Right now i am writing as we are stuck in the Usumboro mountains in a village called Loshoto in Tanzania. The car's starter is broken, and we are stuck and we are at 2000m deep into the mountains of Tanzania. Here is a quick story of whats what.
The car trouble started a few days ago as we were leaving Dar es Salaam. First we realized that the tyres needed replacing and the mission of navigating through Dar to find new tyres took the full day. Everything here takes a full day.
However it was only the next day when we had been on the road for about 2 hours that we stopped for a pee and stretch break. Yet once the car was off, it was not to start again. We were on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere in 30 degree heat. After an ameture inspection it appeared to be the starter that was broken - it was disconnected and hanging below the car.
Some clever thinking and a push start allowed us to get the car going and return back to the nearest town to get it fixed. This could have been the end of the story, but it wasnt. That day we drove another 6 hours up high into the majestic Usumboro mountains to a town called Loshoto. We are camping on a hill overlooking villages and cows and pure green beauty. We had fresh yoghurt and farm made museli with fresh jam and home made bread with farm style cheese this morning for breakfast.
I was gonna do a quick run into town to get more supplies for Stacey's birthday - yet once again the car wouldnt start. Sparks flying everywhere. Whoever said Jews cant fix cars was wrong - we had 3 jews greased up, inside the hood, under the car trying to reconnect (and eventually disconnect) the starter, which had come loose again.
As we were on a mountain we figured we could push start it by rolling it down. After about 400m and input from several locals we finally got Ian (the car) running again, but only temporarily.
The status now is firstly that we are stuck in the mountains far from any mechanic. We have some ideas on how to get it temporarily running so that we can reach Moshi, but the starter is disconnected and the car is not happy. There are no spare parts around here and to organize anything takes hours. Plus as it turns out we are 2 hours from the closest ATM. But secondly, its Stacey's birthday, so i caught a ride on the back of a bike down to town (crazy ride) and am buying Konyagi and watermellon for tonight celebrations.
The hope is to get out of here and to Nairobi by Friday. But we will see how that goes.
Never a dull moment in Africa.
Aweh.
Eitan
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Catch 22: War, beach and cake.
There have been two very significant events in my life.
Firstly, when i was about 14 year old i came to Tanzania for the first time. I remember my dad pointing to a stretch of land across the ocean in Dar es Salaam and telling me about this island called Zanzibar. I'm not going to say that 'it was from that moment that i wanted to go to Zanzibar', or that the island he was pointing at was actually Zanzibar, but i will say that from a young age i knew Zanzibar existed as a piece of land in the ocean close to Dar es Salaam, and that i wanted to go there, from a young age.
Secondly, when i was about one or two my parents moved from Israel to South Africa. Instead of leaving me to fend for myself, they decided to take me with. A gracious decision with an even more extreme consequence - it meant i was probably not going to be a soldier, as South Africa subsequently abandoned conscription while Israel has not yet done so.
So how do these two seemingly irrelevant events link up.
Well, it was about two weeks ago that i left Nkatah Bay with the three Israelis and two Americans. We are driving in a 4x4 Nissan bakkie named Ian. Ian has two seats in the front and enough space in the back to fit the luggage, guitar, mattresses and bodies while still leaving enough maneuvering room to allow for making food, playing card monopoly (a genius game for those yet to discover it) and sleeping. After a few hours we arrived at the base of the mountain below Livingstonia - a small village ontop of a mountain overlooking pretty much the whole of Malawi. It was dark and the drive up the 22 180 degree turns with 50 meter drops onto rocks below was made pleasurable by the fact that i was not driving and that we could not see much outside of the windscreen.
Livingstonia is pure magic. We spent three days doing nothing. However when we were not doing nothing we were playing poker, eating Amit's mother cake that she had sent from Israel, and contemplating what we should do after doing nothing. We often did nothing after doing nothing, which was nice. This was fun and interesting but still does not explain the link between the two events.
From Livingstonia we drove back down the windy mountain - now realizing how crazy it had been to drive up this bohemouth of a cliff at night, and set course for Tanzania. By the time we reached Dar es Salaam, two days later, we had played a lot of card monopoly, gone through 4 iPod batteries and would have eaten even more of Amit's mothers cake if there was any left. I would have eaten my mother's cake, but she had only sent cookies, which we would have eaten if they had not been eaten a few weeks before. Since there was no cake we ate bread and water.
After one night in the local YMCA we decided that neither YMCAs nor loud generators that go all night and switch off at 6am were for us and we departed for Kipepeo - a beach just south of the city. It was here that events began to unfold. An exquisite beach, palm trees, hammocks, shallow water that lets you walk out 100m to the rocks during low tide, sandy campsite on the beach, chilled bar with fresh coffee and cold beers. The place would have been perfect if things didnt get stolen all the time and there wasn't only salt water in the taps.
However there were two more remarkable thing about Kipepeo beach. Firslty, it was not Kipepeo beach at all. After 5 days there of doing nothing, but swimming, soccer and cards, we discovered we were not at Kipepeo and had actually stopped at a different town and were too consumed with excitement and no cake from anyones' mothers, and had not reached our destination. I found this out when taking a dolladolla back to the campsite, only to be dropped at a place i had not been to before.
Secondly (and more connected to my story) was that i was one civilian hanging out for a week with 4 soldiers. Three Isrealis - a missile launcher, a combat engineer and a logistics officer. And one American (not the ones from the car ride) - a female navy seal. Now contrary to what one would expect, soldiers are just like normal people. They play soccer, eat cake, peal mangoes and listen to music. They did no gun cleaning, not a single push up, not once did i see any of them dog crawl to their tents or look for snipers in the bushes. Actually besides the hidden memories of war, knowledge of deep military secrets, and skills in fighting, guns and weaponry, you would never know that these 4 were soldiers.
Yet it made sense because we were not at war, we were on the beach. They were on holiday from war. During war they were made to fight people they did not know, tread water for hours wearing full military gear, injure themselves training for combat, and pretty much spend 3 -5 years of their lives hungry and tired. On the beach life was different and none of these activities were needed.
After a few days on the beach we packed up a few bags, left all the food we had bought for our trip to Zanzibar in the car and headed out by ferry to that little island i had been shown as a kid - Zanzibar. The 3 hour boat ride took only 5 hours and I had my face pressed up against the glass with excitement as we finally arrived at Stone Town, Zanzibar.
Zanzibar is beautiful. Stone cobbled streets, endless narrow alleyways leading you deeper and deeper into the vortex of markets, corner stores and mosques. Woman cooking on fires in the streets and smells of chipati and fish everywhere. There is a night market in which you can buy any type of fish imaginable. They cook it up right there in front of you. Its delicious and fresh, and then you move onto the next stall to be hustled by a fisherman selling you any type of fish imaginable. The houses have intricate wooden carved doors and windows and people hang out in the streets all day chatted, working and walking.
Two days later we headed to the coast, which is where i am now. Yoni has gone on a days boat trip to snorkel and braai. Or is doing his advanced divers course at a dive school owned by another Israeli. I am taking an Eitan day to blog, read my new book (Catch 22 - should shed more light on this post, for those that have read it), chat to my dad on Skype and head down to Kendwa to visit some friends. Tomorrow i think i'm going to go diving - i'm spoiling myself since i just got paid!
Yet having all this fun and being in such a pretty place has got me thinking about war. One gains a lot from war and from being in the solider. You gets to defend the honour of your state. You can fight enemies who will stop at nothing to burn your flag. You get to be written in history as some of the nameless faces who destroyed villages, split up families and saved your country from possible doom. You get to be remembered forever as a no one who contributed very little to a grand scheme that saved your nation and achieved very little.
