My hotel room in Mombasa is in the middle of town on the second floor of a building (turn right at the landing to go to reception, not left into the Evangelical ministry). Outside are dozens of wooden tables selling literally thousands of pairs of pants. My room is infested with ants and my bathroom is infested with moths (so much so that when I took a shower I didn't squash any because I felt like I was on their turf). Across the street is a mosque that reads from the Koran into the night. On the plus side, the mosquito net over my bed is pretty big.
Mombasa is an island city (like Manhattan), but doesn't feel like it (like Manhattan). In the past 500 years it has been ruled by Portugese, Arabs, Germans, British and now Keyans. There are also a fair amount of Indian expats and some Chinese (in my experience there are "some Chinese" in every African city these days). As a result, Mombasa is a bit of cultural mix and has some great resturants and a vibrant nightlife.
Traffic is pretty bad, but getting around can be fun. The minbuses are brightly colored, play a loud constant African beat and the interiors are lit by black lights. Also, like Dar Es Salaam there are numerous three wheeled tuk-tuks driving around. Used as transport they can be quite exciting: you feel like you could die at any moment as they weave through the streets.
Tanzanians have a stereotype of Kenyans being haugty. I don't find them rude (I've met some very generous ones) but they do come across as less friendly and interested in new people. That said, I don't get hassled on the street here and this is the first African city I've been to where no one has offered me weed.
In my pictures below, the smiling man is Mr. Wycliff. He gave me some coins from the British colonial period. In exchange I need to mail a copy of that picture and a couple of bucks for the coins. Someone, please remind me to do this.
There are a fair amount of children begging on the street. From my hotel window yesterday, I watched a mother leave her five year old daughter and toddler son to beg for change from passing cars. This lasted about 5 minutes once the mother was out of sight. Soon, her children were joining other kids doing cartwheels in the median.
Last night, returning from a bar, I decided that I didn't like the cookies that I had bought for myself and would give them to some children on the street. I walked up to group of little boys and handed them to the nearest child who promptly snatched them from my hands. A few minutes later I found him sitting under a tree licking the frosting off and then devouring the rest of the cookie. When another child from his group approached he bolted away. As he ran toward me I blocked his path a bit and yelled.
He stopped and looked back at me. In a combination of English and Swahili I scolded him: "Hapana! Share biscuts with Rafiki" This was accompanied by some tipsy hand grestures on my part.
I guess the point came across because he sulked back to the other children and divided up the remaining cookies.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Dar Es Salaam
Just got into the 2nd half of my trip. I've been in Dar Es Salaam for three days now and will be using it as my home base as I travel to Mombasa and Zanzibar.
So Matt, what is Dar Es Salaam like?
Well, Dar Es Salaam is the largest city in Tanzania with a population of 2.5 million (metro area).
I'm going to talk about Dar Es Salaam proper i.e. the city center. Specifically, I'll ignore the posh suburbs like Msasani Peninsula where you'll see a husky American wearing a Jim Beam shirt in the middle of Ramadan and a "Masai Warrior" opens the front door of your resort hotel.
A few days ago, my friend described Dar Es Salaam as a "dirty, broken, hell hole filled with scarred and deformed thieves". Granted, she was coming off a long day.
The city is seedy, humid and mad, but also vibrant and diverse.
First off, the coast of this part of Africa (the Swahili coast) is like no place else on Earth. The culture has been heavily influenced by Arab traders for more than 12 centuries. This went so far that in the early 1800s the Sultan of Oman (it's near Saudi Arabia) moved his capital to Zanzibar (an island off the coast). The architecture feels more Arabic than African and the language of Swahili is Arabic influenced.
A large population of the coast is Muslim and finding a meal can be hard during Ramadan (but I've still managed to eat some of the best Indian food in my life).
The first night in Dar Es Salaam I wondered into a cafeteria of sorts with the two women I traveled with on the train. There wasn't much to eat as the restaurant didn't buy much during Ramadan.
As we tried to figure out what to eat, an older man came to our assistance and explained the food in front of us.
