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Due to the increasing amount of difficulties with Blogspot, I've now moved myself to Traveller's point, and can be found at the same address as before- whereismaaret.travellerspoint.com

See you there!

London Rain

26th- 28th May, London.

I was once asked by the French-British border control what my reason for entering the UK was. I remember being so baffled that it took me a while to answer, and when I did, I blabbered, but I live here! My home is here; my job; my friends! They let me through- no one likes to contradict an obviously-crazy Finnish bird. And so, when they asked me the same thing at Heathrow, I was still baffled-if they didn't let me in, what would happen to all my shoes? Who would get custody? It's the same thing when people mark on my language skills- "you speak really good English." Oh really. Amazing what ten years in Britain can do- seems that sarcasm is contagious too.

On the flight, I'd asked for an upgrade to first class, not really thinking I'd get it, but anyway, it was worth a shot. I am, however, slightly embarrassed to admit that I did fake a certain "disability" in order to be upgraded. But it's not like they were full- I've shelled out large chunks of my minimum salary towards airfares, so it was about time I got something back. When I got escorted into the mysterious, private depths of the first class, I remained cool. even when people called me madam and handed me menus instead of just banging a plate of something gooey in front of me.
I get very excited about anything even slightly luxurious or expensive. I was always the daft kid who didn't know which fork to use when we went on a school trip and ate in a restaurant. But I maintained composure, even when I really wanted to whoop out loud when they gave me a toiletries kit with miniature eye creams and ear plugs which I could keep. I slept horizontally, in the darkened, quiet enclave of the plane, completely forgetting I was even on a flight. I felt tempted to whip out Fred to sit in the empty seat next to me, but I think that would have not been first class- cool. Have now decided to be famous so I can travel first class always.

London. Lots of white people at the airport, lots and lots of noise, rain and concrete. I felt a bit down, but it was possibly due to the rain and fog; people looked miserable- if you see two women walking together anywhere in Africa, chances are that at least one of them is smiling and laughing out loud; in the UK, they are probably telling each other off. It's not uncommon to see someone wear red, green and orange all in a happy mix; here, we all have grey coats and black umbrellas. All this will take a bit of getting used to.

But I love London. I have no idea why- but then again, why do people love anything or anyone? They just do. A few years ago, I was tube-surfing my way to work, standing in the middle of a full carriage in high heels, whilst using one hand to text and another one to apply lip gloss. I remember, because an old man chatted to me for a bit, about nothing really, and when he got off, he told me, London is full of bubbly girls like you, but somehow, you can always spot the ones who've been born and bred here. I thought that was an incredible compliment- he thought that I was a real Londoner.

And so, after a few days of being back, it actually feels ok. Nothing really changes; I came and go every few years, but everything here, although in constant movement, actually stays the same. There is something very comforting in that.

And So It Goes

19th May- 25th May, Nairobi and Arusha

Home is a funny thing. To me, home is where my hair straightener lives. So currently, home is my friend Marianne's shed in Buckinghamshire. However, when you spend long enough travelling, home becomes any place where you spend longer than two nights. My home, it seems, was Nairobi.

I'd spent the last few weeks going in and out of the same hostel, leaving my big bag full of fabrics, woven baskets, earrings and other stuff which I'll store immediately into Marianne's shed when I'm back in the UK and forget about it, in the hostel cupboard. I knew the staff, the best time to get a hot shower (never), and exactly how much a taxi would cost to whichever part of Nairobi I was going to. And apart from seeing some real-life Freds (giraffes to those not in the know), I really did very little. Nairobi is not an unpleasant city; it is completely functionable, the main CBD is all wide roads and even a bit of greenery. It doesn't have much in terms of eiffeltowers and colosseums, but it serves its purpose well and I liked it. Mainly because it wasn't Lusaka.

As I happened to be travelling with someone slightly sick, and ill for that matter as well, my last days were spent in Arusha, Tanzania, simply because it was close enough, and it wasn't Nairobi. I'd planned on a lot of things- a trip to the Serengeti to see the migration of hundreds of antelopes, zebra and suchlike, to climb the Kilimanjaro (yes, I know, me climb Kilimanjaro- ha ha ha, but I was certainly up for trying). Unfortunately, a quick peek at my bank balance put such silly thoughts out of my head, and considering I spend most of the time with a cold, it wasn't so bad.

The hostel in Arusha was something I'd want my hostel to one day be like- warm, welcoming and full of people. Mainly volunteers, everyone there was a fairly long-term resident, and they immediately took us in as one of them. I spent a happy few days doing not much but haggling in the market (more baskets and bowls- I really need to marry very well if I plan on a house big enough to display all this stuff) and going out with a eclectic bunch of people- six Julliard students, all incredibly talented and sweet- five gay guys and poor Megan. Erin, an Aussie girl, Harry, a very extrovert Brit, Sarah Jessica Parker -lookalike Jenna, and a random collection of people who we picked up along the way. It was a fun night- especially when a very drunken British guy came over and told me, as I was chatting to Jenna, Collin, Evan and Jordan that all my friends were incredibly good looking (Noted: all my friends. Must start wearing makeup.)

Another dusty bus ride later, and we were back in my hostel-home, for the last time. I tried hard to miss my flight- a few minutes before the taxi arrived, we were still sitting in the local pub with another long-term Nairobi resident, Andrew, and I had my last Tusker, feeling sad. I hoped we would run into terrible traffic, or my flight would be cancelled until further notice, the airport was closed for security purposes or my ankle would break. Something. Anything. And of course, nothing did, and nine months after I'd left, unwillingly, for Zambia, I was yet at another airport, thinking about life, love and geography, and how it all goes. Funny that.

Is it a Taxi? A Minibus? A Matatu? No, Just a Boda-Boda

10th May- 18th May, Uganda.

Ah, the Pearl of Africa. I'd paid a silly amount of money to get an extra ten days on my ticket home so I could see a bit of Uganda. There was only one thing I really wanted to do, but more than anything, I really wanted to see a little of this country I'd heard so many good things about. And in hindsight, it was totally worth it.

Uganda is an odd little country. In most people, it conjures up images of Idi Amin, gorillas and tropical diseases. I didn't experience any of them, fortunately. However, one thing I had heard about, and wanted to do, was the white water rafting in Jinja, at the mouth of Lake Victoria, which is one of the alleged sources of the Nile. Source or not, the pictures of th grade 5 rapids looked fabulously scary, so I got off the Nairobi- Kampala coach in Jinja and found myself, err, at a petrol station surrounded by fields. It didn't look much like a town. Actually, I've seen more happening cemeteries. In no time though, I was surrounded by boda-bodas- the ubiquitous motorcycle taxis which suddenly came out of nowhere and started buzzing around me like insects. Now, I've done seven of the world's ten highest bunjy jumps, cycled down the world's “most dangerous road”, rafted before doing the most dangerous river as well as the highest commercial drop, paraglided, hang glided and jumped out of an airplane at 15,000 ft. But the scariest thing I've ever done was this 3-minute boda-boda ride through Jinja to the hostel. Word of warning about Uganda- anyone who owns any form of transport there is without a doubt mad. Like mad mad.