The 4 soldiers are some of the finest people i have met. They are funny, generous, kind, and clever. These are the cream of the crop of humanity and its not surprising that they were selected for such important jobs. What is surprising though is that they agreed to do the job. They hate war, they way prefer soccer and cake, and in general life on the beach seems a lot better.
I have not had the honour of risking my life for bad political policies just yet. But i have seen what war has done to Africa and other parts of the world. Little of it is good. There is nothing civil about war. We get one life in which to do as much as we can, have as much fun as possible and contribute to the world. No one remembers dead solider. Politicians take the credit for young lives. In the grand scheme of things such as cake, mountains, reef diving, and cheap meals on desolate beaches; being a solider just doesn't seem worth it. But that's just my way of looking at things...
So how do these two events link up. Well, my parents left Israel, denying me of my legacy of being a nameless soldier. In return however they raised me and my siblings with a love for Zanzibar, peace and cake, even if it is from someone else's mother. And i guess, it was here on this island with these soldiers that i realized that that was probably a good thing.
Firstly, when i was about 14 year old i came to Tanzania for the first time. I remember my dad pointing to a stretch of land across the ocean in Dar es Salaam and telling me about this island called Zanzibar. I'm not going to say that 'it was from that moment that i wanted to go to Zanzibar', or that the island he was pointing at was actually Zanzibar, but i will say that from a young age i knew Zanzibar existed as a piece of land in the ocean close to Dar es Salaam, and that i wanted to go there, from a young age.
Secondly, when i was about one or two my parents moved from Israel to South Africa. Instead of leaving me to fend for myself, they decided to take me with. A gracious decision with an even more extreme consequence - it meant i was probably not going to be a soldier, as South Africa subsequently abandoned conscription while Israel has not yet done so.
So how do these two seemingly irrelevant events link up.
Well, it was about two weeks ago that i left Nkatah Bay with the three Israelis and two Americans. We are driving in a 4x4 Nissan bakkie named Ian. Ian has two seats in the front and enough space in the back to fit the luggage, guitar, mattresses and bodies while still leaving enough maneuvering room to allow for making food, playing card monopoly (a genius game for those yet to discover it) and sleeping. After a few hours we arrived at the base of the mountain below Livingstonia - a small village ontop of a mountain overlooking pretty much the whole of Malawi. It was dark and the drive up the 22 180 degree turns with 50 meter drops onto rocks below was made pleasurable by the fact that i was not driving and that we could not see much outside of the windscreen.
Livingstonia is pure magic. We spent three days doing nothing. However when we were not doing nothing we were playing poker, eating Amit's mother cake that she had sent from Israel, and contemplating what we should do after doing nothing. We often did nothing after doing nothing, which was nice. This was fun and interesting but still does not explain the link between the two events.
From Livingstonia we drove back down the windy mountain - now realizing how crazy it had been to drive up this bohemouth of a cliff at night, and set course for Tanzania. By the time we reached Dar es Salaam, two days later, we had played a lot of card monopoly, gone through 4 iPod batteries and would have eaten even more of Amit's mothers cake if there was any left. I would have eaten my mother's cake, but she had only sent cookies, which we would have eaten if they had not been eaten a few weeks before. Since there was no cake we ate bread and water.
After one night in the local YMCA we decided that neither YMCAs nor loud generators that go all night and switch off at 6am were for us and we departed for Kipepeo - a beach just south of the city. It was here that events began to unfold. An exquisite beach, palm trees, hammocks, shallow water that lets you walk out 100m to the rocks during low tide, sandy campsite on the beach, chilled bar with fresh coffee and cold beers. The place would have been perfect if things didnt get stolen all the time and there wasn't only salt water in the taps.
However there were two more remarkable thing about Kipepeo beach. Firslty, it was not Kipepeo beach at all. After 5 days there of doing nothing, but swimming, soccer and cards, we discovered we were not at Kipepeo and had actually stopped at a different town and were too consumed with excitement and no cake from anyones' mothers, and had not reached our destination. I found this out when taking a dolladolla back to the campsite, only to be dropped at a place i had not been to before.
Secondly (and more connected to my story) was that i was one civilian hanging out for a week with 4 soldiers. Three Isrealis - a missile launcher, a combat engineer and a logistics officer. And one American (not the ones from the car ride) - a female navy seal. Now contrary to what one would expect, soldiers are just like normal people. They play soccer, eat cake, peal mangoes and listen to music. They did no gun cleaning, not a single push up, not once did i see any of them dog crawl to their tents or look for snipers in the bushes. Actually besides the hidden memories of war, knowledge of deep military secrets, and skills in fighting, guns and weaponry, you would never know that these 4 were soldiers.
Yet it made sense because we were not at war, we were on the beach. They were on holiday from war. During war they were made to fight people they did not know, tread water for hours wearing full military gear, injure themselves training for combat, and pretty much spend 3 -5 years of their lives hungry and tired. On the beach life was different and none of these activities were needed.
After a few days on the beach we packed up a few bags, left all the food we had bought for our trip to Zanzibar in the car and headed out by ferry to that little island i had been shown as a kid - Zanzibar. The 3 hour boat ride took only 5 hours and I had my face pressed up against the glass with excitement as we finally arrived at Stone Town, Zanzibar.
Zanzibar is beautiful. Stone cobbled streets, endless narrow alleyways leading you deeper and deeper into the vortex of markets, corner stores and mosques. Woman cooking on fires in the streets and smells of chipati and fish everywhere. There is a night market in which you can buy any type of fish imaginable. They cook it up right there in front of you. Its delicious and fresh, and then you move onto the next stall to be hustled by a fisherman selling you any type of fish imaginable. The houses have intricate wooden carved doors and windows and people hang out in the streets all day chatted, working and walking.
Two days later we headed to the coast, which is where i am now. Yoni has gone on a days boat trip to snorkel and braai. Or is doing his advanced divers course at a dive school owned by another Israeli. I am taking an Eitan day to blog, read my new book (Catch 22 - should shed more light on this post, for those that have read it), chat to my dad on Skype and head down to Kendwa to visit some friends. Tomorrow i think i'm going to go diving - i'm spoiling myself since i just got paid!
Yet having all this fun and being in such a pretty place has got me thinking about war. One gains a lot from war and from being in the solider. You gets to defend the honour of your state. You can fight enemies who will stop at nothing to burn your flag. You get to be written in history as some of the nameless faces who destroyed villages, split up families and saved your country from possible doom. You get to be remembered forever as a no one who contributed very little to a grand scheme that saved your nation and achieved very little.
The 4 soldiers are some of the finest people i have met. They are funny, generous, kind, and clever. These are the cream of the crop of humanity and its not surprising that they were selected for such important jobs. What is surprising though is that they agreed to do the job. They hate war, they way prefer soccer and cake, and in general life on the beach seems a lot better.
I have not had the honour of risking my life for bad political policies just yet. But i have seen what war has done to Africa and other parts of the world. Little of it is good. There is nothing civil about war. We get one life in which to do as much as we can, have as much fun as possible and contribute to the world. No one remembers dead solider. Politicians take the credit for young lives. In the grand scheme of things such as cake, mountains, reef diving, and cheap meals on desolate beaches; being a solider just doesn't seem worth it. But that's just my way of looking at things...
So how do these two events link up. Well, my parents left Israel, denying me of my legacy of being a nameless soldier. In return however they raised me and my siblings with a love for Zanzibar, peace and cake, even if it is from someone else's mother. And i guess, it was here on this island with these soldiers that i realized that that was probably a good thing.
Monday, 27 June 2011
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Chapter two or three
"The time has come the walrus said to talk of many things, of shoes and ships and ceiling wax and cabbages and kings. And why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings". So this week meant four very sad goodbyes for me. Let me go through each one.
