reef's TravelStream™ — Recent TravelPod.com entries TravelStream™ news feed for member reef on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/reef en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Fri, 29 Jun 2007 11:06:42 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com The Wild Coast, a piece of Ireland in South Africa — Coffee Bay, South Africa http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180969440/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180969440/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180969440/tpod.html Fri, 29 Jun 2007 11:06:42 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Coffee Bay, South Africa

African travel as I knew it was a thing of the past as soon as I entered South Africa. Gone were the bumpy roads, the rattling matatus, the cramped, uncomfortable, overcrowded seating arrangements shared with men, women, children, goats and chickens. Since I had come to South Africa travel became easy. The journey from Durban to Mthatha, in the Transkei, was so easy I almost felt guilty.I had booked a Greyhound bus through my backpackers, deciding to give my pig-headed insistence on doing everything my way a rest; I even allowed the agent call my next destination's backpackers for me, so that they would arrange a pickup shuttle to bring me from Mthatha onwards. South Africa seems to be like Vietnam in that respect, it's easier to just allow someone else arrange everything for you. I was beginning to feel tired (recall that I had made it from Tofo to Durban in just three days) - principles and frugality can be more easily ignored when a journey reaches its close.The Greyhound bus experience resembled that of taking a flight more than taking a bus. The bus station had a clean, comfortable room for Greyhound passengers, where we sat before we had to "check in" with our tickets. We were then given another ticket, a sort of boarding pass, and a sticker to put on our bags, along with a receipt, lest they should get lost. When the bus pulled up outside (exactly on time), we were ushered to the door, where we were met by an attendant, who checked our names off a list, and told us our designated seats. The bus had two floors; I requested to have the seat on the top floor, right by the windscreen, so that I could enjoy the views. The seats were huge, comfortable, reclinable and complete with cup-holders and folding tables. After we took off the attendant called around to everyone and enquired if we were comfortable. Yes, yes, we were. Very. Complimentary tea and coffee were served with biscuits throughout the trip, and DVDs were screened.The journey was not only comfortable, but beautiful. For the first half we drove along the rugged coastline, where big barrelling waves crashed in spectacularly. The road turned inland then, and twisted expertly up into the Transkei region of South Africa, with wonderful, gently sloping hills coloured soft red and yellow by the burnt stubble grass that covered them. The Transkei is home to the Xhosa people, who still mainly live in beautiful lime green circular huts, with thatched roofs topped with a tyre. In fact, were it not for the carefully engineered highway we were travelling along, occasionally dotted with petrol stations complete with fast food outlets, I could nearly have convinced myself that we were back in "real Africa" again.The Transkei was one of South Africa's homelands, or Bantustans, regions which under John Vorster's "enlightened" approach to apartheid would be given the right to establish themselves as self-governing, quasi-independent states. A program of massive forced relocation of about 3.5 million people into the homelands was undertaken between the 1960s and the 1980s. The intention was to make South Africa's black nationals citizens of the homelands, and not of South Africa, so that whatever remaining rights the blacks had could be completely removed. In fact, it eventually became clear that South Africa was to be ethnically cleansed of the blacks in this manner. On 7 February 1978 Connie Mulder, Minister for Plural Relations and Development said"If our policy is taken to its logical conclusion as far as the black people are concerned, there will be not one black man with South African citizenship ... Every black man in South Africa will eventually be accommodated in some independent new state in this honourable way and there will no longer be an obligation on this Parliament to accommodate these people politically."In 1976 the Transkei was the first of the Bantustans to be given their independence. Life in the homelands was very difficult, and poor. The boundaries drawn had been deliberately drawn around valuable land and resources, so as to keep them in South Africa. The state of the already poor soil in the Transkei soon worsened due to the overpopulation of the region. Most men had no choice but to apply for "guest worker" status in South Africa proper, and commuted long distances or else went to live in the townships that were growing like a fungus around South Africa's cities. The women were left at home to raise the families and work the land.The Transkei was reincorporated into South Africa in April 1994. Since then things have improved a little, but it is still one of the poorest parts of the country. Education and Health Care are substandard, unemployment stands at 60%, and it is still the case that the women nearly always have to do all the work as the men leave the area to find employment. Aesthetically, it was pleasing for me to see what I think of as "real Africa" here, but this image is inextricably tied up with poverty, which is the norm almost everywhere on the continent. What irritated me was that just a few hours before I had left Durban's clean streets, skyscrapers and shopping malls, and now I was confronted with this poverty, all part of the same country. I don't know enough about South Africa to pass judgement, but for a country that has an economy growing at 5% per anum and one of the largest amounts of mineral deposits in the world, I couldn't help but wonder if those making the money in Durban were forgetting about the Transkei.Once we were in Mthatha I sat and waited for my pickup at a petrol station, reading a book about South Africa's recent history, and thinking all those dark thoughts, as I am liable to do. A cheerful Xhosa man approached me, wondering if I was heading to Coffee Shack (my chosen backpackers). I was, and so climbed on board his minibus with a few of the other staff who had made the day trip to Mthatha, and off we went on our way to Coffee Bay, on the Wild Coast part of the Transkei. The 100km drive took an hour and a half to cover, because the road was bad by South African standards (it could have passed for a motorway in many other African countries, however). The slower pace suited me though, as it gave me a chance to admire the scenery; the subtle hills with huts perched upon them, the playing children and the African towns. As we drove closer and closer to Coffee Bay the landscape started to take on a harsher, greener feel to it, I supposed because of the sea. When we did see the ocean it was breathtaking, angry and white - it is called the Wild Coast because of all the ships the sea has swallowed here. Grey, battered cliffs rose away from the rocky beaches, up to yellow-green fields of stubble grass where cattle, sheep and goats grazed. It all looked vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn't quite put my finger on why. Then, suddenly, I realised - this was just like the coast of Ireland, except not quite as green.The Coffee Shack Backpackers was a pleasant, laid back place, with friendly, welcoming staff. Upon arrival I was given a free beer, and that night several complimentary vodkas, in honour of it being a full moon! I quickly made friends, and had a great first night swapping stories, laughing and enjoying decent company. Some local girls came to dance and sing for us, to the sound of African drums, and a hat was passed around for us to give donations. This little show proved to be quite controversial with the audience, mainly because the girls (aged 10-15) were topless. Whether this should have been done was discussed at length by all once the show was over. Some felt that as guests in South Africa it was not our place to judge what people wore in traditional dances. I would have agreed with this had I seen even a handful of Xhosa people dressed traditionally while going about their daily business - instead they wear Western clothes everywhere. Personally I didn't feel comfortable watching girls of that age dressed as they were, but more than anything I didn't like the idea of a group coming to perform for tourists at a backpackers. It feels artificial and exploitative, and although I know it earns money for the locals, I would prefer to be given the choice to see these shows and not have them forced upon me. Artificial culture shows for tourists always feel fake to me; I came to Africa to experience genuine culture, culture which would be taking place even if I (or other tourists) were not present.I spent the next day reading, writing and relaxing, a much needed break from a few days of travel. I explored around the coast a little, and looked for Coffee Bay's main beach, which I had heard was beautiful. Unfortunately its beauty had been somewhat diminished by a ferocious storm which hit the area a few months ago (the same storm as that which ravaged Vilanculos). All the sand had been washed out to sea, and all that remained was a fairly bleak looking grey rocky beach.That night I sat around the fire that was built, listening to drums, and chatting with some of the locals. I noticed while listening to them talk amongst themselves that their language contains click noises. I asked about this, and they said there are three distinct clicks used. They tried to teach me how to make the different sounds, and my efforts provided everyone with great amusement. I remember a friend telling me before I left that some African tribes click when talking, but I refused to believe that this was true. I was proven wrong in Coffee Bay.On my last day I went for a 10km walk up the coast with four English companions, to see "Hole in the Wall", a cliff that looms out of the sea with a huge tunnel scored neatly through the middle by wave action. The walk there was very enjoyable, along the coast, over gentle green hills, passing by Xhosa huts and villages. The weather was warm for winter, and the sky blue. It was wonderful to be by such wild ocean, which reminded me so much of home. The hole in the wall itself was relatively impressive, although I have seen phenomena not unlike it in Ireland several times. What I enjoyed most, however, was the walk there, being outside, stretching my legs, and hiking. Because we set off late I decided to hitch back, as I wanted to spend the last few hours of light catching up on my diary. The first car that passed was a bakkie (local slang for a pickup truck), and we were given a lift in the rear. I love hitching; the anticipation of the wait, the exhilaration of being picked up and given a free ride, and this was all topped off with the pleasure of being able to sit in the open air, bouncing along a dirt track with the wind blowing in my face.I caught up with my diary that evening, and had another pleasant night around a camp fire with friends, chatting, drinking and laughing. Later in the evening we walked to the beach and sat high on the dunes, watching the waves crashing in, with everything lit brightly by the near-full moon. The crests of many of the waves shimmered florescent green because of the phosphorescence, a phenomenon I had never seen before in my life. I retired to bed at a respectable hour, sad to leave this beautiful place on what was to be my last African journey, but excited to see Cape Town.
