We enter Uganda by land on a bus bound for Kampala. We're getting off well before then however, at the town of Kabale near Lake Bunyonyi. Entering a country by land is so much more gritty and real than landing at an anodyne airport. Borders, like ports, seem to attract some of life's less agreeable and less fortunate creatures, especially during the long walk between border posts where you've left one country but still haven't been allowed in the next. We made it safely through however, exchanged our remaining Rwandan Francs for Ugandan Shillings (at a terrible rate), paid our $50 visa fees and jumped back on the bus.
Lake Bunyonyi lies in the south west corner of Uganda and we are staying on one of the islands at a place called Byoona Amagara. We first make a brief stop in Kabale to stock up on cash and grab some lunch. I decide to try one of the local delicacies called a rolex. No, I'm not trying to 'watch' what I eat; a Ugandan rolex is basically an omelette with some chopped tomato and onion, rolled up in a chapati. I tell you what, you don't need dessert after one of these!
A rainshower briefly delays our boat trip out to the island where we book in to our geodome. This is a small, round, thatched roof dwelling that is open to the elements, facing out to the lake. A bit like a man-made cave. So, nature has an open invitation but tucked up inside our mosquito net it makes for a very pleasant night's sleep. Before retiring I test out just how cold the cold showers are. Now, we don't mind cold showers subject to two conditions: a) the weather is warm and b) the water isn't at freezing point. This place fails on both counts so we postpone our showers until the morning. Hot showers here require an hour's notice as water is heated above an open fire, carried down to the showers, poured into a bucket suspended above the cubicle and mixed with cold until the requisite temperature is reached. Quite a process but worth the wait.
After two days of doing little other than admiring the views, strolling round the island and playing on the swings, we head back to Kabale and book ourselves onto the Post bus for the next morning. This is literally the bus that carries the post but with passenger seats above the cargo hold. These are relatively reliable and safe and hence quite popular. In response to a request from the conductor, a passenger offers a short prayer to bless our journey, then we're off. The bus is heading to Kampala but we're getting off at Mbarara to catch a matatu up the West of Uganda past Queen Elizabeth Park and through Kasese to Fort Portal (or Port Fortal as Jo keeps calling it). The whole journey is only 360k but it takes us 11 hours, including two brief stops for refreshments and myriad stops for who knows what.
We've come to Fort Portal mainly to visit Kibale (pronounced Chee-bally) national park to track chimps. We've got 5 days up here though so we decide to have a night or two by one of the crater lakes before heading to the park. The place we've chosen to stay is run by a pastor who, ostensibly, uses the money to fund an orphanage nearby. We choose the 'honeymoon suite' mostly because it's less smelly than the normal bandas. Lunch, ordered 90 minutes in advance, still comes 90 minutes late. By now we've met the only other folk staying here; four very friendly Dutch girls. They tell us that: their banda was so dirty they had to clean it themselves, the food is always a couple of hours late, the orphanage is a complete mess and the pastor is definitely a bit weird. None of that was on Trip Advisor! We make our excuses, order a taxi and hotfoot it out of there to a lovely place on the edge of Kibale forest called Chimps Nest. The girls follow.
We have yet to procure tracking permits for our visit to the chimps but decide to just rock up to the park gates early the next morning and see if we can rustle a couple up. Getting there is best achieved by hiring a boda-boda (motorbike taxi). Unlike Rwanda, these do not come with helmet included but, having bargained him down from 20k to 12k (£3) we both get on, hold tight and bump our way over the unmade roads to the park. His name is Moses so we shouldn't have a problem with any water hazards. So, why 'boda-boda'? These began life as a means to transport people between border posts. Border to border. Boda boda.
We obtain our permits no problem from a serious looking official who swiftly pockets my 724,000 Ugandan Shillings without even counting it. There are only 8 chimp-loving tourists in total and we're split into two groups. We're with two English blokes and our guide is called Geoffrey, which he pronounces 'Joffrey'. After two hours walking the only chimps we've seen were about 100m away at the top of a very tall tree. Soon after however Joffrey gets a call on his radio and we're off. 'Rush, rush' he calls as he careers through the forest ahead of us. I'm leading the chasing group, trying to keep up as we're whacked by branches, stung by nettles and scratched by thorns. Every few minutes Joffrey stops and points at a barely visible hairy black shape before it scampers off again. Eventually the small group of 4 chimps decide they've had enough fun with the humans and settle down in a clearing. This allows us to watch them for an hour grooming, stretching and playing. There's an infant who won't sit still and tumbles over his mum while she tries to grab a nap. Lovely. We learn later that the other group (of humans) returned home without success.
We leave Chimps Nest, return to Fort Portal and board a bus headed for Kampala. This time we're going all the way. Kampala is a mix of some fairly pleasant areas and the usual chaos typical of African capitals. We argue with several taxi drivers over the fare to our hotel and, in disgust, end up walking it with our packs. Marabou storks abound in Kampala, congregating in disheveled groups with their hunched shoulders and manky feathers, in trees and on buildings, scavenging the rubbish. The next day we explore Kampala before heading out to Red Chilli Hideaway where we will begin our 3 day trip to Murchison Park.
There are 9 of us packed into the minibus the next morning for our journey north-west to Murchison where we will view the famous falls close to where the Victoria Nile meets the Albert Nile. (Had these been named a couple of centuries later I guess they may have been the William Nile and the Kate Nile.) We are comforted to learn that there are 4 doctors on board (2 couples) including 2 Scots - the first we've met this trip. Our numbers are made up by a mother and son of Maori descent and a bloke from Puerto Rico called Norbert. Having viewed the magnificent falls from above, the next afternoon we take a boat trip up the Nile to see them from below, meeting plenty hippos and crocs on the way. There's something deeply satisfying and relaxing about cruising down the (White) Nile and imagining its journey North, meeting the Blue Nile at Khartoum before continuing to its Mediterranean destination.
The next day we make the long trip back to Kampala and Red Chilli where it seems every night is pizza night. Our next destination is Sipi falls in the foothills of Mount Elgon, not far from the Kenyan border. We head off in the morning, quickly reaching Jinja where we grab a bus to Mbale. This journey should take 2 hours but we make a grave error and get on a shambling old wreck of a bus populated by a colourful array of shambling old Ugandans. It can't go very fast, stops continually and even gets pulled over by the police. It's filled with so many hawkers I begin to wonder if it's not so much a bus as a mobile shopping centre. After nearly 3 hours we've only gone 60k and it's clearly not moving anywhere until it fills up again. Despair sets in.
We decide to jump ship, foresake our 20k Shilling fare and take our chances flagging down a matatu on the main road. On our way there a well dressed Muslim gent beckons us to follow him. He takes us to the road, parks us in the shade, gets us a matatu and refunds half our fares, giving me 10k out of his pocket! We're almost too dumbstruck to thank him but gratefully climb on board and before long we've hit Mbale and bartered a taxi to our destination, a place called Crow's Nest.
The Sipi river makes its descent over three waterfalls, one of which we can see from our veranda. Despite the falls being quite low at this time of year, the scenery in this area is probably the most beautiful I've seen on our whole trip. To make the most of it we hire a guide and take a hike around all the falls, across farms, through villages and up hills. Stunning. We sit by a stream a watch a young man tether his cow and clean its udder (keeping the thirsty calf at bay) before milking it while it munches on a pile of plantain stalks. The little houses here are neat and pretty and fit well with a landscape that reminds me of scenes from Little House on the Prairie. We come across millet yeast drying in the sun that will be used to make the local brew. This is drunk from a large pot by 5 or 6 men arranged uniformly around it, sat on chairs sucking on 6 foot straws. It resembles a giant hookah with multiple pipes and appears a very sociable pastime!
We return to our cabin which is excellent value at $14 a night for a private room, hot showers and free tea. The meals are pretty tasty too and also super cheap. We have the tomato curry with side veg and chapatis, all for $2 each. The next morning we can't resist taking another walk with our guide Joseph, this time to the forest at the base of Mount Elgon. I'm already planning a return trip to climb the mountain one day - a 5 day round hike to reach the 4321m summit.
Seeing Africa close up, a pattern strikes me in the activities I observe. Children play, women toil and men idle. A gross generalisation of course but with a fair dose of truth too. The women also carry the burden of children, with the average family producing about eight of the little darlings. Yes, 'average' of 8. Joseph tells us he has 9 brothers and 7 sisters but he had to count up first. Of course this is made possible by the practice of solvent men being able to afford polygamous relationships. In one part of Uganda, when a man marries, his brothers swear that upon his death, one of them will marry his widow. You don't see too many old people here but plenty children, many of whom demand 'pen, sweet, money' as we pass. There's a national campaign presently to reduce family size to prevent hunger and improve education but a large family is an indication of social position so change will come slowly.
We return to Jinja where we stay two nights and enjoy an excellent curry and a lovely pizza. I will definitely have to get back to running when we're home. We use the time to catch up with some practicalities and plan our last few days in Uganda. I also decide to nip out for my final African haircut. I am looked after by a young lad who is less a barber than a precision engineer and he sculpts rather than cuts my hair. He views the result with pride and tells me that I'm even more handsome now than when I arrived. All for $4, flattery included.
We decide to head up to a place called Hairy Lemon (named after a Dublin pub) set on a tiny island in the middle of the Nile at the end of the world-famous rapids. There's pretty much nothing to do here unless you're a competent kayaker so we read, play Scrabble and admire the two proud cockerels strutting around their territory. The night is clear and the sky full of stars as we stare up at Venus and Jupiter hanging out together, watched over closely by the orange glow of Mars. We listen to the frog and insect orchestra's throbbing symphony from our cottage patio before retiring and drifting off to sleep. Sometimes just being is so much better than doing.
Our final stop is Entebbe, 40k south of Kampala, where we will stay for one night and a full day before catching our late, late flight home at 40 minutes after midnight on the early, early morning of St. Patrick's day. We've been in Africa for just over 5 months, visited 5 countries, seen countless animals, traveled on all manner of local transport, met some lovely people and only been robbed twice. We've slept on the banks of a river, in tents, on a train, in the jungle, at a small mansion, several mud huts, a geodome and an island on the Nile. Africa can, at times, can get you down - the flies, heat and dust combined with hard traveling and haggling. However, there is nowhere on earth more colourful - the people, the wildlife, the scenery. Africa does get under your skin - even when you don't like it, you can't help but love it!
If I had to sum up why this trip has been so wonderful in one word, it would be 'animals'. The lemurs in Madagascar, the big game in Kenya, the birds in Tanzania, gorillas in Rwanda and chimps in Uganda. Madagascar is the most unique of these countries, Rwanda the most developed and Uganda the most beautiful. Tanzania wins the prize for sun, sand and snorkeling while Kenya has tremendous diversity. I think we've 'done' Madagascar and Kenya having spent 8 weeks in each but I would return to the others, especially Uganda. Kenya, I'm afraid, gets the wooden spoon as the least friendly, most corrupt place we've been and with elections due later this year I fear for its immediate future. The friendliest people we met were the Ugandans. I've never in my life exchanged so many pleasantries!
We're excited about going home but deeply grateful for the privilege of having been able to have these experiences. I'm grateful also to each of you for taking the time to read my ramblings. Thank you. We have survived Africa, thrived on Africa and loved Africa. It's time to go home.....until the next adventure; happy travels!
Robert
Saturday, 17 March 2012
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Gorillas in the Mist
Our Boeing 737-500 Rwandair flight from Dar es Salaam makes its approach to Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. Rwanda is known as the country of a thousand hills and we can certainly see a decent proportion of them from our lofty position. Rwanda is of course also known for the horrific genocide that took place in 1994, when 1,000,000 people were killed in just 100 days. These events are portrayed in the movie Hotel Rwanda, which tells the story of the man who saved over 1,000 lives by sheltering both Tutsis and moderate Hutus in Hotel des Milles Collines - hotel of a thousand hills. Perhaps the greatest tragedy of all is that most of the lives lost could have been saved, had the 'developed' world chosen to intervene. It didn't. We didn't. The UN troops on the ground were denied permission to use force and when 5,000 troops were sent in it was solely to evacuate the foreigners. It is estimated that had that same number of troops been deployed against the genocide, there wouldn't have been one.
Rwanda has recovered from those dark days in remarkable fashion. Their leader and President is Paul Kagale who was part of the Tutsi rebel force back in 1994. However, since being elected he has refused to dwell on past differences and speaks only of Rwandans as one people. Indeed, it is taboo to even ask someone about their tribal background here. This country is significantly more progressive than any other African country we've been to. The infrastructure is impressive, there seems to be much less corruption, there's a positive vibe about the people and taking public transport doesn't have me mentally checking my Will! They've even banned all plastic bags, the use of which is illegal.
Kigali is a pretty cool place to hang out and has some very decent restaurants to tempt us in the evenings. Our first priority however is to purchase two gorilla tracking permits. I reserved these by email a few days ago but even then the first available date is one week hence, despite the price tag of $500 each. Only 56 permits per day are allowed and each of the 7 groups of 8 people are allowed only 1 hour in the presence of these stunning beasts. After a morning's fruitless search for the office where we buy the tix, we discover that it has moved to the edge of the city. Taxis are quite expensive and we're clueless about local buses so Jo happily despatches me onto the back of a motorbike taxi and agrees, generously, to wait in the cafe. I'm not a fan of motorbikes and normally would do anything to avoid clinging on to the back of one but here I felt safe; we even both had helmets!
Later that day we are the proud owners of two gorilla tracking permits and, for good measure, two golden monkey permits also; to whet our appetites on the day before. Procuring the tickets took all afternoon as I ended up having to get the same bike back into town, withdraw $1200 in cash and repeat the return journey as their Visa machine was out of order. The whole process ate up most of the day but as this was expected to be a highlight of our trip it was definitely worth the effort.
After a saddening but educational visit to the genocide museum, we take a bus west toward the border with the DRC ('Democratic' Republic of Congo) where we will spend a few days relaxing by the shores of Lake Kivu. The journey offers gorgeous scenery, due mostly to the afore-mentioned hills. Much of Rwanda starts at a decent elevation but these hills are of the bumpy, rolling variety, bunched up together and causing our vehicle to navigate endless curves and inclines. They are also highly cultivated, lush and several shades of green. This gives an impression that someone has laid a patchwork quilt, or perhaps a knitted tea cosy, over the mounds of earth.
Our retreat on the banks of Lake Kivu enjoys splendid views across to DRC and we spend many hours in quiet reverie watching the scene before us. One of my favourite sights occurs each evening when the local fishing boats set off for their night's work, to return early the next morning. I've never seen boats like these. Three simple wooden boats, each about 10m long, are joined together laterally by wooden beams. At each end of each boat is a long wooden pole (also about 10m each) that droops at the end like a huge fishing rod, giving the combined craft the look of some kind of giant pond-skating insect. As if the sight of a dozen of these vessels making their way toward the sunset wasn't enough sensory stimulation, the fishermen sing and chant constantly, the sound carrying to us across the water until they eventually disappear from sight in the fading light.
Lake Kivu is one of the 20 most deep and voluminous lakes in the world. It is however also significant for another reason as it is prone to limpic eruptions. This phenomenon occurs due to there being large quantities of methane gas trapped under the volcanic rock that forms the bed of the lake. Should that gas escape due to a fault in the rock, then the billowing CO2 gas creates a tsunami on the surface and pushes the oxygenated air up leaving the heavier, unbreathable, gas on the surface. Consequently everyone and everything in the vicinity either drowns, suffocates or is poisoned by the gas. Take yer choice. It's believed that such eruptions have destroyed life around the lake about every 1,000 years. However, limnic eruptions did occur in two lakes in Cameroon as recently as the 1980's, killing nearly 2,000 people.
Our final destination in Rwanda is Parc National des Volcans, home of the rare mountain gorillas. We secure lodgings at Kinigi near the park entrance and pass the afternoon with a walk into the local village. This was a mistake. We were immediately surrounded by local youths who eagerly befriended us, professing their wish only to practice their English, but they disappeared like snow off a dyke when we declined their invitation to buy them a new football. Then the heavens opened and we sought shelter in the woods before finally reaching the market in the village centre. Now, we're quite used to being stared at after 5 months in Africa but this was at a new level. Most of the hundred or so people stopped what they were doing to gawp, giggle and glare at these strange beings. We set off home only to be again sequestered by another group of lads who, by some coincidence, also needed a new football.
The next day we visited the Golden Monkeys who were indeed golden and quite lovely to observe. However, at $100 a pop, it wasn't fabulous value. The main attraction was however yet to come - they were just the warm up act. That evening we hooked up with a Canadian couple to hire a 4x4 for the day ahead (another $100) and made our way to register at 7am at the park office, along with 52 other excited tourists. We were assigned to go and visit the Susa group, the largest, most diverse and most distant group of the 7 that have been habituated to human visits. Our group of 8 excited humans is made replete by two more Canadians and two Japanese. We will be together for 7 hours, one hour of which will be with the family of gorillas.