Oh and I am scared of water. I've had a near-drowning experience, so I'm not so good with the whole being in fast-flowing, rocky water -thing. Although a fun day, I felt a bit scared at a few points, and not embarrassed of admitting it- in the first rapid, a little grade 2, our wise-arse guide tipped the boat over on purpose to show us what happens when we tip over- unfortunately, I got caught under the tip of the boat, and swallowed my body weight in bilharzia water. Oh well. But it did kind of put me on my guard for the rest of the trip. Which actually was fun. I might go again. It's like a rollercoaster ride in a water park, with the exception that you have kayakers all around you in case “you get pulled under a waterfall”. Hmm

Kampala was the first African city since Lusaka I never warmed up to. It had the negatives of Mombasa, what with being polluted, incredibly packed and with no personality, but none of the plus sides. It was mentioned as one of the safest cities in Africa, but I'd never really felt threatned in any way in Nairobi (which is meant to be the worst of the worst) and yet we got mugged in Windhoek, which is meant to be one of the safest places as well, so I've stopped paying attention to any of these stereotypes, and simply eye everyone with suspicion. One thing, however, which did get my attention, were the matatus (minibuses which are also called “shared taxis” in Uganda). Now, they are totally different to all the ones I've seen before. I stood on the side of the main road, watching hundreds of them pass, without managing to understand how people knew which one they needed to get on to. In Nairobi, matatus have numbers and routes- by far the most organised country when it comes to minibuses. In Malawi, they have little signs with the main stops written on them. In Zambia, the conductor simply hangs out of the door, shouting the name of the destination, whilst trying to pull in people who are happily walking to the opposite direction. In Uganda, there were no signs, numbers, and the conductors seemed surprisingly subdued. I decided to observe, and try to work out how it all happened. That, and the fact that I really had no idea which bus to get on to.

Twenty minutes later, and I was still rooted to the spot, and the street vendors were starting to give me funny looks. I decided to ask. A nice young man in a suit informed me (I always ask men in suits; they are usually less likely to harass me than the shabbier-looking blokes, plus men feel more inclined to help a poor white lady who is travelling on her own) that the drivers use hand signals- they usually simply point towards wherever the matatu is heading to. But of course. And I still had to get someone to show me which way the hostel was.

Besides shopping in Kampala and rafting in Jinja, I'd had my heart set on seeing some of the countryside up north, and going to Entebbe. I cannot recall why I wanted to see Entebbe; something to do with botanical gardens or suchlike. So I set off with a cheery Finnish girl, a slightly mad Dutch bloke, and looked for a minibus to Entebbe from the manic New Taxi Park. It took us 25 minutes to negotiate through the heat, buses and people, and so, by the time we got to Entebbe, we were knackered, and after realising that the gardens were really not gardens at all, we went to the pub, had some food, beer and a very fun afternoon, till we realised it was pretty much time to head back to Kampala. So my Entebbe experience included a few patches of grass, a monkey, some fried bread and beer. It was not a bad afternoon.

After a bit of faffing, I decided to go on one last splurge, and do a 2-night trip to Murchinson Falls, It is possible, with a lot of time and patience, to get up there on your own, but really, I'd left an increasingly ill-looking Rich in Nairobi and wanted to get back quite quickly. So I booked a shuttle bus (expensive) and a day trip which included both a boat trip to the bottom of the Falls, as well as a guided walking trip up to the top. My heart sank when I realised I'd be travelling with a bunch of 18 ad 19 -year old British and Dutch kids- but surprisingly, it ended up being fun.

We stopped briefly in a dusty nowhere town of Masindi, sleepy town where people play pool by the road side and sit under a tree- I've seen dozens of such little towns all over Africa, and they are all the same, but still somehow fascinating. We camped in the lush National Park, with hippos and warthogs roaming around in the surrounding bushes, and I saw the biggest crocodiles I've ever seen. An obligatory game drive was included, but apart from a few oribis, we didn't see much- elephants from a distance, and two hungry-looking lionesses. The boat cruise was nice and relaxing- Fred made a lot of friends and got to steer the boat, but the walk up to the top was breathtaking- Murchinson Falls were somehow even more impressive than the Victoria Falls- no other tourists around, no gates, entry fees or even railings- you could go in as close as you chose to. What makes the falls exciting though, is that the narrowest part is only 6 metres wide, making the flow of water incredibly powerful and intense. It was hypnotising to watch.

Back at the camp, I decided that if I couldn't beat the young people, I'd better join them. And so I played drinking games for the first time in many years, and it was an absolute hoot- it included members of the party to join an elderly Indian couple and tell them how much they love ketchup. And for two people to waltz in the middle of the restaurant, and another one to drink a shot of HP sauce. Juvenile, I know, but oh so funny. Being thirty really might not be so bad.

And so I got my little taste of Uganda. Sure, I could've easily have spent another week in the southern parts, quite happily so, but I'm more than happy to leave something for the next African trip. Especially since I only found out on the way out that Jinja has a bungy jump as well- serious lack of research from my part. In any way, Uganda was just enough off the beaten track to make it interesting, but I also managed to meet both the nicest backpackers in Africa, as well as locals. Next time, Uganda can have a lot more of my precious travel time.

A Leopard Crossing

3rd May- 6th May 2009, Masai Mara Game Reserve

OK, I know I'll sound like a snobby world-weary backpacker on this blog entry, but I really have seen a lot of good game parks and animals. Lots of them. In biiiiiig quantities; prides of up to 30 lions, schools of hippos totaling up to about 100 each, dozens of elephants grazing; I've been attacked by a frustrated rhino, I've seen a pack of nearly-extinct African wild dogs hunt, and i've been face-to-face with giraffes on a walking safari. So, as far as everything goes, I've been pretty lucky; or even more than lucky- I've seen South Luangwa, Chobe, Kruger, and Etosha, all amongst the best game parks in Africa, and many of the smaller ones in various countries. Still, I really wanted to go to Masai Mara. Mainly because after a long scrutiny, it seemed to have all the possible African animals in it. So I haggled a while, booked a 4-day trip to the Lake Nakuru and the Mara, and left Rich in Nairobi to work on his friendship with the staff at Nairobi hospital.

Now, the one thing everyone wants to see whist in Africa is the so-called Big Five. So-called, because although (some) of these five animals are actually big, not all of them are rare or even interesting; they are simply called so as they all were prized hunting trophies to the rich Europeans in the early days of African safaris. However, a huge business centers around the “Big Five”- t-shirts, keyrings, carvings and other odds and sods that people lug back to Europe or States to show everyone that they belong to that special caste who've been to Africa and seen the Big Five.
Admittedly, I've never really been sure what belongs in the Big Five. A lion, yes, and elephant and rhino, all big and impressive, but I was a little unclear on the other two. Hippo? Certainly big. Cheetah? Fastest land mammal, so surely it as well?

A British man on the tour found it impossible to understand that I did not know these essentials. “But how do you know otherwise what you are meant to see?”, he wanted to know. Err, I thought you just look out of the little car, and see animals. The park was full of giraffes, zebra, various antelopes, wildebeest and buffaloes. At one stage, we were surrounded by a heard of 300 buffaloes. But it is wonderful. People seem to carry a little check-list of “animals seen”, which instantly earns them cool backpacker points amongst other travellers. Now, I've never really seen a leopard, the holy grail of any animal spotter, except hiding in some distant tree, with only a tail showing, so I never really considered that I'd actually seen one. Fortunately, and quite unexpectedly, I'd seen one walk right past the car in Lake Nakuru, with two young ones hovering in the background. A set of stunning, magnificent animals (although very small in real life) and I was incredibly happy to have seen them. Unfortunately, though, I was suddenly the object of hostile-ish envy in Masai Mara; some people actually went as far as suggesting I might have been, if not lying, then certainly exaggerating this rare sighting. Animal spotting is fierce some business.