He sort of looked like a middle eastern Robin Williams and was in a good mood after breaking his fast for Ramadan. He told us his grandfather used to own the building until it was nationalized after Tanzania gain independence (1960s). "Before that," he said, "Dar Es Salaam was a little piece of heaven." But he's lost his love for it. Walking around I can understand what he means: the buildings are beautiful but decaying.
Once we finished our meal he happily paid for it and wished us a good journey. Hopefully I'll see him again so I can return the favor.
So Matt, what is Dar Es Salaam like?
Well, Dar Es Salaam is the largest city in Tanzania with a population of 2.5 million (metro area).
I'm going to talk about Dar Es Salaam proper i.e. the city center. Specifically, I'll ignore the posh suburbs like Msasani Peninsula where you'll see a husky American wearing a Jim Beam shirt in the middle of Ramadan and a "Masai Warrior" opens the front door of your resort hotel.
A few days ago, my friend described Dar Es Salaam as a "dirty, broken, hell hole filled with scarred and deformed thieves". Granted, she was coming off a long day.
The city is seedy, humid and mad, but also vibrant and diverse.
First off, the coast of this part of Africa (the Swahili coast) is like no place else on Earth. The culture has been heavily influenced by Arab traders for more than 12 centuries. This went so far that in the early 1800s the Sultan of Oman (it's near Saudi Arabia) moved his capital to Zanzibar (an island off the coast). The architecture feels more Arabic than African and the language of Swahili is Arabic influenced.
A large population of the coast is Muslim and finding a meal can be hard during Ramadan (but I've still managed to eat some of the best Indian food in my life).
The first night in Dar Es Salaam I wondered into a cafeteria of sorts with the two women I traveled with on the train. There wasn't much to eat as the restaurant didn't buy much during Ramadan.
As we tried to figure out what to eat, an older man came to our assistance and explained the food in front of us.
He sort of looked like a middle eastern Robin Williams and was in a good mood after breaking his fast for Ramadan. He told us his grandfather used to own the building until it was nationalized after Tanzania gain independence (1960s). "Before that," he said, "Dar Es Salaam was a little piece of heaven." But he's lost his love for it. Walking around I can understand what he means: the buildings are beautiful but decaying.
Once we finished our meal he happily paid for it and wished us a good journey. Hopefully I'll see him again so I can return the favor.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Train to Dar Es Salaam
Let's pretend that you are taking a train from New York City to Chicago (I know Amtrak doesn't do the route straight, but we'll use our imagination).
Your train is scheduled to leave at 1pm, so you arrive at Penn Station at 12:30, ticket in hand. But your train is not leaving at 1pm. On the grapevine you hear that it has been delayed for 2 hours.
Okay, fine. Sit down read a book.
At 2pm the train has been delayed until 4pm.
Okay get some food.
At 3pm an Amtrak representative wheels out a chalk board which reads "DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND OUR CONTROL THE TRAIN WILL BE ARRIVING AT 7PM"
Four hours later 7pm comes and goes without a train passing through the city. The sun starts to go down and there is a city wide blackout in New York so now you are sitting in the darkness. The bathroom was nasty before, but the stench is now filtering across Penn Station. It has no plumbing nor has it been cleaned since the morning and can't be cleaned until the station is empty and the sun comes up.
At 8pm some wheels away the chalkboard and doesn't return.
At 11pm everyone has begun to wrap up in a blanket to sleep. As far as you can tell everyone who works for Amtrak has gone home.
At 2am you fall asleep on the stone floor.
At 4am the train is said to be near.
At 5am it arrives.
In New York, there would have been a riot. In Mbeya, Tanzania there is patience. I heard my favorite line while talking to a local around 8pm: as he was breaking his fast for Ramadan he said "Don't lose hope, the train always comes."
It was a little hellish, but could have been much worse. As I waited for the train to Dar Es Salaam I had good company with other travelers.
Four days before, I had come to Mbeya early to buy tickets for myself, a South African girl and an Irish couple that I had met in Malawi. We planned to shared book an entire 4 four person compartment (only single gender compartments unless you buy the whole thing). However, the Irish couple never showed (in their defense I met them in Dar last night and learned one of them had contracted malaria in Malawi). To help fill our room I offered a ticket to a British woman who had gotten a 2nd class ticket and would have been sleeping in a room with strangers. Together, we three were a little team who would band together and make the journey to Dar surviving further delay, stench, food shortage, alcoholics, a stomach bug (pole sana to Lauren), crying babies, bureaucracy and freezing temparatures.