A bone-shaking journey in the 4x4 (they call it the African massage) takes us to where we start to hike up towards where the trackers have spotted the group. It's all uphill of course and at times hard going but I would hike all day for this experience. I manage to fall down a hole despite our guide's warning but only my pride is hurt and soon we are upon the group. The family Susa. Three silverbacks, many 'juveniles', mums and babies are all around us. They're occupying an area the size of a large English garden inside some fairly dense bamboo forest and it essentially feels like we're wandering around their home. We are supposed to remain 7 metres away at all times but the gorillas don't know this and run around us at close quarters. We are typically only a few yards away from the action: a copulating king silverback (with a less than willing female), a mother cradling a tiny infant, a toddler testing out his skills swinging on a low branch and the antics of the excitable juveniles. Two are wrestling noisily and eventually one gets the upper hand, pinning his mate upside down while chewing on his foot. Another pair have found a circle of bamboo are are furioisly chasing each other around and around it until a third intervenes to bring them crashing to a halt.
Being within their family group, observing all of this for an hour, was an utterly awe-inspiring experience. Such gentle, funny, intelligent creatures. If ever you get the chance to visit this part of the world please go and enjoy their company - you will never forget it. Oh, and go soon, the price goes up to $750 on 1 July!
We stayed over that evening at Musanze near the Ugandan border with ambitious plans to make our way to Kabale near Lake Bunyonyi the next day. There's little to tempt a visitor here but the evening was a success as we managed to find an excellent pizza restaurant just out of town. The next day we were ready to set off but...where are all the people? The town is almost deserted on a Saturday morning. It turns out that this is a 'public works' day when shops close and people instead go to do some public service work, apparently to improve the roads. You gotta hand it to these Rwandans but the upshot is that there's absolutely no transport out of town until the afternoon - an occupational hazard for the independent traveler. Unperturbed, we head back to Kigali, enjoy a top curry and prepare for the journey over the border to Uganda the next day; our final African destination.
We leave Rwanda with very fond memories of ten days spent in stunningly beautiful countryside, a capital city to be proud of and an experience with one of our closest biological relatives that was as humbling as it was magnificent. Three weeks, one country and one blog to go, then it's back to Blighty....for a bit. See y'all soon!
Rwanda has recovered from those dark days in remarkable fashion. Their leader and President is Paul Kagale who was part of the Tutsi rebel force back in 1994. However, since being elected he has refused to dwell on past differences and speaks only of Rwandans as one people. Indeed, it is taboo to even ask someone about their tribal background here. This country is significantly more progressive than any other African country we've been to. The infrastructure is impressive, there seems to be much less corruption, there's a positive vibe about the people and taking public transport doesn't have me mentally checking my Will! They've even banned all plastic bags, the use of which is illegal.
Kigali is a pretty cool place to hang out and has some very decent restaurants to tempt us in the evenings. Our first priority however is to purchase two gorilla tracking permits. I reserved these by email a few days ago but even then the first available date is one week hence, despite the price tag of $500 each. Only 56 permits per day are allowed and each of the 7 groups of 8 people are allowed only 1 hour in the presence of these stunning beasts. After a morning's fruitless search for the office where we buy the tix, we discover that it has moved to the edge of the city. Taxis are quite expensive and we're clueless about local buses so Jo happily despatches me onto the back of a motorbike taxi and agrees, generously, to wait in the cafe. I'm not a fan of motorbikes and normally would do anything to avoid clinging on to the back of one but here I felt safe; we even both had helmets!
Later that day we are the proud owners of two gorilla tracking permits and, for good measure, two golden monkey permits also; to whet our appetites on the day before. Procuring the tickets took all afternoon as I ended up having to get the same bike back into town, withdraw $1200 in cash and repeat the return journey as their Visa machine was out of order. The whole process ate up most of the day but as this was expected to be a highlight of our trip it was definitely worth the effort.
After a saddening but educational visit to the genocide museum, we take a bus west toward the border with the DRC ('Democratic' Republic of Congo) where we will spend a few days relaxing by the shores of Lake Kivu. The journey offers gorgeous scenery, due mostly to the afore-mentioned hills. Much of Rwanda starts at a decent elevation but these hills are of the bumpy, rolling variety, bunched up together and causing our vehicle to navigate endless curves and inclines. They are also highly cultivated, lush and several shades of green. This gives an impression that someone has laid a patchwork quilt, or perhaps a knitted tea cosy, over the mounds of earth.
Our retreat on the banks of Lake Kivu enjoys splendid views across to DRC and we spend many hours in quiet reverie watching the scene before us. One of my favourite sights occurs each evening when the local fishing boats set off for their night's work, to return early the next morning. I've never seen boats like these. Three simple wooden boats, each about 10m long, are joined together laterally by wooden beams. At each end of each boat is a long wooden pole (also about 10m each) that droops at the end like a huge fishing rod, giving the combined craft the look of some kind of giant pond-skating insect. As if the sight of a dozen of these vessels making their way toward the sunset wasn't enough sensory stimulation, the fishermen sing and chant constantly, the sound carrying to us across the water until they eventually disappear from sight in the fading light.
Lake Kivu is one of the 20 most deep and voluminous lakes in the world. It is however also significant for another reason as it is prone to limpic eruptions. This phenomenon occurs due to there being large quantities of methane gas trapped under the volcanic rock that forms the bed of the lake. Should that gas escape due to a fault in the rock, then the billowing CO2 gas creates a tsunami on the surface and pushes the oxygenated air up leaving the heavier, unbreathable, gas on the surface. Consequently everyone and everything in the vicinity either drowns, suffocates or is poisoned by the gas. Take yer choice. It's believed that such eruptions have destroyed life around the lake about every 1,000 years. However, limnic eruptions did occur in two lakes in Cameroon as recently as the 1980's, killing nearly 2,000 people.
Our final destination in Rwanda is Parc National des Volcans, home of the rare mountain gorillas. We secure lodgings at Kinigi near the park entrance and pass the afternoon with a walk into the local village. This was a mistake. We were immediately surrounded by local youths who eagerly befriended us, professing their wish only to practice their English, but they disappeared like snow off a dyke when we declined their invitation to buy them a new football. Then the heavens opened and we sought shelter in the woods before finally reaching the market in the village centre. Now, we're quite used to being stared at after 5 months in Africa but this was at a new level. Most of the hundred or so people stopped what they were doing to gawp, giggle and glare at these strange beings. We set off home only to be again sequestered by another group of lads who, by some coincidence, also needed a new football.
The next day we visited the Golden Monkeys who were indeed golden and quite lovely to observe. However, at $100 a pop, it wasn't fabulous value. The main attraction was however yet to come - they were just the warm up act. That evening we hooked up with a Canadian couple to hire a 4x4 for the day ahead (another $100) and made our way to register at 7am at the park office, along with 52 other excited tourists. We were assigned to go and visit the Susa group, the largest, most diverse and most distant group of the 7 that have been habituated to human visits. Our group of 8 excited humans is made replete by two more Canadians and two Japanese. We will be together for 7 hours, one hour of which will be with the family of gorillas.
A bone-shaking journey in the 4x4 (they call it the African massage) takes us to where we start to hike up towards where the trackers have spotted the group. It's all uphill of course and at times hard going but I would hike all day for this experience. I manage to fall down a hole despite our guide's warning but only my pride is hurt and soon we are upon the group. The family Susa. Three silverbacks, many 'juveniles', mums and babies are all around us. They're occupying an area the size of a large English garden inside some fairly dense bamboo forest and it essentially feels like we're wandering around their home. We are supposed to remain 7 metres away at all times but the gorillas don't know this and run around us at close quarters. We are typically only a few yards away from the action: a copulating king silverback (with a less than willing female), a mother cradling a tiny infant, a toddler testing out his skills swinging on a low branch and the antics of the excitable juveniles. Two are wrestling noisily and eventually one gets the upper hand, pinning his mate upside down while chewing on his foot. Another pair have found a circle of bamboo are are furioisly chasing each other around and around it until a third intervenes to bring them crashing to a halt.
Being within their family group, observing all of this for an hour, was an utterly awe-inspiring experience. Such gentle, funny, intelligent creatures. If ever you get the chance to visit this part of the world please go and enjoy their company - you will never forget it. Oh, and go soon, the price goes up to $750 on 1 July!
We stayed over that evening at Musanze near the Ugandan border with ambitious plans to make our way to Kabale near Lake Bunyonyi the next day. There's little to tempt a visitor here but the evening was a success as we managed to find an excellent pizza restaurant just out of town. The next day we were ready to set off but...where are all the people? The town is almost deserted on a Saturday morning. It turns out that this is a 'public works' day when shops close and people instead go to do some public service work, apparently to improve the roads. You gotta hand it to these Rwandans but the upshot is that there's absolutely no transport out of town until the afternoon - an occupational hazard for the independent traveler. Unperturbed, we head back to Kigali, enjoy a top curry and prepare for the journey over the border to Uganda the next day; our final African destination.
We leave Rwanda with very fond memories of ten days spent in stunningly beautiful countryside, a capital city to be proud of and an experience with one of our closest biological relatives that was as humbling as it was magnificent. Three weeks, one country and one blog to go, then it's back to Blighty....for a bit. See y'all soon!
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
From illegal alien to Mafia exorcism
It's Monday the 23rd of January and tomorrow will mark the 3 week deadline for my passport to arrive. Being British, one of course expects that 'maximum three weeks' means exactly that and by now we are definitely ready to leave Kenya. Leaving nothing to chance I decide to pay a visit to our chums at the British High Commission (BHC), to enquire about progress. I cheerily greet the first security guard in his booth but he just wearily looks up and taps the glass behind a notice just above me. This explains, to my surprise, that the passport desk has been closed with immediate effect and all enquiries must be made in writing. The desk will only open from 10-11 on Tuesday and Thursday for collection of documents.
This is not good news. I try to call my contact, Gladys, but I am told that calls are not put through to the passport department. I email and get an automatic reply repeating the message from the notice and informing me that my email will be immediately deleted! So, imagine, you're stranded in a foreign country and your High Commission - your supposed oasis and comfort blanket at times of stress - puts up the shutters, leaving you entirely in the dark and at their mercy. Indeed, the standard email reply states that passport applications will take 12 weeks. Not 3.
My last hope of gaining any information is to email the passport office back home. Their automatic reply informs me that a response may take up to 10 days and I am now feeling quite abandoned as a loyal subject of HM. Miraculously though, a reply pops up the next day informing me that my passport will arrive in 1 week. Hope springs eternal and washes away my previous doubts. On the spur of the moment we decide to pass the remaining days on the island of Lamu, to which the FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) are not recommending travel following recent kidnappings. But, really, what else could go wrong?!
Lamu is a mostly Muslim island and Lamu Town has changed little over the centuries. The pint-size town is a labyrinth of very narrow streets where the only vehicles are donkeys. These sad looking, pot-bellied beasts are employed as labour and transport and are a constant feature as you walk around. Sightseeing as you walk is a dangerous occupation however as there are a few obstacles that require your attention. First, the town still has open drains waiting to trap your foot in the flowing effluent. Second, there are droppings of donkey poo liberally scattered around. Third, and this is the one that catches you out whilst staring down at your feet, is the ever-present risk of being run down by a speeding donkey. Some of the locals zip around on these animals like medieval boy racers. I didn't notice any go-faster stripes but these donkeys have a turn of speed that belies their less than aerodynamic shape.
We're staying at the Jambo House run by a friendly German called Arnold. We spent the first few days calling him Arthur which did seem quite un-Teutonic in retrospect. There are very few tourists in Lamu due to the perceived threat from pirates and terrorists but actually we feel entirely safe (except from the donkeys). The African Nations Cup is in full swing and showing each evening on the TV in the only bar in town (alcohol isn't served in many places). In one restaurant the waiter takes the trouble to teach us a rudimentary version of the local board game, Bao. Essentially you move 64 'beans' around 32 'holes' anti-clockwise whilst trying to win beans from your opponent. We played the kindergarten version which was complicated enough. As in any Muslim town one is awakened each morning by the haunting sounds of the Imams/Muezzins calling the faithful to prayer at 5am. This seemed to also stir the cockerels into action and their cries neatly filled the brief gaps while the Muezzins drew breath. An unlikely but strangely complementary duet.
The highlight of our time on Lamu was a lovely, peaceful trip on a dhow, a traditional sailing vessel. We had a brief snorkel while one of the crew went to catch some fish which the captain then expertly cooked on board. Even the vegetarian version of lunch was quite delicious, enhanced by the tranquil scenario around us. My day got even better when one of our fellow passengers said that her favourite bands were Throwing Muses and the Pixies! That took care of the conversation for the slow sail home.
Our joyful little break at an end we fly back to Nairobi to see what progress there may have been with my, by now, semi-mythical travel documents. I have been passportless for over a month and it really is quite an uncomfortable feeling. So, on the last day of January I head down to the BHC at 10am prompt to take full advantage of this brief window of human contact. After a short wait I give my name to the expressionless lady behind the desk and almost miss her mumbled reply 'yes, I think that came in today'. Well, the clouds parted, the angels blew out a fanfare and I gave silent thanks to those excellent folk in the passport office back home. New document in hand I managed to extricate from my mono-syllabic server that I would need to visit the Kenyan immigration office before my passport would be entirely kosher. Little did I know that the fun had barely begun.
I find the right office in the right building at about the third attempt after being directed to the 'aliens' entrance by an unsmiling soldier. I'm expecting a small office with a few friendly foreigners chatting away to pass the short wait for their visa stamps. Instead I find a scene of classic post-colonial African bureaucracy gone badly wrong; about 100 stressed punters, 13 windows to choose from and absolutely no information to guide me. Window 7 looks promising but he directs me to window 6 where a rude lady barks at me to go and see her boss 'round there'. I sheepishly enter the room I find to be treated like an errant 8 year old visiting the headmaster and sent outside to wait until I'm called. This guy should apply for a post in Guantanamo Bay such were his interrogation techniques. Upshot is that I need $50 to buy a visa and they won't accept local currency.
Having advised Jo of my predicament and sourced the $50 I return to the Hades-like environs of the Kenyan immigration office. Over the next 3-4 hours I am treated like an unwanted refugee and in turn ignored, barked at, sent to sit down, sent to a random window to be abused further and completely left in the dark. Worse, they took my passport and form and now no one knows where they are and suspect me of making the whole thing up! I am quite distraught at this point as I'm not sure I will ever see again the passport that I've just waited 4 weeks to apprehend! I'm sitting in a waiting area with 15 or so other desperate souls when an armed soldier is brought over by one of the besuited Beelzebubs masquerading as immigration officers. He waves his gun at a guy and demands his receipt. Now, they don't give receipts here as I already found out. In the absence of a receipt this guy is marched outside. This is repeated until they reach me. Maybe because I was the only white guy, maybe because I was looking so pathetically lost or maybe because I stood my ground, I was allowed to stay; after being sent to another window to receive my regular dose of abuse from a Kenyan Nurse Ratchett.
Then, out of the blue a bloke snaps his fingers at me and waves me to a wee room. There, a lady interrogates me with unanswerable questions so I decide to show her copies of my old documents that were stolen. 'Ah', she says, 'why didn't you show these to someone at the start. You could have saved us all this time!'. I just managed to stop myself from assaulting her as she was now brandishing the visa stamp that made me a legal alien for the first time in a month. I fish in my pocket for the $50 but she's saying that we're done. So, on top of everything else, the first guy was full of s**t - no money was required. It's now 4pm and I haven't had any sustainance since brekkie so dazed, confused and beleagured, I grip onto my hard won documents and devour a late, but celebratory, lunch.
That evening we book flights to Zanzibar and like freed fugitives we flee Nairobi the next morning, arriving at our lovely island destination by 9:30am, leaving behind our adventure-filled, much extended stay in Kenya. We now have less than 7 weeks to enjoy Tanzania, Rwanda and Uganda. Enough time to do all that we plan but only just so our remaining days in Africa should be thoroughly fun-packed!
Stone Town, the capital, is quite lovely - labyrinthian streets without the open drains and donkey poo. It's a very pleasant place to wander round with plenty shops and many very good restaurants, some of which even sell alcohol! There are also a few bars by the water-front where you can relax and watch the sunset before dinner. During our time here we sample 4 of the 5 best restaurants on Trip Advisor and generally have a very pleasant time.
We split our time between Stone Town and Matemwe on the other side of the island where we hear there are long beaches and decent snorkeling. Having been bumped around in taxi-brousses in Madagascar and matatus in Kenya, we are now introduced to the Tanzanian version, the Dala-Dala. These are designed like small cattle trucks and we are indeed squashed in like the afore-mentioned beasts. The name may change but these forms of transport, while being of great practical value, are nonetheless instruments of exquisite slow torture. We are already so tight-packed that, at least, I am insulated from the bumps in the road but, defying the laws of Physics, yet more bodies are somehow levered in.
