How to end a journey

We have been home for a week now, normal life fast sweeping and drawing us into its folds. Our days fill up with things to do, shops to go to, people to see and greet, and naturally we miss the simplicity of being on the road.

'Tell us the best story of your trip' or 'did you ever feel unsafe?' or 'what was it like not having any responsibilities?' The last one is easy. It feels wonderful. We were less stressed. Had less obligations. We went where we wanted and we stayed as long as we liked. It was a fantastic feeling and we could see each other relishing that freedom.

But what happens now? We save up for the next trip, haha. But we also missed being useful. Living the life in Africa is great, but having a job and a home is wonderful as well. Don't quote me on this in a few weeks, but we are excited to get back to work, to ask how can we make a difference, to try and leave this place better than it was before. Having no responsiblities isn't sustainable, unless you want to end up being homeless.

There is a saying that reads 'If you hold a cat by its tail you learn things you cannot learn any other way.' Similarly, the blessings and lessons of travelling can only be received through the doing thereof.

But here are a few things we learned

~we learned that Africa is enormous

~we learned how to greet people

~we learned how to bargain

~we learned that you need much less chemicals on your face and hair to be beautiful and healthy

~we learned how to drive slowly

~we learned to value municipal services, especially the pipe infrastructure that brings fresh water to your door and the one that takes sewage away. We saw more than one village with government signs reading 'this village is now an open defecation free zone'. It makes one thankful.

~we learned that trash is really hard to get rid of when there is no garbage truck or landfill. So it is good to have less of it.

~we learned that development comes at a price

~we learned that heat, rain, lightning, insects and cold are forces to be reckoned with. Nature doesn't come lightly packaged.

~we learned how to identify birds and photograph the stars

~we learned how to dramatically lower the threshold for taking offence

~we learned that there are good people everywhere

~we learned to give each other space

~we learned to trust that God's ways aren't our ways. We don't know why some people have car accidents and others not, why some travelers get malaria and others don't and why people suffer terribly all over the world. We have to trust that dying isn't the worst thing that can happen to a person, and that staying alive isn't all that matters.

~mostly we learned that loving the world is more important than trying to understand it.

Thank you for sharing in our journey. We would love to share some more stories, photos (and paintings) from our trip with you in due time. But for now, happy festive season and kwaheri!*













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Back to the future - the final stretch

Although subtle for the first few days, the reality of being back in South Africa is becoming stranger than fiction; futuristic roads, broad, smooth and flawless, with our car gliding along like a hovercraft from the future; glittering shops with endless goods in decadently coloured packaging, avant garde Christmas decorations adorning subtle wood-and-steel-shop-displays; shops dedicated to beautifying 'the home'.

Bizarre objects on sale like silicone spatulas specifically made for turning flapjacks; rows of eerily identical box houses called lifestyle complexes, shimmering against clipped, grassy green hills and outlined by stylishly built fences; white-skinned people wearing impractical clothes, sitting at pinterest restaurants, waiting for someone to take a photo.

As bizarre as travelling in Africa has been at times, coming back has to be twice as strange. At least, the upper class Northern suburbs of Durban where we are at the moment seems quite foreign to anything we've seen in 6 months.

Apart fom the 'neatness' and 'containedness' of everything (and so much else), we seem to be transitioning from a human-sized environment to a car-sized one (Bill Bryson talks about this in his book about growing up the 50s). Modern life is designed around motorvehicles, how they drive, where they can park, how fast they can move. Buildings and roads are scaled accordingly, and walking can feel like a clumsy and dangerous activity.

As Lindie and I were walking the short distance from the mall to the car wash yesterday my heart was buzzing like a bumble bee, with cars the size of monsters coming from all directions. The side walk stopped at one of the intersections, and we found ourselves frantically crossing the curb of a fast-food-drive-thru just to be barred by the garden hedge around the parking lot. We felt out of place on our feet. We felt 'naked' compared to the robot shuttles whirling around. And everyone else was in a rush, going faster than humanly possible.

Everywhere August and I traveled, with the exception of the major cities, pedestrians still dictated the environment's form and function, and the motorvehicle driver must adapt to the pace, and scale, of life on foot, frustrating as it may be. Now we enter a maze of robotesque machines, whizzing people from their home to the shops and back, with people never seeming to touch the earth, never walking on uneven terrain, getting muddy shoes or having to share the road with grazing animals or meandering plants. Modern people 'hover'.

Maybe that's why at home our clothes and shoes seem to last years but on the trip they deteriorated within months. We touched the world a bit more.

From Durban we plan to escape the malls and its madness, driving up to the beautiful Drakensberg area before cruising down slowly towards the Cape. It was super great to meet up with Michelle Duncan, a friend from Stb, and Chris and Lindie van der Burgh (our wedding photographers) in Salt Rock. And of course the modern world has its perks, we've had our first gloriously tumble-dried clothes and towels in months (aaah the softness), and we've been gorging ourselves on gourmet cheese, rusks, sushi and water (from the tap!). Greetings from the future, Y&A

Walvishaaie en donderstorms



Ek en August voel ongelooflik bevoorreg om die afgelope 6 maande die wêreld op 'n manier 'uncropped' te kon ervaar. Sonder filters en sonder dat al die vervelige en frustrerende dele uitgesny is agter 'n rekenaar. Ons neem fotos (soms met 'n instagram filter moet ek bieg), en deel dit met ons familie. Maar dit kan bedrieglik wees. Eintlik, dit IS bedrieglik. Die hoogtepunte is baie minder en baie meer as die fotos. Daar is baie meer dooie dele en uitdagings op so 'n toer as wat mens dink, maar die hoogtepunte oortref ook al die foto-en-tripadvisor-verwagtinge wat mens vooraf kweek. Wanneer kan jy sê jy ken Afrika? Ons kan nie.