]]> Meeting a racist in Durban — Durban, South Africa http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180808460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180808460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180808460/tpod.html Thu, 21 Jun 2007 14:22:13 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Durban, South Africa

I left Mbabane early in the morning and took a combi to Manzini, admiring the soft shadows of a rising sun cast over the red mountains upon which Swaziland's capital is set. Once in Manzini I negotiated my way around the bustling bus station until I finally found a combi that would take me to Durban. I chatted for a while with a fat Mama (the universal name for African women who look like they have had a few children). I complained playfully to her about the cold morning air, to which she replied "Shame! Shame! Shame!", that lovely South African expression of sympathy. She later saw me shivering outside the combi, eating my breakfast of four bananas, beckoned to me, and offered me a place in her friend's minibus, as it had a heater in it. I declined appreciatively, wanting to keep my window seat in my vehicle, but was cheered up by this display of African caring hospitality.I was only the third passenger in our combi, and it took around two hours for the remaining thirteen to arrive. I passed some of that time chatting with a woman who studies in Durban, and she marvelled at how brave I was to have travelled as far as I have, alone. I told her that I didn't feel brave; travelling in Africa had almost always been safe. In fact, the country I was most afraid of was that which I was about to enter, South Africa. She agreed that crime rates were high, and getting higher, and told me to be very careful of my belongings in cities. I slept like a baby until the border; the landscape I glimpsed whenever jolted awake by a speedbump was very like that I had seen in yesterday's journey through Eastern Swaziland: gently sloped hills, burnt yellow and red by the winter sun. The border crossing was quick and easy, and before I knew it I was in South Africa, the twelfth and final country of my trip.For the first hour or so of the drive from the border we passed through game reserves made up of dense bush, coloured shades of yellow, red and green. I eagerly looked out my window as we hurtled along, trying to spot animals in the bush. Once I saw what looked like a statue of a giraffe. I looked closer, and saw that it was in fact real, and there were two more standing behind it. I beamed a smile and silently congratulated myself, another animal I could tick off my safari score card on my safariless trip. Later on I saw tens of ostrich, although admittedly they were in a farm.The South African roads are superb, and we covered around 350km in three and a half hours. Before I knew it I was catching glimpses of the ocean again, and Durban's glittering skyscrapers were popping up on the horizon. Durban reminded me of an American city, with highway-like roads penetrating its centre, and poor-looking blacks walking along its streets, which were lined with shiny, modern buildings. I noticed that nearly all the cars had white drivers.When I was dropped off I nervously looked for a taxi - the sun was about to go down and I was very vulnerable to Durban's muggers, with all my possessions on me. The first taxi I found refused to put his meter on, so I tried for public transport instead. I asked around for a while about which of the many minibuses I should take, but soon abandoned the idea; I was drawing attention to myself and the area felt unsafe. Another taxi had pulled up behind the unhelpful first, and this new driver was willing to use his meter. The first driver immediately jumped out of his car and angrily pointed out that there was a queue. After much argument he finally left me go with the second man, and a few minutes later I was knocking at the gate of Tekweni Backpackers, in the posh and trendy white suburb of Morningside.I got a dorm to myself, because the place was quiet. South African winter means low season, until all the Europeans start arriving during their July/August holidays. After having a welcome cold beer I headed out for a meal, walking up Florida Avenue, Morningside's main street, which is lined with very fancy-looking restaurants and bars. Nearly everyone I saw on the street was white, and rich, apart from the few black homeless beggars. There were one or two white street people too, which actually pleased me; at least there appeared to be some sort of equality in the poverty here.The following day I walked into town, not wanting to take a bus as I wouldn't have known where to get off it. The prosperity of Morningside gradually gave way to the chaotic city centre, which seemed to be half black, half Indian in population. Durban is home to nearly a million Indians (out of the city's 2.5 million inhabitants), 85% of all of South Africa's Indians. The city is in fact the world's biggest population of Indians outside of India. Nearly all of the businesses in the centre were owned and run by Indians, and the place felt like a mixture of somewhere like Delhi and the downtown part of an American city.After a breakfast of a few bananas I went to an internet café, where I spent a few hours blogging. At one stage I left to take a break, and upon my return I stopped to chat with the owner, an Indian woman. After a few sentences she asked where I was from. When I said that I was Irish she immediately exclaimed "Ah, I knew you were a tourist!"."What is it that gave me away, my accent?", I replied."No, it is because you are white. You must be a tourist. None of the white South Africans come here any more, not since the mid-nineties.""Why is that?", I enquired, recalling that I hadn't seen many whites after having left Morningside."They are too afraid of the blacks. There is much too much crime in this part of the city now! You must be very careful when you go outside. They will see you are white, and come to take all your money!"I began to suspect that I was in the company of someone who was overly paranoid, but what she went on to say proved that she was just a racist, and one of the worst I have ever met in all my life.She began: "The Indians and whites are alright, you see, they make their money from business. But the blacks,", she paused, lowering her voice, "you can never trust them. Only last week I left my home and one of them was standing there, with a gun. He stole my son's laptop and all the money I had on me. He even managed to climb over the electric fence. We call them little black monkeys!" she laughed, "It's true, though," she said, straightening her face, as if to emphasise that this wasn't merely a joke, "they can climb over anything, like these fences, and they can even climb a tree if they are running away from you."Feeling very uncomfortable with this conversation, especially as a black man was seated not three metres away, I quickly changed the subject, asking her where in India she was from. She replied that she was from Bombay, and moved here with her husband in 1995. Did she miss India?"No, the weather in Bombay was too hot, here it is lovely. It is winter now, and maybe a little cold, but you should see the summer, it is wonderful here! And we have the ocean breeze! Ahh, this country is beautiful, it has everything you need. It would be the greatest place in the world if it weren't for them!" she said, nodding in the direction of the black man seated behind us.Embarrassed and enraged I pretended to look at the time, and left. I have never met such racism before in all my life. I have read about people like this in books, and heard about them, but never before had I seen racist views being spouted so openly and comfortably. I believe that everyone who has colonised or been colonised certainly has issues in their subconscious about differences, power, and a result, racism. For example, I have often found myself thinking racist thoughts when frustrated and dealing with a particularly slow, dim-witted black man. But, crucially, I always give myself a swift mental kick in the behind, telling myself that it's not because of his colour that he is slow, or dim-witted.One must examine, however, what it is in us (maybe I am presumptuous in assuming that I am not alone) that makes us have these thoughts from time to time. In Ireland I think I never saw a black man until I was about aged ten. As a result, racist jokes were part of schoolboy humour, and I laughed at them just as everyone else did, because we didn't know any better. But then I grew up, educated myself, read books about history, and developed opinions. It is this education, given to me through school and because of a natural interest, that kicks me when I think these thoughts. The only reason they ever even come into my mind is because of those early memories, from my youth, from a time when it was acceptable (for an Irish schoolboy) to be a racist.But what if you grew up in a society like India, where discrimination is part of everyday life? Just as in India, where it is taboo marry outside of your caste, I have never seen a half-Indian, half-black person in my entire trip through Africa. And what then, of the white South Africans, I began to wonder, how do they feel now? Their upbringing was even more maliciously racist than that of this Indian woman, but now they were put in the confusing position of being told by the world that they had to change their ways. Apartheid has been gone, technically, for thirteen years. But racist attitudes can't be switched off, like a light. I, who was racist to the point that I laughed at racist jokes as a boy, still find myself thinking occasional racist thoughts. How often must the average South African think these thoughts, given that thirteen years ago it was almost their duty to think them every day?All these thoughts swirled around my head as I walked around downtown Durban. I only saw two whites during the rest of the afternoon. The racist woman had been right; they did stay out of town. I began to grow a little paranoid, her warnings of stabbings and muggers rang in my ears. I hated everything that woman stood for so much that I wanted to scream, and drown her voice out of my brain, but it only grew louder the more I saw that I stuck out as a tourist around here. Eventually I gave up, and decided to walk back to Morningside. Paranoia got the better of me again. And, again, nothing bad happened.
]]> A Whirlwind Tour of Swaziland — Mbabane, Swaziland http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180690860/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180690860/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180690860/tpod.html Wed, 06 Jun 2007 05:45:40 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Mbabane, Swaziland

A Whirlwind Tour of SwazilandOnce again, my overstay in Tofo affected my onward travel plans. A visit to Lesotho has been cancelled; I don't think I'd have time to do the place justice. It's also snowing there, and my shorts and t-shirts mightn't quite hold up. I decided to still pass through Swaziland, as it was on my way, but I only spent a day there. I caught a minibus from Maputo, and for the first time we were seated three to a row, not four (or more!), as it had always been in other countries. The reason: it was a Swazi combi (the latest word for matatu), and I was about to enter into a country which feels like an extension of South Africa, which is quasi-First World. The drive to the border was spent sleeping, so I can't tell much about the landscape we saw. Border crossing procedures were the most relaxed to date; no queues, no visa payments, no hassles, and not even a single moneychanger! A few kilometres down the road, however, we were stopped at a police checkpoint where my bags were searched more thoroughly than they ever had been before. The Swazi landscape was beautiful, gently sloped, rounded hills of lowveld, painted red and yellow by winter, glowing and treeless, almost radiating warmth in its wonderful colours. The road was excellent - one of the best I have seen in Africa. Although rural areas had circular huts for houses, the people didn't look poor, in comparison to the poverty of Mozambique, at least.As we approached Manzini the roadside sported more and more enormous billboards advertising this and that - Western commercialism was fast approaching. My visit to Manzini consisted of buying a few overpriced bananas for my lunch, and getting further transport to Swaziland's capital, Mbabane, 45km away. Because of the good road this trip took only twenty-five minutes. I couldn't help but think of how the 90km journey from Kasanga to Sumbawanga in Tanzania had taken nine hours. Whatever grievances I may have had about the Americanization (or South Africanization, to be more accurate) of Swaziland, good roads were very welcome.The first thing I did in Mbabane was to enquire about buses to Durban. It transpired that they actually leave from Manzini, where I had just come from. I considered backtracking and staying the night there, but it was so close (time-wise) that I decided to stay in Mbabane. I trekked through town, looking for the Christian guesthouse that my guidebook said had Mbabane's cheapest bed. When I did find it I was shocked to hear that the price was about €18 a night, nearly my entire daily budget. My fright at this price must have been so outwardly visible that the receptionist took pity on me and said I should talk to the pastor, who might reduce the price for me. I was ushered into his office, and warmly greeted by this jolly, plump man. I told him I didn't have €18 to spend on a bed, and he sympathetically let me stay for €10.I wandered into town then and ate junk food for lunch, it was either that or restaurant food at exorbitant prices. I spent the afternoon online, checking emails, and walking around shops trying to get as many 1 Lilangeni coins in change as I could. This coin, worth about €0.10, has the most convenient feature that it has the exact same weight and size as the English one pound coin. I intend to make a few rather dishonest trips to English vending machines when living in London.The reason for my mischievous idleness was partly because I was tired (recall that it was the day before that I had made the journey from Tofo to Maputo), and partly because there was absolutely nothing to do in Mbabane, whose size is so small, home to only 50,000 people. And, to be honest, its Western feeling, with huge, shiny shopping centres and fast food chains, depressed me. Already I missed the bustle of "real" African cities; here everything was dull, drugged, commercial and depressing. I have begun to think a lot about commercialism, and this taken-for-granted idea that Westernization is better. In the West everyone is so consumed by their wants and "needs" to have more and more material wealth, prizes and possessions, that they become slaves to capitalism. They work longer and harder to get those things they believe will fill the holes in their souls, and in the process only become emptier. I think Africa has turned me into some sort of a hippy.I ate a disgusting meal at KFC for my dinner, returning to the guesthouse before darkness fell. Mbabane is yet another town where post-sundown activities are ruled out by high levels of street crime. This imprisonment was the final nail in the coffin for any thoughts of remaining in Swaziland. To enjoy this country at all I would have to go into rural areas, something I simply didn't have time to do. So it was decided I would move on to Durban the next day, entering South Africa, the twelfth and final country of my journey through Africa.
]]> A glimpse of Maputo — Maputo, Mozambique http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180614540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180614540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180614540/tpod.html Thu, 31 May 2007 08:32:36 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Maputo, Mozambique

I caught a bus from Tofo so early in the morning that I saw very little of Southern Mozambique on my way - part of the journey was spent in darkness, the rest was spent sleeping. I said goodbye to Dieter and Roland, two of the best friends I made in Tofo, when dropped in Maputo. They flew back home to Cape Town, where I hope I will see them again.I stayed in a backpacker's place run by Fatima, the same Portuguese woman who owns the lodge I had stayed in in Tofo. I arrived quite late in the afternoon and was tired, so could only muster up the energy for a quick walk around town. Maputo is a planned city, a grid of avenues, covered in rubbish and looking very poor. It has a reputation for being dangerous, and I was warned by fellow guests at my lodge not to bring anything of value out with me. I memorised the way from the lodge down to the train station, which I wanted to see, and to the transport stand for Swaziland, where I was to head the next day. My memory failed me a little, and I got lost in a part of the city which made me quite nervous. I was constantly being sized up by men who lounged against walls, and I felt very much out of place. It was only later that I learned that this area is considered a "no-go" zone, day or night, for tourists. A little confidence in one's walk goes a long way, though, and I wasn't hassled by anyone and eventually found the train station I was looking for. The reason I wanted to visit the station was because of its architect, Gustave Eiffel, the famous Frenchman who designed Paris's Eiffel Tower. The station was indeed beautiful, and stood out from Maputo's grime like a colourful seashell in the sand. It had a very European feel to it, and was well maintained, reminding me very much of Paris's Gare de l'Est. Sitting proudly on the top was a large copper dome, carefully crafted and beautiful. After quickly pulling my camera out of my pocket to take a sneaky snap, not wanting to be spotted as a tourist here, I checked my emails and returned to the guesthouse. That evening I sat outside on a restaurant terrace to eat my dinner, and began to reflect on the European charm that lays hidden behind Maputo's scruffy exterior. If only the streets were swept, and buildings were given a lick of paint, these tree-lined avenues could be beautiful again. I walked back to the guesthouse at dusk, and belatedly started to see this city with new eyes, it is one that mixes European styles and architecture with African vibrancy and life. It is unfortunate that I had to move on the next day, and wouldn't get a chance to explore Maputo a little more.