Anyhow, I had a great time in Masai Mara, except that I did finally get some sort of a stomach bug and spent most of the time outside the game drives sleeping and feeling feverish. We saw a tiny jackal pup chasing a large heard of very disinterested -looking impala, getting breathless- if impalas could laugh, they certainly would have done. We saw a large pride of lions eat a wildebeest, with the smallest cub getting tangled up in the tail it was carrying around. We saw a huge male lion stalking a heard of nervous-looking buffaloes, a female cheetah with two young cubs, and a lake full of pink flamingos. It was, all in all, money well spent. And my total amount of cool backpacker points is on the rise since leopards and cheetahs. Now, if I could only get hold of a Lonely Planet somewhere I could find out all the other stuff I need to see in Eastern Africa. It's an awfully long tick-list.

Are You Sure We're Still in Africa?

27th April- 3rd May, Dar es Salaam to Nairobi

Going to Kenya was so efficient and easy that I seriously doubted if we'd accidentally changed continents.
A quick swing of a rubber stamp, the jolly immigration officer relieved us of our dollars, stamped us in, and off we went on a rickety bus to Mombasa, bouncing along yet another pot-holed dirt road (well, some things never change). Mombasa is a big city, and although a fan of big cities, I immediately disliked it; it's not that it's crowded (after all, London is crowded and I still love it), but it's just tight. Every imaginable surface of the city is covered; every inch of the pavement is full of people selling socks, belts, rubic's cubes and axes. Shops are narrow, tiny affairs, designed impossible to enter, and if you do so, all the paraphernalia confuse you so much that you end up buying a string of beads instead of bread. There are people everywhere, cars which all drive to their own rules, and nothing green or leafy. And all the streets look identical. I wasn't impressed.

But then I found an ice-cream parlour and it was all ok.

The next day, we stumbled into the old town after I'd battled with the post office (again) and Kenyan Airways (I now have an extra 10 days to see Uganda), and it was wonderful. The old town is a bit like Stonetown in Zanzibar, but it looks more real, more practical and lived-in, so I immediately warmed up to it. I'm not a big fan of overly pretty cities; something like Prague has always been a bit too prissy, too Disney-like to feel real. I like cities where I can imagine actual people living in, where real dramas take place; and Mombasa is just that, not a sealed and polished Unesco-heritage -city. I happily snapped away with my camera, trying to shake off a wanna-be tour guide.

Another thing I'd been obsessed about were the white beaches of Mombasa. All Finnish kids are. It's in our genetic pop-culture make-up. So I convinced Rich, who is, by all accounts, not a beach person, to come along for a night. In the end, I picked a beach almost in random; they all seemed to have big hotels lining the beach, and so I went with Tiwi, the least developed one in the south. Unfortunately, the lovely owners (yes, I'm being sarky) did not believe in keeping the beach clean, and anyway, it was seaweed season, and so, despite about 3 attempts, I didn't manage to swim. I was left with a bikini full of tagliatelle-like seaweed, which I can tell you is not pleasant.

A taxi, minibus, ferry and a tuk-tuk later, we were at the railway station in Mombasa, getting ready to leave for Nairobi- this is the second train in Africa I've taken, and it also left on time- what is up with the universe? Usually, people are segregated in second class, which we were travelling in, but as the train is hardly ever full, Rich and I managed to share a compartment in the nearly-empty train. Rich had made queries about the train a few days ago- we took a while to decide if we wanted 1st, 2nd or 3rd class- and the lovely lady in the sales office very nearly refused to sell us tickets to the 3rd class- apparently, it's no place for white people. There are 120 seats, but they sell 300 tickets to each train. You do the maths.

Having our own compartment was lucky, as during the journey we both started feeling a bit queasy. Especially Rich, who suddenly went very white, and spent a restless night going between dozing and the toilet.

The train arrived 3,5 hours late, and as far as two cynical and fairly experienced travellers were concerned, it was pretty damn good. For once, neither of us felt like haggling (a true testament that neither of us was well) and gladly paid for a taxi to the hostel.

The next few days were a bit of a nothingness. After resting a day, I felt much better, whereas Rich commenced a long-standing relationship with the Nairobi hospital. Hostel is nice, though. It's ran by 2 very cheery girls, who do my laundry and refuse payment; I have to insist they take a small fee. "but please don't pay too much", said Sara, and took a tiny bundle of cash for doing all my dusty clothes. In the evening I resist a temptation to check the map to make sure we are still in Africa. It is a bit of a different Africa, that's all.

Zenzational Zanzibar, rainy season or not

19th April to 26th April, 2009, Zanzibar to Dar es Salaam

Some places have always had it in their name - Burkina Faso, Patagonia, Easter Island, Zanzibar- that slight exotic tinge that so makes me want to travel there. Zanzibar has always conjured up a fairytale setting of narrow cobblestone streets, ornate, heavy wooden doors with shiny brasshandles, women swathered in colourful scarves, brightening the narrow alleyways like peacocks, fragrant spices I've never smelt before. And for once, it was just as I imagined it.

We arrived to Stonetown late, and immediately decided to stay for a few days. The Polish Mafia was heading up north to the beaches the next day, but not before they introduced us to the foodstalls by the beach- dozens of vendors selling seafood snacks, samosas, kebabs, zanzibari pizza, sugar cane juice and spicy masala tea.

I was possibly most excited about shopping (OK, I was most excited about photography, but shopping was a close second), and after dragging Rich to all the possible shops to look at sandals, bracelets and fabrics, I told him the following day to go and do boys' things, and I'd go shopping on my own. Oddly enough, he decided to lock himself in the hotel room, and not come out while I checked out the local markets. Men, huh?

I really didn't do much in Stonetown- just watched the old-fashioned sailing boats, dhows, coming in from the sea after sunset, eating (lots of really good) ice-cream, drinking cocktails on a plush hotel balcony overlooking the sea, and getting lost in the winding little streets (whilst occasionally stopping to look at a bracelet, of course). It felt wonderful to have some unhurried time, and it almost felt like a holiday.

We headed up north on a rainy, damp morning, with a vague idea of going to Nungwi where our friends were. We got a ride on a dala-dala, a new thing to me- half-truck, half-bus with an open back and bright plastic seats, full of chickens, children and firewood. Oh, and lots and lots of people. Beata and Anya were waiting for us, and after a big of haggling, we found a little guesthouse that suited my low bank balance, and we settled in.

The next three days were equally lovely and frustrating, the guesthouse being only half-built and therefore not having a reception, or any sort of a contact person anywhere in Nungwi. So we had no one to complain to when we discovered there was no water whatsoever. Teaches me to pay for a hotelroom in advance, I suppose...Despite of being able to only flush the toilet three times, and only washing my hair once under the weakest drip ever (all fours on bathroom floor, nevertheless), Nungwi beach was lovely. Possibly too resorty, but it had fine, white sand, turqoise water, and it didn't even rain very much. I didn't get my usual seafood-related foodpoisoning, which was an added plus. Rich might have malaria, though.