Ons het gister een so ongelooflike ervaring gehad toe ons saam met walvishaaie kon snorkel. Daar was twee grotes wat rondom my en August gedraai het, albei naby genoeg dat mens jou hand kon uitsteek en aan hul raak. Dit was een van daardie oomblikke wat die wêreld jou in die maag tref. 'The world opened up before my consiousness'. Of so iets. Ek kan nie aan ander woorde dink om dit te beskryf nie. 

Nat en vol adrenalien, terug op die boot, bons ons deur die massiewe deinings soos deur die oerwaters in Genesis, en die boot stop onverwags by nog 'n groot walvishaai. Ons is ontsettend gelukkig om meer as een te sien. Ek is eerste in die water en swem al bo hom, 'n meter of drie ver, en bewonder sy skoonheid en sy majestie. Sewe kleiner haai-visse swem onder hom en daar is stuk of agt lang silwer visse wat aan hom klou. Die sand is helder onder ons. Stadig en stil swem hy, met anderwereldse kalmte onder die skuimende waters. Iets brand op my gesig soos 'n bloublasie en later my enkel, maar ek en die walvishaai is alleen en ek moet by hom bly. Na 'n ewigheid van saam met hom swem in die stadige waters begin hy dieper duik en ek verloor hom. August is meteens langs my. Ydi! Kom terug! Jellievisse! Ek draai om en sien die boot doer ver en dat ek die enigste persoon in die water is. Ons lag. Daar was' 'n reuse skool jellievisse en almal is gesteek en het teruggeklim op die boot. Ek was die engiste een met 'n duikpak.

Pure lewe. Ek reflekteer hoe anders die dag uitgespeel het as om dit op 'n video te sien met David Attenborough. Hoe vreemd is die virtuele metawêreld waarheen sommige ons wil neem? Hoe ge-redigeer en ge-saniteerd en ge-manikuur word ons lewens. Ek klou vas aan die koue sproei van die branders, die sout op jou lippe en die ure se soek voor ons iets op die verlate waters kon vind. Klou vas aan werklikheid soos silwervisse aan 'n walvishaai. George Macdonald of C.S. Lewis sou, dink ek, sê: so groot soos die verskil tussen die werklikheid en die foto, so groot (en baie meer) is die verskil tussen ons lewe op hierdie stukkie aarde en dit waarvoor ons gemaak is. Lees The Great Divorce, dan sal dit sin maak.

Ons toer begin nou tot 'n einde kom en ons het heelwat gemengde gevoelens. Vanaf Tofo beplan ons nog een of twee stoppe langs die kus, en dan SA rondom die einde van die maand. Ook: donderstorms in Mosambiek is iets om te beleef. Ons het die eerste reen-blits-donderdreunende-storm van die seisoen ervaar in Tete en toe ook in Tofo. Dis iets groots. Ook nie iets wat op 'n skerm kan ervaar word nie. Veral nie as die krag af is nie :)

Groete en jammer vir al die ramblings,

Y (en August - wat nogsteeds rooi is van al die jellievisse)

Two weeks in Malawi (continued)

The Gondwes inspired us so much with their passion and dedication - cliché words, yes, but a powerful force in a context where passivity, depending on Foreign Aid and exchanging Malawi for greener pastures are normal. Many households are left fatherless as young men go looking for jobs (often gardening or cleaning) in SA. Chancy and Miriam play a much bigger role than just running a school, they are mentoring a generation of kids that offer Malawians something to live for, with keen eyes to see the cultural and natural richess around them that need to be conserved and cultivated.

Along the way we met a guy from the UK living in Kenya, and we spent a rich evening talking about SA, African politics and why he isn't planning to go back to the West. Fascinating perspectives from those on the other side, making you reconsider what you have at home.

Our last week was spent hiking up Mount Mulanje, a large granite massif similar in formation to Ayers rock in Australia. We passed 4 nights in mountain huts, cooking on fires, bathing in the streams and pushing our bodies to their limits on the steep up- and downhills.

Exhausted but happy, we hope to cross into Mozambique this week, where we'll stay with South African friends in Tete (apparently the hottest place in Africa). From there we'll travel South, sharpening up on our Portugues (to placate traffic and border officials with) and to see and experience more of this exotic but troubled country.

Regards from Malawi
Ydi en August

Two weeks in Malawi

August and I spent about a week touring down Malawi, a long, narrow strip of land between Zimbabwe and Mozambique.

Lake Malawi apparently contains more species of fish than any other lake, so it was stunning to go diving there, swimming in the cool water, exploring small islands and rock outcroppings and watching the neon blue cichlids feeding on the rocky lake floor. 

