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.
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> 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.
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> 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'.
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> 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.

Malls, missing items and millions of churches

From the source we have been winding across the copperbelt region, mostly sticking to the main highways and its many slow moving freight trucks. Here the tarmac is way better, and there are plenty of fuel stops and towns. We even spotted a Woolworths in the mall at Kitwe, with a Spur and italian ice cream shop next door. Malls are definitely a thing in all the urban centres we've passed. Some towns, like Palapye, have 4 or more, all built in the last 5 years or so. They all look more or less exactly like those in SA, and are probably run by the same people.

I couldn't help wondering whether large franchises like Shoprite, bringing so much value to remote towns such as Kitwe and Solwezi with truckloads of produce from SA, also transports back all the plastic waste to somewhere it can be recycled or disposed of properly. I had hoped the system would leap-frog into the future (i.e. the past) where food stuff and other consumables are sold in their natural state without the need for single use packaging. Anyway, what do I know of these complex things. 

Everythere we go people have been really good to us, friendly and engaging, asking about South Africa and about our trip. To our shame the looting in SA has been in the local news and Zambians often curiously ask us how things are now and if they have calmed down. This was also the subject of a few jokes; a Zambian police official asking us with a chuckle if we didn't perhaps bring him a fridge or two from SA. 

Driving in a 4x4, although I love the trip, isn't an ideal way to get to know a place - we both think cycling, walking or backpacking is more synchronised to the pace of everyday life here. But at least the roads are staccato'd by veterinary checks, police checks and toll gates, so we frequently get the chance to say hi, how are you, and make some small talk, albeit only in a semi official way. One of the spin-offs of covid is that we're usually the only foreigners at any given place (except the PCR qeue, haha), so at restaurants, guesthouses and campsites it is mostly Zambians enjoying what the tourist scene has to offer. 

Althought we've been camping for almost 3 months, we still make rookie errors. Today we had another false start as we realised, after driving a while, that my phone was missing. We drove back to the camp site, searched the grass, and of course, eventually found the thing folded up in the roof tent. Despite our rigid system of packing this was the third time we 'lost' something up there, the other was a kindle and a coffee mug (both still fine thankfully!)

Yesterday we had another funny and fortunate false start when, stopping to check the tires, we noticed that the tire pressure monitor (an expensive little bluetooth device) on one of the wheels was missing. We drove the bumpy road back to camp and 20 min later, tail between our legs, started searching in the grassy camp grounds where we camped. The caretaker and few of the other locals immediately started helping, and eventually an elderly man, with one squint eye and very broken English, found the silly thing. 

But yes, we've never had issues with our equipment, apart from there being too much of it, and we giving half of it away en route. Sometimes we misplace things or forget to tie down the chairs so they come rattling down onto the passenger seats on a bumpy road. Usually, though, there is space for extra passengers, so now and then we give someone a lift. Having extra people in the car always triggers vivid memories of public transport  and long, dusty roads with bundles of onions, baskets of fish or a small baby wrapped in cloths. Even this last sentence reminds me how steeped I feel in the Biblical story whenever I'm traveling in Africa. Is it the millions of churches here? Or do I just feel part of a rural vernacular in which sowers, wise men, shepherds and priests aren't children book characters, but real life adults sweating and living their lives. I imagine that Simon Peter and Andrew must have owned Mokoros and that Mary was the young girl in the back of the car with her baby yesterday. All these biblical objects and persons are so much more alive here. Suffering, poverty, joy, so much more pronounced.

My ukulele, which August kindly consented to bring along despite its size, is still in one piece and is a great joy to me around the camp fire or during an idle hour or two. Our other most loved luxury items must be our kindles, our bialetti and our audio books (dankie oom Okkie). The daily ritual of setting up and breaking camp is now like second nature, although of course we get tired of it, and, admittedly, we've only done it in pretty good weather. I'm sure when we hit the torrents (and humidity) of the equator we'll do some proper 'character building' in this regard. 

It is also a real luxury to have contact with home, with whatsapp being cheap (10gig for about R70) And of course there are apps and GPS, and travel guides and medicine, making it all pretty comfortable. Traveling definitely isn't as hard core as it was in the past, but maybe someone will look back on our time and think the same.

To new friends along the way,

Y&A