The beach at Matemwe has sand the consistency of finely sifted flour. A delight for the tootsies. We spend lazy days around the beach, also enjoying a short but fruitful snorkeling trip. We notice that at low tide the shallow waters are peppered with local ladies, sitting down and harvesting what appears to be farmed seaweed. Then, as if prompted by some silent call, they start to make their way back to the beach, carrying bunches of seaweed that they have sown together. These are carried over and around their bodies giving them a look of sea-born sasquatches, emerging from their watery lair.
On the Dala-Dala back to Stone Town I muse on our travel ethos. On one hand we definitely use budget accommodation and often ultra-cheap local transport. But mixed with this we will treat ourselves to flights, nice restaurants and, when available, a decent bottle of plonk. What may appear at first to be an inconsistent approach to the backpacking life is actually a balanced and symbiotic set of travel tactics. For instance, taking Dala-Dalas instead of taxis saved us $84, booking our snorkel trip with a local saved $30 and taking a budget room with shared ablutions saved another $30. Other than occasional discomfort and a short walk for nocturnal bladder management, this approach not only funds our more luxurious choices but also usually yields some of our best experiences. Win, win, win!
The next morning we're up early for our flight to Selous Game Reserve on the mainland. Now, our previous journey to a safari park (Masai Mara) involved two 5 hour, frustrating, cramped journeys on local 'buses', sandwiching an unscheduled stay in a shabby, litter-strewn town. Contrast and compare dear readers. This time we are greeted by our friendly and professional pilot as we seat ourselves right behind the cockpit of the Cessna. Thirty minutes later he is escorting us across the apron of Dar airport where we are greeted by another friendly, professional (lady) pilot who whisks us to Selous airstrip. There we are met by representatives of Selous River Camp and jeeped to our destination. Chalk and cheese.
The camp is beautifully set and we're pretty much the only guests. The highlight of our stay is a 9 hour game drive through the excellent reserve. Now, we'd pretty much ticked every box on our 'must-see' list while in Kenya but this was still special. We saw dozens of dignified, imperial-looking giraffes, staring at us with a haughty look on their long faces so that you could almost imagine they were wearing pince-nez. Hundreds of hippos, watching us with their heads just out of the water before popping under if we got too close. Minutes later they'd pop back up, noisily blow out through their nostrils and endearingly waggle their Martian-like ears through 720 degrees to shake off the excess water. We saw our first wildebeests running around looking like some kind of fantastical designer horses and marvelled again at the hilarious warthogs staring stiffly at us before trotting off, tails up like radio antennae.
Selous is known for its excellent birdlife and this was indeed a treat. They boast many stork species including the comical yellow-billed and my favourite Maribou. We saw a black heron who hoods his wings around him like Dracula's cape to shade the water from the sunlight, thereby helping him see the fish. So many colourful birds; like the common bee-eater, delicate and slender, pink and crystal blue with gossamer thin wings; and the lilac-breasted roller with an array of colours that you would think fantastical were they not real. The highlight though was watching at very close quarters about 100 vultures devouring what was left of a poor impala. I can't look at these birds hopping around without thinking of the comical Liverpudlian group of vultures from the Jungle Book movie. These ones were however both vicious and efficient in their feeding, sometimes spreading their wings aggressively at each other when things got nasty. Meanwhile hordes circled above like a scene from a Western then a few would swoop down, undercarriage lowered, pitching unsteadily from side to side as they stretched out their feathery finger-tipped wings in preparation for landing at the feast.
Feeling in top form after a rare victory over Jo at scrabble and a stunning comeback at backgammon, we set off for the airstrip the next day ahead of our flight via Dar to the small, unspoiled island of Mafia. The name has nothing to do with horses heads, coming instead from long lost Arabic origins. Our plane arrives and we are welcomed by the pilot to find that we are the sole passengers on the aircraft. This is as close as we will ever come to having a private plane and we relish every moment of the 45 minute journey. Soon after arriving at Dar we're off again on the 30 minute hop to Mafia. There, we are greeted by our host, Carlos, who drives us the short distance to Whale Shark Lodge.
One of the main reasons for coming to Mafia is to swim with the whale sharks, the biggest fish in the world. Normally they are present in the waters just off the coast from where we're staying. However, like everything else in Africa, they're apparently not where they should be at the time they were expected. Each day we check for news from Carlos but are met with a shrug and a smile. Unperturbed, we spend a lovely day in the Marine Park that engulfs most of the island and its surrounding waters. We snorkel off a small local boat and are treated to beautiful coral gardens and a cornucopia of colourful fish. After a snacky lunch of samosas and chapatis we chill on Chole Island, enjoying the view, a beer and the company of our fellow snorkelers.
Despite being almost empty the staff at Whale Shark Lodge seem incapable of even the most simple tasks and go about their duties in a manner reminiscent of Fawlty Towers. 'Can we have some milk for our coffee?'. 'No, you should have requested it yesterday'. 'Why is our breakfast taking so long?' 'Because we're making their lunch'. We asked if they had a bottle of red wine. Despite boasting a significant wine list their answer was 'no'. I guided them to the bottle of Merlot that I'd earlier seen in the fridge and asked the price. I did this three evenings on the trot just for sport and got three different prices viz $20, $25 and $30. We considered them all to be poor value and ordered beer instead.
During our last night on Mafia I am awakened by demonic shouting and chanting that has an intensity that chills me to the bone. It's coming from no more than 20m away and I wonder who or what is the target of their hysteria. Eventually sleep finds me again, assisted by the significant quantities of local beer and SA wine we consumed the evening before in celebration of St Valentine's Day. The next morning I am reliably informed that the cacophony I heard came from a nocturnal exorcism, taking place in the neighbouring property. Spooky. Later that day we rock up for our flight to Dar with our chums from Coastal Aviation. There are 4 passengers including us and we squeeze, together with the pilot, into a wee 5 seater. Anticipating his question, my hand shoots up when he asks who wants to join him in the co-pilot seat. The 45 minute flight is an experience and a treat and I can cross off one more box on my TTDBID list.
So, the whale sharks stayed away and after a brief exploration of Dar es Salaam we must depart Tanzania with Rwandair Express to Kigali from whence we shall set off in search of the mountain gorillas and golden monkeys. Tanzania has been short but very sweet and I think we shall one day return to explore it further. For now, it's time to dig out my French phrase books again to help us through our short stay in tiny Rwanda. A bientot, mes amis. Merci pour votre attention.
This is not good news. I try to call my contact, Gladys, but I am told that calls are not put through to the passport department. I email and get an automatic reply repeating the message from the notice and informing me that my email will be immediately deleted! So, imagine, you're stranded in a foreign country and your High Commission - your supposed oasis and comfort blanket at times of stress - puts up the shutters, leaving you entirely in the dark and at their mercy. Indeed, the standard email reply states that passport applications will take 12 weeks. Not 3.
My last hope of gaining any information is to email the passport office back home. Their automatic reply informs me that a response may take up to 10 days and I am now feeling quite abandoned as a loyal subject of HM. Miraculously though, a reply pops up the next day informing me that my passport will arrive in 1 week. Hope springs eternal and washes away my previous doubts. On the spur of the moment we decide to pass the remaining days on the island of Lamu, to which the FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) are not recommending travel following recent kidnappings. But, really, what else could go wrong?!
Lamu is a mostly Muslim island and Lamu Town has changed little over the centuries. The pint-size town is a labyrinth of very narrow streets where the only vehicles are donkeys. These sad looking, pot-bellied beasts are employed as labour and transport and are a constant feature as you walk around. Sightseeing as you walk is a dangerous occupation however as there are a few obstacles that require your attention. First, the town still has open drains waiting to trap your foot in the flowing effluent. Second, there are droppings of donkey poo liberally scattered around. Third, and this is the one that catches you out whilst staring down at your feet, is the ever-present risk of being run down by a speeding donkey. Some of the locals zip around on these animals like medieval boy racers. I didn't notice any go-faster stripes but these donkeys have a turn of speed that belies their less than aerodynamic shape.
We're staying at the Jambo House run by a friendly German called Arnold. We spent the first few days calling him Arthur which did seem quite un-Teutonic in retrospect. There are very few tourists in Lamu due to the perceived threat from pirates and terrorists but actually we feel entirely safe (except from the donkeys). The African Nations Cup is in full swing and showing each evening on the TV in the only bar in town (alcohol isn't served in many places). In one restaurant the waiter takes the trouble to teach us a rudimentary version of the local board game, Bao. Essentially you move 64 'beans' around 32 'holes' anti-clockwise whilst trying to win beans from your opponent. We played the kindergarten version which was complicated enough. As in any Muslim town one is awakened each morning by the haunting sounds of the Imams/Muezzins calling the faithful to prayer at 5am. This seemed to also stir the cockerels into action and their cries neatly filled the brief gaps while the Muezzins drew breath. An unlikely but strangely complementary duet.
The highlight of our time on Lamu was a lovely, peaceful trip on a dhow, a traditional sailing vessel. We had a brief snorkel while one of the crew went to catch some fish which the captain then expertly cooked on board. Even the vegetarian version of lunch was quite delicious, enhanced by the tranquil scenario around us. My day got even better when one of our fellow passengers said that her favourite bands were Throwing Muses and the Pixies! That took care of the conversation for the slow sail home.
Our joyful little break at an end we fly back to Nairobi to see what progress there may have been with my, by now, semi-mythical travel documents. I have been passportless for over a month and it really is quite an uncomfortable feeling. So, on the last day of January I head down to the BHC at 10am prompt to take full advantage of this brief window of human contact. After a short wait I give my name to the expressionless lady behind the desk and almost miss her mumbled reply 'yes, I think that came in today'. Well, the clouds parted, the angels blew out a fanfare and I gave silent thanks to those excellent folk in the passport office back home. New document in hand I managed to extricate from my mono-syllabic server that I would need to visit the Kenyan immigration office before my passport would be entirely kosher. Little did I know that the fun had barely begun.
I find the right office in the right building at about the third attempt after being directed to the 'aliens' entrance by an unsmiling soldier. I'm expecting a small office with a few friendly foreigners chatting away to pass the short wait for their visa stamps. Instead I find a scene of classic post-colonial African bureaucracy gone badly wrong; about 100 stressed punters, 13 windows to choose from and absolutely no information to guide me. Window 7 looks promising but he directs me to window 6 where a rude lady barks at me to go and see her boss 'round there'. I sheepishly enter the room I find to be treated like an errant 8 year old visiting the headmaster and sent outside to wait until I'm called. This guy should apply for a post in Guantanamo Bay such were his interrogation techniques. Upshot is that I need $50 to buy a visa and they won't accept local currency.
Having advised Jo of my predicament and sourced the $50 I return to the Hades-like environs of the Kenyan immigration office. Over the next 3-4 hours I am treated like an unwanted refugee and in turn ignored, barked at, sent to sit down, sent to a random window to be abused further and completely left in the dark. Worse, they took my passport and form and now no one knows where they are and suspect me of making the whole thing up! I am quite distraught at this point as I'm not sure I will ever see again the passport that I've just waited 4 weeks to apprehend! I'm sitting in a waiting area with 15 or so other desperate souls when an armed soldier is brought over by one of the besuited Beelzebubs masquerading as immigration officers. He waves his gun at a guy and demands his receipt. Now, they don't give receipts here as I already found out. In the absence of a receipt this guy is marched outside. This is repeated until they reach me. Maybe because I was the only white guy, maybe because I was looking so pathetically lost or maybe because I stood my ground, I was allowed to stay; after being sent to another window to receive my regular dose of abuse from a Kenyan Nurse Ratchett.
Then, out of the blue a bloke snaps his fingers at me and waves me to a wee room. There, a lady interrogates me with unanswerable questions so I decide to show her copies of my old documents that were stolen. 'Ah', she says, 'why didn't you show these to someone at the start. You could have saved us all this time!'. I just managed to stop myself from assaulting her as she was now brandishing the visa stamp that made me a legal alien for the first time in a month. I fish in my pocket for the $50 but she's saying that we're done. So, on top of everything else, the first guy was full of s**t - no money was required. It's now 4pm and I haven't had any sustainance since brekkie so dazed, confused and beleagured, I grip onto my hard won documents and devour a late, but celebratory, lunch.
That evening we book flights to Zanzibar and like freed fugitives we flee Nairobi the next morning, arriving at our lovely island destination by 9:30am, leaving behind our adventure-filled, much extended stay in Kenya. We now have less than 7 weeks to enjoy Tanzania, Rwanda and Uganda. Enough time to do all that we plan but only just so our remaining days in Africa should be thoroughly fun-packed!
Stone Town, the capital, is quite lovely - labyrinthian streets without the open drains and donkey poo. It's a very pleasant place to wander round with plenty shops and many very good restaurants, some of which even sell alcohol! There are also a few bars by the water-front where you can relax and watch the sunset before dinner. During our time here we sample 4 of the 5 best restaurants on Trip Advisor and generally have a very pleasant time.
We split our time between Stone Town and Matemwe on the other side of the island where we hear there are long beaches and decent snorkeling. Having been bumped around in taxi-brousses in Madagascar and matatus in Kenya, we are now introduced to the Tanzanian version, the Dala-Dala. These are designed like small cattle trucks and we are indeed squashed in like the afore-mentioned beasts. The name may change but these forms of transport, while being of great practical value, are nonetheless instruments of exquisite slow torture. We are already so tight-packed that, at least, I am insulated from the bumps in the road but, defying the laws of Physics, yet more bodies are somehow levered in.
The beach at Matemwe has sand the consistency of finely sifted flour. A delight for the tootsies. We spend lazy days around the beach, also enjoying a short but fruitful snorkeling trip. We notice that at low tide the shallow waters are peppered with local ladies, sitting down and harvesting what appears to be farmed seaweed. Then, as if prompted by some silent call, they start to make their way back to the beach, carrying bunches of seaweed that they have sown together. These are carried over and around their bodies giving them a look of sea-born sasquatches, emerging from their watery lair.
On the Dala-Dala back to Stone Town I muse on our travel ethos. On one hand we definitely use budget accommodation and often ultra-cheap local transport. But mixed with this we will treat ourselves to flights, nice restaurants and, when available, a decent bottle of plonk. What may appear at first to be an inconsistent approach to the backpacking life is actually a balanced and symbiotic set of travel tactics. For instance, taking Dala-Dalas instead of taxis saved us $84, booking our snorkel trip with a local saved $30 and taking a budget room with shared ablutions saved another $30. Other than occasional discomfort and a short walk for nocturnal bladder management, this approach not only funds our more luxurious choices but also usually yields some of our best experiences. Win, win, win!
The next morning we're up early for our flight to Selous Game Reserve on the mainland. Now, our previous journey to a safari park (Masai Mara) involved two 5 hour, frustrating, cramped journeys on local 'buses', sandwiching an unscheduled stay in a shabby, litter-strewn town. Contrast and compare dear readers. This time we are greeted by our friendly and professional pilot as we seat ourselves right behind the cockpit of the Cessna. Thirty minutes later he is escorting us across the apron of Dar airport where we are greeted by another friendly, professional (lady) pilot who whisks us to Selous airstrip. There we are met by representatives of Selous River Camp and jeeped to our destination. Chalk and cheese.
The camp is beautifully set and we're pretty much the only guests. The highlight of our stay is a 9 hour game drive through the excellent reserve. Now, we'd pretty much ticked every box on our 'must-see' list while in Kenya but this was still special. We saw dozens of dignified, imperial-looking giraffes, staring at us with a haughty look on their long faces so that you could almost imagine they were wearing pince-nez. Hundreds of hippos, watching us with their heads just out of the water before popping under if we got too close. Minutes later they'd pop back up, noisily blow out through their nostrils and endearingly waggle their Martian-like ears through 720 degrees to shake off the excess water. We saw our first wildebeests running around looking like some kind of fantastical designer horses and marvelled again at the hilarious warthogs staring stiffly at us before trotting off, tails up like radio antennae.
Selous is known for its excellent birdlife and this was indeed a treat. They boast many stork species including the comical yellow-billed and my favourite Maribou. We saw a black heron who hoods his wings around him like Dracula's cape to shade the water from the sunlight, thereby helping him see the fish. So many colourful birds; like the common bee-eater, delicate and slender, pink and crystal blue with gossamer thin wings; and the lilac-breasted roller with an array of colours that you would think fantastical were they not real. The highlight though was watching at very close quarters about 100 vultures devouring what was left of a poor impala. I can't look at these birds hopping around without thinking of the comical Liverpudlian group of vultures from the Jungle Book movie. These ones were however both vicious and efficient in their feeding, sometimes spreading their wings aggressively at each other when things got nasty. Meanwhile hordes circled above like a scene from a Western then a few would swoop down, undercarriage lowered, pitching unsteadily from side to side as they stretched out their feathery finger-tipped wings in preparation for landing at the feast.