As we left, the man supposedly looking after the guesthouse magically appeared, demanding money for the 3rd night which we had yet not paid for. I refused; after all, the deal had been that we would not pay unless the water was turned on (which it wasn't). It was, at least, a slightly amusing exchange, one of those where two people are just so far apart in what they're saying that no middle ground can be found. It was established that although it was agreed that we didn't have to pay unless water came on, we still had to pay, although the water wasn't on. Why? Because we had to pay.
We left with our token polish people, without paying, and arrived to a very rainy Stonetown where the haggling started all over again, now over the ferry tickets.

The rainy season has well and truly started. I am currently holding a one-way ticket to Mombasa, purchased this morning with an idea of "I'll get a first direct bus, wherever it might be going to", and watching the non-stop rain beat the empty streets. A sidetrip to Kenya seems appropriate, as anyone who spent their childhood listening to Finnish pop music knows, but I have fond feelings for Tanzania, and I'm sure I'll be back in no time.

Finally! Free from Lusaka!

14th April- 19th April- Lusaka to Zanzibar

The day of leaving Lusaka for good finally came, and oddly enough, it didn't feel like much; it didn't feel real, leaving my lovely family, and especially the kids.
Rich and I took a bus to Kapiri Mposhi, a nowhere town on the copperbelt fringe, where we met Beata and Anya, and started our 50-hour train journey to Dar es Salaam.

After being picked up and fed by an overly-excited nun in a preschool (don't ask), we arrived to the sterile-looking, utterly un-African Tazara station, in the middle of a field and at the end of a bumpy dirt road (and this is the most important railway in Zambia). We wait. I hand over our tickets (I'm forever in charge of tickets, hostels, taxis and haggling, but I kind of like it); they are handed back, and taken again. We are at the platform ten minutes before departure time, expecting hours of delay- really, we are lucky if the train leaves within the first eight hours. Three minutes past four, the train nudges and we all nod cynically; yes, it's just pulling up to the top of the station.
We are all incredulous when it actually starts on full speed- it's unheard of- the Tazara has left on time.

Rich and I hadn't, oddly enough, found a single vendor by the station, and so we are a bit concerned starting a long journey with no water, until Beata pulls up two twelve-packs of water, donated by the happy nun. The conductor brings in more, and suddenly the compartment is half full of backpackers, half full bottled water; we have thirty bottles, and so we do the only thing possible, and head for the restaurant for beer to balance things out.

The Tanzanian side looks immediately more lush; the grass is taller, leaves on trees bigger, the bush more dense. I stare through the dirty window and watch villages, elephants, sunsets pass. I shower in the tiny cubicle out of a bucket while the train jumps, like a rollercoaster.

We sit in the cramped compartment, sheets wound around ankles, watching trees and foliage pass, playing inane games and eating scarps of leftover, tossing and turning.
We sit in the unflattering, artificial yellow light of the lounge cart, eating cold fish, cold chicken from plastic plates. The miles tick past in the slow clanking of the train, and the scene is like an American small town roadside diner. The mood is somber, and we stare out of the window into the darkness seeing nothing but our tired reflections.

Food stop. Everyone becomes more alive; the train is running late, and the restaurant is almost out of food. At the station, the frantic scramble for food begins even before the train has come to a full stop. The train screeches, and the vendors, mainly small boys and women clad in bright, happy chitenges of pink, green and turquoise crowd both sides of the train. Everyone carries a bucket of something on their head; fried chicken, frittas, coconuts, bananas. Furious exchanges take place. Anya is practically hanging off the train, shouting, waving, her whole upper body beckoning a man with chapattis wrapped in newspaper to come closer. How much, she shouts. Two hundred. Too much, she says, I want five for five hundred, she says, displays five fingers, and the man nods, wraps the chapatti, and takes the dirty note from Anya. I push away from our first-class carriage, quickly, there's no time, into the third class where the majority of the vendors prop their baskets up to the windows. A woman demands 1500 shillings for a chicken drumstick; the train nudges, starts heavily, and the price suddenly drops to one thousand. Last newspaper parcels are passed, and we return to our little cocoon compartment to examine all this strange, new food.

The train pulls to Dar only a few hours late. It's hot, sticky, dusk- Dar is full of people, bicycles, women in hijabs and mullahs calling their flock to the evening prayers. The hotel smells like spices, the breeze comes in from the sea, and I think I'm in love with Dar.

We spend the day wandering around the city, looking at the organised chaos of it all, the colourful colonial buildings with peeling orange paint and lime green shutters, all with lacy balconies; the fragrant Indian food, the colourful African fabrics, the cacophony of cultures.I eat ice-cream in a Disney wonderland, and spend an hour trying to finally send my parcel to Finland, wrapping and re-wrapping it till it meets the approval of the lady in the blue sari, manning the counter.

The next day we follow the girls to Zanzibar. I haggle with the gag of ticket sellers, sometimes shouting, sometimes laughing. I buy the cheapest ones, and we go on a slow, uncomfortable cargo boat. I watch the men load the ferry; maize, chicken feed, unidentified canisters. We get on. Rich and I are the only white people on board.

Zanzibar. My camera finger itches whenever I hear the word. I'm expecting a fairytale land, something out of my childhood leather-bound story books. I have no idea what it will be like, but as the ferry pulls up and the buildings come into focus, I'm pretty sure that's what it will be. I'll tell you all about it later.

The Kuomboka (and all that goes with it)

9th April- 12th April

Kuomboka is one of the many traditional ceremonies of the 73 tribes of Zambia, and quite possibly the biggest- certainly the best-known. As the plains around Mongu flood, the Lozi king is moved in a large barge and in an elaborate ceremony from his palace in Lealui to Limulunga, together with the royal family, their staff and belongings. The ceremony is incredibly important to not only the tribe, but also to Zambian tourism. Almost half the people in Lealui were white tourists.

The fantastic thing is that in a true Zambian style, it was incredibly difficult to get any information of the event. No one know when it was; how close to Mongu it all took place; what was the best way of getting around. I'd stumbled upon the original date by accident, and once the ceremony was moved (but no one informed) it didn't surprise me in the slightest. Also, the king had actually already moved palaces the month before because of the extent of the floods- it's just that it was suitable to have the ceremony collide with the easter weekend. But of course.

We got to Mongu two days early- I'd recruited Rich early on in Namibia to attend with me, and neither of us had much of an idea where we'd be arriving to, going to, or doing, really. Mongu seemed dead at first glance, at the brink of its biggest annual event. We'd pre-booked a hotel, not realising we could've easily camped, and paid an extortionate amount for a room.

On Friday, we got picked up randomly by a hung-over policeman, who gave us a tour of the still-deserted Limulunga palace, and, oddly enough, the local abattoir. Hmm. Call me paranoid, but I always get a bit suspicious when a stranger takes me to a slaughterhouse. Later on, I strolled to the harbour, full of excited Zambians wearing all sorts of Kuomboka paraphernalia. The crowd was certainly getting into the whole thing, and even I gave in and bought a special chitenge.

On the main day, we got to the harbour early, with a bunch of American whipper-snappers, and hired a boat to the island of Lealui- the slowest thing ever. I was worried we'd miss the whole thing, but I don't think I've still quite grasped how late everything starts. We saw the massive barges, complete with the elephant on the top for the king's barge, and a bird for the queen's one. ( I was sadly disappointed that the catering barge did not have a massive knife and fork on top) The king arrived, and everyone went mad- people rushed to follow him through the island to his barge, and it was hilarious- the walkway is reserved for the king only, and as the island is flooded, people were stuck in mud, negotiating reeds and looking filthy. We saw the barge off, and went to find that our boat had gone- the guy probably got a better price from someone else. We stood there for a bit, feeling lost and sunburnt, until we eventually hitched a ride from another boat- we left some of the others behind, but on that island, it was every man for himself.