Firstly, after two months of traveling together, my time with Bra Jules (aka: jellibean, jerribean or Julian Vincent) and his little brother Nugs (aka: Ricki Rambo, Lambo, Richard Vincent) has come to an end. We all started planning the trip last year and it went through many different plans until we landed up buying bikes and heading out into darkest Africa. After two months of cycling and hitching together, it was time for them to go home. It was a privilege to travel with both of you. There is no way to condense this into a sentence. Every night cooking dinner, every day planning to do a service on the bikes, an unforgettable two months on the road. I'm only happy i dont have to listen to Nugs snore anymore. But besides that i will miss having you guys here. Thirdly, with the boys went Barney (aka: Carlsberg, Rabbi Donkey Beard, Daniel Barnett). It was magic to have another jew on the bikes. It turns out we are actually built for sport. Loved sharing a tent with you and the 1000 ants. Take care of those massive calves.
On Sunday they packed all their remaining bikes (Jules traded his at a craft market and literally got half the guys store - the guy got a sweet bike, so it was a pretty good deal) onto a truck transporting steel parts to Blantyre. They are heading down to Mozambique to fetch the car and get back to Cape Town. We waved good bye. Nugs shed a tear and Barnett played with his beard. It was all very sad.
And last, but not least. I said goodbye to Red Betty - my beautiful 4x4 bicycle, home and friend over the past 2 months. I kind of get attached to inanimate objects sometimes, so it was hard to let her go. However the big stack of money that i got given for her made the pain a little easier to bear :) Red Betty, you were a good bike. Besides your constant issue of breaking peddles and some sand in your gears, you did an outstanding job. I hope you enjoy your new home.
All very sad...
....However, like the catchy 90s melody went - "every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end". I am in Nkatah Bay right now just doing a quick post before hitting the road. I am heading towards Livingstonia and then Tanzania. I am traveling with 3 quality Israelis (Who remembers the three Israelis at Fiction every Friday and the trance parties every second weekend this past summer? Well its them - Amit, Or ve Yoni) and two crazy American girls who have been on the road for 2 years now. We are driving by bakkie and the iPod cable is working! Plus we have loads of snacks, supplies and im sure we can manage to strike up some good conversation along the way. I am writing down possible topics of things to talk about already.
The sun is shinning, the rain is holding out and im wearing my comfortable Moz pants that i just got stiched up. So i just need to go pick up my new backgammon board and new book (catch 24) and its on like donkey kong. So yeah, goodbyes are always sad. But things are not looking too bad. So up/north we go
And they'd eaten every one.
ETA: This week in Malawi, next week in Tanzania.
Firstly, after two months of traveling together, my time with Bra Jules (aka: jellibean, jerribean or Julian Vincent) and his little brother Nugs (aka: Ricki Rambo, Lambo, Richard Vincent) has come to an end. We all started planning the trip last year and it went through many different plans until we landed up buying bikes and heading out into darkest Africa. After two months of cycling and hitching together, it was time for them to go home. It was a privilege to travel with both of you. There is no way to condense this into a sentence. Every night cooking dinner, every day planning to do a service on the bikes, an unforgettable two months on the road. I'm only happy i dont have to listen to Nugs snore anymore. But besides that i will miss having you guys here. Thirdly, with the boys went Barney (aka: Carlsberg, Rabbi Donkey Beard, Daniel Barnett). It was magic to have another jew on the bikes. It turns out we are actually built for sport. Loved sharing a tent with you and the 1000 ants. Take care of those massive calves.
On Sunday they packed all their remaining bikes (Jules traded his at a craft market and literally got half the guys store - the guy got a sweet bike, so it was a pretty good deal) onto a truck transporting steel parts to Blantyre. They are heading down to Mozambique to fetch the car and get back to Cape Town. We waved good bye. Nugs shed a tear and Barnett played with his beard. It was all very sad.
And last, but not least. I said goodbye to Red Betty - my beautiful 4x4 bicycle, home and friend over the past 2 months. I kind of get attached to inanimate objects sometimes, so it was hard to let her go. However the big stack of money that i got given for her made the pain a little easier to bear :) Red Betty, you were a good bike. Besides your constant issue of breaking peddles and some sand in your gears, you did an outstanding job. I hope you enjoy your new home.
All very sad...
....However, like the catchy 90s melody went - "every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end". I am in Nkatah Bay right now just doing a quick post before hitting the road. I am heading towards Livingstonia and then Tanzania. I am traveling with 3 quality Israelis (Who remembers the three Israelis at Fiction every Friday and the trance parties every second weekend this past summer? Well its them - Amit, Or ve Yoni) and two crazy American girls who have been on the road for 2 years now. We are driving by bakkie and the iPod cable is working! Plus we have loads of snacks, supplies and im sure we can manage to strike up some good conversation along the way. I am writing down possible topics of things to talk about already.
The sun is shinning, the rain is holding out and im wearing my comfortable Moz pants that i just got stiched up. So i just need to go pick up my new backgammon board and new book (catch 24) and its on like donkey kong. So yeah, goodbyes are always sad. But things are not looking too bad. So up/north we go
And they'd eaten every one.
ETA: This week in Malawi, next week in Tanzania.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
What its like to cycle down Lake Malawi.
So whats it like to cycle 80 odd kilometers in a day down Lake Malawi? Well, to start with, its brutal, but its awesome.
Barnett joined us in Llongwe and we took the bus up north to Mzuzu; talking shop and catching up on the stories of home and abroad. We arrived at our hostel later and slept well, not realizing the treat that the next day held in store for us.
We woke up early and after the first climb of the day we were greeted by the 50km downhill stretch that led to Nkatah Bay and descended one vertical kilometer. I wore my helmet that day. We cheered loudly as we finally caught a glimpse of the majestic lake Malawi and rolled into Nkatah Bay to meet Nugs and Jules who were already there and waiting. After a few days of chilling, eating and preping in Mayokah Village (a return for me after five year), we finally hit the road for the long awaited adventure by bicycle to Salima - about 500km south on the lake.
So what is it like to cycle Lake Malawi?
Cycle days start early. The sun rises at about 6am, and if you are lucky you are up before this to get a swim in the lake or a few quiet moments on the beach watching the sky turn crimson and listening to birds calling as the big red sun rises over Lake Malawi. In Malawi you live for the days, and a sunrise is always a great start.
Then its strike the tents pack the bags and trailer, strap the bikes and its breakfast time. Oats and banana on the fire. Or peanut butter and bread. Some mornings we had yellow coloured, strawberry flavoured baby porridge. Other mornings we caught a snack, a roll or a donut on the road.
The morning session on the bikes is fun, fast and exciting. With fresh legs you can ride hard and cover big distances before the midday heat rolls in. The four of us would be joking, laughing and chatting as we rode on the side of the road with cars and trucks whizzing by every now and again.
The trucks have a pretty good system when it comes to cyclists on the road. They adhere to the "Get Out The Way Or Die" system. Its nice because they pretty much leave it up to you to decide whether you live or not. They'll hoot (sometimes) as they approach from behind, then you can move out of the way or get ridden over. As they pass you have to hold on tight and lock your gaze as their slipstream tries to suck you off the bike and into the road. Other vehicles follow a similar system. So its nice because at least there is consistency.
This part of the trip took us more rural than ever before. It pretty much doesn't get more rural actually. We cycled mostly next to the lake and through long stretches of farms, rubber plantations, over hills, across rivers and on sandy dirt roads which took us far from areas accustomed to seeing 'Mzungus'.
We would cycle through villages where people would stare at this spectacular sight of four white guys on bikes. A lunch break or coke stop could turn into a village event of questions and crowds. Often interesting, but occasionally annoying, it was understandable considering, as we were told in one village, that we were the first white people they had seen there in over two months. This got me thinking: How would i react if i suddenly saw a blue man walk into my local bar. I imagine i would also stare and probably ask a lot of questions.