And we only arrived a mere 15 hours late.
Your train is scheduled to leave at 1pm, so you arrive at Penn Station at 12:30, ticket in hand. But your train is not leaving at 1pm. On the grapevine you hear that it has been delayed for 2 hours.
Okay, fine. Sit down read a book.
At 2pm the train has been delayed until 4pm.
Okay get some food.
At 3pm an Amtrak representative wheels out a chalk board which reads "DUE TO CIRCUMSTANCES BEYOND OUR CONTROL THE TRAIN WILL BE ARRIVING AT 7PM"
Four hours later 7pm comes and goes without a train passing through the city. The sun starts to go down and there is a city wide blackout in New York so now you are sitting in the darkness. The bathroom was nasty before, but the stench is now filtering across Penn Station. It has no plumbing nor has it been cleaned since the morning and can't be cleaned until the station is empty and the sun comes up.
At 8pm some wheels away the chalkboard and doesn't return.
At 11pm everyone has begun to wrap up in a blanket to sleep. As far as you can tell everyone who works for Amtrak has gone home.
At 2am you fall asleep on the stone floor.
At 4am the train is said to be near.
At 5am it arrives.
In New York, there would have been a riot. In Mbeya, Tanzania there is patience. I heard my favorite line while talking to a local around 8pm: as he was breaking his fast for Ramadan he said "Don't lose hope, the train always comes."
It was a little hellish, but could have been much worse. As I waited for the train to Dar Es Salaam I had good company with other travelers.
Four days before, I had come to Mbeya early to buy tickets for myself, a South African girl and an Irish couple that I had met in Malawi. We planned to shared book an entire 4 four person compartment (only single gender compartments unless you buy the whole thing). However, the Irish couple never showed (in their defense I met them in Dar last night and learned one of them had contracted malaria in Malawi). To help fill our room I offered a ticket to a British woman who had gotten a 2nd class ticket and would have been sleeping in a room with strangers. Together, we three were a little team who would band together and make the journey to Dar surviving further delay, stench, food shortage, alcoholics, a stomach bug (pole sana to Lauren), crying babies, bureaucracy and freezing temparatures.
And we only arrived a mere 15 hours late.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Matt in Malawi
Converse sold
A few days ago, my friend Mike and I decided to walk into town to pick up a few odds and ends. We we found about half of what we needed which is an okay percentage (for instance the bakery still had fresh bread but the clinics have no cough syrup this week).
While walking back I decided to order some food at the restaurant at the top of the hill. (For dinner you have to order three hours in advance so they can buy ingredients). The owner/cook is named Calvin: a Rastafarian who was one of the original vendors to tourists in the area, but now happily lives outside of the hawker stalls (as a Godfather figure to the rest, Mike says). He also good conversation: "Rastas believe that the fruit of the tree of knowledge in the garden of Eden is weed not apples. I smoke everyday for meditation and health, and I haven't gotten malaria or a headache in 15 years."
Anyway, as we approached his thatched summer hut we saw a large cloud of smoke drifting out onto our path.
"I guess it's a camp fire? Calvin prolly knows what he is doing", Mike suggested.
Still, we walked over to check and discovered several bush fires that had crept up the hill towards his hut. Calvin and his friend said hello calmly as the beat flames with tree branches and doused them with a couple bottles of water. Joining in the effort, we twisted off a couple branches, and I selected a flame and went to work. It took a couple minutes to kill it and within ten minutes, the fire had been subdued.
"When you get a chance can I order some dinner?" I asked.
Calvin nodded and strolled back and sat down with a little notebook and wrote down my order. Then, with smoke still pouring through his hut, he lit a large joint, sat back and looked out at the lake.
Mike and I departed back to the lodge where I picked up a my pair of black high topped converse that I wanted to sell as I was tired of carrying the extra weight.
On the way to the craft market I stopped by Calvin's to see if the fire was still under control. It was, and he was sitting exactly where I had left him. He turned and eyeing my shoes asked if he could try them on.