A few days in we had our second flat tyre of the trip, and jacking up the car in the blazing heat with 50 school kids staring us down a slightly trying experience. 

Initially I felt a bit disconnected from the Malawian people - the lake people seemed lethargic, dusty, less self-confident than the Tanzanians and Ugandans, and many along the shore debilitated by smoking weed. But this impression changed as we traveled south, saw more urban people and people trying to make something of their country. 

We spent a day visiting friends I met at the international fellowship (SIF) more than 6 years ago. The Gondwe's built up a local private school 

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Coming to our senses - ‘n bietjie pret

Dit het my (Ydi) gister getref dat ek baie lanklaas die geluid van 'n stofsuier gehoor het. Daar is baie 'alledaagse' dinge wat stelselmatig en amper geruisloos uit ons lewens verdwyn het en meeste daarvan mis mens nie regtig nie. Soms verlang ons na sekere smake, soos liquorice, of reuke soos fynbos in die berg met vriende.

Dit het nou 'n speletjie geword om aan dinge te dink wat ons lanklaas gehoor, gesien of geproe het. Veral Noord van Zambië waar die kettingwinkels van SA nog nie hul verskyning gemaak het nie. Die lys groei nog maar hier is 'n paar:

Kan nie onthou wanneer laas ons die volgende geruik het nie:
-'n coffee shop
-sigaretrook
-parfuum (of lekkerruikgoed) - ons gebruik net Tabard

Lanklaas of glad nie gehoor
- stofsuier
-'n haardroeër
-klank van 'n mikrogolf
-ons het lanklaas sirenes gehoor
-'n skoolklok

Lanklaas geproe of glad nie
-ys
-brood wat sout is
-brie of camembert, sien uit na die eerste happie!
-vars kruie, veral basil
-kortbeenhoender (Aug: normal size chicken thighs)
-jellielekkers
-ribs, skaaptjoppies

Lanklaas gesien of glad nie
- ons sien nogals min mense wat bril dra
- ek het lanklaas 'n skaap gesien
- KFC of enige franchises, hetsy hardeware, kruideniers of kitskos. Elke winkel is uniek
- 'n Bloemiste winkel of bos geplukte blomme
- 'n brandweerman of brandweerwa
- 'n Avo wat meer as R3 kos
- beeste met kort horings
- 'n insleepdiens of insleepkar
- 'n klein sakkie meel (30kg iemand?)
- 'n motorfietsryer sonder bagasie (hetsy meubels, passasiers, diere, pluimvee, boumateriale, charcoal sakke, doodskiste, fietse, glasplate, speakers, meelsakke, kleipotte ens.)
- 'n babawaentjie
- groente en vrugte in plastiek verpakking
- vroue met langbroeke en mans met kortbroeke
- mzungus
- 'n vulliswa of wheely bin. Mens waardeer hulle skielik meer
- active wear (die uitsondering was toe ons Uganda se padfietsspan sien oefen het, verder geen lycra of spandex vir maande nie)
-'n wasmasjien of laundromat. Ons het meer wilde honde as wasmasjiene gesien op ons trip

lanklaas GEBRUIK
- vyfde rat

PS dit gaan goed met ons, ons is tans in Tanzanië en hopelik binnekort in Malawi. Ons is nou 160 dae op die pad en het sopas 'n ander Suid-Afrkaner ontmoet - sy ry met haar motorfiets van Kaap tot Nairobi en terug - dapper!

Uganda is beautiful

We've been on the road for 150 days and the cruiser turned 400000 this week. It's been 7 days since we crossed the border into Uganda.

Uganda is a much smaller country than Tanzania, landlocked between to DRC and Kenya with the Victoria Lake covering a large part of it. The main highways are tarmac and well maintained, much better than 7 years ago when we were here. Still, getting to the beautiful spots takes time. Everything in Uganda seems, according to google maps, 6 hours drive from Kampala. The first two hours consists of getting out of Kampala.

So far area arount Mount Elgon was a definite highlight. We camped at the beautiful Sisiyi falls (lesser known than Sipi falls) and as the guide book claims, it must be one of the most idyllic camp sites in the country. Serpentine tree roots clasping mossy boulders, ferns and flowers growing on mountainous terraces with the mist of the 100m waterfall floating towards the sky. And then a deafening tropical thunder storm making the trees shake around you as its massive rain drops begin cascading from the sky.

A young guy called Rony took us for a guided walk the next morning to two other 50m plus waterfalls, some accessible only by trudging through the banana and coffee planted hills where local people dry coffee beans on large sheets on the ground. Along the way we were introduced to the village headman and to Rony's teacher from school days. With the rippling sound of their language in our ears and the breathtaking beauty of the place in the eyes, we felt like guests, not tourists.

Jinja was another highlight. Usually a backpackers and tourist confabulation of music, parties and beer, Jinja was nearly deserted when we came - an introvert's dream. Camping on a stretch of grass, we could sit and read on the deck overlooking the 200m wide Nile river, watch local fishermen with make-shift plastic paddles lowering their bait on hand held line. Or scan the banks for kingfishers, hamerkop, egrets and monkeys.

We got acquainted with three other foreigners, a kayak-and-adventure-junky-duo from the UK now working in Fort Portal, and a spunky UK-Aussy accountant working in Kampala but taking a weekend break at the river. Their hilarious and riveting stories about working and traveling in Africa (notably DRC, Gabon and Rwanda) made for great late night conversation.