]]> Stuck in Tofo — Tofo, Mozambique http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180353300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180353300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1180353300/tpod.html Thu, 31 May 2007 08:04:43 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Tofo, Mozambique

Fellow travelers had been telling me since I was in Malawi that Tofo, Mozambique was one of the nicest places they had been to in Southern Africa. So, I decided to spend a few days there, relaxing on the beach. On my way there I read in my guidebook that it was a place where many people come intending to stay a day or two, and end up spending weeks there. I laughed at this, thinking how foolish it would be for me to do that with less than a month to go before I fly home from Cape Town. Yet my two or three day rest there started to stretch and stretch, as I grew increasingly intoxicated by the beauty, atmosphere and great company I found in this little piece of paradise. Two or three days became twelve. I slept about two hours after my birthday celebrations in my hot little room in Chimoio with no mosquito net but plenty of mosquitoes. My bus left at half three in the morning, so I had to be there for about 2.45. This meant walking through the market area, with lots of undesirable types skulking around in the shadows. The stray dogs, who keep to themselves by day, rule the night here. As I rounded a corner I got the fright of my life as three of them started bounding towards me (from behind), barking angrily. I have been afraid of dogs since being bitten by a stray as a child, but this was not the time to get scared. I turned, faced them, and stamped my foot, preparing myself mentally to fight them if necessary. Remarkably, my aggression was sensed, and they immediately backed off, and left me continue. The bus ride south was not the most scenic, as just as dawn broke a heavy fog descended, and I could see little more than the trees on the side of the road. Mozambique is a very flat, low country, and even when that fog lifted I could only see the palm tree forests that lined the sides of the road. As we passed by Vilanculos, roughly half way up the coast of Mozambique, I noticed the destruction that a cyclone had caused when it hit this area a few months ago. All the trees were bent sideways, and the road had been washed away in places. The only houses standing were makeshift huts that must have been constructed in the interim; apparently the tourist town of Vilanculos was completely destroyed. Just before arriving in Maxixe, where I got off the bus, I caught a glimpse of the Indian Ocean, coloured grey under a cloudy sky. My heart lifted immediately - I feel at home when by the sea, and it was the first time I had seen it since Ireland. At Maxixe I got a ferry across the harbour to Inhambane, a pleasant little town with so many old Portuguese buildings that it feels like something from the past. Here I hungrily devoured a meal, not having eaten since the previous night, and caught a chapa (the local version of a matatu) to Tofo, bumping along the road to Tofo, about 25km away. Tofo is a little tourist town set on a white sand beach, onto which spectacular, barreling waves crash, with sandy streets and palm trees. I made my way to Fatima's Backpackers, where I would stay for my time here. The lodge is made up of thatched dorms and huts, set on the dunes, with wonderful views of the beach that stretches for miles in each direction. Although Tofo is quite touristy it is still very underdeveloped, and the beach is relatively deserted at all times. There are only two lodges aimed at backpackers, and the more upmarket tourists (mainly South Africans) stay in a different area, which suited me fine. What I loved most about Tofo was the people I met there. Up to this point in my trip I had avoided backpacker places, as the type of backpackers I met were usually pretty boring people, with whom I had the same uninteresting conversations (Where are you from? Where are you going? Where have you been?). For whatever reason, the people I met in Tofo were mostly intelligent, like-minded people. I found myself sitting on the beach many a time talking politics, philosophy, history, and all sorts of intellectual conversations. The banter was also there, a happy mix. I have made some friends there that I feel will be friends for life. After having traveled on my own for so long I also relished the company of others. I noticed a change of sorts in my personality when I was in Tofo, which I at first thought was brought on by the place itself. After much reflection I decided that Tofo itself did not cause the change, but it was something I first noticed there, as a result of projecting myself through frequent socializing. Travel will always change a person, as it broadens the mind by forcing it to come to terms with everything new you see every day. I took time to reflect on all this in Tofo, and to reflect on my trip as it draws to a close. I came, as everyone does, with preconceptions of what Africa is, or should be, and now I will leave with a completely different picture of the reality. Of course, what I believe to be Africa or African is not yet a full understanding, and only my impressions of a whirlwind tour of the continent. No one, except perhaps an African, could ever fully understand this magical corner of the Earth. On my second day in Tofo I went on a whale shark snorkeling trip, which meant heading out on a speedboat to try to find these enormous fish, and then to jump out and swim alongside them. We were led by Andy, an English volunteer researcher who is studying these creatures in Tofo. He was one of these people who is so passionate about his work that it was infectious, and within minutes of meeting him all our group suddenly shared his love for whale sharks. Off we went, a group of about ten of us, on what was to be a trip so wonderful that Andy said it was the best he had been on in his five months in Tofo. Within minutes of heading we saw five dolphins, and slowed down near them, hoping to be able to swim with them. They were having none of it, however, and as soon as we all had awkwardly splashed into the water they were nowhere to be seen. After a minute or so of hunting for them we were about to climb back into the boat. Then the shout went out - someone had seen a whale shark below them. I quickly swam over to where they were, and then could see the enormous fish, about five metres below the surface. At first I was not overly impressed, because the visibility was poor and rendered it to be just a distant shadow. A few minutes later it came closer to the surface, and I began to realize the beauty and gracefulness of it. They swim slowly enough, with sweeps of the tail, that it is easy to keep up with them, and the use of the snorkel and mask meant we could watch them all the time. It was possible to hold one's breath and dive down within touching distance, and swim alongside them, admiring the pattern of white spots that is unique to each whale shark. When bored with one we climbed onto the boat, and looked for another, which usually took no more than a minute. The last one we swam with was only a metre below the surface, so it was possible to actually swim underneath him, or in front of him, looking into his enormous mouth. The whale sharks we saw were all between seven and ten metres long - up to five times the length of my body! We saw nine of them in total - most groups that go out are usually lucky to see two or three, spending most of the time on the boat looking for them. We also saw five manta rays, huge rays which have a wing span of up to five metres, and are bigger than the roof of a very large car. These were lower down, however, and hard to see. I also signed up to do a diving course, my Advanced PADI course, which involved doing five dives, each teaching me a particular specialty. These were drift diving (learning to dive in currents), deep diving, fish awareness, enriched air diving, and underwater navigation. I did a dive every day, apart from two days, where the sea was too rough for us to get out into the water. The diving around Tofo is said to be some of the best in the world, and it certainly lived up to its reputation. Once submerged under the sea a whole new world reveals itself, with colourful tropical fish, giant eels, lobsters, turtles, stingrays, manta rays, whale sharks and beautiful coral. Diving is a lot like flying weightlessly; with minimal effort you can float along where you want, rising and falling by controlling your breathing, and moving with little flicks of your fins. The currents around Tofo are usually very strong, but this is used to your advantage, you drift with the current, meaning you have to expend hardly any energy at all.On one of the dives we met a huge manta ray about ten minutes before we had to surface. With a wing span of about 4m, it flew (they use their wings to actually "fly", albeit very slowly, underwater) in circles around us, very curious and completely unafraid of us. We all held onto rocks on the bottom, balancing ourselves in the current, and admiring its spectacular beauty. After a few minutes of this, it turned, and faced me, making direct eye contact. I grew a little worried as it started to approach me, never having actually found out if mantas are dangerous to humans or not (they aren't, in fact). It came closer and closer, until it was only two metres away from me, and then swept upwards, flying slowly over my head, within arm's reach. All my fear vanished as it went over me, and wonder washed over me as I saw its enormous white underside. Every once in a while nature shares these incredible moments of beauty with us, moments which will be remembered forever, and which put you on a high which make you love life, and whatever force created it.And so I passed my days in Tofo relaxing, reading, talking with friends, body-boarding, swimming, sitting on the beach watching the waves, eating good food, drinking cold beers, dancing at night or sitting around bonfires listening to African drums. It was two of the happiest weeks of my life. The price I have to pay is that my trip will be rushed from here on in, so rushed that I won't be able to stop and get to know many of the places I will see. If that is the price to be paid for two weeks in paradise, then it is worth it.