For the children it was a little bit different. Instead of interest, it was pure excitement and pandemonium. The days were fulled with kids running out of their homes, screaming 'azungu' often in unison, sometimes in chorus and chasing after the bikes. They would ask for money, push the trailer from behind up the steep hills, reach out for high fives or just run next to us screaming and laughing. Once we had an entire school run outside to see us. Literally hundreds of kids posed for photos and repeated English words which we shouted to them.
By midday the sun was hot and were getting tired. Our legs began to lose steam and our bodies began to ache. Each peddle could be an effort and each kilometer could feel like a saga. Suddenly the screaming kids are not as cute and the gear that wont change is becoming more irritating.
That was usually a sign that it was time to stop and rest, drink some water or an ice cold coke from a glass bottle (if there was a shop and if they had a fridge), or devour a pack of cheap chocolate biscuits or a few more donuts or bananas.
We were going about 80km a day. Sometimes 100. Thats like riding the Argus Cycle Tour everyday of the week, but carrying your clothes and kitchen on the bikes with you. So after lunch with 40 degree heat, we could still be staring at another 50km of road ahead of us. As i said, it can be pretty brutal.
But its all part of the fun, and we were a good supportive team. We would share the trailer load, stop if someone was falling too far behind and help push each other on with biscuits, suncream and cyclist banter. (ie: "Are you okay, do you want to break" is roughly translated to "do you need a wet-wipe and you mommy, you soft %$#@). Its actually pretty good be be riding your bike in the sun with the only concern on your mind being when exactly you are gonna stop for your next meal or snack.
By mid afternoon the sun was cooling and our destination was almost insight. Team spirits would be high as we ascended the final hill and smashed a last coke or a 'kuche kuche' to celebrate the hard days work. Gritty, sweaty, aching and burned, we would arrive at a campsite - a great negotiation tool to get a good sympathy discount. Almost every night was somewhere new, different and just as incredible.
One night we camped at Mkuzi Beach - a lodge owned by two of the warmest, most accommodating and genuine couples i have ever met. As fellow South Africans they seemed just as excited about the prospect of watching the rugby with other rugby fans (more the other guys than myself admittedly). We drank Carlesbergs, chatted, braai'd and were treated to soft, moist chocolate cake - a real gift after two months backpacking. Then we fell asleep on soft grass, listening to the light waves crash about 15 meters away.
Another night we stayed somewhere just as beautiful and close to the water, but not nearly as welcoming as Mkuzi. Luckily with three lawyers, two of them Jewish, we managed to negotiate a night of camping at this high-end lodge for less than a loaf of bread back home.
On one evening we arrived in Nkotahkota just before dark and slept on the grass in front of a rundown hotel. Another night we landed up on a rural and isolated beach on the lakeside, and camped in the garden of a motherly Malawian woman named Gloria. The place clearly used to be a lodge, but had been closed for some time as her water system and electricity were broken. We stayed there for two days; drinking, washing and cooking from lake water, and not seeing another person besides Gloria and a few villagers for the whole time.
Once at a campsite we should shower or swim (depending on the facilities and individual hygiene standards), set up camp and get dinner on the go. Beans, rice, soya, onions, chicken stock, hot sauce, tomatoes - all, some or a combination of those things. After cycling for eight hours the emphasis at dinner time is on quantity rather than quality. We would eat, chat, and do some planning for the day ahead. Then it was bedtime. After a full day on the saddle and a big meal, it is pure bliss to be alseep before 8:30 to get up early and do the whole thing again. As i said, in Malawi, you live for the days.
So whats it like to cycle 80km a day down lake Malawi? Its tough, its tiring, its fun and beautiful. Its a great time with incredible friends. Its rough on the mid section, its great prep for becoming a swim wear model. Its great for trying loads of different types of snacks. Its perfect time for listening to new music and old favourites. Its good for cooking delicious meals. Its not good for blog keeping. It makes for a lot of good laughs. It makes for unforgettable memories. Its a red letter day on the calender of life. Its brutal, but its frikken awesome.
Barnett joined us in Llongwe and we took the bus up north to Mzuzu; talking shop and catching up on the stories of home and abroad. We arrived at our hostel later and slept well, not realizing the treat that the next day held in store for us.
We woke up early and after the first climb of the day we were greeted by the 50km downhill stretch that led to Nkatah Bay and descended one vertical kilometer. I wore my helmet that day. We cheered loudly as we finally caught a glimpse of the majestic lake Malawi and rolled into Nkatah Bay to meet Nugs and Jules who were already there and waiting. After a few days of chilling, eating and preping in Mayokah Village (a return for me after five year), we finally hit the road for the long awaited adventure by bicycle to Salima - about 500km south on the lake.
So what is it like to cycle Lake Malawi?
Cycle days start early. The sun rises at about 6am, and if you are lucky you are up before this to get a swim in the lake or a few quiet moments on the beach watching the sky turn crimson and listening to birds calling as the big red sun rises over Lake Malawi. In Malawi you live for the days, and a sunrise is always a great start.
Then its strike the tents pack the bags and trailer, strap the bikes and its breakfast time. Oats and banana on the fire. Or peanut butter and bread. Some mornings we had yellow coloured, strawberry flavoured baby porridge. Other mornings we caught a snack, a roll or a donut on the road.
The morning session on the bikes is fun, fast and exciting. With fresh legs you can ride hard and cover big distances before the midday heat rolls in. The four of us would be joking, laughing and chatting as we rode on the side of the road with cars and trucks whizzing by every now and again.
The trucks have a pretty good system when it comes to cyclists on the road. They adhere to the "Get Out The Way Or Die" system. Its nice because they pretty much leave it up to you to decide whether you live or not. They'll hoot (sometimes) as they approach from behind, then you can move out of the way or get ridden over. As they pass you have to hold on tight and lock your gaze as their slipstream tries to suck you off the bike and into the road. Other vehicles follow a similar system. So its nice because at least there is consistency.
This part of the trip took us more rural than ever before. It pretty much doesn't get more rural actually. We cycled mostly next to the lake and through long stretches of farms, rubber plantations, over hills, across rivers and on sandy dirt roads which took us far from areas accustomed to seeing 'Mzungus'.
We would cycle through villages where people would stare at this spectacular sight of four white guys on bikes. A lunch break or coke stop could turn into a village event of questions and crowds. Often interesting, but occasionally annoying, it was understandable considering, as we were told in one village, that we were the first white people they had seen there in over two months. This got me thinking: How would i react if i suddenly saw a blue man walk into my local bar. I imagine i would also stare and probably ask a lot of questions.
For the children it was a little bit different. Instead of interest, it was pure excitement and pandemonium. The days were fulled with kids running out of their homes, screaming 'azungu' often in unison, sometimes in chorus and chasing after the bikes. They would ask for money, push the trailer from behind up the steep hills, reach out for high fives or just run next to us screaming and laughing. Once we had an entire school run outside to see us. Literally hundreds of kids posed for photos and repeated English words which we shouted to them.
By midday the sun was hot and were getting tired. Our legs began to lose steam and our bodies began to ache. Each peddle could be an effort and each kilometer could feel like a saga. Suddenly the screaming kids are not as cute and the gear that wont change is becoming more irritating.
That was usually a sign that it was time to stop and rest, drink some water or an ice cold coke from a glass bottle (if there was a shop and if they had a fridge), or devour a pack of cheap chocolate biscuits or a few more donuts or bananas.
We were going about 80km a day. Sometimes 100. Thats like riding the Argus Cycle Tour everyday of the week, but carrying your clothes and kitchen on the bikes with you. So after lunch with 40 degree heat, we could still be staring at another 50km of road ahead of us. As i said, it can be pretty brutal.