Somehow David, the 40-something kayak expert and unofficial veteran of the local kayak scene, convinced me to run the rapids for a half day of 'beginners' white water. August had his own boat while David and I paddled a sit-on-top together (a hard plastic boat like a surf ski). Nothing prepares one for the size and the power of the Nile's water. Even the flat water is alive. In the waves, whirlpools and boils of the rapids (I dont know all the correct terms), one feels more or less like a paper plane in a gale, completely powerless but for adhering to the forces at work beneath you.

Other fun memories include the assortment of Ugandan passengers the cruiser has taken on board. Usually without warning. When a park ranger with an automatic rifle climbs in behind you, you tend to get a little bit nervous. And embarrassed, uhm, because of the underpants and other pieces of drying laundry scattered around his seat. Yesterday we had to do a 2h drive back on our own tracks (we misread the sign about the broken bridge). To help us find the correct route we took a Uganda Police Force officer on board as well as his friend with two live chickens in hand (claw). All our passengers has been super friendly, courteous and helpful. Even the chickens. They were all 'just back from church' so nothing to worry about. August compared our friendly ranger's gun control to 'a Western movie from the 70s'.

Below some pics from this week:

Change of plans, no Kenya

Ever since covid-19 we've been mindful that we might get stuck at a border post or have to change our plans on the fly. So this week, when Kenya turned us away, we weren't overly surprised. This was not because of covid, though, but because we didn't have a carnet de passage customs document and our form C32 wasn't accepted.

When traveling in Africa it helps to have an open itinerary, and an open schedule too. Things take time. A lot of time. Pole-pole. Our parents experienced this well during their visit. When we were trying to get a permit for Serengeti it took many hours standing behind many well worn wooden desks with many weary officials behind them. When we went to pick up the cruiser after its windscreen repair it took more than an hour to get the car. While August was sorting out the admin, going to the bank, waiting for the invoice, etc, my parents and I waited in the small waiting room, warm, tired and travel-weary. But we passed the time by having a really good conversation about the 1980s in South Africa and how going overseas with their dubious SA passport opened their eyes to how the rest of the world viewed us then. It was a more turbulent time than we can ever imagine.

Anyway. Everything from buying a sim card to entering a national park takes heaps of time and patience. It's a great (and humbling) antidote to the instant culture back home, where we have anything we want at our fingertips, and people to serve us when we please. Do we ever consider what a sim card actually entails, the IT back-end, the satellite and network infrustructure needed, the micro chip and plastic manufacturing plant where it came from? No. Maybe we'll go crazy if we had to always mind the procress and life cycle of everything we consume. People here, I think, are better at it. And they're not crazy, they're just realistic.

Anyway. Instead of circumventing Victoria Lake like we initially planned, we drove back inland about 1000km and entered Ug from below. The border corssing between Tanzania and Uganda was surprisingly stress free and quick, and we exited the building just in time for a mighty thunder storm and cloud burst to chase us back into the cruiser.  

Both of us have been in Uganda before, but doing it 'self drive' entails different challenges, charms and perspectives. We plan to spend the next two or three weeks retracing some of our 2013 steps as well as embarking on some new adventures.

It promises to be a challenging leg of the trip, with high humidity, more rain and muddy terrain, more road blocks and more mosquitoes. We're hoping that a good dose of travel stamina (and prayers) will sustain us, and that the feeling of being-alive-and-learning-so-much will make up for whatever comes next. One of our favourite travel quotes and personal maxims for overlanding is this one by GK Chesterton: "The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see". 

So onwards we go!

Corrected blog sorry: Mountain meanders and finally greeting Tanzania

> One of our highlights of Tanzania has been the Usambara mountains in the North East corner of the country. Unlike the Serengeti plains and the hills around Kilimanjaro, this area is steeply mountainous and lush. Forestry is the main industry here and I am typing this blog from our camp site at 'the old German mill', a few hours out on the dirt roads of Magamba Nature Reserve. This beautiful camp in the forest features a jumble of rusted machinery, precarious floor planks, and deserted logs with ferns and flowers reaching over them towards the sun. Like most of our camps in the past months, we camped completely alone.
>
> It is good to be back in our cruiser home after our second absence while in Zanzibar (taking the parents). Although it is possible to take a vehicle over on the ferry, a lot of paperwork and admin costs are involved. And once across, the narrowly dangerous alley ways of Stone Town awaits the poor driver. So most overlanders opt to pack a rucksack and do public transport while on the island. Zanzibar is bigger than one imagines, and the touristy parts are only a small percentation of its make-up. One can drive for many hours across the island, watching rice plantations flit by, or bicicles chugging yellow jerry cans or large green bundles of cattle feed.
>
> Having spent more time in Tanzania than we anticipated, we plan to zoom through Kenya, Uganda and Rwanda before we turn our compass back south. So far our travel has been without major set backs, and we are really thankful for that. In Dar es Salaam we managed however, in a matter of two days, to shatter our windscreen and to get a pretty large traffic fine. So we feel a bit broke at the moment. But, on the up side, we havent had any enjine problems or other serious incidents.

