap (less than NZ$100 to travel from Cape Town to Johannesburg). I've been looking for the bloody castle for over an hour now, so while I'm chatting to the booking agent, I swallow my pride and ask for directions.

Eventually I make it, and find that it's worth the visit. Built in the late 17^th century using Dutch design, it has five star-shaped ramparts, with a generous courtyard and manor in the centre. Everything is painted in a dull yellow, I was informed, because it doesn't retain heat and reduces the glare from the sun. After walking round the ramparts and through the cobblestone path between buildings, I take a seat at the cafe to rest my legs.

An elderly lady strikes up conversation with me. It turns out she's from Zimbabwe and is spending a little in the Cape, away from the insanity of Harare. She tells me that it's now a bombshell of a place. Most of the shops have empty shelves. Power doesn't work for days at a time, and those who require it now use generators. I ask about petrol, having heard that the World Bank won't help Zimbabwe with buying gas. It's in short supply, but she tells me a thriving black market exists in the country which fills enough engines to make vital services run. Most of the country hates Mugabe, but are too passive to stage a coup. She speaks fondly of the Shona, the largest tribe in the area, "a gentle people," she tells me, and wishes that they could group together knock Mugabe out of power. Apparently his party is in the minority, but like many similar situations, he still manages to dictate a nation into ruin. You can't help but feel for the people in this country. It is one of the poorest nations in the world now, having suffered for almost three decades under Mugabe's rule.

Leaving the castle, and becoming predictably lost, I find my way inside the Slave Lodge Museum. It's almost closing time, but the receptionist lets me in anyway. As the name suggests, the building used to be the slave house of Cape Town, so it's with no lack of irony that it is now an exhibit to showcase the plight of slaves in the Cape. I've spent most of my years in University learning about textual analysis, so while I pass through the exhibits with empathy, I can't but help feel as though I'm being given a politicised version of events. I'm not justifying centuries of abuse, but I feel like I was only told a part of a story.

Nevertheless, I leave the museum enlightened, but tired. I make my way to the Cape Sun lobby, and relax for an hour with a beer before renegotiating the traffic back to Stellenbosch and a good night's rest.

The next day I do little, choosing to rest myself for my Table Mountain experience. The following day, however, I'm up bright and early and travel back to Cape Town to climb Table Mountain. I take the popular Platteklip Gorge route (a two hour ascent, guaranteed sore legs), then spend the day walking on top of the mountain gazing at the views below. Words don't do justice to the mountain, so photos can be found on my flickr site.

I have one more week of the Western Cape, and plenty to do in that time. Then I head north to Pietersburg, Pretoria, and finally to the climax of my trip, Harare.

The white perspective

2007-03-15T04:01:00.001-07:00

I haven't done the family thing for a number of years, ten or thereabouts. So when I arrive at my cousin Tania's for a braai, I'm a little nervous.

Not dissimilar to the kiwi barbeque, the menu is filled with meat: chicken, ostrich, steak, lamb, and of course, the spicy borewors sausage which has become a staple of South Africa. In New Zealand this is a bland and unappetising mix of meat and gristle, but in its homeland, my goodness! I'm not a major meat aficionado. I eat mostly chicken, and whatever else is thrown my way. But this, this sausage would test the resolve of most vegetarians. On your fist bite you understand that this is not your typical forty percent flour, sixty percent hooves and bones. This is like eating a full meal, thick with chunky meat, imbibed with spices, wrapped for convenience into long rolls. It looks revolting, I mean, turds immediately spring to mind, but I can't give it enough credit. It's truly amazing.

Boerewors consumed, the day progresses and I'm introduced to many family members I haven't seen in years. I make conversation and they ask about New Zealand. We talk cricket and rugby, and they share their sheep jokes with me, which after two weeks in the country, I admit, is starting to become a tad predictable.

Afternoon turns to evening, and we settle with coffee, then liqueurs. I've been meaning to ask Afrikaaners how they feel about the new republic after twelve years of ANC rule. I try out my question. It was like throwing a toddler into a pride of lions.

They complain about the usual: crime and corruption. I'm expecting the type of doomsaying that I've been used to in New Zealand, so I'm surprised at the depth the conversation reaches.

They loved Nelson Mandela, and they like (in part) Thabo Mbeki. They understand the prejudice of Apartheid, and readily agree that it created many social evils, much of which through their upbringing they were (apparently) blissfully unaware of. But they rue the notion that they are planted with the 'racist' label. They tell me that beyond the international media's lynching, many Afrikaaners ensured that the coloured and black families they knew were being looked after. Jounalist Max Du Preez agrees in his account of the Afrikaaners, Pale Native. He writes of the contradictions which the Afrikaner lives within: to care deeply for black families around them, yet unswervingly support the notions of Apartheid.

In speaking with my Afrikaans friends, they explain that they don't hate the change of government, but they are angry because they believe that corruption and bad decisions within the new government is crippling the country. It's economics, not ideology that upsets the modern Afrikaner.