Feeling in top form after a rare victory over Jo at scrabble and a stunning comeback at backgammon, we set off for the airstrip the next day ahead of our flight via Dar to the small, unspoiled island of Mafia. The name has nothing to do with horses heads, coming instead from long lost Arabic origins. Our plane arrives and we are welcomed by the pilot to find that we are the sole passengers on the aircraft. This is as close as we will ever come to having a private plane and we relish every moment of the 45 minute journey. Soon after arriving at Dar we're off again on the 30 minute hop to Mafia. There, we are greeted by our host, Carlos, who drives us the short distance to Whale Shark Lodge.
One of the main reasons for coming to Mafia is to swim with the whale sharks, the biggest fish in the world. Normally they are present in the waters just off the coast from where we're staying. However, like everything else in Africa, they're apparently not where they should be at the time they were expected. Each day we check for news from Carlos but are met with a shrug and a smile. Unperturbed, we spend a lovely day in the Marine Park that engulfs most of the island and its surrounding waters. We snorkel off a small local boat and are treated to beautiful coral gardens and a cornucopia of colourful fish. After a snacky lunch of samosas and chapatis we chill on Chole Island, enjoying the view, a beer and the company of our fellow snorkelers.
Despite being almost empty the staff at Whale Shark Lodge seem incapable of even the most simple tasks and go about their duties in a manner reminiscent of Fawlty Towers. 'Can we have some milk for our coffee?'. 'No, you should have requested it yesterday'. 'Why is our breakfast taking so long?' 'Because we're making their lunch'. We asked if they had a bottle of red wine. Despite boasting a significant wine list their answer was 'no'. I guided them to the bottle of Merlot that I'd earlier seen in the fridge and asked the price. I did this three evenings on the trot just for sport and got three different prices viz $20, $25 and $30. We considered them all to be poor value and ordered beer instead.
During our last night on Mafia I am awakened by demonic shouting and chanting that has an intensity that chills me to the bone. It's coming from no more than 20m away and I wonder who or what is the target of their hysteria. Eventually sleep finds me again, assisted by the significant quantities of local beer and SA wine we consumed the evening before in celebration of St Valentine's Day. The next morning I am reliably informed that the cacophony I heard came from a nocturnal exorcism, taking place in the neighbouring property. Spooky. Later that day we rock up for our flight to Dar with our chums from Coastal Aviation. There are 4 passengers including us and we squeeze, together with the pilot, into a wee 5 seater. Anticipating his question, my hand shoots up when he asks who wants to join him in the co-pilot seat. The 45 minute flight is an experience and a treat and I can cross off one more box on my TTDBID list.
So, the whale sharks stayed away and after a brief exploration of Dar es Salaam we must depart Tanzania with Rwandair Express to Kigali from whence we shall set off in search of the mountain gorillas and golden monkeys. Tanzania has been short but very sweet and I think we shall one day return to explore it further. For now, it's time to dig out my French phrase books again to help us through our short stay in tiny Rwanda. A bientot, mes amis. Merci pour votre attention.
Saturday, 21 January 2012
A game of Hungry Hippos after tea?
Jambo!
On the second day of 2012 we leave the Kenya coast and head inland to Nairobi where we will spend a few days getting back on our feet and sorting out a new passport for me. Our original plans would have taken us into Tanzania at this time but of course all that has now changed. Nairobi, ironically, is often referred to as Nai-robbery so possibly the last place we should be going; but needs must.
The fco (foreign and commonwealth office) website explains that it can take up to 12 weeks to have a new passport delivered to Kenya. My plan is therefore to visit the BHC (British High Commission) to get temporary travel documents so that I can fly home, get a new passport then return to Kenya. Once through the significant security checks I learn that actually passports can be processed in 3 weeks so I order one up ($250!). Apparently since 2010, passports require such high technology to be manufactured that they are now only made in the UK. My application first however has to be processed in Pretoria.
On my way to the BHC I purchased a local newspaper, the Daily Nation. I ask the man how much it is and he says '50 Bob'. It wasn't that he'd guessed my name but rather that here they still use the old name for a shilling that was common in Britain until decimalisation. At home, I rarely read newspapers but I've become somewhat hooked on the local press as it provides a tremendous insight into local life, culture, politics and humour. The agony Aunt section is required reading as are the dating adverts (apparently being God fearing is the top requirement; no requests for gsoh). However, there are a couple of top stories that won't have hit the BBC that are worth sharing here.
'Hippo victorious in battle with villagers baying for its meat'. The headline kind of tells the whole story but let me illuminate a little further. Hippos are 3.5 tons of gorgeous animal that spend their days in water to avoid their skin cracking, often walking along the bottom where they can hold their breath for up to 5 minutes. At night they come on shore to graze and walk around. They are quite aggressive and very dangerous. More humans are killed by hippos than any other animal. This hippo had a wee baby that had got stuck in the mud so as day broke mum had to remain on land to protect it. In the UK this would bring oohs and aahs all round but here a stranded hippo is the next week's dinner for the whole village. Luckily the villagers were armed only with stones and batons which were no match for an angry mum the size of a small armoured vehicle. Before long the KWS (Kenya Wildlife Service)intervened to save the animals but not before having to send for armed police to protect themselves from the hungry/angry locals!
The other story has been running for weeks. The deputy Chief Justice in Kenya is Nancy Baraza. Now, position and hierarchy are much more deeply ensconced in the national psyche here than at home but there's pressure for that to change, corruption to end, all citizens to be equal etc. These are big topics for the elections due later this year. Nancy obviously felt above the law however as she walked past the mandatory security check on entering a shopping mall. The brave security lady followed her to a chemist shop and insisted she be searched. According to her testimony Nancy refused to be searched ('don't you know who I am'), squeezed her nose hard (a Laurel and Hardy moment), threatened her with a gun and allegedly told her bodyguard to shoot her. Well, the papers have been having a field day ever since and it looks like she'll be suspended unless she resigns. Meanwhile the security guard has become a bit of a folk heroine.
So we spend the next few days planning the next few weeks and sorting out new credit/debit cards, new driving licence etc, before taking an 8 hour bus journey to Kisumu, Kenya's 3rd largest town that sits on the Eastern shore of Lake Victoria. Kenya has only a small piece of this huge lake, the rest being split between Uganda and Tanzania. Kisumu is safe and quiet compared to Nairobi but not what you'd call pretty. It's amusing however to observe the shadows of old Britain still visible here. The train station still has a machine for 'platform tickets', men typically wear a shirt tucked into flannel trousers and proper shoes ('only children wear shorts'), they love to fill in forms before mercilessly stamping them into submission and they even like their beer to be warm.
We next head east to Kericho, famous for its tea plantations. We stay in a local hotel that has notices explaining that 'couples not in wedlock cannot share a room' and 'no alcohol allowed in the room'. Oh well, 0 out of 2 for us then. The news today carries stories of imminent terrorist attack from the al-Shabab group resulting from the Somalia situation near the Kenya border - we decide to stay out of Nairobi for as long as possible. We spend our day at the Tea Hotel, originally built by Brooke Bond and quite a grand building, crumbling a little now but still with magnificent views across the plantations. They've since sold the hotel but still own a small plantation which we visit with our guide. Fun as this was, we really wanted to visit a factory and with some persuasion an appointment is made for 10am the next day at Kapchebet tea factory.
We arrive at the factory and are introduced to the boss and his production manager. We learn a great deal about the tea business in Kenya and discover that James Findlay and Unilever are two of the larger operators here. The factory process itself is simple but fascinating. Lorryloads of bags of freshly picked tea leaves arrive at the front and are emptied into long troughs where they are wilted or dried, losing 20-25% of their moisture. From here they are chopped up by 4 consecutive machines, each making the pieces smaller. The smell here is like someone just mowed your lawn whilst making you a very large pot of tea. The mulch then moves slowly along the conveyor belt, fermenting as it goes, which changes the colour, smell and temperature. Then it's cooled and dried before being sorted and packed.
The pickers can pluck their body weight in tea leaves in a day and each kg sells to the factory for 20KSh (about 15p). So a picker yields about 1000KSh of which they probably get about 300. The dry tea that we are all familiar with weighs less than a quarter of the picked leaves, such is the loss of moisture during the process. Kenya is the 3rd biggest tea producing country in the world and makes some of the best quality which is then usually blended with Indian tea by the manufacturers. We finish our visit back with the boss and learn more about his challenges over a nice cuppa (except they always use hot milk here). One of the worst but infrequent risks they have is frost which recently destroyed most of a crop in a neighbouring county.
Before leaving Kericho I venture into a local barber for a haircut. Spotting a chance to overcharge a customer I'm whisked through the queue to a waiting chair and a clearly nervous young man. He sets about me with the clippers but has obviously never cut a white customer's hair before as he's running the clippers in the wrong direction which is giving me a look that Johnny Rotten would have approved of. I ask how many 'Mzungus' he's had in before (nil, I reckon) and explain the proper method. This yields much better results but he's attacking my hair in the most haphazard manner. Once it reaches an acceptable state I am ready to escape as he hovers over me with a gelled-up Phillishave and hot towel. I asked him 'how much', he hesitated, looked very sheepish and said '500KSh'. I asked if this was a 'special' price and he reddened (quite an achievement) as he nodded. I paid up though as the experience was worth it. That evening we grab a beer and a few games of backgammon in the safer of the two local bars. We are a real curiosity as foreign visitors are few enough but ones that pop into this boozer for a beer are clearly as rare as uncorrupted Kenyan coppers.
A hair-raising (sorry) and overall unpleasant matatu ride takes us to Nakuru where we stay the night before heading up to Robert's Camp on scenic Lake Baringo. The matatu is stuffed as usual despite assurances otherwise and we're fast having a humour bypass for all this nonsense. The locals are afraid of the conductors, drivers and touts who are basically bullies, and therefore don't back me up when I complain loudly. We change to a smaller matatu in a tiny village. On boarding we're told (by 'Captain John') that the fare is 150. We know it's 100 but his mate backs him up. Another local (an unfeasibly tall bloke called Eric) takes us aside and confirms the price is indeed 100. We board the vehicle which has 8 seats and only two others on board. They only depart when full and this is clearly not a popular route, so we buy the remaining 4 seats as well as our two, offering to pay the required 600 KSh (£4). Captain John is still insisting it's 150 a shout but a thoroughly impatient Jo shouts at him 'we know it's 100 so you can just save your breath mate'. The other two passengers are in stitches, Captain John is a beaten man and we head off to our destination. The 'Empire' fights back eh?!
Robert's Camp is set on the edge of the lake and by day you can watch hippos munching the long grass in the water whilst keeping an eye out for crocodiles. Watching the hippos eat I'm reminded of the old game 'Hungry Hippos' and realise for the first time how accurately it reproduced the way they eat. Their upper bite does indeed just open and close constantly as they hoover down huge quantities of grass. There's no fence between the lake and the cabins so you have to sign a waiver before you can stay there. We are escorted back to our cabin after dinner and warned to be very careful when popping out for a nocturnal pee. This advice is invaluable as I find out at 3am when I open our door to see two hippos barely 5 feet away doing a fine job of mowing the lawn. They pull up the grass with their lips and you hear them well before you see them. Which is just as well as they can outrun a human and could literally bite your head off with their huge powerful mouths. An awesome sight and worth the trip for them alone.
On the way back to Nakuru we again have to argue the toss to pay the correct fare but we get on and await departure. While waiting a lady comes up to me and says 'are you strong in your relationship?'. Pardon? 'Maybe you have some.....problems?'. She says this with body language which conveys the Kenyan equivalent of nudge-nudge, wink-wink. I then realise she's carrying a plastic container of what looks like Castrol GTX but I assume is some Viagra-like elixir that she thinks I may require. I politely decline, explaining that maybe her target audience is sitting next to me.
We're heading for 3 nights at the Masai Mara now and need to get an earlyish matatu to Narok where we'll change for a 2pm connection. We're told the journey is 3 hours so we board at 9:30 to allow for delays. We leave an hour later and discover that this route takes us over roads that wouldn't be out of place in the Dakar rally. Add to that frequent stops where we wait for non-existent passengers and a 20 minute break for the driver and conductor have lunch and we arrive 5 hours later and are forced to stay the night in Narok. As we take a look around before dinner we find that we are quite a curiosity to the locals and all the wee kids shout out their only three words in English: 'how are you?'. Of course we smile, say 'fine and how are you' but obviously they're yet to have lesson 2 as they just look back dumbstruck at us.
We are advised that we should buy tickets by 1pm for our 2pm matatu so we pop down to check out the typically chaotic scene and find our bus which resembles a cattle truck and most of its 25 seats are already taken by locals, their luggage and all sorts of cargo. We decide to buy tix immediately and I leave Jo to fight for two seats while I return to the hotel to get our backpacks and bags. I struggle back to the bus but there is only an empty space where it last was. It's gone! As I consider my tactics the locals gape at this stranded old white bloke surrounded by luggage and one assures me it's just gone for petrol. Right enough the bus returns after about 15 minutes having been round two petrol stations but apparently not actually getting any fuel.
So, we're expecting a three hour journey but of course 3 means 5 here and after another bone-jangling, meandering, multi-stop trip we finally arrive at Aruba camp. The last 45 minutes of our journey actually took us through the Masai Mara park and the bus nearly toppled over as everyone tried to get a good look out at the lions, elephants and buffaloes. We check in and quickly assess the immediate priorities, carrying these out with unswerving focus - shower, beer, food. The camp is quite lovely and is right on the edge of the park so we sign up for 3 game drives over the next two days. These prove to be a great success. We watched a whole herd of elephant slowly pass by as they munched, drank and sprayed wet mud on their backs to cool down. We saw large prides of lions, including adult males and cubs, and we watched them rest, stretch, interact and even roll over with their tummies in the air! We saw a cheetah with a young cub and finally, on the last day, a leopard! Absolutely awe-inspiring. I think we can confidently say that we've 'done' Kenyan wildlife now.
We return to Nairobi, discovering on the way that there was a much faster route to Narok from Nakuru, but our spirits are high as we plan to stay with friends in their lovely big house in a posh part of Nairobi. He works at the BHC so they have 24 hour security, a maid, a gardener and just in case....panic buttons connected to armed support. Ahh, the colonial lifestyle. The owners - Steve and Jo - are actually away for a couple of nights so we're home alone and our only duty is to walk the dog (Jaffna). We set off for his daily exercise and notice the stares from the locals - clearly dog-walking isn't a common pastime here. We also notice that they're giving us a wide berth and we learn that they are very scared of dogs here - presumably because dogs in Nairobi are typically for security not cuddles. (Freud may argue that there's little difference between the two.) Now Jaffna is about as aggressive as damp cotton wool but we take full advantage of the situation and enjoy for once having the upper hand.
So, no sign of my passport yet but hopefully next week we can make our way to Tanzania. Reading the Daily Nation today I see that the ICC (International Criminal Court) will be passing judgement on the so-called Ocampo 6 who are accused of inciting the violence that killed 1200 people after the previous Kenyan elections. The accused include two current presidential candidates and the incumbent deputy prime minister so things may hot up here a bit if the decision isn't popular. Best we stay encamped in our British High Commission funded fortress! Will we make it to Tanzania? Find out in the next blog. Cheers!
Robert
On the second day of 2012 we leave the Kenya coast and head inland to Nairobi where we will spend a few days getting back on our feet and sorting out a new passport for me. Our original plans would have taken us into Tanzania at this time but of course all that has now changed. Nairobi, ironically, is often referred to as Nai-robbery so possibly the last place we should be going; but needs must.
The fco (foreign and commonwealth office) website explains that it can take up to 12 weeks to have a new passport delivered to Kenya. My plan is therefore to visit the BHC (British High Commission) to get temporary travel documents so that I can fly home, get a new passport then return to Kenya. Once through the significant security checks I learn that actually passports can be processed in 3 weeks so I order one up ($250!). Apparently since 2010, passports require such high technology to be manufactured that they are now only made in the UK. My application first however has to be processed in Pretoria.
On my way to the BHC I purchased a local newspaper, the Daily Nation. I ask the man how much it is and he says '50 Bob'. It wasn't that he'd guessed my name but rather that here they still use the old name for a shilling that was common in Britain until decimalisation. At home, I rarely read newspapers but I've become somewhat hooked on the local press as it provides a tremendous insight into local life, culture, politics and humour. The agony Aunt section is required reading as are the dating adverts (apparently being God fearing is the top requirement; no requests for gsoh). However, there are a couple of top stories that won't have hit the BBC that are worth sharing here.
'Hippo victorious in battle with villagers baying for its meat'. The headline kind of tells the whole story but let me illuminate a little further. Hippos are 3.5 tons of gorgeous animal that spend their days in water to avoid their skin cracking, often walking along the bottom where they can hold their breath for up to 5 minutes. At night they come on shore to graze and walk around. They are quite aggressive and very dangerous. More humans are killed by hippos than any other animal. This hippo had a wee baby that had got stuck in the mud so as day broke mum had to remain on land to protect it. In the UK this would bring oohs and aahs all round but here a stranded hippo is the next week's dinner for the whole village. Luckily the villagers were armed only with stones and batons which were no match for an angry mum the size of a small armoured vehicle. Before long the KWS (Kenya Wildlife Service)intervened to save the animals but not before having to send for armed police to protect themselves from the hungry/angry locals!