The barge arrived to Limulonga in an insane hassle- it felt more like a football match or a rock concert- although the atmosphere was jubilant, it all felt just a bit too commercial, with sponsorship flags flying around, radio stations having their own little platforms and shows going on.....and the entrance fee. Yes, an entrance fee to view a traditional ceremony. Bollocks.

Tens of thousands of people pushed to get as close to the water as possible, and as we were in Zambia, a lovely bunch of strangers pushed me in the front, as “this is the only Kuomboka you'll see, madam”, which I though was sweet. The barge went up and down, the dozens of leopard-clad paddlers showing their skills, and everyone cheered; I was going deaf from all the noise. The king disembarked in a cloud of dust, walked up to Limulonga palace, with the crowd pushing and cheering, and then it was all over. I bought a few baskets, again for the house I don't have, and tried to push in to see the palace. No such luck. Oh well.

A restless night later in a room with no running water, and after I refused to pay the full amount, we were in a coffee shop by the bus station waiting to go back to Lusaka once again, on another 8-hour journey (although no punctures this time). I flicked through my photos, and thought about all the things I will do differently in the next Kuomboka. It is, despite the heat, frustration and the cost, still something I'd do again- it is still an amazing experience, and if given the chance, go.

Welcome to the Next Tick-Box, Honey

28th March- 8th April

I left Namibia on a hot, packed bus, clutching a box of cheesecake and feeling slightly sunburnt, heading back to Livingstone, and my African motherland, Zambia.

Now, I wasn't hugely excited to come back to Zambia, but I did have a nice few weeks planned- it didn't include any working, eating nshima or fighting with men who wanted to pinch my bum. In fact, I was going to chill out in Livingstone a few days, see the falls again, and go to Mongu in the Western Province to see the famous Kuomboka ceremony. All planned, scheduled- well, scheduled a bit too much for my liking, but I am quickly running out of time-, and, hopefully, executed. Two weeks in Zambia, bye bye, off to Tanzania. Great, sorted. I think.

I keep going back to Vic Falls, because I'm a sucker for a bargain. Normally the falls cost 10 USD to view, but because I am a Zambian, I only pay about thirty cents, so really, there's no reason not to go. It was, however, Rich's and Fred's first time there. Unfortunately, we couldn't see anything. Nothing. We were faced with an impenetrable white wall of mist, through which you couldn't see anything. We crossed the rickety bridge linking the two sides of the falls, and, interestingly, I nearly drowned crossing the bridge, although it is about hundred metres above the actual river. Hmm.

Just as we were about to head for the Kuomboka ceremony, we met Liam and Gavin, few guys we'd run into in Tsumeb, who kindly informed us that the most important traditional ceremony had been moved because the original date did not suit the president's schedule.... Welcome to Zambia, I thought, and we quickly made plans to kill the week in between. We headed to Lusaka first, after I'd given Rich a long lecture about the reliability of Zambian buses, and how they never break down.
An hour after we left Livingstone, we had a puncture. Hmm. Seems Hanna's notoriously bad luck from Namibia was transferred to Rich.

Lusaka, Lusaka. The kids almost broke our backs when we got back to Chawama, jumping all over Rich and I, going through my bags looking for presents and generally screeching, dancing, and showing off all their new tricks; I loved it. It was at least good to be back in Chawama, seeing the family, and the new baby, Gracious, who was born while I was in Namibia.

To make matters more complicated (because, of course, travel in Africa can never be straightforward) it was my 30th birthday the following week, and I did not want to spend it in the dusty, hot Lusaka. So off to Siavonga we went, and two more punctured tyres later there we were, by the beautiful, lush Lake Kariba. I really just wanted a quiet room where I could spend a few days crying, feeling old, and feeling sorry for myself, mourning for my lost youth and lost opportunities. But it is hard to feel sorry for yourself in such a stunning setting, eating yourself silly and going on sunset boat rides. And in a way it doesn't change anything.
It will still get to you, even if you swear, kick and scream.
I am lying about my age from now on.
So I spent the 5th April making deals with the devil, cursing, crying and raging.
But the old age and the 6th came anyway.
Welcome to the next tick-box, honey.

And as far as 30th birthdays go, I had a great one. I sat by the pool by the palm trees, ate, swam and did nothing, and went on a sundowner boat ride with a bottle of sparkling wine.

And then it all ended, but surprisingly enough my life didn't, and in the hands of a mad minibus driver, we got back to Lusaka, and bought tickets to Mongu, killing a few days eating exotic food (read: no nshima) and spending time with my family. It's all coming to an end, but quite nicely so.

What Was Lost in the Desert

(and what was gained)

What happens when you combine three blond Finnish girls, a strange welsh man, a temperamental 4x4 called Imogen, and a gay Zambian alcoholic albino giraffe (inflatable)? A four-and -a-half week road trip across Namibia, of course. Duh.

I hitchhiked to Windhoek from Livingstone with a broken finger, Fred, and two apples for lunch. Nineteen hours,1500 kilometres and two drunk Zambian truck drivers later, I got to see the first city lights in over six months. It was worth it.

After celebrating Rich's 30th in a Cuban bar and generally being drunk for a few days, we walked across every suburb in Windhoek looking for the rental company where we would pick up our first car, little blue Edith, who would be our mobile home for the next two weeks. Oh the excitement- suddenly, I was not confined to the motorways and bus schedules, but we were free to go anywhere- anywhere!
We ended up driving back and forth to the airport nine times over the next few weeks. Oh, joy of freedom.

Hanna had sprained her ankle, and as she was arriving a few days late, Rich and I needed something to keep us busy for the initial days without taking us too far from the delights of Windhoek airport. So we drove to Usakos, where Nick lives, a Peace Corps guy we met in Windhoek, and who promised to lend us his tent, and he kindly let us camp on his backyard for our first and last night of the trip. Nick, in turn, set us up with his volunteer friend Eric in Marienthal, and Eric then set us up with Paddy and Jacob in Luderitz- so it went, and I slept on more Peace Corps sofas than I'd set out to. Fantastic.

Rich and I drove to Harnas animal sanctuary, east of Windhoek, truly off the backpacker track, and it is (seriously) one of my highlights ever. I got to cuddle one-month old baby lion cubs and play with their slightly older mates. I needed to be dragged out kicking and screaming. At each animal-related stop Rich checked to see how many baby animals I'd stowed in the boot. He still hasn't found the baby cheetah in my bag.

Hanna arrived, sans bags, so we drove back to the airport again to pick up her stuff the next day. By then, I was well and truly ready to leave Windhoek as far behind as possible, and so we headed south, with no particular plan, intending to stop before the South African border. Or maybe not.

Too many wonderful and fabulous things have happened to actually list them all, but the highlights (and lowlights) have been plenty. A lot of sitting in a hot car, listening to random German-sounding radio stations, writing journals with wobbly handwriting, resting our eyes and playing car-related games, staring blankly ahead, lost in thoughts, making mustard sandwiches on bumpy roads that are not even listed on maps, getting stuck in mud, getting lost, getting stuck in sand, getting stuck in small towns called Solitaire or Hardap (which, by the way, means nipple in Nama language) and meeting new friends, all of whom have been photographed with our inflatable giraffe, Fred.