"Sure."
He laced them up and to my surprise they fit him perfectly and looked pretty smart as well.
We agreed to trade my shoes and a razor I didn't need for 4 small paintings of his.
While walking back I decided to order some food at the restaurant at the top of the hill. (For dinner you have to order three hours in advance so they can buy ingredients). The owner/cook is named Calvin: a Rastafarian who was one of the original vendors to tourists in the area, but now happily lives outside of the hawker stalls (as a Godfather figure to the rest, Mike says). He also good conversation: "Rastas believe that the fruit of the tree of knowledge in the garden of Eden is weed not apples. I smoke everyday for meditation and health, and I haven't gotten malaria or a headache in 15 years."
Anyway, as we approached his thatched summer hut we saw a large cloud of smoke drifting out onto our path.
"I guess it's a camp fire? Calvin prolly knows what he is doing", Mike suggested.
Still, we walked over to check and discovered several bush fires that had crept up the hill towards his hut. Calvin and his friend said hello calmly as the beat flames with tree branches and doused them with a couple bottles of water. Joining in the effort, we twisted off a couple branches, and I selected a flame and went to work. It took a couple minutes to kill it and within ten minutes, the fire had been subdued.
"When you get a chance can I order some dinner?" I asked.
Calvin nodded and strolled back and sat down with a little notebook and wrote down my order. Then, with smoke still pouring through his hut, he lit a large joint, sat back and looked out at the lake.
Mike and I departed back to the lodge where I picked up a my pair of black high topped converse that I wanted to sell as I was tired of carrying the extra weight.
On the way to the craft market I stopped by Calvin's to see if the fire was still under control. It was, and he was sitting exactly where I had left him. He turned and eyeing my shoes asked if he could try them on.
"Sure."
He laced them up and to my surprise they fit him perfectly and looked pretty smart as well.
We agreed to trade my shoes and a razor I didn't need for 4 small paintings of his.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Nkata Bay
Since Tuesday I feel like I've been on vacation.
I'm in Nkata Bay on Lake Malawi which is so big it feels like an ocean. I'm staying at a lodge outside of town (down a foot path a located along a sloping hill that leads down into the bay). Lizards with bright blue tails crawl around giant brick steps that lead between chalets and the bar. When you talk to other guests about their plans the general response is "I've been teaching English for about four months, I'll prolly leave when I run out of money in a couple months."
Every couple days someone will take a three hour mini bus to the nearest large town and bring back a newspaper which everyone trades around throughout the day.
On Wednesday my major activity was swimming to the bar.
Today I snorkeled and then sat around eating fresh bread one of the cooks was selling.
I'm in Nkata Bay on Lake Malawi which is so big it feels like an ocean. I'm staying at a lodge outside of town (down a foot path a located along a sloping hill that leads down into the bay). Lizards with bright blue tails crawl around giant brick steps that lead between chalets and the bar. When you talk to other guests about their plans the general response is "I've been teaching English for about four months, I'll prolly leave when I run out of money in a couple months."
Every couple days someone will take a three hour mini bus to the nearest large town and bring back a newspaper which everyone trades around throughout the day.
On Wednesday my major activity was swimming to the bar.
Today I snorkeled and then sat around eating fresh bread one of the cooks was selling.
Protests on the way
Late July in Malawi, food protests evolved into a political protest which became riots fueled by a multiple long simmering grievances held by the Malawi people (economy, lack of jobs, petrol shortages, corruption, Chinese business, etc.) 22 people were shot by the government. I've talked to a few people who were here at the time and have gotten stories of tear gas and mobs.
It's common knowledge across the country that the next protest will occur on the 17th of august. Travelers either:
It's common knowledge across the country that the next protest will occur on the 17th of august. Travelers either:
A. Plan on getting out of the country.
B. Holding up in their hotel/lodge.
I will personally be out of the country, and at this point with a couple days to spare.
No one has any idea how it will turn out. The government devalued the currency today and the main political party has been bleeding members. I've heard that the police won't fire on protesters, but the army (bolstered by troops from Zimbabwe) would.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Lilongwe, Malawi
Lilongwe was my favorite African capital so far. Nothing to special, but more compact and easier to get around.
