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!
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
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.
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