But its all part of the fun, and we were a good supportive team. We would share the trailer load, stop if someone was falling too far behind and help push each other on with biscuits, suncream and cyclist banter. (ie: "Are you okay, do you want to break" is roughly translated to "do you need a wet-wipe and you mommy, you soft %$#@). Its actually pretty good be be riding your bike in the sun with the only concern on your mind being when exactly you are gonna stop for your next meal or snack.
By mid afternoon the sun was cooling and our destination was almost insight. Team spirits would be high as we ascended the final hill and smashed a last coke or a 'kuche kuche' to celebrate the hard days work. Gritty, sweaty, aching and burned, we would arrive at a campsite - a great negotiation tool to get a good sympathy discount. Almost every night was somewhere new, different and just as incredible.
One night we camped at Mkuzi Beach - a lodge owned by two of the warmest, most accommodating and genuine couples i have ever met. As fellow South Africans they seemed just as excited about the prospect of watching the rugby with other rugby fans (more the other guys than myself admittedly). We drank Carlesbergs, chatted, braai'd and were treated to soft, moist chocolate cake - a real gift after two months backpacking. Then we fell asleep on soft grass, listening to the light waves crash about 15 meters away.
Another night we stayed somewhere just as beautiful and close to the water, but not nearly as welcoming as Mkuzi. Luckily with three lawyers, two of them Jewish, we managed to negotiate a night of camping at this high-end lodge for less than a loaf of bread back home.
On one evening we arrived in Nkotahkota just before dark and slept on the grass in front of a rundown hotel. Another night we landed up on a rural and isolated beach on the lakeside, and camped in the garden of a motherly Malawian woman named Gloria. The place clearly used to be a lodge, but had been closed for some time as her water system and electricity were broken. We stayed there for two days; drinking, washing and cooking from lake water, and not seeing another person besides Gloria and a few villagers for the whole time.
Once at a campsite we should shower or swim (depending on the facilities and individual hygiene standards), set up camp and get dinner on the go. Beans, rice, soya, onions, chicken stock, hot sauce, tomatoes - all, some or a combination of those things. After cycling for eight hours the emphasis at dinner time is on quantity rather than quality. We would eat, chat, and do some planning for the day ahead. Then it was bedtime. After a full day on the saddle and a big meal, it is pure bliss to be alseep before 8:30 to get up early and do the whole thing again. As i said, in Malawi, you live for the days.
So whats it like to cycle 80km a day down lake Malawi? Its tough, its tiring, its fun and beautiful. Its a great time with incredible friends. Its rough on the mid section, its great prep for becoming a swim wear model. Its great for trying loads of different types of snacks. Its perfect time for listening to new music and old favourites. Its good for cooking delicious meals. Its not good for blog keeping. It makes for a lot of good laughs. It makes for unforgettable memories. Its a red letter day on the calender of life. Its brutal, but its frikken awesome.
Thursday, 9 June 2011
A democratic journey by bus
The headlines in todays newspaper read "Punitive Budget". I could see people buying the newspaper and packing a copy under one arm, or in their briefcase or plastic bags, ready to read on the long bus journey to Llongwe. We had climbed Mulanje, spent a day recovering and sorting out admin, and now were off to Llongwe; the capital of Malawi. Big city life, real craft markets, legends of Malawian Jazz, the home of Bingu.
Bingu is Malawi's new president. He has served his first five year term and was now into his second term, and sure as death and taxes, the corruption which he promised to eradicate was now beginning again and growing steadily. Bingu's picture is everywhere in Malawi - billboards, public service announcments, on shop walls, and today; the front page of the 'Malawi News'. Malawi is a now a deomcracy, but even in democracy the cheif wants people to know he is the chief.
As the bus filled up, the open seat next to me was finally taken. I was deep into my book and excited about the prospect of a few hours of reading. I have become oddly obsessed with reading about dictators and Aids, killing and corruption, democracy and famine.
A Malawian man sat down next to me holding a newspaper. We smiled and greeted as i helped him load his bag, then i turned back to my book. "Ah, this government, they are raising taxes again. You can make 100 000kw a year, get taxed almost half, then they still raise tax on food, schools, even this newspaper".
Mcdonald was an accountant on his way to Llongwe to sit the ASCA accounting exam to become a chartered accountent. He went through the main points of the budget on the front page and explained the ins and outs of the Malawian tax system. I liked Mcdonald straight away.
It was a hot day outside and even hotter inside. Despite our efforts of waking up at 6:30 to leave town early, it was already 10am when the bus finally left the station. You see; choosing a bus to ride is a complex decision of many factors. One bus will be quicker but less comfortable. Others will be slower to fill. Some have windows, some air-con, others no ventilation at all. New wheels, good music, a reliable driver. At the station, men swamp you to try get you on their bus. They promise you anything: more room, a shorter route. They compliment your dreadlocks and ask your name. To be your choice, they promise the world, whether they intend to, or even are able to live up the expectations. We chose a modernish looking bus, for a good price with the bikes, which was meant to fill up and leave within the hour.Others chose that bus for their own requirments.
The bus was finally full and the driver, dressed in green overalls and thick rimmed glasses stood n front of the passengers and led us in a prayer so that we could embark on a safe journey. The whole bus dipped their heads, closed their eyes and responded to the prayer with an 'Amen'. It was hot, sweaty and getting late but the bus still did not leave. There were no windows on this bus and people waited for the promised aircon to be switched on. But the air-con did not come.
I have always marveled by how people are so willing to take abuse from bus or taxi drivers. People sit silently as drivers waste time, overpack the isles, or breakdown due to their own reckless driving. Just yesterday we sat in silence and heat, alongside 60 others for two hours as the driver had to walk a woman wose foot he had ridden over to hospital.
But not today. Im not sure if it was the banter on board about the budget, or maybe the heat was too much, but today the bus was alive and unifed. People began shouting towards the front of the bus. Some threatened to leave and take their money back if the bus did not leave and air-con was not switched on. One or two of the most confident and outspoken stood up and voiced the public discontent sharply to the driver. Soon enough the conductor was sent through the isles to fiddle with the air-con, which clearly did not, and probably never did, work.
The bus was on the verge of revolution. The pregnant women were alight with anger and excitment, the live chickens chirped and flapped their wings, clearly upset from the heat and noise. The engine switched on and the bus slowly rolled forward, but only just in time to avoid rioting. However this did not appease the crowd who by this time were unified and alert. Despite the progress of the journey, the shouting and laughter continued. Yet by now people were sitting, and more than rebellion, there was discussion.
"What are they talking about?" I asked Mcdonald. "They are upset about the tax increases in the budget, and they are discussing Bingu's policy." He explained.
The discussion waged on with passion as people from all rows on the bus got their turn to speak. Within minutes the key players in the road revolution has been identified. When the guy with the sunglasses spoke the bus roared with laughter. When the man in the white shirt spoke, people hissed and commented to those around. When Mcdonald spoke, people listened and either nodded or argued back intensely. Some said nothing at all. One man declared himself president of the bus and began electing ministers. The conversation was half in English, half in Chichiwe, obviously to accommodate the whites on board.
They discussed election and new candidates. They argued over past decisions and new budgets. This group on the bus were dissattisfied with their political situation; and in a country with little internet and infrastructure, the public participation process was in session. On the buses, around the pool tables, in the hours spent waiting for the services to work, people spoke, people discussed and people organized.
Macdonald gave me the background on the issues and explained the peoples' points in more depth. The newspapers got handed around for others to read, and occasionally someone would read a passage aloud for the whole bus to hear. This was democracy alive.
Discontent is contagious and humour builds unity, and soon attention was focused back on the driver. He is driving too slow, he is too old, he is stopping too much. I suggested that we had outrun his 5 hour term and that we should hold an election to appoint a new bus driver for the last 200km. People laughed, chatted and the games continued. I have seen many things in my life, but i have never seen a bus load of strangers argue over politics and unify around bus driving before.