A few hours after getting in, I took a minibus to the local football stadium and watched a match. The game was between a government sponsored team and a team funded by "a very rich man from the city". In the end, the metaphor for Socialism won 3-2.
A few hours after getting in, I took a minibus to the local football stadium and watched a match. The game was between a government sponsored team and a team funded by "a very rich man from the city". In the end, the metaphor for Socialism won 3-2.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
To Chipata
Okay, so this is another bus ride story (and it won't be the last).
My bus ride across Zambia from Lusaka to Chipata was... well... bad.
Even by African standards. Of course it could have been worse (AS I
KNOCK ON THE WOODEN COFFEE TABLE IN MY HOSTEL).
In Lusaka, took a taxi to the bus station at 7am (early because I was
looking at an 8 hour ride). At the bus station one of the three men
pounding on the window of my taxi led me to a Chipata bound bus. On
board there were fifteen other people in the 50 seats. I've learned
that African buses never leave until full so I sat down figuring on
about an hour an a half wait. As I sat down in the front of the bus,
the bottom of my seat came off. I carefully placed it back on and took
some time to dig out a seat belt caked with dirt. A few of the windows
were broken and covered with masonite boards wedged in place with
crushed Fanta cans. The bus had been built with cords to single the
driver to stop, but the system was malfunctioning. There were constant
long "beep" sounds around the pitch of someone sending Morse code in a
movie. This would be constant for the remainder of my time on the bus.
After about an hour, the bus was 2/3s full and 10 women got off and
never came back. I later learned that they were paid by the bus
company to sit on the buses to make it look more full to lure people
on (by people I mean Matt Posorske).
Directly in front of my seat was the windshield of the bus so
occasionally a random person in the station would walk on to meet the
white guy at the bus station. I took the opportunity to learn a couple
words in the local language.
At around 10 am we left the station, but didn't leave Lusaka for about
an hour as we drove around dropping off packages around the city and
picking up random people.
Once we got on the road I closed my eyes and actually went to sleep. I
woke up in a tiny town on the border of Zambia's Eastern Provence. We
stopped for 20 minutes and everyone got off to stretch their legs. I
paid a kid 20 cents to go to the bathroom in a straw hut he built next
to the road on the side of a cliff.
Back on the bus I checked the time: it was 2pm. "Wow! Four hours in!"
We drove into the hills and I watched the bus weave around the sloping
curving roads. The government doesn't get out there too much and there
were a lot of pot holes. Serious pot holes with red bottoms because
they had broken through to the earth below.
I ate a cliff bar, munched on some crackers and drank about half a
liter of water. I felt alright. We were making good time and it was
fun to watch us drive through rural Zambia.
Then the tire popped.
...
Luckily, when the bang happened we were on a straight road and we
coasted along until the driver finally pulled over. There was no
announcement on the bus, everyone knew what it was. We dismounted the
bus to wait while they changed the tire. I sat on a small hill with a
little shade across the road from the bus. I mentally checked it off
on my "African Bus Experience" list. Barefoot children appeared to
watch what I'm sure was the highlight of their week.
After about twenty minutes they still hadn't gotten a lug off. Every
part of the bus was being searched for the correct socket.
I thought about how much water I had left and carefully judged passing
cars as I debated how long I would wait before I had to hitchhike.
My mental savior came in the form of a vacationing police officer who
was riding my bus. He sat down and asked where I had come from and
where I was going. He pointed to his hometown on the little map of
Zambia in my guidebook.
The next time I looked up they loosened the first lug.
We talked about the local children around us and he noted that the bus
hadn't passed a school on the road yet. We wondered how far these
children had to walk each day.
The next time I looked up the wheel was off.
He taught me how to say "Hello, how are you?" "I'm fine" in Chewa.
The next time I looked up we getting back on the bus.
Back on the road the bus moved slower and I held the entire vehicle
together through the sheer concentration. Knowing that if we screeched
to a halt I would go flying through the windshield, I tried to buckle
my seat belt, but found that it was too short to buckle in a 2 liter
bottle of coke.