Susanne arrived two weeks into the trip, and we returned Edith and picked up the four-wheel, Imogen, and headed west and then north. We camped at Sossusvlei, and I got to photograph my heart out in Dead Vlei, a strange pan in the middle of the desert with dead tree trunks and lots of orange sand and blue sky. We did extreme sports in Swakopmund, camped in the middle of nowhere in a place with no name (simply mapped out as “Mile 108”) on a windy beach, drove through the remote skeleton coast with nothing but shipwrecks and seals. We saw ancient cave paintings in Twyfelfontein, and crossed the border into Angola illegally (OK, only for a few minutes or so...) after watching the huge, impressive Ruacana falls right by the edge, with no one else around. We introduced the inflatable giraffe to live ones in Etosha National Park and watched a lion pass our car by, non-plussed and magnificent.

The moment I nearly ripped my lonely planet into tiny pieces- when we drove an entire day to the middle of nowhere to look at “famous hot springs”, the Ai-Ai's- It was the size of a child's paddling pool with a squirt of hot water. Letdown of the year.
The moment when I felt a bit breathless- when we drove from Aus to Luderitz, on an empty road through the desert, with purple mountains in the hazy horizon and wild horses grazing along the side of the road, in a fairytale setting.
The moment when I actually was breathless- when Susanne and I jumped out of an airplane in Swakopmund, into the vast desert, aiming for the circular rainbow below us.
The moment when I couldn't stop laughing- when we stayed at Quiver Tree forest in Keetmanshop, and I rode Fred on a trampoline, in a slightly timburton-ish strange spiky forest, watching a sunset so orange no photo-shopped picture could ever match it.
The oddest thing- watching sunset over the huge Fish River Canyon, drinking a glass of red wine with Hanna, and getting strangely tipsy so that we giggled the whole way to the campsite, and Rich threatened to leave us in the desert for the hyenas.
The scariest moment in Namibia- when we went to the bottle shop in Windhoek on Saturday afternoon and were told we couldn't buy beer until Monday- sales for alcohol closed at 1pm.

The last few nights have been spent in Tsumeb, eating pizza and not doing much else, and back in Usakos, where we returned the tent to Nick. Back here in Windhoek, it feels like the end of something, and a bit sad, although we are all needing our own space now, and heading to different directions- Susanne back home to Finland, Hanna to Mozambique, Rich and I to watch the Kuomboka ceremony in Zambia. But there's still time to get the inflatable giraffe drunk, one more time. There is always time to get an inflatable gay Zambian albino giraffe drunk.

Oh, and what was lost in the desert? Any desire, intention or need to go back to Europe for another 9-5 recruitment job, for over-priced flats, wineglass coasters, dinner parties, queuing, late-train announcements, high heels or office Christmas parties. And so I'm not really coming back, not really, not for longer than I have to- I want to be back in Africa by September/October, and then go somewhere else, anywhere else. It's amazing what a good sunset can do to you.

Solace of the Familiar

The day of leaving Lusaka finally came; the last party at the school- I rode to work in a rickety minibus, wearing a brand new red chitenge dress my tailor had made specifically for the occasion, and holding a huge pot of cake dough- I'd been planning on making cup cakes for my students, but even on my last days, Zambia didn't let me down; the oven broke just as I finished mixing the ingredients the night before. The catering students fussed over me and made the cakes, whilst ushering me out of the kitchen. Christine, our star student, orchestrated everything, and came up to me, hugged me, and said, "Maaret, me, I like you." (this is how Zambians speak- "Me, I'm tired. Me, I'm hungry. I hate it, but have noticed that me, I do the same thing now).

I was presented with a present, a huge oil colour, and the students put on some music and danced. They shrieked when I pulled Dennis, our mechanics teacher to dance along- there's a strict hierarchy in Zambia and teachers are to be respected- they can't possibly have fun! They were delighted to see their computer and mechanics teachers dancing like paralysed frogs. I gave a small thank-you speech, and much to my surprise, felt my throat go a bit tight; I think I've focused so hard on making travel plans that I never thought it might be hard to leave. Some of the students came over to be photographed with me, and as they thanked me for all their teaching, I thought, yeah, maybe they have learnt something. I always thought I was a crap teacher, impatient and demanding, but I do have a large set of students who five months ago hadn't ever seen a computer, and were now doing Absolute Cell References on Excel. So maybe it wasn't all wasted time after all.

Sunday my Zambian family and I organised a small goodbye dinner. It's not final goodbyes yet, as I will be going back briefly in April, but all the same, it felt sad to pack up my little concrete room and donate my gumboots to Purity. The kids, Prince, Maleleko, Claire and Thabo put on a dance performance for me, and we took a great video of everyone dancing. They all want to come to England with me, and I have to fight the urge to take them, which is odd, as I've never been particularly fond of children. I'm so excited about travelling, but having had a home of some sort in Lusaka, it is strange and sad to leave it all, again. Routines are scary- you hate them, but miss them when they're gone. They have a certain comfort in them.

But Monday I felt different. It was a bright, sunny day, and I nearly cried with happiness when the bus started to head out of Lusaka. Sari, Kirsi and Esther came along to Livingstone, and we spent a few happy days lounging by the pool (a holiday! I'd forgotten how great it is!) and doing various activities- I went on a microlight flight over the Victoria Falls, which was indescribable- one of the most amazing natural sights in the world, and I'm flying over them close enough to feel the spray from the falls, watching hippos and elephants grazing along the banks. We all went bungy jumping, as we are all turning thirty in the next few months, and really, what to do if you're 30, single and unemployed? Throw yourself off a bridge, of course. I added a gorge swing to it, and after checking my bank balance, decided against the abseiling. (but if anyone out there wants to give me a 30th birthday present, I'll email you my account number).

Livingstone was pure escapism. I had to do no actual travelling apart from taking a bus from Lusaka, and I ate nothing that was prepared from maize- I talked to other backpackers, and no one asked me how many children I have. Life was good, easy and fun for three days.
Then the girls left for Lusaka, I nearly broke another finger, and Namibia happened. But that's a story that needsa whole another day to be written.

Last Thoughs on Lusaka

When I left our centre on Friday, fighting my way in the dusty heat into town, occasionally beating a leering man with my umbrella, I suddenly realised I only have to walk there and back five times- an incredibly uplifting thought, as I hate walking to Kanyama, and especially hate the narrow road leading there- but then again, by next Friday I'll be free. I felt like a prisoner whose sentence was nearing its end. Suddenly, the sun seems a bit brighter.

Last Saturday, I stayed at Beata's place in Chilanga, a little outside of Lusaka. We sat on her door step, in the middle of trees and bush and green stuff, watching a thunder storm so far away in the Western plains that it didn't even make a sound. The insects buzzed, and the day finally cooled. I twirled my red wine, Beata smoked, and we sat there in a companionable silence, staring into the distance. Beata shares my intense dislike for Lusaka, and so it's almost acceptable to hate it; it's not just me being bitchy. We both feel bored and numbed by the exhaust fumes, the rudeness, the boringness of it all. She's jealous. I'm leaving, and I couldn't stop smiling. She waved her hand dismissively towards the little house (very nice, with a washing machine which she graciously let me bring weeks' worth of laundry along) and to the general direction of Lusaka. Fluttering around in her red dress, she looked like an exotic caged bird.