]]> A birthday in Chimoio — Chimoio, Mozambique http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1179240480/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1179240480/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1179240480/tpod.html Thu, 17 May 2007 11:03:05 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Chimoio, Mozambique

I hit the quarter-century mark on the 15th of May, and had been wondering how I should mark the occasion. For starters, it was decided that I would spend the day in two countries, simply because I could. I had also met a man, Justino, in my lodge in Harare, who lived in Chimoio, which was to be my first stop in Mozambique. Not wanting to spend this important night alone, I had made plans to meet him on the evening of my birthday, by when he said he should be back in Chimoio.I allowed myself a slight sleep-in (the birthday boy deserves to be spoiled, after all, even if it is by himself) before getting going, by shared taxi, to the border, only 12km away from Mutare. I had been a little anxious about border formalities leaving Zimbabwe, as this is where I could be asked to provide receipts showing that I had changed all my money at the official rate. And, sure enough, there was a question on the exit form asking me how much money I had spent in the country. I put the amount at about a quarter of the true figure, just in case.My charm, however, won the day for me, and I didn't need to use my feeble backup excuse (It's my birthday!) to get me out of trouble. I chatted sycophantically with the immigration officer, telling him that I had loved Zimbabwe, and that everyone has the wrong idea about the country - there's nothing bad there. He told me that he loved to hear people talk like that about his country, and said that "all those things you read on the internet are lies". He asked me to act as an ambassador for Zimbabwe, and to tell other people to come, that it is safe.It certainly is safe in Zimbabwe, but I'm not so sure I would advise tourists to go there. The problem, firstly, is that everything seems to be set up to direct as much of the tourist income into government coffers (exactly where we do not want it to end up). Firstly, the visa fee ($55), then the insistence on payment for hotel rooms in USD, which I only managed to avoid through much perseverance. I am also suspicious that most of the restaurants and shops which have managed to be successful (because they cater to those few who can still afford to splash money around) are owned by people who are connected to the government in one way or another. In essence, I worry that too much of the roughly $300 I spent in Zimbabwe ended up in the wrong hands, and that I have become an accomplice to Mugabe's oppressive regime.I found the country to be beautiful, although not in the way I had expected (I had hoped for something greener, but it was, after all, the winter, and the rains come in November and December), but incredibly impressive all the same. The people were the best part, always friendly, and kind, when you spoke to them. The problem, of course, was getting to talk to them. There seems to still be an atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust between the blacks and whites. All this, of course, is the observations of someone who was only there for eight days, and should not be taken as gospel. I would love to have spent a few months in the country, and to have tried to understand its complex political problems much more than I have done.Mozambique is beautiful, but then again, so is all of Africa. The road to Chimoio (about 80km from the border) dropped down, down, so that suddenly I was back in the oppressive heat. In Mutare I wore a sweater and pants to bed to keep me warm, in Chimoio I sweated and worried about mosquitoes. We passed through what must have been at one time lovely forests, although now they have been almost completely cut down. Everywhere I saw that familiar African sight of women laden down with large bundles of firewood carefully balanced on their heads, walking from where there was still forest to their homes, a walk that gets longer every year. The problem of deforestation in Africa is one that has caught my attention in a big way. It causes so many problems in itself. The women (who do all the work in Africa, literally) have to spend a significant portion of their day going to fetch wood. If they don't have time the children are sent, at the cost of their education. When the forests are cut down the soil below has nothing to hold on to, and on sloped land the rain will wash the good topsoil away. Then, of course, there is the effect on the environment of having fewer trees to clean the area of poisonous carbon dioxide. The effects of global warming are felt most in Sub-Saharan Africa, where already people talk about seasons changing, and where drought is becoming almost expected every year.Chimoio was refreshingly African, after the order and European feel to Zimbabwe's urban centres. It bustled noisily and happily, with dirty, dusty streets, thronging with colourfully dressed people. It has a nice Portuguese feel to it, with run-down colonial buildings lining the streets. I had trouble finding a hotel because very few people spoke English here. Mozambique is a Portuguese colony, and is somewhat unique in that Portuguese has been adopted as the spoken national language. In every other African country I have visited I have been able to speak the colonists' language (English, French), but in all of them people knew how to speak that language, but did not use it amongst themselves, in general. What a pity, I thought, that I don't speak Portuguese, as it would mean I could listen in on people's conversations, and not have to guess what people were talking about.I met up with Justino, as planned, late that afternoon. He is a friendly fellow, if a little uninteresting, but I was glad to have company on this day. Our conversation was rather limited, as his English wasn't great. Two subjects were recycled all day, his favourites. First, would anyone believe that these two men (Justino and I) had met in a lodge in Harare, and now here they were, reunited, in Chimoio?! Second, I was welcome in Chimoio, as it was Justino's home, where he has family and many friends, and he wanted me to feel at home here, and to have "peace in my heart".We spent the evening drinking beers, moving from place to place by taxi, even though they were often only a few hundred metres apart. Justino has a sense of pride in his relative wealth, and seemed almost insulted when I suggested that we should walk instead of taking a taxi. He has a big pot belly, which he says the women love, as it is a sign of wealth. When the sun went down, sliding into the horizon bathing Chimoio in soft, orange-red light, we took another taxi to his parent's home, so that I could meet them. The house was big, by African standards, built from concrete bricks and cement. Grey, square, and ugly, it was a house that showed that these people had money. I was not shown inside, unfortunately (our taxi was waiting outside), but was introduced to Justino's father and siblings. He recited conversation topics numbers one and two in both Potuguese (for his family's benefit) and in English (spoken rapidly, and often not making any sense, to impress his family).We went on then to his wife's home, who was not, in fact, his wife. He told me later that the woman who he called his wife was actually his girlfriend, but he wanted to marry her. The only problem was that she was with another man, and she first had to end it with him. This was highly unusual, as in Africa it is far more likely to hear of a man with two (or more) women, but not the other way around. For it to happen with the man's knowledge was even more unusual, and stranger still that he was admitting it to me.Her house consisted of two small rooms, built from bricks, and set amongst a compound of similar homes. The road there was a bumpy dirt track, and none of the houses had electricity. We sat inside the house, where there were two chairs (for Justino and I), drinking beers by candlelight. His "wife" and two sisters bustled around us, cleaning up (having not been told about this visiting mzungu), and getting ready to prepare a dinner. It was wonderful to be in this African home, welcome, and experiencing something different to restaurants, bars and hotels, on my birthday. Justino kept apologizing for the simplicity of the place, saying I must question how he ever afforded to stay at such a nice place in Harare. It was the simplicity of the home that I loved, though, for it was authentic. In contrast to this simplicity was the fact that everyone had a mobile phone; it seems, in fact, that almost every African does. They are cheap to buy (but then expensive to use), and so often have I been surprised when the poorest-looking of farmers suddenly pull a new Nokia from out of their pocket. They say that the abundance of cellphones in Africa is good for the continent. I have my doubts.Dinner was served after a few hours, it took time, as a chicken had to be bought (live), killed, plucked and cleaned before it could be roasted over a fire. The end product was delicious, as good as roast chicken my mother would make, and accompanied by hot rice, flavoured with vegetables. After dinner we drank some more beer, and talked some more. Justino's girlfriend's youngest sister (17) had taken quite a shine to me, for the simple reason that I was a mzungu. Justino repeatedly asked me if I wanted to have her that night; he assured me that she was "clean" and didn't have AIDS. Much to her disappointment I politely refused the offer.At about 10 pm Justino walked (the taximan wasn't answering his phone) me back to my hotel. I would have liked to stay later, but my bus south was leaving at the ungodly hour of 3.30 am the next day. I was so grateful to these people for this dinner, this welcome, and such an incredibly special way for me to mark my birthday. It will certainly be a night that I will always remember, even though it was just another drop in the African ocean of hospitality.
]]> Not up to much in Mutare — Mutare, Zimbabwe http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1179150960/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1179150960/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1179150960/tpod.html Thu, 17 May 2007 09:57:51 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Mutare, Zimbabwe

The journey from Masvingo to Mutare was pleasant enough, although uncomfortable. The bus was one that must have been built in the sixties, essentially made from metal panels welded together, with cramped seats (benches in fact, room for three on one side, two on the other) whose backs fell out unless gingerly sat into. The land we passed through was at first grassy flat bush, and then the kopjes started to appear. First one or two of them, then more and more, always stuffed full of granite boulders, like diamonds in a ring. Again, I saw boulders balancing one upon the other, with such little contact that they looked like the slightest of breezes would blow them over. Then, as we came closer to Mutare, along the border with Mozambique, there were suddenly mountains, huge, and covered in pine forests. On the way there we were stopped at several police roadblocks, and at one of these we all had to pile out of the bus so that our tickets and papers could be inspected, and so that people could be searched (for smuggled diamonds, apparently). Two queues formed, one for men, and one for women. I played the innocent tourist card, and joined the women's queue, as the female police officer at the front of it looked more trustworthy that the male officers, who were searching every other man. When my turn came I was not searched (again, I was worried that they would see all the valuables I had in my bag), and was waved back onto the bus. As I was boarding, one of the male officers, a sullen-looking fellow, asked me if I had been searched. I told him that I had been cleared by the female officer, and smiled sweetly at him as he grudgingly let me continue back to my seat on the bus.Mutare is a lovely town, a city, even, for its population is about that of Cork. It doesn't feel like a city, however, as it is spread out and its centre moves at a quiet, slow pace. Again, like Harare and Masvingo, it was a planned city, comprised of a grid of tree-lined avenues. What I liked most about the place was the backdrop of dark green mountains, rising in the difference, set against a clear blue sky. I often thought that I could have been in a city in the Alps, the mountains reminded me of those that are around Annecy, in France.I didn't get up to very much in Mutare, partly because of laziness (and a want to rest, read, and write), partly because there isn't much to do in the place. I had hoped to go to see giraffes and elephants being fed in a national park that is about half an hour's walk out of town. A local white woman told me that they had stopped feeding the animals (which they used to do at the same time every day), so I was unlikely to see anything. She also said that I'd have to pay the entry fee in US dollars, and they would give change to me in Zim dollars, converted at the official rate. I only had $50 bills. The final nail in the coffin was her warning that Mozambican bandits sometimes operate in the area, and mug tourists who walk around the hills. So, the walk was cancelled, perhaps not a bad thing considering my last hairy encounter with elephants in Malawi.I settled for a trip to Mutare's museum, more out of a desire to "do" something than any particular want to see the place. I managed to convince the man who sold entry tickets that I was working in Zimbabwe, which meant that I could pay the local price (about $0.40) instead of the $10 price tourists have to pay. The $10 would have stopped me from going, partly because it is a ludicrous price (for what was on offer), mainly because I didn't want to give such a generous present to Comrade Mugabe. The museum was mildly interesting; it had exhibits showing vintage cars, stuffed animals indigenous to Zimbabwe, old guns, a section showing the minerals that Zimbabwe has and some displays about tribes in the country.Most of the rest of my days here were spent dedicated to the readers of this blog, either tapping away at new entries, or uploading photos (a painfully slow process in African internet cafes). I had also fallen behind a lot on my diary, which had to be taken care of. Finally, I spent a lot of time reading, devouring Doris Lessing's "African Laughter", an excellent book of anecdotes about four trips to Zimbabwe that the author made between 1982 and 1992. Well worth reading, if anyone has some time on their hands.