Yet the strong tides of revolution were soon to turn. The discussion had calmed down and the passion subsided intro the long afternoon bus ride across the country. The games were over, women had gotten back to feeding their babies, most resumed staring out the windows, and i returned to my book. But it takes only a few to break the peace.
By this time, 'the president' was now drunk and intoxicated with the fame and laughter that his important part in the road revolution had brought him. He continues to make loud, slurring annoucements to the whole bus. His ministers continues to laugh and ramble loudly, long after most people had stopped listening. And the civilians on the bus continued to take abuse from someone in power, now drunk and repulsive, embarrassing his silent girlfriend next to him. The bus democracy, once alive and exciting with discussion of politics and rights, was now the inconsiderate and incomprehensible ramblings of one man and his drunk cronies. The mood has changed completely.
What has happened to Africa? How did something so right turn so wrong? How did corruption, alcohol and arrogance tarnish such a beautiful lands and destroy indestructible dreams? Somewhere along the road Mandela turned into Malema. Banda and Bingu became indistinguishable. Even Nkrumah fell from grace. Discontent is contagious, but so is corruption, self-adoration and alcoholism. And like that, snap, the dream is gone.
An hour ago i sat almost with tears in my eyes reading the history of SA's transition to democracy and listening to the political discussions. Now my eyes were filled with flames and i was angry. Angry with Mobutu of Congo, angry with Bokassa of Central African Republic, angry with this drunk idiot shouting two rows behind me.
I am not claimed to be a hero or a revolutionary or any braver than the rest of the passengers on the bus. Maybe i was just less accustomed to drunken ramblings, but i could not take it anymore and was not going to. Jules quite correctly grabbed my shoulder as i turned around, obviously noticing my restlessness or maybe it was mimmicing his. But it was to late and i shrugged him off. "Hey, My President. You are now drunk and too loud and you must sit down in your seat and keep quiet". His sunglasses were by now upside down on this face and i started straight at his eyes, refusing to break my gaze.
Jules grabbed my shoulder again. "Just let it go man, its enough". And he was right; it was enough. Everyone had heard me, our president sat silent and embarrassed, trying to muster response. His girlfriend stared out the window, i turned back to the front, and the bus resumed its rightful silence of banging bottles and crying babies.
There is nothing wrong with Africa. The lands are beautiful, the people are strong and the culture is indestructible. Yet there is something wrong with the systems, the politics and the ability of power to corrupt. The politicians are selfish and ill-equip, making bad decisions which favour the few. Elitism devours the rich while alcoholism devours the poor. Yet they were fucked up in their turn by fools in old style hats and coats. Now it is their turn to steal state taxes, enjoy the power of politics and money and drink beer all day. I was wronged in the past, now it is my revolution and i will take vengeance by doing what i want.
When i got off the bus i said goodbye to Mcdonald and wished him well for his exam. We took down our bikes, packed up our bags and went off the find the hostel. For most it was just another bus ride, albeit quite long, hot and loud. However, the feeling that i was left with after that ride has stayed with me for a few days: Africa does not need a revolution, the same as Malawi does not need more tax increases. What Africa needs is politicians who dont steal public funds, bus drivers who deliver what they promise and citizens who dont spend their working week drinking in bars.
Bingu is Malawi's new president. He has served his first five year term and was now into his second term, and sure as death and taxes, the corruption which he promised to eradicate was now beginning again and growing steadily. Bingu's picture is everywhere in Malawi - billboards, public service announcments, on shop walls, and today; the front page of the 'Malawi News'. Malawi is a now a deomcracy, but even in democracy the cheif wants people to know he is the chief.
As the bus filled up, the open seat next to me was finally taken. I was deep into my book and excited about the prospect of a few hours of reading. I have become oddly obsessed with reading about dictators and Aids, killing and corruption, democracy and famine.
A Malawian man sat down next to me holding a newspaper. We smiled and greeted as i helped him load his bag, then i turned back to my book. "Ah, this government, they are raising taxes again. You can make 100 000kw a year, get taxed almost half, then they still raise tax on food, schools, even this newspaper".
Mcdonald was an accountant on his way to Llongwe to sit the ASCA accounting exam to become a chartered accountent. He went through the main points of the budget on the front page and explained the ins and outs of the Malawian tax system. I liked Mcdonald straight away.
It was a hot day outside and even hotter inside. Despite our efforts of waking up at 6:30 to leave town early, it was already 10am when the bus finally left the station. You see; choosing a bus to ride is a complex decision of many factors. One bus will be quicker but less comfortable. Others will be slower to fill. Some have windows, some air-con, others no ventilation at all. New wheels, good music, a reliable driver. At the station, men swamp you to try get you on their bus. They promise you anything: more room, a shorter route. They compliment your dreadlocks and ask your name. To be your choice, they promise the world, whether they intend to, or even are able to live up the expectations. We chose a modernish looking bus, for a good price with the bikes, which was meant to fill up and leave within the hour.Others chose that bus for their own requirments.
The bus was finally full and the driver, dressed in green overalls and thick rimmed glasses stood n front of the passengers and led us in a prayer so that we could embark on a safe journey. The whole bus dipped their heads, closed their eyes and responded to the prayer with an 'Amen'. It was hot, sweaty and getting late but the bus still did not leave. There were no windows on this bus and people waited for the promised aircon to be switched on. But the air-con did not come.
I have always marveled by how people are so willing to take abuse from bus or taxi drivers. People sit silently as drivers waste time, overpack the isles, or breakdown due to their own reckless driving. Just yesterday we sat in silence and heat, alongside 60 others for two hours as the driver had to walk a woman wose foot he had ridden over to hospital.
But not today. Im not sure if it was the banter on board about the budget, or maybe the heat was too much, but today the bus was alive and unifed. People began shouting towards the front of the bus. Some threatened to leave and take their money back if the bus did not leave and air-con was not switched on. One or two of the most confident and outspoken stood up and voiced the public discontent sharply to the driver. Soon enough the conductor was sent through the isles to fiddle with the air-con, which clearly did not, and probably never did, work.
The bus was on the verge of revolution. The pregnant women were alight with anger and excitment, the live chickens chirped and flapped their wings, clearly upset from the heat and noise. The engine switched on and the bus slowly rolled forward, but only just in time to avoid rioting. However this did not appease the crowd who by this time were unified and alert. Despite the progress of the journey, the shouting and laughter continued. Yet by now people were sitting, and more than rebellion, there was discussion.
"What are they talking about?" I asked Mcdonald. "They are upset about the tax increases in the budget, and they are discussing Bingu's policy." He explained.
The discussion waged on with passion as people from all rows on the bus got their turn to speak. Within minutes the key players in the road revolution has been identified. When the guy with the sunglasses spoke the bus roared with laughter. When the man in the white shirt spoke, people hissed and commented to those around. When Mcdonald spoke, people listened and either nodded or argued back intensely. Some said nothing at all. One man declared himself president of the bus and began electing ministers. The conversation was half in English, half in Chichiwe, obviously to accommodate the whites on board.
They discussed election and new candidates. They argued over past decisions and new budgets. This group on the bus were dissattisfied with their political situation; and in a country with little internet and infrastructure, the public participation process was in session. On the buses, around the pool tables, in the hours spent waiting for the services to work, people spoke, people discussed and people organized.
Macdonald gave me the background on the issues and explained the peoples' points in more depth. The newspapers got handed around for others to read, and occasionally someone would read a passage aloud for the whole bus to hear. This was democracy alive.
Discontent is contagious and humour builds unity, and soon attention was focused back on the driver. He is driving too slow, he is too old, he is stopping too much. I suggested that we had outrun his 5 hour term and that we should hold an election to appoint a new bus driver for the last 200km. People laughed, chatted and the games continued. I have seen many things in my life, but i have never seen a bus load of strangers argue over politics and unify around bus driving before.