> Our original route plan, Cape to Gabon, has died a slow death due to covid and other restrictions, so we now need a better name for our expedition. One that came to mind was Cape to Vic Lake, since that is probably where we'll start heading back home, or Cape to Kenya. But, as I reflected on our slow traverse, I wondered whether listing a start point and a finish point doesn't make the journey seem too straightforward. We've been meandering across each country, following our feet, so to speak, towards whatever comes next. Getting to vic Lake takes two weeks. Getting to know yourself takes a bit longer. I like the Swahili term 'pole-pole' which means something like slowly-slowly, or 'have patience my friend'.
>
> We are entering the short rainy season now, so for the month of October we should get a bit more tropical rain and heat. We've heard rumours about Malawi and Mozambique sizzling at 40 degrees already, so we're really grateful for the cruiser's airconditioner and fridge to keep milk, cheese and drinks refrigerated. Today we plan to do our next pcr test and then face the border post to Kenya. Keep thumbs for easy paperwork and a swift entry!

Mountain meanders and finally greeting Tanzania

One of our highlights of Tanzania has been the Usambara mountains in the North East corner of the country. Unlike the Serengeti plains and the hills around Kilimanjaro, this area is steeply mountainous and lush. Forestry is the main industry here and I am typing this blog from our camp site at 'the old German mill', a few hours out on the dirt roads of Magamba Nature Reserve. This beautiful camp in the forest features a jumble of rusted machinery, precarious floor planks, and deserted logs with ferns and flowers reaching over them towards the sun. Like most of our camps in the past months, we camped completely alone.

Serengeti roundabout

It was a jam-packed itinerary with the parents. They flew with a single propeller airplane to Arusha, which is the closest airport if you want to see the serengeti. We met them with the cruiser there.

Day 1 was spent recovering from their 2:30 am landing and sorting out the luggage.

Day 2 saw us driving about 3 hours to a guest house near Usa river, where UK-born Paul and Erica Shaw runs a 4x4 rental company and safari planning agency. Their hospitality was great (they barely had guests for 2 years!) and we chatted late into the night about life in Tanzania and options for our short trip. We eventually decided to leave the cruiser with them and rent one of their kitted Landrovers (the same one Kingsley Holgate had a few months prior). The park fees structure is somewhat greek to me, but a local number plate is a lot cheaper per day ($18 vs $150).

Day 3 was spent driving the 6 hours to Migombani, a camp site outside Lake Manyara. Halfway there.

Day 4 we drove another 6 hours to central Serengeti, where we camped in one of the public (aka budget) camp sites. Signing in to the park took a good 2 hours, since they have a complex computerised registration system. Despite covid the camp site was relatively full. That night we heard lion, jackal and hyena.

Day 5-7 we were spoilt with a private tented camp run by ex-South African Sally. We had two friendly Swahili chefs (Alex and Francis) cooking for us, there was hot water for showering and the fantastic Zeb took us out for two game drives. Zeb has been working the serengeti migration circuit for 5 years and has a wealth of knowledge and experience (and witty stories) to share.

Day 5 we experienced a proper Tanzanian downpour of rain, and the drive back in the open game vehicle was pretty miserable. We also encountered the horrendous condition of the park roads - eish. The landrover's hard suspension soon had me missing our Cruiser very much!

Day 6 we were absolutely spoilt to see a large group of wildebeest crossing the Mara river. Some people wait for days and see nothing, and if you're in the wrong place, you'll easily miss a potential crossing. There are no guarantees in nature, as Zeb reminds us. We also saw a cheetah, leopard and lioness with cubs to round off a very special day.

Day 7 we greeted Zeb and the others and drove back to the Southern exit of the park. That night we camped at the lush public campsite on the rim of the NgoroNgoro crater, a freezing night at 2200m elevation, a total contrast with the yellow plains of the days before.

On Day 8 we had a few hours to explore the inside of the caldera with its stunning vistas and wildlife scenes. We saw two male simbas, large herds of buffalo and zebra and the quietness of the place felt like a world unspoilt by human civilisation - really special. From there we drove to Paul and Erica, about 6 hours back, who suggested that we do the covid test in Arusha the following morning.

Day 9-11. We had a bit longer trek back to get the parents on their flight home, with the drive to Dar taking a lot of time with all the 50km/h zones. We did have two great stop overs before their flight out, one in the Usambara mountains and one at Kimbiji on the ocean with amazing seafood.

Mr Simba and the folded swans



We spent day 100 of our trip without ceremony. The morning we set off from the 'old farm house', run by fourth generation british-tanzanian expats, and spent the following night at 'Mantis lodge', a moslem father and son establishment for local conferences and travelers. At Mantis lodge we set up our rooftent on a bare clearing next to a water tank on cement stand, folded out our little chairs and opened a soda each. Nothing about the camp site was romantic. I surveyed the bare compound, and the men playing chinese checkers a few meters off. We were both weary from the day's drive, felt a bit out of place, and crawled into the tent early. Latenight someone idled their car loudly right outside our tent for what felt like hours. We eventually ask them to please either turn off the ignition or move the car. They left. 

The next morning, like almost every morning, I try and remember where I am. It's a uncanny and almost funny feeling. I know that I am in our tent and that we're on our trip, but where are we actually? What camp site, what village, what country? The little canvas walls have a way of blocking out the world. But then as I wake up I start to recollect the events of the day before and place them in order and context again.