A while ago, I went to a party by a relatively famous Zambian singer, Matthew Tembo, (Nice party, free food and drink- my backpacker heart positively sang out) and met a Canadian teacher, working in the American secondary school in Lusaka. She was surprised I didn't like Lusaka; she didn't think it was "any better or worse" than a lot of other places. Sure, but then again, she lived and worked in the two nicest, leafiest suburbs in Lusaka, Kabulonga and Woodlands, and drove her air-conditioned 4x4 between the two, had a swimming pool, a maid, all mod cons and a lot of disposable cash. I'm sure you can make your life nice anywhere, and if I was here long-term, so would I. But for now, I live in a compound with no shower, most days no water at all, no trees, a leaky tin roof, next to a noisy pub. I fight with over-charging bus conductors, fiend off people who want money, want me to buy something, want to simply touch me (my umbrella's completely bent from beating men) I eat maize porridge twice a day, every day, and hand wash my clothes, waiting up to four days for them to dry in the rainy season. I can't remember what it felt like to eat salad or just nip to the shop for a chocolate. But still, as an experience, I wouldn't swap it- maybe it's the Finnish masochism, or the English "mustn't grumble" in me, but I'm glad I didn't live the same life in Lusaka as all the dozens of pampered EU or UN workers. It's been wonderful to see how people really live.

But even if I had worked in an air-conditioned office with a broadband, and lived in Kabulonga, I doubt I'd feel different. Lusaka is still, essentially, a boring provincial town, with no cultural scene, where pubs empty at 8pm and people are rude. Although most of Zambia is interesting and beautiful, Lusaka will never be on my list of "places to return to", nor would I recommend it to anyone There's so much more to see in Africa- as I'm hopefully about to discover next week.

How to Catch a Criminal

Just before Marianne, my Finnish friend, went back home, her backpack was stolen in Manda Hill, from Subway (out of all places), from under her seat as she was telling Sari and me about her plans for her last week.

A complicated, week-long pursuit commenced. She received a call from a man, who had, allegedly, found her belongings- nothing valuable (of course) such as her Mac laptop or brand new mobile, but small things such has her calendar, work permit and note book. After many trips to the police station, many meetings with the Manda Hill security company, and a trap was set- Marianne was to arrange a meeting with the mystery man outside one of the shopping mall's fast food outlets, and the plain-clothed security staff would be watching (It all came down to the private security company; the police's official statement was, How could you have been so stupid?). A man came, tall, thin and nervous, and he desperately wanted Marianne out of the public and into his car. The security guards jumped on him as he got hold of her, smacked him around in the full view of rich housewives doing their mid-morning shopping, and dragged him into the office where he was shoved around a little more, slapped and kicked, and then asked for his name and eventually questioned.

Marianne was obviously a bit shaken up by it all, and as Sari was due to leave for Chipata, I stayed with her a few nights, which I didn't mind, as they live in a nice area and have a hot shower. The family renting the place to her didn't seem too alarmed to find out the keys to the gate and house were missing, since they had, after all, performed voodoo on the premises to keep the thieves out, so they were pretty sorted.

When I got home to Chawama, and the drip-drip-drip of the tap, Purity told me her phone had been stolen from the kitchen counter where she'd left it lying for a moment. And that night, I couldn't find my favourite T-shirt, and after turning the whole place upside down, I noticed quite a few things missing- such as my credit card, an emergency $20 note (which had been stashed away in my spare bag while I was in Malawi), some more clothes and various other bits, such as my thermal socks (who takes socks? Old socks?) and a nearly-finished shower gel.
I mean, seriously.
I was incredibly pissed off, not so much for losing the stuff, but that someone had had the nerve to go through all my stuff, choosing what they might get away with, and seeing what they like, as if my backpack was a bloody Sainsbury's.

Sunday I walked through Chawama's main road, on the way to meet Beata. It had rained for days, and the path was completely flooded; a small passageway had been cleared next to a very loud pub, and it included stepping onto the terrace of the bar- a narrow way, barely wide enough for one person to cross at a time. As I passed, a tall man decided to start passing at the same time from the opposite direction. What an arse, I thought, he can see there's only enough room for one person. He squashed quite close to me, lost his balance, and fell knee deep into the puddle. I walked on as two young boys suddenly run up to me, shouting, madam, madam, your phone's gone. The tall man took it.
What, I said. I can be painfully slow in situations such as this. I felt for my pocket, and realised it was empty.
And then that horrible, empty feeling sinks straight down to your knees when something is so irretrievably gone. But really, I'd had enough- I'd spent enough time in police stations, feeling sorry for myself and my friends, and I ran back to the pub, asking everyone if they'd seen the face of the man who passed me on the path.
Sure, I saw him, said one of lads, a local drunk who spends his entire life on that terrace. He was, quite surprisingly, very upset on my behalf, and gathered a few guys around him, taking me from one pub to the next, looking for the thief. When we finally found him, he had the nerve to claim that he'd simply found my phone in a ditch, demanding for money as a "reward"- the outraged blokes with me were demanding my phone back, and when he looked away, I simply snatched it, before a huge fight broke out between Us and Them. I set off again, and after the first bend in the road, the thief ran up to me, grabbed my arm and started demanding 10,000 kwatcha from me again, and by that time, I'd had well and truly enough, and did something I didn't even think I was capable of- I turned, jumped, and in one sharp kick to his stomach (not unlike Karate Kid or similar) I knocked him on the ground. I'd had enough of being an ATM to every single Zambian who felt like they could just take whatever they liked. Sure, I was late and still fuming when I met Beata, but in an odd way, I felt better getting my phone back than losing the money and the clothes. After all, my phone is almost as important to me as my favourite T-shirt.

The Week in a Life of a Volunteer

Ever looked back at something, thinking it was just so odd? As my time in Lusaka is rapidly nearing it's end, the oddness of everything seems to have trebled. I keep seeing things that I wish I could just tape and bring home; maybe they're just strange to me, but the life here has kept me quite amused.

On Monday night I loll on the sofa. The children are sitting on the kitchen floor eating from a huge communal plate- they are not allowed to eat in the dining table with the adults. A Nigerian film is on, and Purity is engrossed. I write my journal. Suddenly, she perks up. I've always wanted to go on one of those, she says, and points at the screen. I look up at the screen. What, I say, to a shopping mall? No, she says, one of those moving stairs. She jabs her finger on the screen, and at the escalator. Suddenly it occurs to me that there are no escalators in the whole country, not even at the airport.

I go to get my toiletries bag from my room, and two huge cockroaches climb out and scurry under my bed. I throw away my toothbrush, and scrub the bag so long the colours come off.

Tuesday Prince, who is eight, asks me if I have some paper. He loves to draw and is currently using a back of a receipt to draw a tortoise. Sure, I say, and tear out about fifteen pages of my notebook. I go to get a glass of water, and as I come back, he is gone. Five minutes later, he runs back in with Claire, his cousin from next door. Look, he says, and points at the blank papers to Claire. Look at all this paper auntie gave me. He is positively glowing with happiness of all the blank drawing paper.