Yet the strong tides of revolution were soon to turn. The discussion had calmed down and the passion subsided intro the long afternoon bus ride across the country. The games were over, women had gotten back to feeding their babies, most resumed staring out the windows, and i returned to my book. But it takes only a few to break the peace.
By this time, 'the president' was now drunk and intoxicated with the fame and laughter that his important part in the road revolution had brought him. He continues to make loud, slurring annoucements to the whole bus. His ministers continues to laugh and ramble loudly, long after most people had stopped listening. And the civilians on the bus continued to take abuse from someone in power, now drunk and repulsive, embarrassing his silent girlfriend next to him. The bus democracy, once alive and exciting with discussion of politics and rights, was now the inconsiderate and incomprehensible ramblings of one man and his drunk cronies. The mood has changed completely.
What has happened to Africa? How did something so right turn so wrong? How did corruption, alcohol and arrogance tarnish such a beautiful lands and destroy indestructible dreams? Somewhere along the road Mandela turned into Malema. Banda and Bingu became indistinguishable. Even Nkrumah fell from grace. Discontent is contagious, but so is corruption, self-adoration and alcoholism. And like that, snap, the dream is gone.
An hour ago i sat almost with tears in my eyes reading the history of SA's transition to democracy and listening to the political discussions. Now my eyes were filled with flames and i was angry. Angry with Mobutu of Congo, angry with Bokassa of Central African Republic, angry with this drunk idiot shouting two rows behind me.
I am not claimed to be a hero or a revolutionary or any braver than the rest of the passengers on the bus. Maybe i was just less accustomed to drunken ramblings, but i could not take it anymore and was not going to. Jules quite correctly grabbed my shoulder as i turned around, obviously noticing my restlessness or maybe it was mimmicing his. But it was to late and i shrugged him off. "Hey, My President. You are now drunk and too loud and you must sit down in your seat and keep quiet". His sunglasses were by now upside down on this face and i started straight at his eyes, refusing to break my gaze.
Jules grabbed my shoulder again. "Just let it go man, its enough". And he was right; it was enough. Everyone had heard me, our president sat silent and embarrassed, trying to muster response. His girlfriend stared out the window, i turned back to the front, and the bus resumed its rightful silence of banging bottles and crying babies.
There is nothing wrong with Africa. The lands are beautiful, the people are strong and the culture is indestructible. Yet there is something wrong with the systems, the politics and the ability of power to corrupt. The politicians are selfish and ill-equip, making bad decisions which favour the few. Elitism devours the rich while alcoholism devours the poor. Yet they were fucked up in their turn by fools in old style hats and coats. Now it is their turn to steal state taxes, enjoy the power of politics and money and drink beer all day. I was wronged in the past, now it is my revolution and i will take vengeance by doing what i want.
When i got off the bus i said goodbye to Mcdonald and wished him well for his exam. We took down our bikes, packed up our bags and went off the find the hostel. For most it was just another bus ride, albeit quite long, hot and loud. However, the feeling that i was left with after that ride has stayed with me for a few days: Africa does not need a revolution, the same as Malawi does not need more tax increases. What Africa needs is politicians who dont steal public funds, bus drivers who deliver what they promise and citizens who dont spend their working week drinking in bars.
There is still hope, so as hard as it is, don't lose faith.
Monday, 6 June 2011
The past week or so: Malawi, Mulanje and Zoo Biscuits
So im sitting right now in a little internet cafe in Llongwe, the capital of Malawi. I am alone, my neck is sore and i have a pack of zoo biscuits waiting for me in my tent. Its been a bit of a whirlwind past week or so that got me to this point, so let me quickly explain a bit more. No deep revelations and discoveries in this post, just a nice update :)
Last time i wrote we had just arrived in Malawi. To start off; my neck is still sore from those crazy 2 days of hitchhiking. I was lying down across the back seat of an off-duty bus we hitched a ride on, when the driver suddenly hit a speed bump. Seeing as buses cant just slow down, and its law that they have to drive over 150km an hours, i was lifted about a meter in the air and think i got whiplash or pulled something, or something like that. Im no doctor. But it hurts when i do anything.
After a day or 2 of chilling in Blantyre and tasting at least one cake from every bakery i could find, we made our way towards Mount Mulanje. We had picked up a very sweet British couple, Sam and Alice, and they were joined us for the great mountain expedition.
I guess the reason i havnt been able to write about Mulanje is because i dont know what to write. Mulanje is the name of the mountain massive in south Malawi. 650 squre kilometers of mountain peaks, trails, valleys and waterfalls. There are about 25 peaks, the highest being Sapitwa at 3002m, but between those are paths and hills and pure beauty. The best thing i can do to describe it is to tell you to watch Lord of the Rings or Jurassic Park. Then picture me there instead of dinosaurs and elves.
We did our food shopping and hired a guide and set out with our packs for 4 days of trekking Mulanje. Day one was a hard climb through thick forests. Our guide, Edwin, must have been the most loverly man you have ever met. He was slightly build but strong as 4oxen, nearing 40, wore green fake crocks for the whole climb, and laughed like Santa. A black, Malawian Santa. My pack weighed about 20kg because i am terrible at packing light. I think its like holocaust mentality or something. "But what if i need 7 different hats and a smart shirt up there?!" It was an incredible day - we swam at fresh ice cold waterfalls and ate peanut butter sandwiches on cliff faces, watching the kilometers and days of empty space below us.
Each night you end up at a little hut somewhere on the mountain. The huts are simple and ill equipt, but feel just like home. We made a big fire, cooked a massive dinner, and all cuddled up on the 3 mattresses to save body heat and avoid sleeping on the floor. Amit, an Israel friend (one of the Israelis, with the white beard, at every trance party this season) was there, and joined us for dinner and sleeping by the fire.
Day two was not as fun and lighthearted. We climbed to 2.5 hours to base camp, left our bags, and set out on the 5 hours hike to the summit of Sapitwa. Despite what the guidebook says, this was not a 'pleasent hike'. This was a serious climb. It is pretty much vertical, often scrambling over sheer rock faces where there is no path. The altitude at that height is also no joke, and you literally have to force your legs to take one step after the next. You dont look up, you dont look around, you just look at your feet as you beg yourself to keep moving. Each meter aches, each step counts. The summit was quite spectacular, and the clouds had dropped so we could see well into Mozambique. We took some pictures, ate some food and started the trek down. With mountaineering, the summit is only half way there. And we were to feel the effect of that down hill on our legs for a while.
We took it a little easier for the next two days - hiking through hills and chilling out by rivers in the valleys to read and snack on biscuits. We bathed in the streams, cooked incredible dinners and told bed time stories and just generally marvelled at the majestic views and almost unreal (unless you are a dinosaur or elf) surroundings of Mount Mulanje.
Climbing mount Mulanje was a privilege. And one that that i felt strongly while up there. Most Malwians dont go to the mountains. Few people travel to Malawi and even fewer go to Mulanje. On those isolated peaks you get the feeling that you are seeing something that only a handful have been lucky enough to see. Its powerful and beautiful and when the entire night sky is lit up by billions of bright stars and freezing air, you cant not close your eyes and thank 'whoever' for allowing you that experience. Sho.
From Mulanje we spent another day in the village at the bottom, and then made our journey back to Blantyre. The 100km only took us 4 hours, so that was nice too. The next day we headed north towards Llongwe. The bus drive was slow and painful, but quite an interesting experience for me. More on that one later though...
A few days ago we met a Malawian guy named Patric. A newly qualified 23 year old civil engineer, Patric invited us to stay at his home in Llongwe, area 23. So last night off we went deep into the townships of Llongwe to find Patric who was meeting us at the 'Peoples Supermarket' in area 23. We left too late and it was already dark as we cycled through the narrow roads with trucks and taxis whizzing past us. I think all of us said a little prayer to 'whoever' to get us there safely.