]]> Visiting the ruins of Great Zimbawe, Masvingo — Masvingo, Zimbabwe http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178795700/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178795700/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178795700/tpod.html Thu, 17 May 2007 07:07:36 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Masvingo, Zimbabwe

*Note - I've put up new photos, from Rwanda onwards. Those photos from the genocide sites may be a little disturbing, so don't look at them if you don't want to see that type of thing...*The owner of the lodge I stayed at in Harare offered to drop me to the bus station where I would find my transport to Masvingo. Had she not have offered, I had another offer of a lift there, from the two girls working in the nearby advertising agency. Never before in my trip in Africa have I been offered a lift to catch a bus, let alone two. This was just yet another example to me of Zimbabwean kindness, and hospitality towards a foreign visitor. The trip to the bus station revealed the other face of Harare, which which we foreigners are not supposed to see. The cleanliness was gone; rubbish littered potholed streets. There were very run-down looking buildings, and a look of poverty about the place. The bus station was lively, as any African one is, where you have to watch your belongings carefully, despite being distracted by the noise, excitement and colour of everything that is going on all around you. When the bus for Masvingo pulled in there was an almighty rush to the door to get a good seat, in which me and my bags got crushed. I carefully extracted myself from the chaos, waited for the crowd to ebb in, and then climbed on, still managing to get a good window seat. The four hour journey was pleasant, if a little uncomfortable. As usual my mysterious bus-fatigue washed over me as soon as we trundled off, and I promptly fell asleep for most of the journey. For those snatches that I was awake the landscape didn't vary much. There was bush, or thinned bush, or else plains of elephant grass. The hills of the east had melted into gently sloping flatlands, and although everything was beautiful, it lacked the excitement of mountainous landscape. We arrived in Masvingo about five hours later, although I didn't get off until a bus station two kilometres later, because of a miscommunication with one of my fellow passengers. Not to worry, however, Africa's public transport is always efficient around cities and towns (more reliable, in fact, than that of Ireland), and within minutes I was in a cramped matatu hurtling back to Masvingo. Masvingo is another old planned colonial town, a small grid of wide streets, a little dusty and in need of love, but a pleasant place all the same. I then embarked on a hot, painful, and tiring walk around the town from hotel to hotel trying to find a place that would accept payment in Zim dollars. The town's backpacker's hotel (huge, but empty) was the third place I visited, and I was going to settle on paying US dollars for a dorm bed, just to end my misery. That is, until I heard such a bed would cost $20 US (usually, dorm beds cost $3-7 in Africa). So on I went, to a little lodge outside of town that appeared not to be used by foreign tourists. I collapsed into their reception and asked so pitifully that a sympathetic look was given; I was to be allowed to pay Zim dollars as long as I kept myself scarce by day, in case the police came around to check up on them. That night, after a meal of chips and "stew" (two pieces of chewy beef in watery gravy), I went across the road from the hotel to a busy-looking bar, and went for a few drinks there. There were two floors to the bar, and the doorman suggested that I might prefer the upstairs more; it was quieter there. So, up I went, and found a pleasant, small room, with a bar wrapped around one corner, at which about ten men were sitting, watching a television. There was a quiz show on, showing on Zimbabwe's only television station, ZBC, an embarrassingly bad channel, jokingly called "Dead BC" by the locals. The quiz show proved to be a good bonding program for all of us to watch, as we argued over the answers. After a while I started chatting to the man next to me, a human rights lawyer in a small firm in town. I told him about my travels through Africa, and he interestedly asked me about my impressions of some of the Central and East African countries I had been to, having also visited them himself. He had the idea in his head that I was a writer, perhaps from having seen my diary and pen, which I had with me. He asked if I was some sort of a journalist; I laughed, and said you have to be careful to say what you are in this country. This was probably a little unwise of me, but it served to get him talking more openly about Zimbabwe, and allowed me to ask him more probing questions about the politics of the country. We spoke in hushed tones, further lowering our voices when we said the M-word (Mugabe). He told me that things were in a terrible way in Zimbabwe, and they were fast deteriorating. He couldn't see things improving for at least another twenty years. I asked if he thought things would change if He died, and he said he was doubtful; there were others in the ruling party that would gladly seize control. A new Zanu-PF leader would probably mean a more relaxed rule over the country, but things would only slightly improve, and the corruption that rots Zimbabwe would further fester and grow. Next years elections, he said, would be another farce. He had no doubt that intimidation and bully-boy tactics would ensure another Zanu-PF victory. He said he would probably not even bother voting, for what is the point? Although the country may appear to be safe now, he told me that I should come here in the few months before and after the elections to see the violence, oppression and fear, which reveal Zimbabwe's true face. Another thing I must see, if I wanted to understand this country properly, was the rural areas. I explained to him that unfortunately I couldn't do this; I had no car, and there were no hotels outside of towns and cities. The fact that I don't speak Shona would have also been a problem. Although he was a lawyer, educated at the University of Zimbabwe (which is not easy to get in to, in Zimbabwe you need brains, not money to get a third level education), he had grown up in a village. This qualified him somewhat to shed light on rural attitudes towards politics. It is a well known fact that Mugabe's only significant support comes from rural areas, where he is still much adored. I had presumed that this was because of the land redistribution, but was told that this was not the case. Very little of the land seized from the whites, had, in fact gone into the hands of poor black farmers. Those who got the land were civil servants, politicians, and high-level members of Zanu-PF. The lawyer racked his brains for a few moments to see if he could think of anyone from his village that had gotten land; yes, there was one, but he only got a little, and he had worked as a civil servant in Harare for a few years. Those who have been given the land are usually not from an agricultural background, and as a result have failed badly in farming their new land. They have been the worst perpetrators in destroying the Zimbabwean bush, and the reason behind Zimbabwe's severe decline in agricultural exports (and hence, shortage of foreign currency reserves). The rural population supports Mugabe because they know no better, he said. Comrade Mugabe was the hero of independence, and has always only had the country's best interests at heart, in their eyes. Inflation doesn't affect these people as badly as those who live in towns and cities, the only goods a subsistence farmer needs to buy is perhaps salt and soap. All they care about is rain, and whether it comes or not. This year it hasn't rained enough, and hence the people will go hungry. Mugabe, however, knows his support lies with the poor farmers, and he will look after them. Already, maize is being imported from neighbouring countries (mainly South Africa), and will be distributed free, or at highly subsidized prices, to the drought-affected rural areas. As long as these people are fed, the lawyer said, they are happy, and will have no real reason to question Mugabe's rule. I asked him about the sanctions that the West is imposing on Zimbabwe. "The illegal sanctions", he laughed, "it is difficult for us to learn what they are, because of the restrictions on the media in this country." He said that he agreed with them in principal, but if they are to be effective they should be made greater, so as to bring the country to its knees economically. Half-hearted sanctions would never change anything, and hurt the people, not the politicians. I asked him how he got reliable information on what was happening in the country. He said that people have their own networks; he talks to friends know things. Most of this information is sourced from the internet. There are two newspapers here which are moderately critical of Zanu-PF, The Financial Gazette and The Zimbabwean Independent. I bought the latter the following day, and was surprised to find he was right, there were articles within which were critical (although carefully so) of Mugabe's regime. I asked him had he heard of Morgan Tsvangirai getting severly beaten by policemen on March 11th - he had, of course. That sort of event is widely publicized in the country's press, he said, probably to show people what happens if you challenge Mugabe's authority. The reasons given in the papers for the beatings were that Tsvangirai had coming to the police station "to make trouble". He asked if I had heard about the lawyers who had been beaten up by police in Harare while I was there. I had; members of the national Law Society were met with police violence while peacefully protesting on the streets. I saw photos of their leader, who was covered in horrible bloody bruises, from head to toe. He told me that he had worked as a lawyer for the national army during the war in the Congo at the start of this decade. He worked between the government of Zimbabwe and the mineral companies who came to plunder those regions held by the Zimbabwean army. He said that most of what he saw was above board, and that the profits earned appeared to be going to the government, for legitimate use. He said, however, that he held too junior a role to have seen any corruption. There were certain things that he saw that he said he wouldn't talk about until he was sixty, and then only to his children. I asked if he was afraid of people in the bar listening to what we were saying, and if there was any sort of military intelligence network operating in the country. He said that no, we were safe enough here, "but the fear is there". The next day I set off to visit Great Zimbabwe, the country's big tourist site (after Victoria Falls, of course). This involved getting a matatu to the bus station and then finding a bus that would pass nearby the site. All this went to plan, and before I knew it I was sitting next to the driver of the bus (at his insistence), thanking my blessings that he was a slow and careful driver as well as a kind man. Great Zimbabwe, as it is called, is the ruins of one of Southern Africa's greatest civilizations, which was at the height of its glory during 1100-1500 AD. A series of impressive walls, made from granite blocks, without the use of mortar, encircle what used to be compounds of huts. It was an important trading centre, and evidence of Arab traders from Zanzibar and further afield have been found here: Chinese porcelain, Indian beads, and other exotic goods brought from these exotic ancient civilizations.My attempts to pay in local currency (in which the price came to less than one US dollar) failed; my explanation of having forgotten my receipts from the bank was met with a raised eyebrow. I reluctantly made my US $15 donation to Mugabe & Co, and entered the grounds of the ancient civilization. First, I visited a museum, which explained the history of the place, with some unusual inaccuracies. For example, they said that the people living here probably ate sadza, the Zimbabwean staple diet, a thick porridge made from maize (every country in East Africa seems to eat the stuff, although they call it by different names). It is well documented, however, that maize was first introduced to the continent by the Portuguese. I chose not to worry about such trivialities, and enjoyed marveling at the clay recreations of the workers who would have build this small city, allowing my imagination run wild with images of splendour and wealth which probably would have been more fitting to ancient Rome or Egypt than here.I went outside then, finally, to explore the ruins for myself. They are spread out over a plain, measuring maybe a little over a kilometre squared. Rising from the plain is a wonderful kopje, upon which the oldest part of the city was built, no doubt for reasons of protection and security. This turned out to be my favourite part of Great Zimbabwe. The first pleasure was in the climb itself, it was exhilarating to be outdoors, and climbing, up, up, getting views of the land that stretched out for miles around. Bush, and cleared bush, little dirt tracks criss-crossing here and there, the odd hut, but mainly wilderness, wonderful, calm wilderness. The expanse of Lake Mutrikwe (created artificially by a dam) shimmered nearby.The path, made with granite blocks, neared the summit, and the ruined walls started to appear, often rising as high as four or five metres tall, built around the natural boundaries of those impossibly large round boulders (also granite) that every kopje in this country seems to greedily hoard. The base of the wall was always wider than the crumbling top, necessary because no mortar was used. The large granite blocks completed the walls as neatly as those of a Lego castle.As I went higher the walls started to wind more, enclosing little compounds that would have held huts (one was in fact built here recently, to help the imagination). Sets of walls now housed passageways, through which I clambered, excited as a child. I was transported back to my youth, when I imagined how great Irish ruins must have been in their day. But those Irish ruins needed greater inventiveness to be recreated in one's head, Great Zimbabwe's walls had survived time's destructive nature so well that it was easy to see how this place was all those centuries ago.I almost ran around the passageways, not caring if I looked foolish, or childish, for there was no-one to see me. There were no others around; in my three hours exploring Great Zimbabwe I saw only two white tourists (Germans), and perhaps ten locals. For now, this kopje was mine, it was as if I was in a dream only a child could invent. As I scrambled over rocks and through secret passageways my adult marvel at the history of the place gave way to a childish view of it all as a playground, set in wild, open, empty nature. What fun could be had here by other (!) children, inventing games, passing days, weeks, whole summers, playing, hiding!A group of local tourists passed, and I sobered myself up, and assumed my adult character again, sitting on a rock and reflecting on the history of the place, as that is what an adult should do. I reluctantly climbed down off the kopje then, to explore the rest of the ruins. I took another path down, the "terrace path", which was steeper, and almost always lined on each side by walls, creating the effect of it being a sort of passageway. When I reached the bottom I went to the Eastern ruins, following a path that has become overgrown because of a lack of tourist feet tramping it into neatness. I came to a sign that read "Mujejeje - 1km". I walked on, through