Afrikaners feel as though they are given the brunt of the work needed to keep the country afloat. They complain that twenty percent of the country (the statistic they quoted me, I'm guessing it's the amount of white South Africans around. It reveals much of the attitude that they deny) are footing the bill for running the entire country. Khayelitsha cannot afford to pay their electricity bill, nor Soweto, nor Mitchell's Plain, so those that can afford, are given the burden of paying other people's bills.

Also, with a reported quarter of South Africans unemployed, and no social welfare to feed them, crime is a paramount concern. Gang culture is rife, and theft is reduced to nothing more than a tax-free income stream. I get the impression that the modern treatment of the white South African is akin to the rich fat guy you knew in high school. Everybody gets their turn to dump on him, his lunch is stolen, and his teachers yell at him when he complains. Attacked from every side, yet tolerated for the content of his wallet, it's understandable that bitterness has arisen.

These Afrikaans people understand the juxtaposition they are in. They understand that South Africa needed a transition of power, they just don't believe it's being managed correctly.

The ANC government legislated affirmative action policies to redress the power balances. Essentially it means that colour, then skill, are the criteria for employment in most businesses, the goal being to give people access to jobs otherwise inaccessible to them. It sounds great, but it in practice results in employees with inadequate skills to perform the jobs required of them. We're talking about office-workers who don't know how to cut and paste data in an Excel spreadsheet. Of course, it's a double-edged sword. The Apartheid government created the Bantu education which subjugated black and coloured people. With no humour, I can say that they are now reaping the reward they sowed.

But as a result of unskilled labour receiving skilled jobs, the country is suffering. The Human Development Report, a UN-backed performance indicator combining literacy levels, life expectancy, GDP, infant mortality amongst other statistics, shows South Africa in sharp decline since 1995. AIDS is still a critical condition in the country, but it doesn't make news anymore because it won't pull the audiences it once used to.

As an aside, the term 'affirmative action', is probably the most disgusting use of politicised terminology I've seen since The War on Terror. George Orwell would be turning in his grave at this abuse of language. The gargantuan use of positive-sounding words to hide what is essentially a painful process ought to make anyone's ears prick. In my case, it's my gag reflex.

South Africa is a nation undergoing change. The problem is not the ideology of freedom, equality and the like, but the way ideologies of redressing power has crept into things of different substance. GDP does not see colour. Neither does international trade. The Afrikaners, due to their education and wealth, can see clearly see this calamity, but like the boy who cried wolf, have been silenced due to past transgression. They can only look on, and pray that people with the right calibre can take the country by the reins and steer it to greener pastures.

Cape Town by night

2007-03-10T06:29:00.000-08:00

I’ve spent a week in what is considered the jewel of Africa. Cape Town is a city boasting a population of four million, matching that of New Zealand. It’s a breathtaking oxymoron of affluence and slum dwarfed by Table Mountain, which towers above the city like a god overlooking its subjects.

My Cape experience has been spent with my brother Adrian as my tour guide. Last I saw Adrian, he was bordering on manic depressive and saving money to leave New Zealand. You can’t blame him. His experience of Aotearoa was five years of Rotorua, Manukau, and Drury (which sounds exactly like the name suggests). Consequently, he’s not too disappointed to be out. Adrian has become the self-confessed kingpin of the nightlife. He’s taken the week off to show me the highlights of Cape Town, which to him means the clubs.

So the last week has been a dreamscape of sound and light. I’ve been whisked from bar to club to VIP lounge through the course of seven days. Some of these places are your typical dives you can see kids press flesh anywhere in the world, but since Adrian knows every owner, every bouncer and bartender in the northern suburbs, he’s been able to let me peer behind the sweaty bodies and pickup lines, and shown me the heart of the scene.

We’ve drank until four in the morning with one of the Greek owners of the Buena Vista Social Cafe, a high-class Cuban bar in the recently developed (and upmarket) Tyger Falls district. The previous night Adrian walked me straight through to the VIP lounges in Vakka, and Ku De Ta (coup de état for the phonetically disinclined), where he showed me the porn lounge. Offset in pink, it comes complete with bed, a steal for NZ$400 a night for the discerning, and most likely indiscrete adult. He chats to the owner, who tells him about the problems the bar has had with drink spiking. Security is everywhere, but he can’t seem to find the culprits.

Whisked away, and several nights later we make it into the prestigious Rhodes House, home to Cape Town’s rich and famous. Rhodes is a 19^th century building, absolutely majestic, and has been converted into a plush club. Seven bars, private rooms, two DJ’s, and a clientele you would saw your right arm off and lather the stump in vinegar to meet. If you’re not a model, don’t even try and get in. I don’t consider myself unattractive, so I smile gawkily at the faces around me. It seems this is enough of a turn-off to them, as I flash my off-white canines. Nothing much happens for four hours, but I learn that Westlife dropped by earlier that week. It’s another way of saying ‘out of your league, boy’.

And again, security is everywhere. They stand in the background, keeping a sharp eye on the night’s proceedings. By day security guards patrol the car parks. They’re hired to look after stretches of road, or blocks of parking buildings. You can almost guarantee when you park your car, a guard will show his face and flash a smile, a sign that he’s got your wheels under wraps, and when you return, he’s the one you tip for keeping it unmolested. Guards patrol the malls, the clubs, the streets. They walk perimeter around housing estates, and in tourist areas. It’s bizarre at first, but like anything else they eventually fade into anonymity.