Besides the insane traffic, Malawi is peaceful and the people pride themselves for being so friendly. I also think that three white guys on bicycles pulling a trailer at 8pm in the middle of area 23, is no the most common sight. Some people offered us directions, others walked part of the way with us. Many shouted loudly, calling for the attention of this 'muzungu rasta'. Eventually we got to Patrics in one piece. His brother and neighbour were with him to walk us home, and his mother cooked us an amazing dinner, and had made us beds to sleep in. Hospitality is really the raw form of love. Although they had so little, this family welcomed us in an shared and treated us so warmly.
This morning Nugs and Jules have headed up to Nkatah Bay. I have stayed in Llongwe to meet Daniel Barnett and Dave Du Plessis who are arriving tomorrow to join the cycling down the lake. They were too scared and cried like little girls at the thought of catching the bus to meet us alone, so i stayed to hold their hands :)
True fact is that it makes things easier if one of us stay to meet them, plus Nugs and Jules have only 2 weeks on the lake. I have another few months ahead, so its not much skin off my elbow. So that explains why i am alone. Plus to be honest, i kinda welcomed a day alone in the city. I will spend hours online, go buy a new t-shirt in the market, and just take an Eitan day. Which is actually one of my favourite types of days!
Also finally, I at last found Zoo Biscuits in Llongwe, the most coverted and talked about biscuit of the whole trip! I plan to sit by myself in my tent alone and eat them tonight. Then i may talk to some strangers.
And that as they say is that.
I have another post about the bus drive which i will try put up today. My mother also wants to chat on skype later, and i must thank her for the package she sent to me with Barnett. What a great woman that one is! And i should go trade the rest of my bike spares at the market.
Kuche Kuche,
Eitan
Last time i wrote we had just arrived in Malawi. To start off; my neck is still sore from those crazy 2 days of hitchhiking. I was lying down across the back seat of an off-duty bus we hitched a ride on, when the driver suddenly hit a speed bump. Seeing as buses cant just slow down, and its law that they have to drive over 150km an hours, i was lifted about a meter in the air and think i got whiplash or pulled something, or something like that. Im no doctor. But it hurts when i do anything.
After a day or 2 of chilling in Blantyre and tasting at least one cake from every bakery i could find, we made our way towards Mount Mulanje. We had picked up a very sweet British couple, Sam and Alice, and they were joined us for the great mountain expedition.
I guess the reason i havnt been able to write about Mulanje is because i dont know what to write. Mulanje is the name of the mountain massive in south Malawi. 650 squre kilometers of mountain peaks, trails, valleys and waterfalls. There are about 25 peaks, the highest being Sapitwa at 3002m, but between those are paths and hills and pure beauty. The best thing i can do to describe it is to tell you to watch Lord of the Rings or Jurassic Park. Then picture me there instead of dinosaurs and elves.
We did our food shopping and hired a guide and set out with our packs for 4 days of trekking Mulanje. Day one was a hard climb through thick forests. Our guide, Edwin, must have been the most loverly man you have ever met. He was slightly build but strong as 4oxen, nearing 40, wore green fake crocks for the whole climb, and laughed like Santa. A black, Malawian Santa. My pack weighed about 20kg because i am terrible at packing light. I think its like holocaust mentality or something. "But what if i need 7 different hats and a smart shirt up there?!" It was an incredible day - we swam at fresh ice cold waterfalls and ate peanut butter sandwiches on cliff faces, watching the kilometers and days of empty space below us.
Each night you end up at a little hut somewhere on the mountain. The huts are simple and ill equipt, but feel just like home. We made a big fire, cooked a massive dinner, and all cuddled up on the 3 mattresses to save body heat and avoid sleeping on the floor. Amit, an Israel friend (one of the Israelis, with the white beard, at every trance party this season) was there, and joined us for dinner and sleeping by the fire.
Day two was not as fun and lighthearted. We climbed to 2.5 hours to base camp, left our bags, and set out on the 5 hours hike to the summit of Sapitwa. Despite what the guidebook says, this was not a 'pleasent hike'. This was a serious climb. It is pretty much vertical, often scrambling over sheer rock faces where there is no path. The altitude at that height is also no joke, and you literally have to force your legs to take one step after the next. You dont look up, you dont look around, you just look at your feet as you beg yourself to keep moving. Each meter aches, each step counts. The summit was quite spectacular, and the clouds had dropped so we could see well into Mozambique. We took some pictures, ate some food and started the trek down. With mountaineering, the summit is only half way there. And we were to feel the effect of that down hill on our legs for a while.
We took it a little easier for the next two days - hiking through hills and chilling out by rivers in the valleys to read and snack on biscuits. We bathed in the streams, cooked incredible dinners and told bed time stories and just generally marvelled at the majestic views and almost unreal (unless you are a dinosaur or elf) surroundings of Mount Mulanje.
Climbing mount Mulanje was a privilege. And one that that i felt strongly while up there. Most Malwians dont go to the mountains. Few people travel to Malawi and even fewer go to Mulanje. On those isolated peaks you get the feeling that you are seeing something that only a handful have been lucky enough to see. Its powerful and beautiful and when the entire night sky is lit up by billions of bright stars and freezing air, you cant not close your eyes and thank 'whoever' for allowing you that experience. Sho.
From Mulanje we spent another day in the village at the bottom, and then made our journey back to Blantyre. The 100km only took us 4 hours, so that was nice too. The next day we headed north towards Llongwe. The bus drive was slow and painful, but quite an interesting experience for me. More on that one later though...
A few days ago we met a Malawian guy named Patric. A newly qualified 23 year old civil engineer, Patric invited us to stay at his home in Llongwe, area 23. So last night off we went deep into the townships of Llongwe to find Patric who was meeting us at the 'Peoples Supermarket' in area 23. We left too late and it was already dark as we cycled through the narrow roads with trucks and taxis whizzing past us. I think all of us said a little prayer to 'whoever' to get us there safely.
Besides the insane traffic, Malawi is peaceful and the people pride themselves for being so friendly. I also think that three white guys on bicycles pulling a trailer at 8pm in the middle of area 23, is no the most common sight. Some people offered us directions, others walked part of the way with us. Many shouted loudly, calling for the attention of this 'muzungu rasta'. Eventually we got to Patrics in one piece. His brother and neighbour were with him to walk us home, and his mother cooked us an amazing dinner, and had made us beds to sleep in. Hospitality is really the raw form of love. Although they had so little, this family welcomed us in an shared and treated us so warmly.
This morning Nugs and Jules have headed up to Nkatah Bay. I have stayed in Llongwe to meet Daniel Barnett and Dave Du Plessis who are arriving tomorrow to join the cycling down the lake. They were too scared and cried like little girls at the thought of catching the bus to meet us alone, so i stayed to hold their hands :)
True fact is that it makes things easier if one of us stay to meet them, plus Nugs and Jules have only 2 weeks on the lake. I have another few months ahead, so its not much skin off my elbow. So that explains why i am alone. Plus to be honest, i kinda welcomed a day alone in the city. I will spend hours online, go buy a new t-shirt in the market, and just take an Eitan day. Which is actually one of my favourite types of days!
Also finally, I at last found Zoo Biscuits in Llongwe, the most coverted and talked about biscuit of the whole trip! I plan to sit by myself in my tent alone and eat them tonight. Then i may talk to some strangers.
And that as they say is that.
I have another post about the bus drive which i will try put up today. My mother also wants to chat on skype later, and i must thank her for the package she sent to me with Barnett. What a great woman that one is! And i should go trade the rest of my bike spares at the market.
Kuche Kuche,
Eitan
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