The other story has been running for weeks. The deputy Chief Justice in Kenya is Nancy Baraza. Now, position and hierarchy are much more deeply ensconced in the national psyche here than at home but there's pressure for that to change, corruption to end, all citizens to be equal etc. These are big topics for the elections due later this year. Nancy obviously felt above the law however as she walked past the mandatory security check on entering a shopping mall. The brave security lady followed her to a chemist shop and insisted she be searched. According to her testimony Nancy refused to be searched ('don't you know who I am'), squeezed her nose hard (a Laurel and Hardy moment), threatened her with a gun and allegedly told her bodyguard to shoot her. Well, the papers have been having a field day ever since and it looks like she'll be suspended unless she resigns. Meanwhile the security guard has become a bit of a folk heroine.
So we spend the next few days planning the next few weeks and sorting out new credit/debit cards, new driving licence etc, before taking an 8 hour bus journey to Kisumu, Kenya's 3rd largest town that sits on the Eastern shore of Lake Victoria. Kenya has only a small piece of this huge lake, the rest being split between Uganda and Tanzania. Kisumu is safe and quiet compared to Nairobi but not what you'd call pretty. It's amusing however to observe the shadows of old Britain still visible here. The train station still has a machine for 'platform tickets', men typically wear a shirt tucked into flannel trousers and proper shoes ('only children wear shorts'), they love to fill in forms before mercilessly stamping them into submission and they even like their beer to be warm.
We next head east to Kericho, famous for its tea plantations. We stay in a local hotel that has notices explaining that 'couples not in wedlock cannot share a room' and 'no alcohol allowed in the room'. Oh well, 0 out of 2 for us then. The news today carries stories of imminent terrorist attack from the al-Shabab group resulting from the Somalia situation near the Kenya border - we decide to stay out of Nairobi for as long as possible. We spend our day at the Tea Hotel, originally built by Brooke Bond and quite a grand building, crumbling a little now but still with magnificent views across the plantations. They've since sold the hotel but still own a small plantation which we visit with our guide. Fun as this was, we really wanted to visit a factory and with some persuasion an appointment is made for 10am the next day at Kapchebet tea factory.
We arrive at the factory and are introduced to the boss and his production manager. We learn a great deal about the tea business in Kenya and discover that James Findlay and Unilever are two of the larger operators here. The factory process itself is simple but fascinating. Lorryloads of bags of freshly picked tea leaves arrive at the front and are emptied into long troughs where they are wilted or dried, losing 20-25% of their moisture. From here they are chopped up by 4 consecutive machines, each making the pieces smaller. The smell here is like someone just mowed your lawn whilst making you a very large pot of tea. The mulch then moves slowly along the conveyor belt, fermenting as it goes, which changes the colour, smell and temperature. Then it's cooled and dried before being sorted and packed.
The pickers can pluck their body weight in tea leaves in a day and each kg sells to the factory for 20KSh (about 15p). So a picker yields about 1000KSh of which they probably get about 300. The dry tea that we are all familiar with weighs less than a quarter of the picked leaves, such is the loss of moisture during the process. Kenya is the 3rd biggest tea producing country in the world and makes some of the best quality which is then usually blended with Indian tea by the manufacturers. We finish our visit back with the boss and learn more about his challenges over a nice cuppa (except they always use hot milk here). One of the worst but infrequent risks they have is frost which recently destroyed most of a crop in a neighbouring county.
Before leaving Kericho I venture into a local barber for a haircut. Spotting a chance to overcharge a customer I'm whisked through the queue to a waiting chair and a clearly nervous young man. He sets about me with the clippers but has obviously never cut a white customer's hair before as he's running the clippers in the wrong direction which is giving me a look that Johnny Rotten would have approved of. I ask how many 'Mzungus' he's had in before (nil, I reckon) and explain the proper method. This yields much better results but he's attacking my hair in the most haphazard manner. Once it reaches an acceptable state I am ready to escape as he hovers over me with a gelled-up Phillishave and hot towel. I asked him 'how much', he hesitated, looked very sheepish and said '500KSh'. I asked if this was a 'special' price and he reddened (quite an achievement) as he nodded. I paid up though as the experience was worth it. That evening we grab a beer and a few games of backgammon in the safer of the two local bars. We are a real curiosity as foreign visitors are few enough but ones that pop into this boozer for a beer are clearly as rare as uncorrupted Kenyan coppers.
A hair-raising (sorry) and overall unpleasant matatu ride takes us to Nakuru where we stay the night before heading up to Robert's Camp on scenic Lake Baringo. The matatu is stuffed as usual despite assurances otherwise and we're fast having a humour bypass for all this nonsense. The locals are afraid of the conductors, drivers and touts who are basically bullies, and therefore don't back me up when I complain loudly. We change to a smaller matatu in a tiny village. On boarding we're told (by 'Captain John') that the fare is 150. We know it's 100 but his mate backs him up. Another local (an unfeasibly tall bloke called Eric) takes us aside and confirms the price is indeed 100. We board the vehicle which has 8 seats and only two others on board. They only depart when full and this is clearly not a popular route, so we buy the remaining 4 seats as well as our two, offering to pay the required 600 KSh (£4). Captain John is still insisting it's 150 a shout but a thoroughly impatient Jo shouts at him 'we know it's 100 so you can just save your breath mate'. The other two passengers are in stitches, Captain John is a beaten man and we head off to our destination. The 'Empire' fights back eh?!
Robert's Camp is set on the edge of the lake and by day you can watch hippos munching the long grass in the water whilst keeping an eye out for crocodiles. Watching the hippos eat I'm reminded of the old game 'Hungry Hippos' and realise for the first time how accurately it reproduced the way they eat. Their upper bite does indeed just open and close constantly as they hoover down huge quantities of grass. There's no fence between the lake and the cabins so you have to sign a waiver before you can stay there. We are escorted back to our cabin after dinner and warned to be very careful when popping out for a nocturnal pee. This advice is invaluable as I find out at 3am when I open our door to see two hippos barely 5 feet away doing a fine job of mowing the lawn. They pull up the grass with their lips and you hear them well before you see them. Which is just as well as they can outrun a human and could literally bite your head off with their huge powerful mouths. An awesome sight and worth the trip for them alone.
On the way back to Nakuru we again have to argue the toss to pay the correct fare but we get on and await departure. While waiting a lady comes up to me and says 'are you strong in your relationship?'. Pardon? 'Maybe you have some.....problems?'. She says this with body language which conveys the Kenyan equivalent of nudge-nudge, wink-wink. I then realise she's carrying a plastic container of what looks like Castrol GTX but I assume is some Viagra-like elixir that she thinks I may require. I politely decline, explaining that maybe her target audience is sitting next to me.
We're heading for 3 nights at the Masai Mara now and need to get an earlyish matatu to Narok where we'll change for a 2pm connection. We're told the journey is 3 hours so we board at 9:30 to allow for delays. We leave an hour later and discover that this route takes us over roads that wouldn't be out of place in the Dakar rally. Add to that frequent stops where we wait for non-existent passengers and a 20 minute break for the driver and conductor have lunch and we arrive 5 hours later and are forced to stay the night in Narok. As we take a look around before dinner we find that we are quite a curiosity to the locals and all the wee kids shout out their only three words in English: 'how are you?'. Of course we smile, say 'fine and how are you' but obviously they're yet to have lesson 2 as they just look back dumbstruck at us.
We are advised that we should buy tickets by 1pm for our 2pm matatu so we pop down to check out the typically chaotic scene and find our bus which resembles a cattle truck and most of its 25 seats are already taken by locals, their luggage and all sorts of cargo. We decide to buy tix immediately and I leave Jo to fight for two seats while I return to the hotel to get our backpacks and bags. I struggle back to the bus but there is only an empty space where it last was. It's gone! As I consider my tactics the locals gape at this stranded old white bloke surrounded by luggage and one assures me it's just gone for petrol. Right enough the bus returns after about 15 minutes having been round two petrol stations but apparently not actually getting any fuel.
So, we're expecting a three hour journey but of course 3 means 5 here and after another bone-jangling, meandering, multi-stop trip we finally arrive at Aruba camp. The last 45 minutes of our journey actually took us through the Masai Mara park and the bus nearly toppled over as everyone tried to get a good look out at the lions, elephants and buffaloes. We check in and quickly assess the immediate priorities, carrying these out with unswerving focus - shower, beer, food. The camp is quite lovely and is right on the edge of the park so we sign up for 3 game drives over the next two days. These prove to be a great success. We watched a whole herd of elephant slowly pass by as they munched, drank and sprayed wet mud on their backs to cool down. We saw large prides of lions, including adult males and cubs, and we watched them rest, stretch, interact and even roll over with their tummies in the air! We saw a cheetah with a young cub and finally, on the last day, a leopard! Absolutely awe-inspiring. I think we can confidently say that we've 'done' Kenyan wildlife now.
We return to Nairobi, discovering on the way that there was a much faster route to Narok from Nakuru, but our spirits are high as we plan to stay with friends in their lovely big house in a posh part of Nairobi. He works at the BHC so they have 24 hour security, a maid, a gardener and just in case....panic buttons connected to armed support. Ahh, the colonial lifestyle. The owners - Steve and Jo - are actually away for a couple of nights so we're home alone and our only duty is to walk the dog (Jaffna). We set off for his daily exercise and notice the stares from the locals - clearly dog-walking isn't a common pastime here. We also notice that they're giving us a wide berth and we learn that they are very scared of dogs here - presumably because dogs in Nairobi are typically for security not cuddles. (Freud may argue that there's little difference between the two.) Now Jaffna is about as aggressive as damp cotton wool but we take full advantage of the situation and enjoy for once having the upper hand.
So, no sign of my passport yet but hopefully next week we can make our way to Tanzania. Reading the Daily Nation today I see that the ICC (International Criminal Court) will be passing judgement on the so-called Ocampo 6 who are accused of inciting the violence that killed 1200 people after the previous Kenyan elections. The accused include two current presidential candidates and the incumbent deputy prime minister so things may hot up here a bit if the decision isn't popular. Best we stay encamped in our British High Commission funded fortress! Will we make it to Tanzania? Find out in the next blog. Cheers!
Robert
Saturday, 31 December 2011
Hakuna Matatu
Welcome to Kenya!
Well, Nairobi is a bit of a culture shock after 8 weeks in Madagascar. English is spoken everywhere, which is mostly a blessing but takes away the 'je ne comprends pas' angle that we had often used when being hassled. Hassles are surprisingly light here although a day down town usually yields a few approaches from touts or 'teachers' fundraising for schools. It is, however, the most dangerous city in Africa and I have never before seen so much security. Almost every business or shop has one or two guards on the door, searching you (ineffectively) on the way in. The thing that really shocks you here though is the traffic. A trip across the centre of town can take 2 hours and it's faster to walk. Most cars have only the driver within, there's almost no one-way systems, traffic cops are hilariously useless, red lights are often ignored (blocking junctions) and the matatus (minibuses) have their stations near the centre, pulling thousands more vehicles into the mess. So why don't people use bikes and scooters? The way they drive here, that would seriously reduce your life span.
First off we have stuff to buy to replenish our pilfered goods and a safari or two to arrange. Three days of shopping til we're dropping diminishes our to-do list sufficiently that I decide I can treat myself to a haircut. I optimistically rock up to the first place I see and stupidly don't check it out or ask prices. As my 'barber' takes me upstairs I pass several ladies having various parts of their bodies cleaned, trimmed, polished or massaged. To my relief I see a traditional barber's chair ahead and the chappie gets on with the task. Now, while my last haircut involved no clippers, this bloke has the full range and seems determined to use as many as possible. Consequently I don't get a 'number 2 all over' as requested but instead a '3-2-1'. 'The sides and edges grow faster' he explains. Newly shorn, I get up to leave but a young lady directs me instead to a sink to have my hair washed. To within an inch of its life! Two shampoos and a conditioner, including a 5 minute head massage. Seeing my discomfort she says 'you're not used to spending this long in a barber's are you?'. Two moisturising treatments, another head massage and a blow dry later, I'm despatched off to find Jo who had by now assumed kidnap the most likely reason for my extended absence. I wasn't kidnapped but the price did resemble a ransom - $15! They cleaned me up AND cleaned me out.
That evening we're about to head out for an Ethiopian meal with some new friends, before departing the next morning for our 6 day safari. Sipping our pre-dinner beers, a vehicle arrives, returning from a safari trip to the Maasai Mara. We watch them disembark - backpacker...backpacker...backpacker...maasai warrior....backp...Wait a minute. I know people like to bring home souvenirs but that's surely going too far! This bloke was in full traditional dress, in which he remained during his stay. Many maasai come to work in the city as security guards, doing 12 hour shifts for a pittance. Their traditional life is under threat which may mean that the next generation move away from the nomadic, cattle herding existence where they live on milk, blood and some meat. There are many tribes in Kenya but perhaps the maasai are the best known and most easily recognised, swathed in their red blankets, adorned in jewellery and piercings, tall and incredibly lean.
The next day we set off on our safari, heading north to Meru and Samburu National Parks. We soon cross the equator (at 6,389 feet, fact fans) where the 'professor' there gives us a rudimentary demonstration of how water goes clockwise down the plughole in the northern hemisphere and...oh, you know the rest. A few hours in to our trip we figure out two things. First, our guide's name is not 'Rowlands' as we thought but 'Lawrence'; our error caused by a not untypical local speech impediment where 'r' and 'l' are interchangeable. This means that we are now looking forward to seeing rions, reopards and erephants. The second discovery is that we are on the wrong side of Mount Kenya (a not insignificant obstacle at 5199m). On querying this with Lawrence we discover that he has not troubled himself to read the itinerary, was headed for another park altogether and has no idea where we're staying tonight. Not a good start for a guide. His communication skills amounted to little more than 'grunt' and 'problem?' throughout our trip.
A two hour detour later we arrive at a lodge where we expect to camp before heading to Meru in the morning for a game drive. Turns out this place is 70km (2.5 hours on these roads) away from the park but the owner is insisting we take a room as his guests while our guide and cook are left to endure chilly nights in their tents. We've been told dinner is included so Jo orders the chicken. The waitress says 'really, the chicken?!'. A little startled, Jo says 'er, yes, the chicken'. 'But, it's local chicken' she continues. with a fairly concerned look on her face. 'Local, not broiler'. She didn't say 'local chicken for local people' but by now I have a scene from The League of Gentlemen in my head. Eventually she relents and shortly after the manager comes over and sits next to us, explaining with a great flourish that breakfast is on him the next day. This confuses us as we thought everything was on him! What time, he asks. 6:30 latest we say. How about 7, he asks. We need to leave by 7 we insist. Oh, yes, breakfast at 7 will be fine he decides. He then looks at us funny and says 'you don't look married. No, too young and casual - maybe boyfriend and girlfriend?'. Then he says to Jo 'I hear you're having the chicken, (furrows his brow) you know its "local" chicken! It's hard.....but tasty!'. I chase away visions of hens with bovver boots, scars and stiletto knives and give thanks for being vegetarian.
So, my first ever safari yields an array of amazing animals including elephant, zebra (thick stripe type and thin stripe type), various antelope/gazelle/impala including the Gerenuk which has an improbably long neck and the Dik Dik which are tiny wee things; majestic giraffes, warthogs (which look like bulldogs but walk like poodles) and lots more besides. Maybe the most memorable sight however was watching a pair of Somalian blue-legged ostriches go through their whole mating dance routine. They swayed and strutted like rhythmic gymnasts while running toward each other like Heathcliff and Cathy. I loved the whole safari experience even though we only saw one of the 'big five' - elephant, buffalo, leopard, lion and rhino.
The next day we headed for Samburu where we would camp for three nights. Basic but not uncomfortable, as long as you don't find a baboon in the shower where they've learned to turn on the tap for a refreshing drink. Our first game drive there yielded little until late on when we receive a tip that two lionesses and two cubs had been spotted. We watched them at close quarters, unconcerned by our presence, sniffing the air for prey as the cubs played around together. The next day we see them again, shaded under a tree, tummies filled by the zebra whose carcas sits a few metres away. We next make our way to Shaba where our guide informs us there are no animals! The risk of poachers means we have an armed guard with us. Luckily there are indeed animals around including a close up sighting of a group of 5 cheetahs. Very, very rare. The next day's drives don't yield a lot more but we do get pretty close up to some jousting elephants. Awesome creatures. At camp that night Jo (or 'mama' as they call her) and I are serenaded by trumpeting elephants and the familiar sounds of Abba's greatest hits from Lawrence's iPod. Sadly, a miscalculation means that our 3L box of wine has but a half glass remaining. Time to go back to Nairobi.