There hasn't been a single day when I could accurately predict what our lodgings for the night would look like. Of course one sees a photo and a name on your phone, or read what amenities are available in the guide book. You see the icons reading 'potable water, pet friendly, hot shower, electricity'. Later you get a sense what "basic facilities" mean in the guide book, or what reviewers mean with "great hosts" or "ablutions can be better". But each new camp or lodge has been totally different from the mental picture I formed on the way there. For instance:

At wannabees lodge (day 95), the bed is made sideways. At Pugo forest reserve (day 96) no-one is allowed to camp without an overweight ranger. At Upepo lodge (106) a paper sign reads "please don't rest or walk under the palm trees". Utengulu coffee lodge has the most amazing cuppuccinos and also a deserted squash court. At Mutinondo you can take a soda from the honesty bar and do a 10 hills hiking challenge. The receptionist/owner co-authored 'trees and plants of Zambia'. Lake Tanganyika resort (day 94) smells really, really nice. At Kapisha Hot Springs (day 90-92) there is a upstairs tv room with cartoons to keep children out of their parents's hair. In more than one place in Zanzibar the towels were folded like swans. At Deo Volente guesthouse (day 82) the braaiplace has 'lekker man lekker' written on it, and the owner's son brought us shots as a welcoming drink.

The eccentricities of budget accommodation are endless. But everywhere we are met with smiles and 'karibu sana' (you are very welcome). In Zanzibar we were often greeted with "Mr Simba - welcome!" Or even "Mr Jesus, welcome to Zanzibar!", owing to August's impressive beard and mane of hair. 

We are currently heading to Arusha where we will meet up with Aug's parents and spend the next 10 days on a safari with them (safari is swahili for journey) to serengeti and surrounds. I haven't been able to spot kilimanjaro due to the clouds, but my first peek at Mount Meru (the second highest in Tanzania) impressed me a lot.

There are so many other things to tell, stories and impressions, deep things to ponder and funny things to laugh at. Oh, and we also had our first rain of our whole trip! And its starting to become really warm and humid now, enough to get on our nerves sometimes. But we're still healthy and happy and learning so much. Asante sana! Safari Njema!

First impression of Tanzania

From Bangwuelu swamps (previous blog) we have been traveling via a few stunning waterfalls in northern Zambia out into Tanzania. It is my first time, but August's second.

It doesn't seem possible that a national border could have such an acute influence on the culture. But so it seemed to me, for when we crossed from Zambia into Tanzania, everything changed abruptly. Perhaps I had just grown used to Zambia. The rush of nostalgia that hit me there is hard to discribe -  I had only been in East Africa once, Uganda, and that for four months in 2013. But there was something familiar about Tanzania now that felt different than anything else on the trip before. I think for both of us the crossing into Tanzania seem significant. Some of August's Swahili came back to him (mambo, njuri, keshwahiri, asante), from when he travelled here with his bicycle in 2012. His fondness for the landscape and people is evident in his eyes. Driving from the border post into the rural landscape, he told me for the first time of the police officer in Tanzania who bought him a cold drink. "Yes, he asked about my trip, told me to follow him (which I did nervously) and then he bought me a coke. The Tanzanians are super friendly." That incident, I thought afterwards, perhaps so singular among other stories about officials in Africa, will remind me of the exceptions that always break the rule.

The landscape has also changed. We noticed a slight change in gradient and the hint of rolling hills in the north of Zambia, but it was nothing like after the border, when suddenly we were surrounded by mountains, high forested hills, houses and plantations, in my mind heaving up-and-down like on an undulating ocean. Suddenly there were layers in the landscape (to my painter's eye), not just the immediate 10m radius in so much of the South. Is this the start of the great rift valley? I asked, awed. Even the plants, as if inspired by the lively red soil beneath it, burst with more energy.

While waiting in the car queue for fuel after the border, the smell of rice mix with that of exhaust fumes, grinded metal, tar and of humanity everywhere. Rice! Spiced rich. And just as I realised it's lunch time, the call of the Imam begin sounding for prayers. And I see long white tunics (for moslem men) at a street vendor, and women wearing full body covering (burka or chador). There are bright red tuk-tuks burring past us, and trucks and busses, and the streets are more frantic than any we've seen on the trip so far. It must be what India must feel like. A woman with a plastic basin full of grapes walked past, the first grapes I had seen in months, and then another with oranges. There are kids with buckets of sugar cane on their heads, and parked motorcycles glistening in the sunshine. A man with 10 trays of 24 eggs each on his head hurry past the car. Schoolgirls wear ankle long dark blue skirts. The sensory overload, like in my Kampala days, is overwhelming.

I try to hide in the car from it all, but later join August at a mpesa booth (mobile money transfer point), tucked between 5 other small vendors and pavement stalls. We have to pay there for the comesa insurance a few offices down the road. Behind the sooty glass is a girl, about my height, wearing hijab, busy handling a card machine in one hand and dealing out cash with the other. There seems to be four transactions happening at once, dark hands reaching into the glass from behind us, some changing dollars for shillings, others making card payments and some counting greasy bank notes. I am reminded briefly of childhood church basaar paper money - the shillings feel so numerous (R100 equals TSH15,000). The girl catches my eye and steals me a small, but earnest smile. I feel drawn into her life, exchanging places for a brief moment and wondering at her. Swamped by the grasping hands of the shopkeepers and agents, hustlers and endless transactions, while young as she it, she seems to keep it all together, calmly. How strange life is - I tell myself. Her normal life, her reality, so extravagant in my eyes.