bush and over granite plateaus, passing under trees filled with curious monkeys and barking baboons. I had read on an American's blog that there were snakes here, among them a deadly black mambo. I noticed several snake holes in the ground, and so made as much noise as I could while walking through the bush so as to frighten them away.I walked and walked until I reached a fence marking the park's boundary, not having seen Mujejeje, whatever that was. I decided to turn back, a little puzzled, but happy to have had such a lovely excursion in the bush. I later read that Mujejeje are rocks that resonate when struck; I must have walked right past them without realizing it.I explored the Eastern and Central ruins then, less fun than those on the kopje, but impressive nonetheless. These walls were lower, at maybe five feet high, and made enclosures around relatively flat ground. I made my way up to the Great Enclosure then, the most impressive of the ruins, structurally, at least. This was an enormous wide wall, rising perhaps ten metres high, still perfectly intact. It enclosed a roughly circular area, about a hundred metres in diameter. Inside were more small walls, and a tall, near-cylindrical tower (which was solid through - they were just building to show off at this stage, I thought to myself). I wandered around the enclosure, trying to imagine how these people lived. To think that Europeans like to believe that all Africans were savages before our arrival! The English, in fact, did everything they could to try to say that it was anyone but the Africans who built all this. I pondered how Africa would have developed had we not felt the need to come and interfere. They would probably be a lot better off had they been left alone.I left then, and on my way out I asked if I could see the visitor's book, which everyone must sign. I saw that in the past fortnight there had been, on average, two Western tourists per day. For once I was a little happy about Mugabe's Zimbabwe; I was so lucky to have had this amazing piece of African history almost to myself.I walked out to the main road to wait on a bus then, and was entertained by friendly, playful, laughing women who were there selling sweet potatoes and groundnuts to passing traffic. They insisted I taste everything they had, and was even given a sweet potato that they had already cooked. I was incredibly touched by how open, warm and kind they were - traits I have remarked that all Zimbabwean people seem to have. I missed a bus that passed because of talking with these women, but no matter, as I got a lift from two friendly local NGO workers in their 4x4, and zipped back to Masvingo in no time at all.That night I went back to the bar again, hoping to meet the lawyer. He was there, and I took a seat next to him, after first asking if it was free. Five minutes later a strong-looking, drunken man told me to vacate the seat; he had been there before me. I apologized, and returned the seat to him. He wanted to know who I was, and what I was doing here. When I told him that I was a tourist he first didn't believe me, until the lawyer (a friend of his) assured him that I was telling the truth. He apologized then, saying he wouldn't have been so rude had he known. The black-white race thing was still an issue, he said. The lawyer had told me that the whites still essentially keep to themselves here. He frequents this bar almost every night, and said he hadn't seen another white here in over three months.It turned out that the man whose seat I had taken was a major in the army, so any hope of talking politics was now gone. The lawyer made to leave, and asked the major to look after me, saying he was concerned for my safety in this bar. The two men argued in Shona for ten minutes, after which the major told me that I would be safe here tonight, but that if I did anything out of order tomorrow he would have to kill me. I immediately grew worried that the lawyer had told him that I was a "journalist", and anti-Mugabe. When he left I made to go to the bathroom, and asked him if he had spoken to the major about the previous evening's conversation. He said that he hadn't, of course. He said not to worry about the major, he was a good man, just drunk.I returned to the bar and drank with the major for a while, as he aggressively questioned me about my thoughts on the country. I spoke of how great a country it is, a pity about the economic problems, of course, but hopefully things will get better. Now was not the time to speak my heart. I said, after a while, that I would go to the bar downstairs for a change of scenery, hoping to leave him behind. He insisted on accompanying me, for my safety.When I went down I was glad he was with me, for it was a strange place. My entry in this room would have been met with a sudden silence, were it not for the loud music. Everyone turned around to look at me. Rough, drunken youths lounged against tables and chairs, and I immediately felt unwelcome. A few of the men were completely intoxicated, not from alcohol, but from some drug or other. The major and I played a game of pool and had a beer. He repeatedly told me to watch my pockets here. The crowd gathered around, and applauded the major when he potted balls, to which he did a little victory dance every time. I started to come back then, and ended up winning the game. Against my better judgment, I mimicked the major's victory dance, which infuriated him, but won the crowd over. They clapped and cheered, and whatever tension I had felt on my arrival was now gone - I felt welcome.We played again, and the major's anger at having lost the first game sobered him up enough to make sure he trounced me this time around. He kept slowly drawing a finger across his throat, looking at me, whenever he was about to pot a ball. A little scary, but always meant in jest. After the second game I decided to leave. It had been a strange evening, and a little frightening at times, but enjoyable nonetheless. It was not the kind of bar where I wanted to be when the men got too drunk. And, besides, I was on the road again the following day, to Mutare.
]]> Puzzled by Harare — Harare, Zimbabwe http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178723880/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178723880/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178723880/tpod.html Mon, 14 May 2007 07:14:45 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Harare, Zimbabwe

Another eight-hour bus journey took me to Blantyre, Malawi's commercial capital. Blantyre is a more pleasant city than Lilongwe, at least having some sort of a meaningful center - a triangular grid of streets lined with banks, shops and the odd restaurant. I was there over a weekend, however, so the streets were quiet. Like Lilongwe, it is dangerous to go out at night, so I found myself confined to my hostel, a backpacker's place named Doogles. The bar there was always quite busy with ex-pats, the usual batch of misfits, Aid workers and businessmen. They didn't mix with the tourists, and we were happy to keep ourselves apart in a little room to the side. I met my Norwegian friends from Nkhata Bay there, and spent most of my time with them, chatting, playing cards and having a few Kuche-Kuches (the delicious Malawian beer) in the evenings. My day in Blantyre was spent sorting out money for Zimbabwe. Because of the situation in Zimbabwe I had no choice but to bring all my money with me in dollars. To do this I had to withdraw Malawian Kwacha from ATM machines, which was a problem as Visa had once again decided to block my card. Luckily I got this sorted out and didn't have to wait any longer in this city which I was eager to leave. I have had a keen interest in Zimbabwe and its politics for the past few years, and it is one of the countries in Africa that I looked forward to visiting most. Doris Lessing is one of my favourite authors, and her descriptions of this wonderful country had planted images in my mind that I wanted to become real before my eyes. Zimbabwe has been in the international news quite a bit over the past few months, largely because Morgan Tsvangirai, the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) opposition leader was arrested and brutally beaten up by police on March 11th. The world saw pictures of him leaving hospital in a wheelchair, with a badly swollen black eye. Doctors say his skull was cracked when he came in for treatment. Countless people had been advising me not to go to Zimbabwe because of all this, but my desire to see this country at such an interesting time was too great. From talking to other tourists who had passed through Zimbabwe recently I learned that there was nothing to be afraid of; the problems are political in nature, and once I was careful I should be perfectly safe. I took a direct bus from Blantyre to Harare, Zimbabwe's capital, in order to get what could have been a two or three day journey on matatus over in a day. We had to go through a sliver of Mozambique that separates Malawi and Zimbabwe, which meant crossing borders twice. The first border took nearly two hours to cross, because of bribe-greedy officials. Many of the bus's passengers were Zimbabwean women, who go to Malawi to buy rice, clothes and other goods that they then bring back to Zimbabwe to sell at higher prices. Technically they are supposed to pay duty on these exported goods, but it is more traditional to bribe the guards to ignore this rule. Thus, much discussion took place between the women and the guards, and there were a few bags of grain that mysteriously had no owner when the guards found them. We eventually trundled on through the border, and entered Mozambique. It is difficult to compare levels of poverty between African countries, just by looking from the window of a bus, through western eyes. This section of Mozambique appeared, at the surface, to be poorer than Malawi. The people lived in very simple huts, often entirely made from grass or straw, thatched around a timber frame, with plastic sheeting under the thatch to keep the rain out. Rain, however, appeared to be a problem for all the wrong reasons here - the land was scorched yellow with drought, and fields of failed maize showed that the rains had not been generous this year. Nearly every river we passed through was either completely dried up or reduced to a timid trickle. The exception was the great Zambezi River, which we passed over after driving through Tete. The Zambezi is one of Africa's greatest rivers, made famous for its thundering drop over Victoria Falls, at the border between Zimbabwe and Zambia. I was quite anxious about crossing the border into Zimbabwe, not quite knowing what to expect. I had heard rumours of tourists being forced to change money at the official rate ($1 US = $250 Zim, which remains fixed), instead of the rapidly changing black market rate, which stands at $1 US = $30,000 Zim (it was half that, at $1 US = $15,000 just a month ago, inflation here is about 2,200%). I had also heard that you have to state how much foreign currency you bring in with you, so that it can be checked when you leave, and so that you can be asked for receipts showing that you changed all your money at the official rate. Changing money on the black market is, of course, illegal, but everyone obviously has no choice but to do it. To give an example, this morning I paid $40,000 Zim for a rather expensive (by Zimbabwean standards) cup of coffee. Having changed my money on the black market, it cost me the equivalent of a euro. Had I changed my money at the official rate, it would have cost me a whopping $160 US. When I reached the top of the queue to get my visa I nervously stepped forward, expecting the worst. Most of my US dollars were hidden on my person, in case I was searched when asked about how much money I had. I was met with a welcoming smile, and the process was straightforward, apart from having to fork out $55 US for my visa. Visas for Irish nationals were free up to a year ago, had I been aware of having to make such a significant donation to Mugabe I might have given more thought to coming here. It would have been pointless to get up on my high horse at this stage, so I coughed up the money with a smile, thanked the lady, and made my way out. I had my bag searched after, the first time this has happened to me in Africa. I was worried that the guard would open my "valuables pocket", that houses my camera, MP3 player, new phone and radio. Seeing all this wealth in one little place could tempt a weak man to invent a bribing situation - I have heard of tourists having their camera confiscated, only to have it returned after giving a little "present". I joked and chatted with the man while he looked through the main pocket, where he found nothing of any interest, and he left it at that, waving me through. I sat out under the hot afternoon sun across the border, feeling excited to be finally in Zimbabwe, as I waited for the other passengers to go through the formalities. I got a bit of a fright then, when a man walked by me, and ordered me to follow him into an office. I followed him into a disorderly office, where another sullen-looking official was sitting. The two of them spoke in Shona for a minute, and I grew more worried as to what was going to happen here. Casual glances around the office didn't reveal what its function was. Finally, one of the men spoke to me, and told me that this was a military office. I couldn't believe what I was hearing - what could the military possibly want with me? I repeated what he had said, to make sure I had heard correctly. The two men looked at each other, and erupted into laughter. No, it was a medical office, and they just wanted to see my vaccinations certificate. Breathing a sigh of relief, I produced the necessary documents. I spoke to the man who carefully inspected my list of vaccinations, hoping to distract him from the missing Cholera jab. He mustn't have noticed, as I was handed back my papers a moment later, flashed a warm smile, and told to enjoy my stay in Zimbabwe. It's amazing what a little paranoia will do to you - what was in fact a completely uneventful border crossing became a drama of possible nightmare situations in my mind. We had only about another two hours of light on our way to Harare from the border. The countryside we passed through was beautiful, and very different to anything I had seen so far in Africa. The trees were coloured shades of auburn, red and gold, as well as green, and the ground was scorched yellow. It hit me then that I had entered a completely different climate, here I was almost in the Southern winter, and their autumn had just ended. Since coming to Zimbabwe sweaters have been needed in the evenings, and warm blankets at night. The land didn't look too populated, at least by the roadside. The homes that I saw were small circular mud-brick huts, with well-thatched conical roofs. They were grouped in little compounds, or villages, maybe five to ten huts in a rough circle, surrounded by a few fields of maize or sunflowers. Many people sat or stood by the roadside, with what looked like all their possessions bundled around them. Were they going to Harare, to market? Or perhaps fleeing their desperately poor rural lives? Kopjes (small, round hills) dotted the landscape, studded with huge, smooth granite boulders. Many of these boulders balanced impossibly one upon the other, looking as if a strong wind could topple them over, sending them rolling destructively down the hill. Zimbabwe's famous bush has been thinned to almost nothing in places, leaving golden elephant grass and yellow-brown gritty soil beneath. Where there was bush, it was wonderful, with a huge variety of trees, nearly all no higher than five metres, the leaves painted with the warm colours of autumn. Lemon