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.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Monday, 13 April 2009
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.
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.
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.
Friday, 27 March 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 20 February 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 30 January 2009
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.
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.
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