We have a few bucket list items for Tanzania, the obvious being serengeti and zanzibar, but the hours and hours spent in 'getting there' (the daily grind as August calls it) is just as much part of the trip. The slowness of the journey is something we both value. It is full moon now (our tent has mesh in the roof) and last night I asked whether we really were just at Vic falls the previous full moon - it feels like a lifetime ago. We don't want this kind of slow but rich experience to end. If we find out how, we'll let you know. For now we'll just savour the beans-and-rice and the brightness of fanta and plastic chairs and tables.

Shoebill tracking on election day

It was an interesting drive to Bangwuelu. The gatekeeper is formal at first. He ushers us into his small office. I notice that there is a blanket and makeshift pillow crammed in on the sement floor, the pillow is a folded sail or canvas. He takes out a white mask with chinese brand name on it, and I ask if we should wear ours too. He says, if possible, yes. Apart from a desk there is a small empty book case and I note a toothbrush and a bar of soap on the bottom shelf. He writes with a hard grip, like someone who learned to write later in life. He starts smiling when he hears August's name. Fills in the two reciepts, identical, one for the conservation levy and one for the vehicle. On both he writes out three hundred and fourty kwacha in full, then writes his name beneath it and makes a calligraphic signature next to it. I wonder about his age and notice that there are small grey hairs in his eyebrows. He has a warm smile. While filling in our forms he tells us that the previous visitors were very happy and saw the shoebill. Happy in this instance means lucky. He hopes we will be happy also, and that we wil feel very welcome at bangwuelu and that we will experience all we expected. We pay a lot of money to be here, he says, gesturing to the bank notes on the table, so he hopes and prays we will be rewarded. After finishing and stapling together the two receipts, he stands cordially and walks us to the car. By now, our exchanging smiles have made him at ease and less formal. He sends us off warmly, saying we will be in his prayers tonight, and that God will bless our stay. After opening the gates, he comes back hesitantly. Mr Augustine, is there perhaps space for one person. And luggage. Yes we can offer someone a lift. Two ladies, one with a small baby, approaches from under a tree a few meters away. August and the elderly gatekeeper lift the big white bag of maize onto the back seat, and I shuffle around all our stuff, damp clothes, sweets packets, a coffee flask and two towels, to make space for the ladies. Finally on our way, the gatekeeper says through my window, these women don't know this grammar. But they will signal us when we reach the place they need to get off. Language can be a problem, I say-ask warmly. He once again blesses us earnestly, his eyes shining, his voice almost choking up. Thank you for assisting us in this way, he says.

The way to the village is long, about 35km of road heavily potholed and we average a mere 40km/h. The ladies are quiet, and apart from quickly looking back, crooning at the baby once and making eye contact with the adults, I dont attempt any conversation. Instead we turn the music up loudly, and hope the ride wont be too awkward. Its funny how your playlist sounds different when hearing it through someone else's ears. Almost an hour later, nearly missing the turn to the village, the women beat loudly on the centre console between the two front seats. We turn off towards another dirt road. In the nearby village the kids scream and wave excitedly at the vehicle, being used to foreigners. We wave back but I don't think the ladies do. One gets off earlier, her brown hand back falling in the dust as she climbs out with all her things. We say a brief goodbye with kids swamping the car, and the car wobbles further on the uneven road. The elder lady with the baby and the bag of maize sits patiently until we reach her place. There the car is immediately surrounded. A few youths help with the maize, and small kids ask for biscuits and sweets. One sprightly girl seems to have lipstick on, as well as a red blotch on her forehead. I wonder, strangely, if it is religious, since this is a Christian area. But I suspects its only from playing dress up, like little girls do. We wave our goodbyes and I catch the lady's eye as she dissapears between the other people.

We are close to the camp site now, and at another small settlement along the same road we stop uncertainly to look at a map, when a man with a blue shirt and only wearing a pair of boxers approaches the car. He seems embarrased but dignified, walking up to the passanger car window. Yes this is for the camping, he will meet us at the camp. My first impression is that he is less engaging than the gatekeeper, somewhat bothered by our presence. On the flat grassy plains we see his bicycle fom afar. He parks off to one side and stands waiting akwardly. When talking about the camp and the shoebill tracking, he is stiff and uninterested. I try and figure out why our interaction just an hour before seemed so easy compared to this gentleman. Perhaps it is because we decided to arrive just before election day, and presumably his day off.

This morning he isn't in a beter mood. Half past seven, after packing up the final coffee making things, we let him climbs with us in the car and we head into the endless stretch of flat yellow plains towards the river. A shallow wall appears in the nothingness before us, and August explains that this is built by the local fisherman to cordon off the fish. It resembles an empty rice paddy, or a small wall of china, or a chalky ridgeline in an english landscape. Later small huts appear on the flatness, abandoned makoros half filled with water, and other signs of human settlement. At one of these make shift villages we park the car, close now to the edge of the water. Our guide greets an elderly man and speaks to the gathering people in the local language. Curious children stand closer, and some mothers with babies on the hip. They children are quiet, not demanding sweets like those in the village. Instead their eyes follow us as we pack a few things for the trip and board the small, but larger than makoro size boat. It has seats and two men board with us to paddle the boat. I am secretly hoping this is where grumpy man leaves us, but he also boards the boats. 3 zambians to look for one bird, I think annoyed. I was hoping for more privacy.