and apple trees were hidden here and there, and I saw baboons jumping around the branches of several of them. I saw fields of cotton then, which looked almost like those heavily frosted fields of Irish winter mornings. As the sun slipped behind the horizon the colours of the leaves and grass glowed brilliantly for ten minutes, as if reflecting the red-orange sky, before a velvety darkness enveloped the sky, welcoming the winking stars and a near-full moon to their home - a Zimbabwean night, my first. We arrived into Harare in complete darkness, and I peered out my window, trying to get some sort of an impression of this famous city. I was surprised to see the outlines of big houses, as we drove along wide avenues lined with huge, leafy trees. At first glance, it appeared to be quite an affluent city. I got a taxi from the bus stop (unfortunately Harare is yet another African city where walking at night is not an option) to a quiet little lodge near the centre of town. Here I had to negotiate to pay for my room in Zim dollars ($150,000 = $5 US per night). Law requires foreigners to pay for hotels rooms with foreign currency (which is in great demand by the government here). The prices, if paid in US dollars, are usually twice to three times more expensive if you pay in foreign currency ($10 US here), as most of this money is taken in taxes by the government. The exception, of course, is if you can produce receipts showing you changed your money at the official rate. In this case, my room would have effectively cost me $600 US a night. The lodge's manager agreed to allow me pay in local currency, understanding my situation. This meant my stay there would not be recorded, as the police regularly come to check that these rules are being properly followed. The money I paid would not, thus, be taxed, which suited me fine. The less money Zimbabwe's government manages to collect from my visit here, the better.As I fell asleep that night I heard gunfire being exchanged a few kilometres from the hotel. I excitedly thought that maybe something revolutionary was happening, and then began to wonder if excitement was the correct emotion to be feeling in such a situation. The next day I asked if anyone knew what had happened. They didn't, but postulated that it was probably thieves, or police firing at thieves. The other nights I was in Harare I didn't hear any more gunfire. The next day I set off to explore the city for myself, and was quite surprised by what I found. From reading about Zimbabwe in the news, all you hear about is the poverty, and how things are deteriorating so rapidly that everything seems to be spinning out of control. As a result, I expected to find a very run-down looking city, with many beggars and poor people, potholed streets and rubbish everywhere. What I encountered was almost the complete opposite to what I had imagined. The city is a planned one, and is essentially the collision of two grids of streets, arranged in blocks. The streets were wide avenues, clean, rarely potholed, and lined with wonderful, tall, leafy trees. The centre of town revealed impressive, tall buildings, several so large that they could almost be described as skyscrapers. Shiny Mercedes cars whirred by, housing (black) men in three-piece suits. The people who walked the streets were well heeled, too, most smartly dressed in suits, or fashionable western clothes. There were classy boutiques along the streets, and South African fast food joints everywhere. I was quite shocked at this Harare, which didn't match any of my mental images of what this city should be like. Where was the poverty? Where were the beggars? Why did it feel like an American city, and not the capital of one of the world's worst-off countries? I knew that the rich, politically connected elite had managed to gobble up a lot of the country's money since Zimbabwe's independence, twenty-seven years ago. But there were too many rich-looking people here, surely not everyone I saw here had connections to the ruling party. I had a conversation with a local woman a day or two later which somewhat clarified my puzzlement over Harare and its affluence. She said, firstly, that only the centre of the city is well maintained, with its lovely parks and clean avenues, impressive mansions, and shiny shopping malls. This is the part of the city that tourists and visiting businessmen will see, and it is important for this part of the city to project the right image. As soon as you leave the centre (and I did, eventually), you see (as I did) rubbish on the badly potholed streets, shantytowns, and much poverty. This woman also told me not to be fooled into thinking that everyone with a tie was well off. The middle class was now feeling the squeeze because of the inflation. Prices rise almost on a daily basis, and wage hikes are slow to follow. Everyone, she said, was finding it extremely difficult to make ends meet at the moment. I shouldn't be fooled by a suit, she said, these people were going to work, where they had to look well. One of my principal reasons for coming to Zimbabwe was to talk politics with people, to hear their opinions about what was going on in their country, to listen to their hopes for the future, and to how they felt things might change, if at all. My few days in Harare revealed to me that this would not be as easy as I had hoped. The race issue felt to be still very much present in Zimbabwe. I am cautious to make sweeping statements which should be read as truth, but I am compelled to record what I felt was the case. Harare still has many white citizens, you see them zipping around in their large cars or doing their shopping in the large commercial centers. They are rarely in the company of blacks, and seem to keep to themselves. I had thought there would be less whites in the city than I saw, but I was told that those who had left the country were nearly all farmers, the white businessmen are still needed, as they manage much of what is left of Zimbabwe's crumbling economy. For the first time since Kenya, I felt that cautious suspicion of me from the locals. I believe I didn't see a single other tourist in Harare, so it is natural to assume that the locals thought I was a Zimbabwean white. They didn't say hello, or come up to talk to me, as locals would in nearly every other African country I have been to. They rarely met my eye when passing me on the street. That said, I have found the Zimbabweans to be one of the friendliest, and kindest of African people. As soon as I introduce myself as an Irish tourist I feel a barrier is almost visibly broken down, I'm no longer a "white", but a European visitor. When this is realized they talk much more openly, and warmly. But this barrier has proven enough to limit the number of casual acquaintances I usually meet every day in Africa to very few indeed, despite actively going out every day hoping to meet people. Another problem is that because of the money shortages, the city's coffee shops were empty. The only restaurants left open were fast food places, with prices excluding everyone but the very rich (and nearly me); a fast food outlet is not the kind of place where you will make a friend. One morning I decided to visit the University of Zimbabwe, where I secretly hoped to meet some students with revolutionary ideas, who would speak openly and frankly about their country's problems, perhaps even the very people who might be tomorrow's leaders. I walked the four kilometres or so out to the University, passing impressively large mansions, always surrounded by high walls further protected by coils of razor wire on the top. My route (deliberately, admittedly) brought me along Chancellor Avenue, which is where President Mugabe has his enormous Presidential Palace, measuring perhaps a kilometre squared. I walked along the side of the twelve-foot high wall surrounding it, and paused to inspect a sign that was there, advising you not to walk here between 6pm and 6am. If you are seen here during these hours, when the road is closed to traffic, you will be shot at; the guards are under instructions to shoot first, and ask questions later. I heard someone whistling at me, and turned around to see that it was a guard on the other side of the road, dressed in full camouflage combat gear, complete with a large gun and helmet with fake green leaves hanging from it. He angrily waved at me, indicating that I should cross over to where he was immediately. I walked over to him, said hello, and approached to shake hands with him. "Stop where you are!", he barked at me, and questioned where I was going. I told him I wanted to go to the University. He looked me up and down suspiciously, and then told me to proceed, quickly, and without stopping again. He said I should stay on the side of the road opposite to the palace.On I went, as ordered, trying to catch a glimpse of the palace within the walled compound. A combination of high walls and enormous trees in the grounds made any sightings of anything interesting impossible. Just to be so close, within a few hundred metres of where the President was, was exciting in itself. I toyed with the idea of presenting myself as a tourist at the main entrance, wondering if I might be granted an audience with President Mugabe, so that I might try to talk some sense into him. Thankfully I am not crazy enough to have let this idea leave the realm of imagination.The University campus is vast, measuring maybe 2km by 4km, and is mostly undeveloped bushland. In the northwest corner of the grounds there are a dozen or so large buildings, built in that dull, drab style of the sixties. There was a happy buzz around the campus, students mingling, chatting, playing football, and going about their daily business. I hoped to find some sort of a student bar, or at least restaurant, where I might sit and hope to attract a curious student. I learned that there was no bar, or common room, and the restaurant was closed until dinner-time. So I bought a coke for myself, and sat on a wall, drinking it. After half an hour I realized that I wasn't going to get talking to anyone. People looked at me a little suspiciously - I was the only white on campus (that I noticed, anyway). The only person who spoke to me was a young man with very bloodshot eyes, offering to sell me weed.I left after a while, a little disappointed in Zimbabwe's students. I reflected that if a black man had come to sit on a wall in UCC, it is unlikely that any of Cork's finest would approach him to talk to him about Irish politics. I read in a newspaper the following day that Zimbabwe's students are increasingly apathetic about national politics; all they care about is "getting the hell out of Zimbabwe". This apathy towards national politics doesn't extend to student politics, however. Another newspaper I read this morning reported that demonstrations on campus connected to Student's Union elections had turned violent last Thursday, two days after I visited the University. Apparently several of the security staff were injured, and rocks were thrown at windows in the library and the student residences. The local police had to be called to put a stop to the violence (by meeting it with more violence, of course). A police spokesperson reported that they were suspicious of "outside agitators" being responsible, using the sort of vague language of propaganda that litters the Zimbabwean press.I made friends with two lovely young women who worked in an advertising agency near my hotel, which was my internet base for Harare. One evening they offered to take me on a tour of the city in the company car, which they were allowed to use. The "sights" these two cosmopolitan young women chose to show me were the city's enormous shopping centres. We drove from centre to centre, stopping to walk around these enormous complexes, which would not have been out of place in the US. The last of the malls we visited was seen in darkness; there had been a power cut. They girls explained to me that Harare uses a "power sharing" system; certain parts of the city go without power at certain times, on a rotational basis. The city's taps also run dry for much of the day, meaning I had to go without a shower for a few days. The water is turned off for economic reasons, not because of any shortages.I tried to engage the two girls in a political conversation, asking them what they thought of Zanu-PF, the ruling party. They both giggled nervously, and said they would prefer not to comment. I couldn't help but wonder why; we were alone in the car, and they knew I was just a tourist. Were their fathers connected to the party? I'd imagine that to get work in a successful company at their age (early twenties) you'd need to be connected to someone, somewhere. Or were they afraid that I would talk to someone else, and repeat what they said? The silence amongst Zimbabweans about their country's politics both frustrated and worried me. When I was in Myanmar last year I found that everyone was eager to talk to tourists, if carefully, about their country's problems. Although these people were scared, and in despair, their willingness to talk, and to criticize, was encouraging. At least they were confronting their problems, and were thinking about what could be done about them. I only hope that Zimbabweans have such conversations amongst themselves.The one short conversation I did have about the country's problems was with the owner of my guesthouse, and a friend of hers. It was these women who told me to be careful in assuming that Harare was as affluent as it looked. They said that the inflation was affecting absolutely everyone in the city, and making life difficult even for the relatively rich. They said that they had little hope for next year's elections, Mugabe would almost certainly be returned as president. They said that the vote rigging is incredibly blatant, one of them said that perhaps 95% of Harare's population would vote for Tsvangirai, but that the results always spoke very differently. Come polling time, the queues in the city are so long that many stand in line all day and still don't get a chance to vote. This is because the number of urban polling stations have been shut down - one of the measures taken by the ruling party to ensure the strong support for the opposition is suppressed. They said they were worried about where the inflation would go. It was time for the government to take its head out of the sand, and to admit to the exchange rate problems. The official rate should be changed to match the black market rate, in order to put a stop to the black market, which they believed was fuelling the inflation. One of them suggested that using US dollars as the official currency for a while could help solve the problem. I would have liked to talk further with these women, but their dinner was served, and it would have been rude to continue interrogating the first people I had met who seemed somewhat happy to talk about their country's problems.I didn't frequent Harare's bars in the evenings, for two reasons. Firstly, everyone warned me of how bad the city's crime is - some even said that taxi drivers couldn't be trusted not to be in cahoots with thieves. Secondly, while touring the city with the two girls I noticed that most of the city's bars had enough whites in them that I wouldn't stand out, and almost certainly wouldn't be approached by a potential friend. The whites, as usual, kept to themselves in these bars. My evenings were instead passed indulging in that lovely western luxury of lying in a warm couch, watching DVDs. The hotel's lounge was really a sort of sitting room, where some of the guests (all Africans), the staff, and I all sat watching pirated DVDs. It was nice to take a break from reading, or writing, and instead allowing American culture rot my brain a little again.