I ask people around me about the security, and they shrug. It’s the price of affluence in a third world country. Safety does not appear to be a natural way of life, but carved out by the small army of guards that maintain the border between the have and the have-not. It’s uneasy to see how naturalised to this life people have become. Everyone talks about security, and the dis-ease between these two groups.

It’s also interesting to note that for most, it’s stopped becoming a disjuncture between ‘black’ and ‘white’. It’s probably overstated in international media. A black social elite has arisen, and your wallet, not your colour, has become the new entry requirement. They’re in the bubble of affluence, and help to protect its borders.

It hit home when I saw a security van armed with a team of Kalashnikov wielding guards. It was daytime in the CBD and the van pulled up to a bank. The van was armoured not just to the point of military-spec, but designed and purchased from the defence force. They wore flak jackets and worked like a platoon from the marines. I watched as they staged a retrieval of what I suppose was cash from the premises. Guns at the ready, you realise that these guys are armed with high-power machine guns in a crowded street with live ammunition, and the desire to use it if necessary. And the kicker was that no-one but me paid them the slightest notice.

In the papers today

2007-03-02T03:53:00.000-08:00

I'm living in Africa now, and it shows everywhere. Picking up a paper this morning, I see President Mugabe makes a cameo. Zimbabwe, in an effort to withstand the flood of terrorist activities, have begun jamming overseas radio broadcasts. Since they also happen to have shut down 'insurgent' radio stations within their border, they appear to be left with, oh, wait. They have nothing left but government-operated radio. The Cape Times quotes Zimbabwean Deputy minister -- and get this -- of Information and Publicity, who plays down the notion of suppression of freedom, justifying that, "We cannot allow foreigners to invade our airwaves without our authority."

Also, on Zimbabwe, the Cape Times notes that the ex-British colony has the world's worst inflation: a whopping 600% annually. The stories you hear from the place scare me. No food, no petrol, no law. I'll be dropping by in April.

Arrival

2007-03-02T02:54:00.000-08:00

I made it. Arriving in Jo'burg airport, I realised that I had just over an hour to clear customs and check into the domestic terminal for my flight to Cape Town. An hour is the equivalent of a photo-finish in a 100m sprint. A single nose-hair's difference means boarding or missing my flight. So I ran. Every opportunity, running from passport control to baggage pickup to customs (who didn't even talk to me. For all he knew, my bag was filled with ecstasy). Oh, and if you've ever heard of Africa being the bastion of friendliness, the domestic terminal is the black hole of of despair. Even in Sydney, where I was stopped for a random check (no bending and coughing, thank God), the security officer and I were trading jokes. I made it to the security checkpoint for the domestic terminal, where the guy on security threw a plastic tray at me and barked an order to empty my pockets into the tray. When I did so and handed the tray back, he stared at me, eyes expanding, like I was Apartheid itself and yelled, I kid you not, yelled at me for my absurd belief that he would place the tray on the carriage. A natural assumption, since he was doing it for the previous dozen travellers he'd cattled through. The guy after me got the same treatment. We made it through the checkpoint, and while we reattached watches, he looked at me and rolled his eyes. "Friendly place," I replied.

I made it on the 737 to Cape Town, and took a short drive to my old home town of Durbanville. My brother picked me up from the airport, and celebrated my arrival by devouring half a chicken, and drinking until midnight at his local. He's promised to show me the night life this weekend. He drove me to his flat a little tipsy, and left me to my own devices at around 1am.

Two days later, I can tell you that this is a very different place to how I remember it. The sleepy little town I lived in on the edge of the city has woken and is on speed. Two lane roads are everywhere. Cars zoom past, with little notion of the road code. Taxi's screetch by with absolutely no knowledge of any code. I'm on foot, and say a little prayer each time I need to cross a street. I've stopped trusting pedestrian crossings, even though I saw someone take almost no heed of traffic, and just walked through one in blind faith that motorists wouldn't want to damage their cars with his internal organs.

But this place, as much as I'm surrounded by Africans, and everyone jibbers in Afrikaans, Durbanville doesn't feel all that different to New Zealand. If nothing else, with the flat, wide roads, green grass, and bad driving, I could be in Christchurch.

I go clubbing in Cape Town this weekend, and try and fill my social calendar by catching up with family and friends next week. I have a nagging need to start picking up some contacts for work, and finding kiwi's to write about. It's going to be a busy time, but after months of preparation, I've finally made it to Africa.

Fifteen days

2007-02-13T01:02:00.000-08:00

A British Airways Boeing 737 will be touching down in Cape Town airport in fifteen days. Five thousand of these launch themselves from tarmac every day, propelling almost two hundred souls ten kilometres into the stratosphere at speeds reaching nine hundred kilometres an hour, that's one kilometre for every four seconds.

The supreme pinnacle of steel and science, arching across the skies with the same monotony as the sun. I travel half way around the world within a day, and I don't give it a moment's thought.