We loved seeing the animals but frankly the tour arrangements let us down so we decide on a DIY safari next that will take us to the shores of Lake Naivasha where we will visit Hell's Gate and Nakuru.
At Lake Naivasha we have a spacious banda (wooden bungalow) and access to a quite splendid bar/restaurant. We hire bikes and set off on a 40k trip to and around Hell's Gate national park. This is quite unusual in that safaris nearly always require a vehicle so cycling past wild African animals is a special experience. Just 2k into the park I get a puncture and have to hobble back to the start where their bike mechanic makes the repair. I set off once more but 6k later, the same tyre gives in again. It's hot, we've cycled over 20k, wasted 2 hours and we're still at the gate (hell's gate indeed). This time I get him to fit a new inner tube as the old one has more patches than a Long John Silver lookalike competition. We see lots of buffalo, zebras, giraffes and find time for an excellent two hour gorge walk in addition. At the end of the walk, as we sip our cold, fizzy drinks, we watch a family of baboons (Dad, Mum and tiny baby) sit themselves down at one of the picnic tables. Dad looks like he wished he'd brought the newspaper, Mum helps baby clamber around the table and they seem to collectively wonder where the waiter's got to! The puncture fiasco, by the way, did yield a meeting with three folk who agreed to let us hitch on their vehicle to Lake Nakuru the next day. Result! We all celebrated a memorable day together over pizza and beer that evening.
Lake Nakuru national park is absolutely stunning. The lake itself is often ablaze with pink flamingoes but even in their virtual absence the views are epic. A highlight for me was observing several white rhino just 25m away. (Only leopards to go now to complete the big 5.) We also saw black rhino but at more of a distance. The bird life is a highlight here and I especially loved the slightly comical yellow-beaked stork. Their beaks look as incongruous on them as a funny red nose does on a human. Julia, who's 7-seater, off-road vehicle this was, wanted a break from driving and I was only too delighted to have a go. In fact I never returned the vehicle to her until we had to part at the end of the day. Driving back toward Naivasha was a bit hairy at times, especially with the antics of the buses and matatus that overtake at will to your right and left - even though there is no lane on the left!
We returned briefly to Nairobi the next day, ahead of catching the 7pm train to Mombasa. As we are about to board Jo bumps into friends from back home (bizarre) then we clamber on to the classic old carriage where our first class double berth cabin awaits. Predictably we leave over an hour late which means dinner (ours is the middle of three sittings) will not be until 10pm or so. The sedate pace of the train served to rock me gently to sleep on the comfy top bunk as we chugged through the night. Further delays mean we don't reach Mombasa until after noon the next day (17 hours in all) but that gives us the chance to admire how this unfeasibly long train snakes it's way through the vast landscape of green bush on red earth, children lined up by the side of the rails, waving and smiling as we pass through. Breakfast was announced in the same manner as each dinner sitting had been; by a bloke walking up and down the narrow corridors clanging a bell. Quaint, but not at 6am, especially if you'd only recently got to sleep after digesting the remains of dinner sitting #3! The toilets on board are functionalish but ours has a broken flush which means that the water rushes up like a fountain instead of down into the bowl. Oh, and I discover that Swahili for loo is choo. Quite appropriate for a train really. Overall a great experience for $65 each.
After long negotiations and arguments with our cab driver we make our way to Diani beach for $20 - half the originally quoted fare. We get lots more practice in bargaining over the ensuing days as every time we travel up and down the beach road the matatu conductor tries to squeeze some extra shillings out of us; but we're getting wiser and tougher. We're staying at a fairly swish, small resort type hotel; half board (including afternoon tea and cake) with balcony, pool and other accoutrements that we are rarely treated to. It's Christmas and we're staying through New Year; we have time, books, beach and internet access so it's pole-pole (slowly, slowly) as the locals would say. We buy a day trip to Wasini island, ostensibly to snorkel in the marine park but despite lots of pretty fish the trip is badly run. We've come to realise that most packaged tours are poor value and often disappointing so we decide to cobble together a DIY visit to Shimba Hills national park having wrestled our $20 deposit back from the tour operator. Later that day, clouds and rain make an unwelcome appearance but I manage to tune one of the two channels on our telly to see the seasonal matinee 'A Muppet Christmas Carol'. Makes me yearn a little for traditional Christmases back home.
The next day we decide to go explore the neighbouring beach at Tiwi. We'd heard the access road could be dangerous so we take a tuk-tuk the whole way. The beach is pretty deserted at that end and a security guard at the hotel under construction advises us to take care walking home along the beach as muggings do occur. We've got so used to not believing anything anyone local tells us that we decide to take a short stroll anyway. This proves disastrous as we are mugged by a gang of 5 guys with metal bars and sticks and our bags are taken. This is in the middle of the day, on a wide open beach with people walking up and down and security guards 200m away. Being an idiot, I had my passport and wallet in my bag so these are gone along with our phones, Jo's camera and a lot of money. We are comforted by people who saw what happened and a passing Maasai warrior (honestly) takes us under his wing and safely returns us to our hotel. We do the usual cancelling of cards etc then head to the police station to make our report.
You can imagine that having been robbed twice now in Africa we felt like packing it all in and heading home. However, time heals and the spirit grows strong and by the time we'd visited Shimba the next day we'd decided to indeed continue our adventure albeit with a short interlude while I travel home to get a new passport. Travelling home is a pain but gone are the days when your local Embassy could cobble together a new passport within a week. Passports now have to be manufactured in the UK due to technological advances in their design and it takes up to 12 weeks to get one from Kenya. Progress huh? First though I need emergency travel documents from the British High Commission in Nairobi where we shall travel next.
These, however, ladies and gentlemen, are shadows of adventures yet to come and this blog tells only of adventures past. Today is the last day of 2011 and tonight is Hogmanay. We shall see the old year out and the new one in over a few wines saying goodbye to 2011 with thanks for so many wonderful experiences in the 20 countries we've visited; and we look forward to 2012 which promises lots more shenanigans ahead.
Wishing you all a peaceful, happy, fun 2012!
Robert
Well, Nairobi is a bit of a culture shock after 8 weeks in Madagascar. English is spoken everywhere, which is mostly a blessing but takes away the 'je ne comprends pas' angle that we had often used when being hassled. Hassles are surprisingly light here although a day down town usually yields a few approaches from touts or 'teachers' fundraising for schools. It is, however, the most dangerous city in Africa and I have never before seen so much security. Almost every business or shop has one or two guards on the door, searching you (ineffectively) on the way in. The thing that really shocks you here though is the traffic. A trip across the centre of town can take 2 hours and it's faster to walk. Most cars have only the driver within, there's almost no one-way systems, traffic cops are hilariously useless, red lights are often ignored (blocking junctions) and the matatus (minibuses) have their stations near the centre, pulling thousands more vehicles into the mess. So why don't people use bikes and scooters? The way they drive here, that would seriously reduce your life span.
First off we have stuff to buy to replenish our pilfered goods and a safari or two to arrange. Three days of shopping til we're dropping diminishes our to-do list sufficiently that I decide I can treat myself to a haircut. I optimistically rock up to the first place I see and stupidly don't check it out or ask prices. As my 'barber' takes me upstairs I pass several ladies having various parts of their bodies cleaned, trimmed, polished or massaged. To my relief I see a traditional barber's chair ahead and the chappie gets on with the task. Now, while my last haircut involved no clippers, this bloke has the full range and seems determined to use as many as possible. Consequently I don't get a 'number 2 all over' as requested but instead a '3-2-1'. 'The sides and edges grow faster' he explains. Newly shorn, I get up to leave but a young lady directs me instead to a sink to have my hair washed. To within an inch of its life! Two shampoos and a conditioner, including a 5 minute head massage. Seeing my discomfort she says 'you're not used to spending this long in a barber's are you?'. Two moisturising treatments, another head massage and a blow dry later, I'm despatched off to find Jo who had by now assumed kidnap the most likely reason for my extended absence. I wasn't kidnapped but the price did resemble a ransom - $15! They cleaned me up AND cleaned me out.
That evening we're about to head out for an Ethiopian meal with some new friends, before departing the next morning for our 6 day safari. Sipping our pre-dinner beers, a vehicle arrives, returning from a safari trip to the Maasai Mara. We watch them disembark - backpacker...backpacker...backpacker...maasai warrior....backp...Wait a minute. I know people like to bring home souvenirs but that's surely going too far! This bloke was in full traditional dress, in which he remained during his stay. Many maasai come to work in the city as security guards, doing 12 hour shifts for a pittance. Their traditional life is under threat which may mean that the next generation move away from the nomadic, cattle herding existence where they live on milk, blood and some meat. There are many tribes in Kenya but perhaps the maasai are the best known and most easily recognised, swathed in their red blankets, adorned in jewellery and piercings, tall and incredibly lean.
The next day we set off on our safari, heading north to Meru and Samburu National Parks. We soon cross the equator (at 6,389 feet, fact fans) where the 'professor' there gives us a rudimentary demonstration of how water goes clockwise down the plughole in the northern hemisphere and...oh, you know the rest. A few hours in to our trip we figure out two things. First, our guide's name is not 'Rowlands' as we thought but 'Lawrence'; our error caused by a not untypical local speech impediment where 'r' and 'l' are interchangeable. This means that we are now looking forward to seeing rions, reopards and erephants. The second discovery is that we are on the wrong side of Mount Kenya (a not insignificant obstacle at 5199m). On querying this with Lawrence we discover that he has not troubled himself to read the itinerary, was headed for another park altogether and has no idea where we're staying tonight. Not a good start for a guide. His communication skills amounted to little more than 'grunt' and 'problem?' throughout our trip.
A two hour detour later we arrive at a lodge where we expect to camp before heading to Meru in the morning for a game drive. Turns out this place is 70km (2.5 hours on these roads) away from the park but the owner is insisting we take a room as his guests while our guide and cook are left to endure chilly nights in their tents. We've been told dinner is included so Jo orders the chicken. The waitress says 'really, the chicken?!'. A little startled, Jo says 'er, yes, the chicken'. 'But, it's local chicken' she continues. with a fairly concerned look on her face. 'Local, not broiler'. She didn't say 'local chicken for local people' but by now I have a scene from The League of Gentlemen in my head. Eventually she relents and shortly after the manager comes over and sits next to us, explaining with a great flourish that breakfast is on him the next day. This confuses us as we thought everything was on him! What time, he asks. 6:30 latest we say. How about 7, he asks. We need to leave by 7 we insist. Oh, yes, breakfast at 7 will be fine he decides. He then looks at us funny and says 'you don't look married. No, too young and casual - maybe boyfriend and girlfriend?'. Then he says to Jo 'I hear you're having the chicken, (furrows his brow) you know its "local" chicken! It's hard.....but tasty!'. I chase away visions of hens with bovver boots, scars and stiletto knives and give thanks for being vegetarian.
So, my first ever safari yields an array of amazing animals including elephant, zebra (thick stripe type and thin stripe type), various antelope/gazelle/impala including the Gerenuk which has an improbably long neck and the Dik Dik which are tiny wee things; majestic giraffes, warthogs (which look like bulldogs but walk like poodles) and lots more besides. Maybe the most memorable sight however was watching a pair of Somalian blue-legged ostriches go through their whole mating dance routine. They swayed and strutted like rhythmic gymnasts while running toward each other like Heathcliff and Cathy. I loved the whole safari experience even though we only saw one of the 'big five' - elephant, buffalo, leopard, lion and rhino.
The next day we headed for Samburu where we would camp for three nights. Basic but not uncomfortable, as long as you don't find a baboon in the shower where they've learned to turn on the tap for a refreshing drink. Our first game drive there yielded little until late on when we receive a tip that two lionesses and two cubs had been spotted. We watched them at close quarters, unconcerned by our presence, sniffing the air for prey as the cubs played around together. The next day we see them again, shaded under a tree, tummies filled by the zebra whose carcas sits a few metres away. We next make our way to Shaba where our guide informs us there are no animals! The risk of poachers means we have an armed guard with us. Luckily there are indeed animals around including a close up sighting of a group of 5 cheetahs. Very, very rare. The next day's drives don't yield a lot more but we do get pretty close up to some jousting elephants. Awesome creatures. At camp that night Jo (or 'mama' as they call her) and I are serenaded by trumpeting elephants and the familiar sounds of Abba's greatest hits from Lawrence's iPod. Sadly, a miscalculation means that our 3L box of wine has but a half glass remaining. Time to go back to Nairobi.
We loved seeing the animals but frankly the tour arrangements let us down so we decide on a DIY safari next that will take us to the shores of Lake Naivasha where we will visit Hell's Gate and Nakuru.
At Lake Naivasha we have a spacious banda (wooden bungalow) and access to a quite splendid bar/restaurant. We hire bikes and set off on a 40k trip to and around Hell's Gate national park. This is quite unusual in that safaris nearly always require a vehicle so cycling past wild African animals is a special experience. Just 2k into the park I get a puncture and have to hobble back to the start where their bike mechanic makes the repair. I set off once more but 6k later, the same tyre gives in again. It's hot, we've cycled over 20k, wasted 2 hours and we're still at the gate (hell's gate indeed). This time I get him to fit a new inner tube as the old one has more patches than a Long John Silver lookalike competition. We see lots of buffalo, zebras, giraffes and find time for an excellent two hour gorge walk in addition. At the end of the walk, as we sip our cold, fizzy drinks, we watch a family of baboons (Dad, Mum and tiny baby) sit themselves down at one of the picnic tables. Dad looks like he wished he'd brought the newspaper, Mum helps baby clamber around the table and they seem to collectively wonder where the waiter's got to! The puncture fiasco, by the way, did yield a meeting with three folk who agreed to let us hitch on their vehicle to Lake Nakuru the next day. Result! We all celebrated a memorable day together over pizza and beer that evening.
Lake Nakuru national park is absolutely stunning. The lake itself is often ablaze with pink flamingoes but even in their virtual absence the views are epic. A highlight for me was observing several white rhino just 25m away. (Only leopards to go now to complete the big 5.) We also saw black rhino but at more of a distance. The bird life is a highlight here and I especially loved the slightly comical yellow-beaked stork. Their beaks look as incongruous on them as a funny red nose does on a human. Julia, who's 7-seater, off-road vehicle this was, wanted a break from driving and I was only too delighted to have a go. In fact I never returned the vehicle to her until we had to part at the end of the day. Driving back toward Naivasha was a bit hairy at times, especially with the antics of the buses and matatus that overtake at will to your right and left - even though there is no lane on the left!
We returned briefly to Nairobi the next day, ahead of catching the 7pm train to Mombasa. As we are about to board Jo bumps into friends from back home (bizarre) then we clamber on to the classic old carriage where our first class double berth cabin awaits. Predictably we leave over an hour late which means dinner (ours is the middle of three sittings) will not be until 10pm or so. The sedate pace of the train served to rock me gently to sleep on the comfy top bunk as we chugged through the night. Further delays mean we don't reach Mombasa until after noon the next day (17 hours in all) but that gives us the chance to admire how this unfeasibly long train snakes it's way through the vast landscape of green bush on red earth, children lined up by the side of the rails, waving and smiling as we pass through. Breakfast was announced in the same manner as each dinner sitting had been; by a bloke walking up and down the narrow corridors clanging a bell. Quaint, but not at 6am, especially if you'd only recently got to sleep after digesting the remains of dinner sitting #3! The toilets on board are functionalish but ours has a broken flush which means that the water rushes up like a fountain instead of down into the bowl. Oh, and I discover that Swahili for loo is choo. Quite appropriate for a train really. Overall a great experience for $65 each.
After long negotiations and arguments with our cab driver we make our way to Diani beach for $20 - half the originally quoted fare. We get lots more practice in bargaining over the ensuing days as every time we travel up and down the beach road the matatu conductor tries to squeeze some extra shillings out of us; but we're getting wiser and tougher. We're staying at a fairly swish, small resort type hotel; half board (including afternoon tea and cake) with balcony, pool and other accoutrements that we are rarely treated to. It's Christmas and we're staying through New Year; we have time, books, beach and internet access so it's pole-pole (slowly, slowly) as the locals would say. We buy a day trip to Wasini island, ostensibly to snorkel in the marine park but despite lots of pretty fish the trip is badly run. We've come to realise that most packaged tours are poor value and often disappointing so we decide to cobble together a DIY visit to Shimba Hills national park having wrestled our $20 deposit back from the tour operator. Later that day, clouds and rain make an unwelcome appearance but I manage to tune one of the two channels on our telly to see the seasonal matinee 'A Muppet Christmas Carol'. Makes me yearn a little for traditional Christmases back home.