Thursday I supervise an exam. The class is silent, and the girls leaf through the exam sheet. A mobile phone rings, and one of the students, Faidess, picks it up and heads to the door. I tell her to put the phone away, and to switch it off. She looks at me, incredulously. Sit down, I say, and she cannot understand why she can't take a break from her exam in order to call her friends. Another girl, Anastasia, beckons me over. She points at question number five, "What is banquetting?". I don't understand it, she says. I tell her she needs to define the meaning of banquetting. She says, this is what I don't understand. Can you tell me what it is? I tell her that I can't, because I would then be giving away the answer. She looks at me, her face blank. I don't want you to tell me the answer, she says, I just want you to tell me what banquetting means.

I leave my work in an old pair of gumboots, and the ubiquitous love songs blear out from every passing minibus and pub, of which there are plenty in the compounds. I have a constant soundtrack of sad love songs following me, which does nothing to improve my sad romantic outlook in life, and for once, I wish they would just turn all the music in Lusaka off, off, off.

Saturday I meet Beata, my friend, who, for all her sins, volunteers in a convent ran school. One of the sisters offers me lunch, and as I squeeze the maize into a tight ball in my palm, she chats to me about the school. She is smiley and intelligent, and it is quite funny to watch her expression change when she finds out I'm an atheist; she is well into her forties, and I am the first atheist she's met. She quizzes me for over half an hour, and I answer patiently. She cannot understand it. And that I have no desire to be converted? No. And my parents? Don't go to church either? No. She looks defeated and deflated. I cannot believe you are an atheist, she says. You're so nice.

Sunday night Theo calls from Mazabuka, inviting Beata and I to visit for another weekend. He is excited. They have four new engineers, all young single men. Theo is about sixty, and desperately wants to "see Maaret happy and with a nice chap". I laugh and tell him we can come and visit in a few weeks, but no, I'm still not looking. He is upbeat and tells me there is a guy I'll just love. I tell him, jokingly, to send me a picture, before I commit to a whole weekend. He laughs and I hang up.

Five minutes later, my phone beeps and a photo of four smiling young men appears. I turn my phone off, laughing, and go to sleep.

....But a Black January...

In January, everything is quite bleak. It is, by far, the most boring month; people return to their offices, bleary and depressed, to find that the tinsel that circles their desk and which looked so festive last month simply seems tacky and cheap now. Christmas is over; no more early finishes and bottles of wine being passed around the office- New Year has started, and despite all the resolutions, it looks scarily just like the one before. The credit card bill has arrived, prompting even more empty promises. In London, people who have partied through December, turn sombre, opt to have quiet evenings at home, saving money, saving their livers, making promises to finally change their lifestyle, only to forget it all by February. They are suddenly "serious" about their careers (note: not jobs, careers) and the sales of veggies and organic yogurt explode. The gyms are bursting at the seams but no one wants to go out anymore. London hibernates.

Coming from Finland, where January is the coldest, darkest month, it's no surprise I've always hated it. I used to plan trips to somewhere, anywhere, just to keep me from that terrible, never-ending January. In Zambia, it's not so different. I came back from Malawi a bit late, to find an unusual buzz of activity. And I realised. People were actually working. I could almost hear the non-existent phones ringing, and the faxes we've never had humming. It seems that after a lazy November and December, everyone had copious amounts of work to be done. Even the budget that has lain on the desk for months, half-done, is finalised. Everyone is busy; agendas are being drawn, meetings scheduled. On the first day back, I received more payments than I had done in the whole of November (I tend to double up as a sort of an accountant sometimes as well as a teacher- both being jobs which I know nothing about, nor particularly enjoy), and people had to queue to get to mine and Oscar's tiny office. I wish they could keep this up the whole year. It'd definitely be the first step towards self-sufficiency; seeing people work hard and take responsibility.

But even though the sun shines unseasonably hot in Lusaka, January stretches on indefinitely. I remember looking at my journal back home and knowing January would be the toughest month- my last full month in Zambia, and there is already an air of finality about. Everyone seems to be moving, all the volunteers, all the foreign students, even the people I met in Malawi who work in Zambia and were just there to spend Christmas like me. They all seem to be back in Zambia only to pack up their stuff and catch a flight home. Everyone is restless; this is the New Year and it's time to move on. Focus is no longer in work, but in the next venture- backpacker's hostels around Southern Africa are filling up again, and I hear more phrases like, "Have you been to Livingstone yet? You should really go to South Africa!", and things are positively stirring. Most of my friends have left, Hanna to the Malawian bush, Marianne almost home now, Sari to Chipata and even Beata is whizzing about the neighbouring countries. I'm alone but it's ok; I'm planning my next move to Namibia, and also gradually, though very gradually, I'm starting to think (or fear) finding a flat in London. I think about my favourite coffee from my favourite over-priced coffee shop, and how great it's going to taste, I think about the temp agencies I'll approach. I think about the pub along the Thames which I really like, where you can sit with a book and a glass of wine forever and no one will hassle you. I miss the London men never approaching me; I can't believe I used to moan about it. It's going to be great.

But first, the important part: travel. Namibia, Tanzania, Kenya, and who knows what else I'll come up with. I'm really not in a much of a hurry to get home, but just to be moving again.

A Pretty Good Year

We spent over a week by the stunning Lake Malawi, all through from Boxing day and the gap-week (Finnish name for the week between Christmas and New Year) until New Year. I left on the third; Hanna stayed. I don't quite know how I spent all the days- I didn't read any of the books I'd brought, nor did I write in my journal; but the days flowed past, easy and fast.

New Year's Eve was nice (what a horrible word, nice, boring and full of air) but nothing unusual; a big party, on the sun deck overlooking the lake, and later, at a bar in town. All the backpackers brought out their most flattering and cleanest clothes, long-forgotten make up bags, and I helped Amanda straighten her hair, and Sari lent me her eyeshadow. We felt gorgeous. Everyone got drunk, nearly missed the stroke of midnight, danced, stayed up till dawn whilst sending random texts to loved ones back home. It was just a party, but it was a party in Malawi, and I'm sure that in years to come, I'll look back and think of it fondly.

On our last day, we went on a boat trip, Hanna, Sari, I and a few Dutch, few Danish people. I'm not much of a water person; I've never been interested in diving, and I don't care much about swimming, but went along anyway, to do cliff jumping. Cliff jumping is exactly what it sounds like- you climb up to the amazingly sharp rock formations along the lake, and jump off into the water. I went to the highest summit, of course, with the boys (it's always with the boys; never with the girls. At home, I don't even have many male friends. Odd.), stared into the crystal clear water, scared and still, and ran off it.
Being airborne in any way is the most fantastic feeling- there's nothing quite like it. When I hit the water and sank, I opened my eyes and looked around, and everything was turquoise and bubbly, and I felt weightless and happy.
Back at the hostel I went to comb my hair and almost didn't recognise the girl looking back at me- this one was tanned, blond, slimmer and glowier, and turning thirty this year, in Africa, alone, but finally feeling good about it.

I stayed in Lilongwe a few days after the arduous bus journey from the north, mainly because I didn't feel like going back to Lusaka just yet. I sat drinking and talking shit with the guys at the bar, and during the day I went sightseeing and shopping at the markets with a lovely Irish girl Evie. Lilongwe is far more pleasant than Lusaka- cleaner, greener and friendlier, and somehow much less affected by the western culture. I bargained at the carver's market, and bought bookends for the house I don't have, and, quite unknowingly, beads which are meant to signal fertility (a guy at the hostel told me this, but he might have made it up to get everyone laughing). Anyway, it doesn't matter; I've come to expect the unexpected; after all, I never thought I'd ever spend Christmas in Malawi.
So far, it's turning out to be a pretty good year.