Yet, as we glide through the papyrus and water lilies, morning sun baking off last nights cold, the freshness of green on the crystal clear water, I feel a deep sense of contentness. The grumpy guide starts pointing out birds, and I surmised that he acts as the bird guide, whereas the other two men only do the labour of pushing and navigating the boat, and also can't speak english. We see coucals (vleiloeries), large groups of egrets, weaver birds sitting on water lilies, and a harrier dark against the sky. It is perfectly tranquil and quiet, except for the rhythmic sound of the poles being dipped in the water, the scraping when we enter a narrow passageway or the talking of fishermen or young boys poling other boats around us. Throughout, I feel increasingly calm, happy and content, being on the water, being here on this trip, being next to august in the beautiful narrative of the past few months.

At a narrow reed passage, too narrow even for the skilled boatman, we stop and the two boaters get off on the floating reed islands. Unsure, I look at the guide who is taking off his socks. He tells us to wait in the boat for a while the others scout ahead. But just as he says it, the younger of the two boatman swings down suddenly on his haunches, gesturing wildly. I hear a clapping sound, not sure if he made it himself. His arms are signalling to keep quiet, and all three the men crouch low to hide in the dense reeds. I know that he has seen the bird, and my heart is pounding. The guide whispers for us to take off our shoes and follow him onto the swampy islet. The wet mottled grass is cold and gives way under my soft feet, but we go only 3 or four 4 meters from the boat when he signals and we see the shoebill on our right hand side. He is truly majestic. He stands dead quiet, his strange yellow eye fixed on us and his beak downwards. I cannot believe that such a bird really exists. From where were standing we can only see his head above the reeds. He doesnt seem to be frightened of us, and the guids cautiously leads us a bit further back so we can see more of the beautiful creature. Through binoculars his large, unusual beak and eye becomes even more strange and unsettling, and I wonder what those who saw him for the first time must have thought. I admire the respect the guide and boatman has for the creature, maybe they were told by the conservationists not to disturb it, or maybe they had an innate admiration for it already. But everyone is dead quiet and almost reverent.

When we finished watching it for a few minutes, taking some pictures with my hopelessly inadequate lens, we sneak back to the boat. The guide, translating for the boatman, asks whether we would like to approach it from a different channel and try to get another view. Yes, if it is possible, August answers kindly. And we get to see the stately shoebird even closer the second time. Rustling his feathers irritably, as if to say, thay is enough thank you, or I will fly away and then you will really be 'disturbing' me. We submit, dutifully, and the oarsman start pushing the boat back through the dense weeds and grass. You are very lucky, the guide later tells us, and I dont think he's merely saying it. It is only 09:30 in the morning, we've only been looking for an hour and a half. I think he had a good day too.

After the boat trip the long, bumpy road back to the main road follows and then to our next destination. The guide, now looking pleased and smiling a bit more, asks for a lift back to the village. Everywhere people are in the streets and on the road. Some sit in groups, others are on bicicles and others are walking. Those eyeing the cruiser first look at us, then at the older man in the back and many smile at us. The further we drive, the more we are taken in by the feeling of festivity in the air, the more we laugh at the noisy kids yelling 'how are yoooou!' And the excitement of voting day. And the longer we drive the more the small rift between us and the grumpy guide seems to dissapear. This is my house, he later points and laughs. And he talks through the car window to people we pass on the road, and he speaks to the children who asks for sweets and laughs with us about it. Now and then he shouts through the window jovially in the local language, and the only word in the tumbling sentences we understand is 'vote! Vote!'. Some people we pass make fist symbols in the air, smiling, and some of the young guys gesture their hands like a salute in the air, 'forward!' Forward! Our host exclaims Forward! back at them, his eyes alive now and joyful.

Finally dropping him off at the polling station queue, with some curious eyes glancing at us, I am almost breathless from all the excitement and laughing. First the amazing shoebill, then the festive air of election expectation. Okay, okay, bye, bye, we greet each other. He is open and friendly now, and Im thankful that the ice has melted. We greet some more and wave, trying to be off before people crowd the car, or before we feel awkward and too out of place.

It is almost dusk before we reach our next camp site, and I'm exhaused by the mental excitement of the day and the physical strain of the jarring dirt road, the slow moving traffic later on the tar and the sudden swerving on the highway for unexpected potholes or oncoming trucks. It has been a long but unforgettable day. Just before we left Bangwuelu reserve, we met up with the friendly gatekeeper again. Mr August, he greets us. Madam. We saw the shoebill, we exclaimed, and we are very happy. Then I am very happy, because you have enjoyed your stay at our park. And I want to thank you once again for the great service you did me yesterday, when you were transporting those ladies. God richly, richly bless you. Because I have seen, that you are open to everybody. God bless your journey. God bless you.

And I know that he will.