The next day we decide to go explore the neighbouring beach at Tiwi. We'd heard the access road could be dangerous so we take a tuk-tuk the whole way. The beach is pretty deserted at that end and a security guard at the hotel under construction advises us to take care walking home along the beach as muggings do occur. We've got so used to not believing anything anyone local tells us that we decide to take a short stroll anyway. This proves disastrous as we are mugged by a gang of 5 guys with metal bars and sticks and our bags are taken. This is in the middle of the day, on a wide open beach with people walking up and down and security guards 200m away. Being an idiot, I had my passport and wallet in my bag so these are gone along with our phones, Jo's camera and a lot of money. We are comforted by people who saw what happened and a passing Maasai warrior (honestly) takes us under his wing and safely returns us to our hotel. We do the usual cancelling of cards etc then head to the police station to make our report.
You can imagine that having been robbed twice now in Africa we felt like packing it all in and heading home. However, time heals and the spirit grows strong and by the time we'd visited Shimba the next day we'd decided to indeed continue our adventure albeit with a short interlude while I travel home to get a new passport. Travelling home is a pain but gone are the days when your local Embassy could cobble together a new passport within a week. Passports now have to be manufactured in the UK due to technological advances in their design and it takes up to 12 weeks to get one from Kenya. Progress huh? First though I need emergency travel documents from the British High Commission in Nairobi where we shall travel next.
These, however, ladies and gentlemen, are shadows of adventures yet to come and this blog tells only of adventures past. Today is the last day of 2011 and tonight is Hogmanay. We shall see the old year out and the new one in over a few wines saying goodbye to 2011 with thanks for so many wonderful experiences in the 20 countries we've visited; and we look forward to 2012 which promises lots more shenanigans ahead.
Wishing you all a peaceful, happy, fun 2012!
Robert
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
One way ticket to Hell-Ville
The journey from Diego Suarez to National Parc d'Ankarana involves a 3 hour ride on the infamous taxi brousse. Our regular readers will recall that these vehicles are typically filled beyond capacity but this route is actually renowned for going even further toward the full sardine effect. As usual we were mobbed as we arrived at the station and after prolonged arguments over price were given our customary three seats. Another hour passed as the local guys argued about who got the commission then the driver took us on a pointless, circular tour of town before finally heading off.
The line-up in the bus has by now already moved on from the conventional 4-4-4-4-2 formation to something like 5-3-5-7-3. Hilariously, only a few hundred metres into our journey a rather large lady tries to get on. Now, we're already packed in but nevertheless she clambers into a full row and proceeds to sit on this poor bloke's knee. He yelps and complains loudly but this lady isn't for turning and he is forced to vacate his seat, get his bag and wait for the next bus! The shenanigans continue all around us throughout the journey but miraculously no one even tries to invade our comfy 3-seat space. Faza power!
An aside on the taxis here. Fuel is expensive at about one Euro per litre. To keep costs down and no doubt help save the planet they pretty routinely switch the engine off on every downhill. The restart can be a bump start or often a deft piece of hotwiring. Keys are rarely seen or used. When you hire a cab or get in a taxi brousse they will inevitably stop very soon after at a petrol station and buy just enough for the journey. This certainly has something to do with cash flow but also, we suspect, to avoid someone siphoning any spare off. They do run out of petrol from time to time of course as the instrumentation is usually useless. One guy got out, filled a small plastic petrol can and instead of pouring the stuff in the tank he just used this beaker as the tank. He set it down in the passenger footwell, stuck a tube in the top and off we went. I was just waiting for him to light a fag!
We arrive at our preferred lodgings near the Ankarana park but they're full so the helpful owner takes us to another place. In gratitude, we promise to dine at his place that evening - big mistake. After lunch, it rained heavily, turning the dusty paths into mud and puddles. It's also now so dark you can't see a thing and our torches are pitifully inadequate. Attempting the 1km walk to his restaurant is clearly bonkers but a promise is a promise. Before long we come across a massive puddle/small pond. My Crocs are looking a better footwear choice than Jo's flip-flops so I gallantly offer to give her a piggy back. Seconds later I'm sliding down the mud towards the puddly depths, Jo yelping in horror at the approaching mud bath as I only just barely stop us from both toppling in, now thigh deep in the glaur. Not doing that again. Dinner was lovely though and it turned out his tour group hadn't turned up so we could have stayed there after all. Grrrr.
The next day we have a splendid walk in the Park where we are treated to yet more furry lemurs, cool chameleons and a natural phenomenon where rain erodes limestone rocks to create tsingys. Tsingy means 'sharp' in Malagasy and they make an awesome sight. There's acres of them all lined up like spiky, grey Darth Vaders making an other-wordly landscape. Back at our bungalow we're out of water for our bucket shower and flush so I spend a happy half hour pulling water up from the well and carrying it back to our bathroom. Ah, the simple life. For hours later the scene and song from the Jungle Book where Mowgli's girlfriend carries the water is in my head. "I must go to fetch the water....."
Our guide has helpfully arranged two seats on a taxi brousse for the next day, which leaves Diego at 3:30am, passing our place at 5:30am. We fully expect to have to wait hours by the roadside as usual but, no, as we walk up to the road there it is like some wonderful mirage, bang on time. The driver sees our shock and says 'this bus doesn't run on Madagascar time you know'! The ride to Ankify where we'll get a boat to the island of Nosy Be is rather white knuckle, not least as we have the two front seats, known locally as the 'death seats'. One of the drivers insists on multi-tasking (eating, smoking, talking on the phone) constantly while tearing down the road. The other driver isn't much better and is all fingers and thumbs. Literally, he has three thumbs!
We arrive at the port of Ankify and are mobbed by touts selling tickets for their boats. Once we're settled on our preferred vessel the guy asks me for the fare. "One way ticket to Hell-Ville please. Same for the dame." I should have done that in a John Wayne voice I now realise but yes indeed, our destination is Hell-Ville, capital of Nosy Be. The island is hot and sticky but we have a cool place to stay with great views, an infinity pool and loads of geckos. Our after dinner entertainment is watching these little guys hunt down flies, beetles and all manner of small insects before grabbing them and appearing to suck on them for some time before they disappear into their tummies.
Beaches are the main attraction here and the best is on a tiny island called Nosy Tanikely where we see sea turtle, grouper and loads of ultra-colorful fish while snorkelling around. Ahead of a visit to a small nature reserve to see black lemur we hit the local market for some pique-nique stuff. Here, we are horrified by the prices which seem to be about 5x what we're used to in Madagascar. Jo has an argument with a small group of lychee sellers and I'm agog with the fiscal demands of the tomato lady. The next day I return there reluctantly as we do really need some tomatoes and this time I stand my ground, insisting on a lower price. She wants 3000 Ar (£1) for 3 tomatoes. She points at the price tag which says 1000. Surely per kg I say, no, per tomato she insists. Then I look closer and see that the price is not in Ariary, the local currency since 2003, but in Malagasy Francs which were withdrawn at the same time. The tomato lady's mate is now brandishing a tomato in one hand and a 200 Ar note in the other to leave me in no doubt about the price. Yep, 1 Ar is worth 5 Malagasy Francs and I buy the three tomatoes for 600 Ar. So, we're wondering why everyone in the market is selling produce in a currency that is long defunct, makes the goods appear 5x as expensive and confuses the hell (ville) out of tourists. Answers on a postcard.
After several on-time flights Air Mad inevitably let us down with a 7 hour delay for our trip back to Tana. They do however bus us back to Hell-Ville for dinner at their expense. Back at the airport a full throttle electrical storm is raging and the in-bound, ultra-late airplane is circling, the pilot unsure if it's safe to land. We're all watching this drama unfold and the ground staff (of whom there are legions despite there being two flights a day) are held in rapt attention. When it does safely land at the last attempt the ground staff actually cheer and applaud - as much from relief as joy it seems. Maybe they don't get paid if it's diverted. So, eventually, very tired, we arrive in Tana about 1am.
The next day we head for our last national park (Andasibe-Mantadia) via two taxi-brousses. It's madness where we're trying to pick up our connection but a kind local fellow (who ends up being our guide, Maurice, for the next two days) helps us get our customary three tickets. A bus arrives and hordes of locals battle to get a seat on it. As the melee dies down Maurice says that this is indeed our bus. Gulp. There appears to be nowhere to sit but Jo somehow squeezes in a seat and they attach a wooden block across two aisle seats where I am jammed between about 7 locals, much to their hilarity. Spotting that we barely have 2 seats, never mind three, Maurice jumps out of the bus and gets us a refund for one of our tickets - 2,000Ar. He turns out to be a very good guide too.
We get to our destination and book into a very decent bungalow in a big hotel near the village. Apparently the Duke of Edinburgh, the Emperor of Japan and David Attenborough all stayed here once; luckily there are three beds, but I don't know which of them nabbed the double that night. There's a cavernous dining room on two levels where we rock up for a much-needed dinner and beers. We then realise that we are the only people staying here in this vast place. It makes for a 'closed for Winter' atmosphere and I half expect a crazed Jack Nicholson to break the door down with an axe any minute. We are woken the next day to the eerie sound of the Indri, Madagascar's biggest lemur and the main chaps we're here to see. If you remember the Clangers, they sound a bit like that.
It's early morning and we're walking down to the first park we wish to visit - Reserve Speciale d'Analamazaotra. A Boa Constrictor lies sunning itself by the roadside and Maurice casually picks it up to move it out of sight. At the park we are quickly rewarded with a close-up sighting of the Eastern Grey Bamboo lemur, munching away on its favourite food. Later that day we see a troupe of Common Brown lemur, including an adult male carrying two babies on his back as he leaps through the trees. Then we see the main attraction here - Indri. These are the biggest of the lemur family and are actually one of the Sifaka group. Lovely creatures, cute faces and beautiful markings. Interestingly, and sadly, they are so specialised in their environmental needs that any attempt to keep them in captivity results in their death.
That evening we do a night walk. On the upside we see Goodman's mouse lemur (these really are no bigger than a rat but do look entirely like lemurs) and a furry-eared dwarf lemur. Also some tiny but gloriously colourful frogs and more incredible examples of the ultra-varied chameleon family. On the downside it rained hard and the 'path' quickly became water-logged. I was again fine in my Crocs but Jo's Converse will never be the same. She wasn't going to risk the piggy-back again though.
Up even earlier the next day for a bumpy car ride to Parc National de Mantadia; less visited but containing other rare species of lemur. It's raining from the off this time (it is rainforest after all) and for most of the walk we see nothing. Then we do get a good, if distant, sighting of the black and white ruffed lemur - a family group high in the trees. The babies are just 7 months old and resemble little pandas. Then, just before the end of our walk, after fighting off the mosquitoes and leeches, we stand transfixed as a group of Diademed Sifakas pass right next to us, only metres away. These are beautiful animals - quite large with brown, yellow and white markings - and they move like dancing kangaroos, leaping but also twisting and swinging. You can feel their power and grace as they pass by. Then, kindly, they stop for a while so that we can properly observe them. These will be the last lemurs we see in Madagascar and a real crescendo finale.
We return to our bungalow to dry out and chill out, sharing our omelette sandwiches with the skinny chickens around us (cannibalism?). I ask Jo what she's having for dinner that evening just in case this apparent act of kindness has an ulterior motive! Tomorrow we head back to Tana for our last night in Madagascar after eight wonderful weeks living here. We have seen probably 30+ species of lemur but that's only 1/3 of the total. These are all endemic to Madagascar and indeed, 80% of all plant and animal species here cannot be found anywhere else on earth. So, would I recommend Madagascar to you? Absolutely. The lemurs alone make the trip worthwhile. We are deeply in love with them all. The chameleons are astounding, the birds are colourful and diverse. You'll see some amazing landscapes, fabulous beaches and experience the culture of the Malagasy people. Traveling around has been hard work and maintaining adequate cashflow without a spare attache case of Ariary is a logistical challenge but overall....magnifique!
So, as we plan for Kenya, Tanzania, Rwanda and Uganda, 'a bientot' from me and 'au revoir' to Madagascar.
Robert
The line-up in the bus has by now already moved on from the conventional 4-4-4-4-2 formation to something like 5-3-5-7-3. Hilariously, only a few hundred metres into our journey a rather large lady tries to get on. Now, we're already packed in but nevertheless she clambers into a full row and proceeds to sit on this poor bloke's knee. He yelps and complains loudly but this lady isn't for turning and he is forced to vacate his seat, get his bag and wait for the next bus! The shenanigans continue all around us throughout the journey but miraculously no one even tries to invade our comfy 3-seat space. Faza power!
An aside on the taxis here. Fuel is expensive at about one Euro per litre. To keep costs down and no doubt help save the planet they pretty routinely switch the engine off on every downhill. The restart can be a bump start or often a deft piece of hotwiring. Keys are rarely seen or used. When you hire a cab or get in a taxi brousse they will inevitably stop very soon after at a petrol station and buy just enough for the journey. This certainly has something to do with cash flow but also, we suspect, to avoid someone siphoning any spare off. They do run out of petrol from time to time of course as the instrumentation is usually useless. One guy got out, filled a small plastic petrol can and instead of pouring the stuff in the tank he just used this beaker as the tank. He set it down in the passenger footwell, stuck a tube in the top and off we went. I was just waiting for him to light a fag!
We arrive at our preferred lodgings near the Ankarana park but they're full so the helpful owner takes us to another place. In gratitude, we promise to dine at his place that evening - big mistake. After lunch, it rained heavily, turning the dusty paths into mud and puddles. It's also now so dark you can't see a thing and our torches are pitifully inadequate. Attempting the 1km walk to his restaurant is clearly bonkers but a promise is a promise. Before long we come across a massive puddle/small pond. My Crocs are looking a better footwear choice than Jo's flip-flops so I gallantly offer to give her a piggy back. Seconds later I'm sliding down the mud towards the puddly depths, Jo yelping in horror at the approaching mud bath as I only just barely stop us from both toppling in, now thigh deep in the glaur. Not doing that again. Dinner was lovely though and it turned out his tour group hadn't turned up so we could have stayed there after all. Grrrr.
The next day we have a splendid walk in the Park where we are treated to yet more furry lemurs, cool chameleons and a natural phenomenon where rain erodes limestone rocks to create tsingys. Tsingy means 'sharp' in Malagasy and they make an awesome sight. There's acres of them all lined up like spiky, grey Darth Vaders making an other-wordly landscape. Back at our bungalow we're out of water for our bucket shower and flush so I spend a happy half hour pulling water up from the well and carrying it back to our bathroom. Ah, the simple life. For hours later the scene and song from the Jungle Book where Mowgli's girlfriend carries the water is in my head. "I must go to fetch the water....."
Our guide has helpfully arranged two seats on a taxi brousse for the next day, which leaves Diego at 3:30am, passing our place at 5:30am. We fully expect to have to wait hours by the roadside as usual but, no, as we walk up to the road there it is like some wonderful mirage, bang on time. The driver sees our shock and says 'this bus doesn't run on Madagascar time you know'! The ride to Ankify where we'll get a boat to the island of Nosy Be is rather white knuckle, not least as we have the two front seats, known locally as the 'death seats'. One of the drivers insists on multi-tasking (eating, smoking, talking on the phone) constantly while tearing down the road. The other driver isn't much better and is all fingers and thumbs. Literally, he has three thumbs!
We arrive at the port of Ankify and are mobbed by touts selling tickets for their boats. Once we're settled on our preferred vessel the guy asks me for the fare. "One way ticket to Hell-Ville please. Same for the dame." I should have done that in a John Wayne voice I now realise but yes indeed, our destination is Hell-Ville, capital of Nosy Be. The island is hot and sticky but we have a cool place to stay with great views, an infinity pool and loads of geckos. Our after dinner entertainment is watching these little guys hunt down flies, beetles and all manner of small insects before grabbing them and appearing to suck on them for some time before they disappear into their tummies.
Beaches are the main attraction here and the best is on a tiny island called Nosy Tanikely where we see sea turtle, grouper and loads of ultra-colorful fish while snorkelling around. Ahead of a visit to a small nature reserve to see black lemur we hit the local market for some pique-nique stuff. Here, we are horrified by the prices which seem to be about 5x what we're used to in Madagascar. Jo has an argument with a small group of lychee sellers and I'm agog with the fiscal demands of the tomato lady. The next day I return there reluctantly as we do really need some tomatoes and this time I stand my ground, insisting on a lower price. She wants 3000 Ar (£1) for 3 tomatoes. She points at the price tag which says 1000. Surely per kg I say, no, per tomato she insists. Then I look closer and see that the price is not in Ariary, the local currency since 2003, but in Malagasy Francs which were withdrawn at the same time. The tomato lady's mate is now brandishing a tomato in one hand and a 200 Ar note in the other to leave me in no doubt about the price. Yep, 1 Ar is worth 5 Malagasy Francs and I buy the three tomatoes for 600 Ar. So, we're wondering why everyone in the market is selling produce in a currency that is long defunct, makes the goods appear 5x as expensive and confuses the hell (ville) out of tourists. Answers on a postcard.