When darkness fell at 6pm we were nowhere near Chipata I asked around
and the consensus was that we would arrive about 8pm.
For diner I finished a box of crackers.
At 9:30pm we pulled into Chipata.
I found a taxi driver who knew where I way staying and took off.
He didn't know where I was staying.
He took me to a lodge down a dark dirt road. According to the drunken
guard the lodge had been closed since last season.
Miraculously, my lonely planet gave specific directions "after the
welcome arch, take the first right before the TOTAL petrol station"
I arrived after the kitchen was closed and only the guard was still
awake. He found me some water and patiently listened as I told him
about the day.
My bus ride across Zambia from Lusaka to Chipata was... well... bad.
Even by African standards. Of course it could have been worse (AS I
KNOCK ON THE WOODEN COFFEE TABLE IN MY HOSTEL).
In Lusaka, took a taxi to the bus station at 7am (early because I was
looking at an 8 hour ride). At the bus station one of the three men
pounding on the window of my taxi led me to a Chipata bound bus. On
board there were fifteen other people in the 50 seats. I've learned
that African buses never leave until full so I sat down figuring on
about an hour an a half wait. As I sat down in the front of the bus,
the bottom of my seat came off. I carefully placed it back on and took
some time to dig out a seat belt caked with dirt. A few of the windows
were broken and covered with masonite boards wedged in place with
crushed Fanta cans. The bus had been built with cords to single the
driver to stop, but the system was malfunctioning. There were constant
long "beep" sounds around the pitch of someone sending Morse code in a
movie. This would be constant for the remainder of my time on the bus.
After about an hour, the bus was 2/3s full and 10 women got off and
never came back. I later learned that they were paid by the bus
company to sit on the buses to make it look more full to lure people
on (by people I mean Matt Posorske).
Directly in front of my seat was the windshield of the bus so
occasionally a random person in the station would walk on to meet the
white guy at the bus station. I took the opportunity to learn a couple
words in the local language.
At around 10 am we left the station, but didn't leave Lusaka for about
an hour as we drove around dropping off packages around the city and
picking up random people.
Once we got on the road I closed my eyes and actually went to sleep. I
woke up in a tiny town on the border of Zambia's Eastern Provence. We
stopped for 20 minutes and everyone got off to stretch their legs. I
paid a kid 20 cents to go to the bathroom in a straw hut he built next
to the road on the side of a cliff.
Back on the bus I checked the time: it was 2pm. "Wow! Four hours in!"
We drove into the hills and I watched the bus weave around the sloping
curving roads. The government doesn't get out there too much and there
were a lot of pot holes. Serious pot holes with red bottoms because
they had broken through to the earth below.
I ate a cliff bar, munched on some crackers and drank about half a
liter of water. I felt alright. We were making good time and it was
fun to watch us drive through rural Zambia.
Then the tire popped.
...
Luckily, when the bang happened we were on a straight road and we
coasted along until the driver finally pulled over. There was no
announcement on the bus, everyone knew what it was. We dismounted the
bus to wait while they changed the tire. I sat on a small hill with a
little shade across the road from the bus. I mentally checked it off
on my "African Bus Experience" list. Barefoot children appeared to
watch what I'm sure was the highlight of their week.
After about twenty minutes they still hadn't gotten a lug off. Every
part of the bus was being searched for the correct socket.
I thought about how much water I had left and carefully judged passing
cars as I debated how long I would wait before I had to hitchhike.
My mental savior came in the form of a vacationing police officer who
was riding my bus. He sat down and asked where I had come from and
where I was going. He pointed to his hometown on the little map of
Zambia in my guidebook.
The next time I looked up they loosened the first lug.
We talked about the local children around us and he noted that the bus
hadn't passed a school on the road yet. We wondered how far these
children had to walk each day.
The next time I looked up the wheel was off.
He taught me how to say "Hello, how are you?" "I'm fine" in Chewa.
The next time I looked up we getting back on the bus.
Back on the road the bus moved slower and I held the entire vehicle
together through the sheer concentration. Knowing that if we screeched
to a halt I would go flying through the windshield, I tried to buckle
my seat belt, but found that it was too short to buckle in a 2 liter
bottle of coke.