]]> A holiday in Nkhata Bay — Nkhata Bay, Malawi http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178031780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178031780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/reef/africa_2007/1178031780/tpod.html Mon, 14 May 2007 07:09:36 -0400 Overland from Addis Ababa to Capetown, reef takes on Africa...
Nkhata Bay, Malawi

Although it seems a contradiction in terms to call the six days spent on the coast of Lake Malawi a "holiday", it felt like one, and it is one that I needed. Given the distance I want to cover in my four months in Africa I have had to always keep moving, and the previous two weeks in particular had been very tiring. So it was decided that in replacement of the originally planned break mid-trip in Zanzibar that Nkhata Bay would be a suitable replacement. It lived up to everything I hoped it would, and a week later I write this feeling thoroughly refreshed and rested.The morning I took a matola to Nkhata Bay was chilly and rainy again, and I caught a cold on the way, as I was sitting by the window which had to be kept open for the passengers behind me. The skies cleared as we left the mountains surrounding Mzuzu, and by the time we arrived in Nkhata Bay an hour later the sky was blue. My spirits lifted with the weather as I saw the beauty of this little lakeside town. The town is essentially comprised of a few dusty streets with little shops and vendors selling fish and fruits. The hills behind are covered in trees, and the main attraction is the beautifully blue lake, shimmering under the hot sun, with the faded outlines of the mountains marking the border between Mozambique and Tanzania on the opposite side. The scenery and laid-back feel of the town reminded me a lot of Ko Pha Ngan island in Thailand.I checked into Big Blue Lodge, near town, where I got a spacious bamboo hut with a view of the lake, which was only 10m away. The place was lovely, with good food, a private beach and extremely friendly staff. I spent two days there, mainly relaxing, reading, writing and swimming. The lake's water is 28°C, so it was lovely to dive in and cool off every hour or so during my lazy time spent here. There is a small risk of catching Bilhazia, a water-borne disease carried by little snails in the lake, but I have purchased tablets that will take care of that problem.One night I went to town to watch the first leg of the Chelsea-Liverpool Champions League semi-final, in a lovely little outdoors bar in town. There were about twenty men sitting around a small television there, and although there was little room I was immediately offered one of the best seats. Any polite refusals on my part to take the seat were ignored. I had great banter with the men who were watching the game, declaring myself to be a Chelsea supporter for the night, as most of them were Liverpool fans. After the game I was convinced to move on to the town's nightclub, Club 672, where I danced the night away with a big gang of friendly men. The club's prostitutes seemed too shy to approach me, and although I could feel myself being watched by them I was thankfully left alone for the night.After two days I moved to Butterfly Lodge, on the other side of town. My reason for this was that there was only one other tourist in Big Blue for all my time there. Although I usually don't like meeting too many tourists (I'm in Africa, and prefer to spend time with Africans), I have been starved of western company for so long now that I needed a quick dose of it to keep me sane. Butterfly didn't have too many tourists either, but it had the advantage of being next door to Mayoka Village, which is Nkhata Bay's backpacker magnet. Here I met, and made friends with, many lovely fellow travelers, from all over the world. I even met two Irish backpackers, an occurrence that is so rare here in Africa that it deserves a mention. My days were spent doing very little, reading, writing, listening to music, swimming (at least five times a day) and chatting with my new friends.I went diving one day in the lake, which cost me back a mere $25. I have heard that Nkhata Bay is the cheapest place in the world to dive in; I had hoped to do my Advanced course here but there weren't enough people to make up a class. Diving in the lake was somewhat different to sea-diving. For starters, the buoyancy is completely different (because there is no salt in the water), and there is no coral on the bottom. The fish in the water are nearly all from the Cichlidae family, and have all evolved from two types of fish. They were coloured bright blues, yellows and whites, and usually measured no longer than six to eight inches long. One type of female Cichlid keeps its offspring in its mouth most of the time in order to protect them, occasionally allowing them out to play. We came across one such fish, with the babies outside, swimming near their mother. Unfortunately we came too close, and the mother abandoned them, leaving them open to attack from other fish. A few were indeed eaten before we got a chance to back off enough for the mother to return. All the babies bunched up in a tiny group as the mother approached and they suddenly disappeared, into the safety of their mother's mouth.As I hadn't dived in nearly a year I was quite rusty on everything. I had to be helped assembling my equipment, and had troubles with buoyancy for the first twenty minutes or so of the dive. After a while everything began to come back to me and I was able to relax and enjoy the diving and the beautiful fish that were all around us. There were many rocks under the water, and we swam through long narrow passageways surrounded completely by these rocks. This was fun, if a little claustrophobic and frightening - they were not the sort of place one would want to get stuck in.I befriended a lovely Swiss man named Alan while at Butterfly. He had been passing through the area two weeks ago and had been given a job minding a lodge 50km up the coast, in Ruarwe, while its owner went on holidays. Ruarwe has no road going there, no electricity, no phone coverage; it is truly in the middle of nowhere. There are two ways of getting there; firstly by taking a truck along a dirt road for nine hours from Mzuzu to Usisya, and then walking for five hours along the coast, or secondly by taking the ferry, the MV Ilala up there. Because of its cut-off nature the place hadn't seen any guests in quite a while and Alan told me that the staff had no money left to receive wages from. I decided to go up there for a night, to see the place, to help the staff, and to visit what was by all accounts a beautiful place. Alan and I managed to round up five others - two Israelis and three Norwegians - to come with us, and the next day we all set off.The night before leaving was Alan's birthday, and the locals threw quite a party for him at Butterfly. Although he had only been there for two weeks it seemed like he knew everyone and this party showed just how popular he was. This is not just a reflection on how likeable Alan is, but also on how welcoming the locals are. Even after a week I felt I knew half the town, and my daily trek into the supermarket to buy water took three times longer than it should have because of stopping to talk with all my new buddies. The party was one of the best I have ever been at - we sang and danced on the beach for five hours, with Jambe drums and African melodies providing our music. We swam under a full moon, admiring the stars, and relaxed on a raft that was tied up a hundred metres off the shore. Everyone there was friendly and in great form, and it was one of the best nights I have had in Africa. The next day we caught the Ilala to Ruarwe, a four hour ride north on the lake. We were all very tired and feeling a little rough, but it was exciting to be on a boat again, and on such a spur-of-the-moment trip to this remote part of Malawi. The Ilala was built in the 1940s by a Glaswegian company, and nowadays it is the lifeblood of Lake Malawi, making weekly trips up and down its length. People in places like Ruarwe, which have no road access, rely on it for transport and delivery of all sorts of goods. As I was mulling over its importance I thought that it mightn't be a bad idea for a government to donate another ship like it to Malawi, perhaps the savings made by supplying NGO workers with normal cars instead of big 4x4s might produce the money required. The ship has three floors, again with first, second and third classes, a little restaurant and two bars. We traveled second class, which was comfortable; we lay out on a canvas covering on an open deck and worked on our farmer's tans. I spoke with Chris, an Englishman who I had been staying next door to in Butterfly Lodge, for most of the way. He is working with an NGO in Usisya which seems to be quite good. They have a focus on education, and are actively seeking to encourage local farmers to diversify what crops they grow. At the moment most only grow one or two types, mainly maize or cassava, which form the majority of their diet. Naturally, eating such a limited diet is unhealthy, and they are encouraging them to plant other crops such as tomatoes and fruit trees in order to improve their diets. They have made a "demonstration garden" within their grounds where they have grown some of these plants and trees in order to show the locals what can be grown in Usisya. They then give seeds for free to anyone who wants them, and teach the locals how to plant these crops. The uptake has been slow - Chris said that a lot of what they do takes time before being accepted by the locals, as they are suspicious of the NGO's intentions. At first, he said, the locals were very wary of the NGO, and thought that they were there to make money. Now, however, they have grown to trust them more. They also have plans to build a library for the locals, and Chris is looking into solar panels so that they could have a computer there too. We arrived in Ruarwe at about noon, and were dropped to a beach with a small lifeboat as the Ilala couldn't pull up to the shore. There were about a hundred locals there, most waiting to board the Ilala to travel further north. We were greeted with stares - they are so isolated here that the arrival of seven mzungus is most likely quite a curious occurrence. The children always look quite frightened of me in this kind of situation. I often play on this by returning their stare expressionlessly for five seconds, and then suddenly sticking out my tongue at them and crossing their eyes. This always gets a reaction, whether it is laughter or absolute bewilderment. Sometimes I run at them making a monster-like noise, and they always take fright and run for their lives. Once they stop and see I'm laughing they laugh with me, and that barrier of fear is broken down. The parents particularly like this game, and laugh appreciatively. We had to walk for about twenty minutes along a grassy path to the lodge, passing many simple houses made of red mud bricks and thatched with straw. All along the way people stared at us, returning smiles. My greetings in Chichewa were often not returned, not out of hostility, I later learned, but because they speak a local language here and many do not speak Malawi's national language. The lodge itself was wonderful, carefully camouflaged into the hill it was built on, with stone paths leading from hut to hut and to the bar. The bar itself had a back wall made from a natural rock formation, and had wonderful wooden carvings decorating the place. Below the bar there was a place where we could swim, which we did immediately. The water was very deep, and there was a high rock from which we could jump the 10m or so down to the water below. I eagerly climbed up the rock, thinking only of the jump, but once I was half way up I remembered my fear of rock climbing from a close call I had when climbing in Kerry as a child. It was too late to go back, and I slowly made my way up to the top and leapt off. We returned to Nkhata Bay the following morning with the Ilala, feeling much better after a relaxing day at Ruarwe. Unfortunately we couldn't stay any longer, as it would have meant waiting a week for the Ilala to return, essentially the only form of transport available to us. On the boat I spoke with an Adventists pastor who approached me. I asked him about how he manages for money living in a rural community like Usisya (where his Church is), thinking maybe he relied on American donations. What he told me was rather shocking - they use the old "Jewish" (his words, not mine) system of collecting tithes from their congregation. So every farmer who is a member of this Church has to pay the pastor one tenth of what he earns in a year. I couldn't believe that a man of God would find it acceptable to take such a large amount of money from what Chris had told me are very poor people. Donations to a Church are somewhat acceptable, at least they are voluntary and people can give what they choose. The tithe system essentially puts a forced tax on these people, further eating into what little means they have. I wonder if Jesus Christ would have agreed with this practice.
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