After several on-time flights Air Mad inevitably let us down with a 7 hour delay for our trip back to Tana. They do however bus us back to Hell-Ville for dinner at their expense. Back at the airport a full throttle electrical storm is raging and the in-bound, ultra-late airplane is circling, the pilot unsure if it's safe to land. We're all watching this drama unfold and the ground staff (of whom there are legions despite there being two flights a day) are held in rapt attention. When it does safely land at the last attempt the ground staff actually cheer and applaud - as much from relief as joy it seems. Maybe they don't get paid if it's diverted. So, eventually, very tired, we arrive in Tana about 1am.
The next day we head for our last national park (Andasibe-Mantadia) via two taxi-brousses. It's madness where we're trying to pick up our connection but a kind local fellow (who ends up being our guide, Maurice, for the next two days) helps us get our customary three tickets. A bus arrives and hordes of locals battle to get a seat on it. As the melee dies down Maurice says that this is indeed our bus. Gulp. There appears to be nowhere to sit but Jo somehow squeezes in a seat and they attach a wooden block across two aisle seats where I am jammed between about 7 locals, much to their hilarity. Spotting that we barely have 2 seats, never mind three, Maurice jumps out of the bus and gets us a refund for one of our tickets - 2,000Ar. He turns out to be a very good guide too.
We get to our destination and book into a very decent bungalow in a big hotel near the village. Apparently the Duke of Edinburgh, the Emperor of Japan and David Attenborough all stayed here once; luckily there are three beds, but I don't know which of them nabbed the double that night. There's a cavernous dining room on two levels where we rock up for a much-needed dinner and beers. We then realise that we are the only people staying here in this vast place. It makes for a 'closed for Winter' atmosphere and I half expect a crazed Jack Nicholson to break the door down with an axe any minute. We are woken the next day to the eerie sound of the Indri, Madagascar's biggest lemur and the main chaps we're here to see. If you remember the Clangers, they sound a bit like that.
It's early morning and we're walking down to the first park we wish to visit - Reserve Speciale d'Analamazaotra. A Boa Constrictor lies sunning itself by the roadside and Maurice casually picks it up to move it out of sight. At the park we are quickly rewarded with a close-up sighting of the Eastern Grey Bamboo lemur, munching away on its favourite food. Later that day we see a troupe of Common Brown lemur, including an adult male carrying two babies on his back as he leaps through the trees. Then we see the main attraction here - Indri. These are the biggest of the lemur family and are actually one of the Sifaka group. Lovely creatures, cute faces and beautiful markings. Interestingly, and sadly, they are so specialised in their environmental needs that any attempt to keep them in captivity results in their death.
That evening we do a night walk. On the upside we see Goodman's mouse lemur (these really are no bigger than a rat but do look entirely like lemurs) and a furry-eared dwarf lemur. Also some tiny but gloriously colourful frogs and more incredible examples of the ultra-varied chameleon family. On the downside it rained hard and the 'path' quickly became water-logged. I was again fine in my Crocs but Jo's Converse will never be the same. She wasn't going to risk the piggy-back again though.
Up even earlier the next day for a bumpy car ride to Parc National de Mantadia; less visited but containing other rare species of lemur. It's raining from the off this time (it is rainforest after all) and for most of the walk we see nothing. Then we do get a good, if distant, sighting of the black and white ruffed lemur - a family group high in the trees. The babies are just 7 months old and resemble little pandas. Then, just before the end of our walk, after fighting off the mosquitoes and leeches, we stand transfixed as a group of Diademed Sifakas pass right next to us, only metres away. These are beautiful animals - quite large with brown, yellow and white markings - and they move like dancing kangaroos, leaping but also twisting and swinging. You can feel their power and grace as they pass by. Then, kindly, they stop for a while so that we can properly observe them. These will be the last lemurs we see in Madagascar and a real crescendo finale.
We return to our bungalow to dry out and chill out, sharing our omelette sandwiches with the skinny chickens around us (cannibalism?). I ask Jo what she's having for dinner that evening just in case this apparent act of kindness has an ulterior motive! Tomorrow we head back to Tana for our last night in Madagascar after eight wonderful weeks living here. We have seen probably 30+ species of lemur but that's only 1/3 of the total. These are all endemic to Madagascar and indeed, 80% of all plant and animal species here cannot be found anywhere else on earth. So, would I recommend Madagascar to you? Absolutely. The lemurs alone make the trip worthwhile. We are deeply in love with them all. The chameleons are astounding, the birds are colourful and diverse. You'll see some amazing landscapes, fabulous beaches and experience the culture of the Malagasy people. Traveling around has been hard work and maintaining adequate cashflow without a spare attache case of Ariary is a logistical challenge but overall....magnifique!
So, as we plan for Kenya, Tanzania, Rwanda and Uganda, 'a bientot' from me and 'au revoir' to Madagascar.
Robert
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
Beaver Fever
Yep, beaver fever.
So, I'd not been feeling too well for a while and despite fasting, shunning alcohol (well, for one day anyway) and lying in bed for a whole day, we arrive in Mahajanga with your humble correspondent still somewhat sickly. Grateful as I was for having now shed the pounds gained back in London, it was time to seek medical advice. The title above is the less common, but much more entertaining name of the particular illness afflicting me. I'll leave it to you to imagine why it got that name - I really don't know - but it's more familiar name is Giardiasis.
Just seeing the man in the white coat made me feel more positive and I went in search of a pharmacy that could serve me up the three wonderful medicines prescribed by the Madadoc. Eighteen hours (okay I slept 8 of those), five pharmacies and two pousse-pousse rides later I had them in my paw. Double strength anti-biotics to kill the little blighter off, a powder you add to water that tasted exactly as I imagine dilute cement mix would (and was designed for a similar purpose) and a lovely strawberry tasting concoction to revitalise my poor wasted body. This last medicine, I later discover on reading the instructions, is however designed purely for children under 2. One consequence of this is that the zinc tablets that handily came with it are recommended to be crushed up and mixed with breast milk. I didn't imagine the chemist would stock any of that so swallowing whole with water had to do.
Happily today I feel that I'm well on the road to a full recovery and my body can return to dealing only with the psychosis inducing malaria pills and the 100% deet mosquito repellent. Goodness knows what this stuff does to your skin as it leaked in Jo's sturdy, Paperchase plastic bag and burned almost right through it. The locals here mostly can't afford western medicine so rely on medicinal plants - maybe I should take a leaf from their book. The ladies here also use plants cosmetically. They have something called Masonjoany which is a paste made from rubbing a particular stick on a stone with some water. This is then applied to the face, not at night, but left on all during the day and usually removed at night (I'm told). So, one often sees these ladies walking around, bucket of water or fruit or whatever on their head with a yellowy/white face smiling at you. Very becoming in a strange sort of way.
Mahajanga, where we flew after Ile Sainte-Marie, wasn't our favourite place but airline schedules and a curtailed national park visit (more later) meant that we spent five nights there. These included my 49th birthday, celebrated with a pretty decent pizza after which the waiter chased our taxi down the street with such gusto we thought we'd not left enough money. Actually, he said, 'you've left too much'. Er, that's your tip dude. He was actually quite shocked and we've realised since that tipping is somewhat of a rarity here but much appreciated. We also spent two days doing absolutely nada at the Piscine Hotel. For £3 each you get to laze around (and use) their 50m swimming pool. It's very hot in Mahajanga in November so this was absolute bliss, despite the diluted sea-water contents and the dozens of screaming kids clearly on swimming lesson #1.
So, we did spend one night at the Ankarafantsika national parc, 120km from Mahajanga. On the upside we saw a tiny nocturnal mouse lemur on our night walk and and a new (for us) species of sifaka lemur by day which was beyond gorgeous. I really never expected to love lemurs this much but they are beautiful, inquisitive, entertaining, athletic, cute and cuddly with amazing piercing eyes, pointy snouts and at this time of year, often seen with babies hanging on to mum. What's not to like?!
Sadly, our visit to this park will be best remembered for another reason. While on our night walk, our bungalow was broken into and they stole a bunch of cash as well as a bunch of stuff. Most annoyingly they took my prescription sunglasses (police are looking for a local with cool shades who keeps bumping into stuff), both our binoculars, Jo's iPod and speakers, my sleeping bag, Jo's hiking boots, her snorkel and mask and possibly worst of all.....our East Africa Lonely Planet. I mean, the cash I can understand and that doesn't hurt too much. But most of the rest of it....!!!!? So, having moved bungalow for the night, we go to meet the (ultra contrite) parc director the next day. I've never heard anyone grovel in Malagasy before but he did it well enough that we suspected this might not have been the first robbery at the parc. A small bribe (to not go public, but we will anyway, in a nice way) and a written apology later, we get to spend a happy half hour in the presence of two of Madagascar's fine young police officers. They were thorough and detailed in their questioning but we doubt very much if the thieves will ever be caught. Probably snorkeling off the Mombasa coast by now.
A few days later we board another plane (on time yet again Air Mad!) up to Diego Suarez near the very North of Madagascar. We're staying in a really lovely place with great views, friendly staff, excellent wi-fi, linen changed every day, air-conditioned en-suite room and BELIEVE IT OR NOT a mini-bar in our room. We were blown away. All this for a mere £22 a night. One thing I do love about rooms like this is how having a mozzie net erected around the bed gives it a real 4-poster, fairy-tale kind of feel. Oh, and even better, the bed here is so comfortable. Most of the beds here in Madagascar, for some reason, are severely bowed in the middle like Babar the elephant has been hibernating there all Winter. I have to keep some basic mountaineering equipment near at hand in case I have to scale the mattress to visit the loo in the middle of the night!
Today we visited National Parc Montagne d'Ambre. We had a lovely walk in the relatively cool forest, spotting lemurs, chameleons and birds as per usual. (We really never tire of this.) Today though, we met a record-breaking beast. The smallest chameleon in the world which is a tiny 3cm long. Despite it's microscopic size it exhibits all the usual fab features of these crazy creatures (poetry!) ie 360 degree independent eye sockets, funny grabby hand thingies, colour changing trickery and the elastic super-long tongue. Obviously this one's not that long though. Tomorrow we head for a day sprawled on the beach by the turquoise waters of emerald bay (was that a non-sequetor or an oxymoron or just crap writing?), then we head by taxi-brousse to our next parc.
Before leaving you though, I must share our excitement at having to choose our relevant sizes, online, for our London Ambassador (Olympics) uniforms. In anticipation of your question, we don't yet know what these will look like (those cunning organisers are keeping us salivating for now) but I can reveal of what they consist (including my sizes):
2 x polo shirt L (42-44")
1 x jacket L (42-44")
1 x fleece L (42-44")
1 x pair black trousers length:Tall (33') Waist :34"
1 x trilby hat L
Apparently, we’ll also be sent a London Ambassadors baseball cap, water bottle and backpack - and you get to keep the lot. You may see me patrolling the railway stations of London in early August on my late shift one evening. Do come and say hello. Until then (or the next blog) a bientot!
Robert
So, I'd not been feeling too well for a while and despite fasting, shunning alcohol (well, for one day anyway) and lying in bed for a whole day, we arrive in Mahajanga with your humble correspondent still somewhat sickly. Grateful as I was for having now shed the pounds gained back in London, it was time to seek medical advice. The title above is the less common, but much more entertaining name of the particular illness afflicting me. I'll leave it to you to imagine why it got that name - I really don't know - but it's more familiar name is Giardiasis.
Just seeing the man in the white coat made me feel more positive and I went in search of a pharmacy that could serve me up the three wonderful medicines prescribed by the Madadoc. Eighteen hours (okay I slept 8 of those), five pharmacies and two pousse-pousse rides later I had them in my paw. Double strength anti-biotics to kill the little blighter off, a powder you add to water that tasted exactly as I imagine dilute cement mix would (and was designed for a similar purpose) and a lovely strawberry tasting concoction to revitalise my poor wasted body. This last medicine, I later discover on reading the instructions, is however designed purely for children under 2. One consequence of this is that the zinc tablets that handily came with it are recommended to be crushed up and mixed with breast milk. I didn't imagine the chemist would stock any of that so swallowing whole with water had to do.
Happily today I feel that I'm well on the road to a full recovery and my body can return to dealing only with the psychosis inducing malaria pills and the 100% deet mosquito repellent. Goodness knows what this stuff does to your skin as it leaked in Jo's sturdy, Paperchase plastic bag and burned almost right through it. The locals here mostly can't afford western medicine so rely on medicinal plants - maybe I should take a leaf from their book. The ladies here also use plants cosmetically. They have something called Masonjoany which is a paste made from rubbing a particular stick on a stone with some water. This is then applied to the face, not at night, but left on all during the day and usually removed at night (I'm told). So, one often sees these ladies walking around, bucket of water or fruit or whatever on their head with a yellowy/white face smiling at you. Very becoming in a strange sort of way.
Mahajanga, where we flew after Ile Sainte-Marie, wasn't our favourite place but airline schedules and a curtailed national park visit (more later) meant that we spent five nights there. These included my 49th birthday, celebrated with a pretty decent pizza after which the waiter chased our taxi down the street with such gusto we thought we'd not left enough money. Actually, he said, 'you've left too much'. Er, that's your tip dude. He was actually quite shocked and we've realised since that tipping is somewhat of a rarity here but much appreciated. We also spent two days doing absolutely nada at the Piscine Hotel. For £3 each you get to laze around (and use) their 50m swimming pool. It's very hot in Mahajanga in November so this was absolute bliss, despite the diluted sea-water contents and the dozens of screaming kids clearly on swimming lesson #1.
So, we did spend one night at the Ankarafantsika national parc, 120km from Mahajanga. On the upside we saw a tiny nocturnal mouse lemur on our night walk and and a new (for us) species of sifaka lemur by day which was beyond gorgeous. I really never expected to love lemurs this much but they are beautiful, inquisitive, entertaining, athletic, cute and cuddly with amazing piercing eyes, pointy snouts and at this time of year, often seen with babies hanging on to mum. What's not to like?!
Sadly, our visit to this park will be best remembered for another reason. While on our night walk, our bungalow was broken into and they stole a bunch of cash as well as a bunch of stuff. Most annoyingly they took my prescription sunglasses (police are looking for a local with cool shades who keeps bumping into stuff), both our binoculars, Jo's iPod and speakers, my sleeping bag, Jo's hiking boots, her snorkel and mask and possibly worst of all.....our East Africa Lonely Planet. I mean, the cash I can understand and that doesn't hurt too much. But most of the rest of it....!!!!? So, having moved bungalow for the night, we go to meet the (ultra contrite) parc director the next day. I've never heard anyone grovel in Malagasy before but he did it well enough that we suspected this might not have been the first robbery at the parc. A small bribe (to not go public, but we will anyway, in a nice way) and a written apology later, we get to spend a happy half hour in the presence of two of Madagascar's fine young police officers. They were thorough and detailed in their questioning but we doubt very much if the thieves will ever be caught. Probably snorkeling off the Mombasa coast by now.
A few days later we board another plane (on time yet again Air Mad!) up to Diego Suarez near the very North of Madagascar. We're staying in a really lovely place with great views, friendly staff, excellent wi-fi, linen changed every day, air-conditioned en-suite room and BELIEVE IT OR NOT a mini-bar in our room. We were blown away. All this for a mere £22 a night. One thing I do love about rooms like this is how having a mozzie net erected around the bed gives it a real 4-poster, fairy-tale kind of feel. Oh, and even better, the bed here is so comfortable. Most of the beds here in Madagascar, for some reason, are severely bowed in the middle like Babar the elephant has been hibernating there all Winter. I have to keep some basic mountaineering equipment near at hand in case I have to scale the mattress to visit the loo in the middle of the night!
Today we visited National Parc Montagne d'Ambre. We had a lovely walk in the relatively cool forest, spotting lemurs, chameleons and birds as per usual. (We really never tire of this.) Today though, we met a record-breaking beast. The smallest chameleon in the world which is a tiny 3cm long. Despite it's microscopic size it exhibits all the usual fab features of these crazy creatures (poetry!) ie 360 degree independent eye sockets, funny grabby hand thingies, colour changing trickery and the elastic super-long tongue. Obviously this one's not that long though. Tomorrow we head for a day sprawled on the beach by the turquoise waters of emerald bay (was that a non-sequetor or an oxymoron or just crap writing?), then we head by taxi-brousse to our next parc.
Before leaving you though, I must share our excitement at having to choose our relevant sizes, online, for our London Ambassador (Olympics) uniforms. In anticipation of your question, we don't yet know what these will look like (those cunning organisers are keeping us salivating for now) but I can reveal of what they consist (including my sizes):
2 x polo shirt L (42-44")
1 x jacket L (42-44")
1 x fleece L (42-44")
1 x pair black trousers length:Tall (33') Waist :34"
1 x trilby hat L
Apparently, we’ll also be sent a London Ambassadors baseball cap, water bottle and backpack - and you get to keep the lot. You may see me patrolling the railway stations of London in early August on my late shift one evening. Do come and say hello. Until then (or the next blog) a bientot!
Robert
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