When darkness fell at 6pm we were nowhere near Chipata I asked around
and the consensus was that we would arrive about 8pm.
For diner I finished a box of crackers.
At 9:30pm we pulled into Chipata.
I found a taxi driver who knew where I way staying and took off.
He didn't know where I was staying.
He took me to a lodge down a dark dirt road. According to the drunken
guard the lodge had been closed since last season.
Miraculously, my lonely planet gave specific directions "after the
welcome arch, take the first right before the TOTAL petrol station"
I arrived after the kitchen was closed and only the guard was still
awake. He found me some water and patiently listened as I told him
about the day.
Lusaka
So it seemed that I was sick most of the time I was in Zambia. Nothing
too bad, just a persistent cold
In Lusaka (capital) I met up with a friend who I had met volunteering
in Tanzania. She is currently working with HIV/AIDS community
education in Zambian Copperbelt. Good to see her especially because we
where both on our return to Africa trip.
Lusaka itself is an interesting place. Wealthy and poor, ubiquitous
red dust, a seedy feel, worst traffic I've seen in the continent, and
from what I've heard: a soul crushing African bureaucracy. Reminds me
of Tangier, Morocco without the ocean and tourists.
too bad, just a persistent cold
In Lusaka (capital) I met up with a friend who I had met volunteering
in Tanzania. She is currently working with HIV/AIDS community
education in Zambian Copperbelt. Good to see her especially because we
where both on our return to Africa trip.
Lusaka itself is an interesting place. Wealthy and poor, ubiquitous
red dust, a seedy feel, worst traffic I've seen in the continent, and
from what I've heard: a soul crushing African bureaucracy. Reminds me
of Tangier, Morocco without the ocean and tourists.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Zimbabwe
First off, the Zambia/Zimbabwe border has to be the best border crossing in the world. It happens on a bridge built half a kilometer from Victoria Falls. If you don't know what Victoria Falls looks like, google it right now.
My first night at the hostel I met a guy from Zimbabwe who leads rafting parties on the Zambezi river. After convincing him that I couldn't afford to raft he suggested that he'd show me around. We made an unofficial deal that he would take me out if I paid for his beer.
He met be in morning and we walked north along the Zambezi. He grew up in the area and recounted stories of how he and his friends used to used to sneak beers into the park, make a fire, party all the while keeping a close eye out for hippos (the second most deadly animal in Africa after Mosquitos).
Along the way up the river, he talked to a couple vendors then turned to me to say, "they said some elephants went that way, let's see if we can track them." So off we went into the bush.
We walked for about half an hour as he judged footprints and droppings. I began to wonder if he could really track elephants when he suddenly stopped and threw his hand up to signal me to stop. He pointed through the bush ahead. At first I couldn't see anything until I realized I was looking too low. Elephants are big.
Within fifty meters were two feeding off the trees. We slowly (and quietly) walked around to get a better look at one and he explained that it was a bull (male) thus we needed to be cautious. After a few minutes it slowly turned around to face us.
"He heard us, we should go"
"What do we do he charges?"
"Run"
"Any strategy? Swerve? Head towards the river?"
"No, just run."
Fortunately, we didn't need to run.
Afterwards, we headed a little out of the tourist center to the local villages. At a butcher we bought a cut of beef and walked to a local bar with a pool table. In the back we popped the meat on an metal grate sitting on top of two burning branches and bought some beer.
Once the meat was good and cooked he sliced it up, chopped up some tomatoes and onions and covered it in salt. That was my lunch (since I'm telling the story you know I didn't get food poisoning).
I spent the next couple of hours drinking with regulars at the bar as he challenged any takers to pool.
Overall, good time in Zimbabwe. Friendly people with a good sense of humor. Surprisingly expensive though. Because of sanctions everything is imported. The economy collapsed in 2008 (inflation was around sixteen trillion percent) so they use dollars. FYI though, if you go to Zimbabwe no one ever has change for a dollar.
My first night at the hostel I met a guy from Zimbabwe who leads rafting parties on the Zambezi river. After convincing him that I couldn't afford to raft he suggested that he'd show me around. We made an unofficial deal that he would take me out if I paid for his beer.
He met be in morning and we walked north along the Zambezi. He grew up in the area and recounted stories of how he and his friends used to used to sneak beers into the park, make a fire, party all the while keeping a close eye out for hippos (the second most deadly animal in Africa after Mosquitos).
Along the way up the river, he talked to a couple vendors then turned to me to say, "they said some elephants went that way, let's see if we can track them." So off we went into the bush.
We walked for about half an hour as he judged footprints and droppings. I began to wonder if he could really track elephants when he suddenly stopped and threw his hand up to signal me to stop. He pointed through the bush ahead. At first I couldn't see anything until I realized I was looking too low. Elephants are big.
Within fifty meters were two feeding off the trees. We slowly (and quietly) walked around to get a better look at one and he explained that it was a bull (male) thus we needed to be cautious. After a few minutes it slowly turned around to face us.
"He heard us, we should go"
"What do we do he charges?"
"Run"
"Any strategy? Swerve? Head towards the river?"
"No, just run."
Fortunately, we didn't need to run.
Afterwards, we headed a little out of the tourist center to the local villages. At a butcher we bought a cut of beef and walked to a local bar with a pool table. In the back we popped the meat on an metal grate sitting on top of two burning branches and bought some beer.
Once the meat was good and cooked he sliced it up, chopped up some tomatoes and onions and covered it in salt. That was my lunch (since I'm telling the story you know I didn't get food poisoning).
I spent the next couple of hours drinking with regulars at the bar as he challenged any takers to pool.
Overall, good time in Zimbabwe. Friendly people with a good sense of humor. Surprisingly expensive though. Because of sanctions everything is imported. The economy collapsed in 2008 (inflation was around sixteen trillion percent) so they use dollars. FYI though, if you go to Zimbabwe no one ever has change for a dollar.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Ferry to Zambia
I've made it to Victoria Falls.
To get here I had to take a ferry from Kasane across the Zambezi river to Zambia.
On the Botswanan side I walked up immigration and said I wanted to take the ferry.
The lady in the booth asked if I had a car.
"No."
"Are you traveling alone?"
"Yes"
Then, she paused and came up close to the glass. "Make sure you pay for the ferry while you are on it. Don't trust anyone on the Zambian side."
Yay! Sounds safe!
I walked a quarter mile to the river and sat in the dirt under a tree and watched the ferry slowly pull up.
When the ferry hit the Botswanan side 15 dugout canoes pulled up with it. Immediately, a truck parked on the shore opened up its gate and dozens of people started loading beer into the canoes. As this was happening a man walked off the ferry to a customs official and handed him some money from his wallet.
Within two minutes all of the canoes where loaded with the black market beer and started off for the other side.
The ferry itself was about 75 cents.While crossing a young hustler attached himself to me and we spent the ride negotiated exchange rates from dollars into Zambian money. Once I found a cab on the other side I finished negotiations and got 85,000 K for $20 (which is actually a pretty good rate for the circumstances).
![]()
![]()
![]()
![]()
![]()
![]()
![]()
![]()
![]()
![]()
To get here I had to take a ferry from Kasane across the Zambezi river to Zambia.
On the Botswanan side I walked up immigration and said I wanted to take the ferry.
The lady in the booth asked if I had a car.
"No."
"Are you traveling alone?"
"Yes"
Then, she paused and came up close to the glass. "Make sure you pay for the ferry while you are on it. Don't trust anyone on the Zambian side."
Yay! Sounds safe!
I walked a quarter mile to the river and sat in the dirt under a tree and watched the ferry slowly pull up.
When the ferry hit the Botswanan side 15 dugout canoes pulled up with it. Immediately, a truck parked on the shore opened up its gate and dozens of people started loading beer into the canoes. As this was happening a man walked off the ferry to a customs official and handed him some money from his wallet.
Within two minutes all of the canoes where loaded with the black market beer and started off for the other side.
The ferry itself was about 75 cents.While crossing a young hustler attached himself to me and we spent the ride negotiated exchange rates from dollars into Zambian money. Once I found a cab on the other side I finished negotiations and got 85,000 K for $20 (which is actually a pretty good rate for the circumstances).
WebRep
Overall rating
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)