Sunday, August 30, 2009

Riga to Kochkor, Kyrgyzstan - Ladas, Russians and Crap Russian Airlines

Twenty years ago the journey from Riga in Eastern Europe to Kochkor in Central Asia would have involved traveling within the borders of only the one country.  Now, travelling to from the capital of Latvia to the small town of Kochkor via the Bishkek reveals a very similar past but also a very different geographical and economic present.

Dawn in Bishkek was incredibly quiet.  The only action the taxi passed on the way to the central bus station were few a despairing drivers trying to push start their communist machines and some early morning workers waiting for their minibus.  Watching the patient queues of commuters, it was striking how similar the scene was to Riga.  Women with their very Russian red hair and and clinging clothes stood peacefully next to ethnic Asians.  Through whatever twist of Soviet induced fate, these 'Russians' had ended up living in what is now a remote and developing nation which is impossible to spell without the help of Google and "cut" and 'paste".  If their dice had landed differently they could have been waiting outside the opera house in Riga, waiting for the trolley bus to take them to the office.

The journey from Moscow to Bishkek can probably be placed somewhere between horrendous and horrific. Inside, the Aeroflot plane looked like the one in the fleet the bosses had forgot to upgrade.  The winging fucking children had an apparently preplanned "who can throw the loudest tantrum competition?"  It wasn't even babies who were the issue, it was grizzly four year old gobshites who took pleasure in trying to scream the plane out of the air.  This irritation was multiplied by the desert like heat on the plane. It is always such a relief to have hot tropical breeze blasted in your face when you open the air vent to try and cool down.

Manas Airport doubles as a base for the US airforce.  As the plane moved to the terminal it passed about a dozen large military cargo planes.  Down the road is a Russian airbase and with China bordering Kyrgyzstan to the east it is an important patch of land, especially when considering Afghanistan is just a short hop south.

Staying in either Uzbekistan's or Kyrgyzstan's capital cities held little attraction.  As the plane landed so early we headed for the small town of Kochkor which would be the launchpad for a four day horse trek to Son Kol.  The journey could not have gone smoother.  The taxi driver from the airport pulled up outside the freakishly quiet central station where he found us a willing driver who had a suitably bashed up Audi.  Before my feet had barely got acquainted to Central Asian tarmac I was embarking on a three hour taxi journey.

Son Kol - Trekking, Balls of Gas and Teenage Girls

There's a lack of infrastructure when it comes to catering for foreign travellers and tourists in Kyrgyzstan.  There a few hotels outside Bishkek which are value for money, making Kyrgyzstan a potentially difficult country to travel around.  But, a truelly brilliant initiative has been set up called Community Based Tourism which allows foreigners to experience Kyrgyzstan through homestays.  For little more than the cost of a couple of beers you get to stay with a family, normaly consisting soley of a motherly woman who you wish was your auntie, who put up in their house and give you breakfast in the morning.  Through CBT we organised a four day horse back trek on Son Kol, a lake which is over 3000 metres high.

The first day involved about six hours riding.With an 18 year old guide, whose name I never really remembered properly, we steadily climbed up the mountain pass.  Leaving behind the small town where we enjoyed a tasty soup, the picturesque silver topped mosques and swarms of crickets which jumped in their hundreds as the horses disturbed their rest, or whatever insects do in the day.  I felt absolutely no guilt about doing the trek on horse rather than by foot. My two big expeirences of trekking involve suffering from altitude sickness in Ecuador for fsix days whilst in Malawi I spent three days kicking my own ankles on narrow paths which might as well have been in Scotland.  This smug feeling was compounded when we passed a lone trekker with a guide who was bent in double with some horrid looking stomach bug.  Given that we'd been on horse back for the last 4 hours, he had a long walk to the town.

I was impressed that I'd managed to travel from the capital of Latvia to a small town in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan in under twelve hours.  But the contrast of half a day was nowhere near as impressive at the thirty-six hour time scale.  If present day Bishkek still demonstrated the remnants of the Soviet Union then the pastures of Son Kol resemble life, as I imagine, thousands of years ago.  As we crested the pass and saw the huge alpine lake for the first time.  We made our way down to lake level where the simplicity of life was obvious and somehow beautiful. The vast green plains that surrounded the lake gradually merged into the surrounding snowcapped mountains. Dotted on these huge pastures were small individual camps which looked like they had been placed for maximum visual impact. Their symetrical white round yurts contrasted spectacularly with the jagged mountains.  In the surrounding highlands were flocks and herds of animals feeding on the grass.  The real beauty came from the fact that there was no obvious signs of 'modern' life apart from a few ever lasting Ladas.

Our accomodation for the three nights would be in these yurts.  These are big round wooden structures covered in animal felt with a hole in the conical roof to allow the smoke from the stove to escape.  The Lonely Planet had warned about the region is to food what Milton Keynes is to character; forgettable and empty.  But the food served up by the various host families was always fresh and tasty, although I didn't have such high hopes at first.  The first yurt was spacious, comfortable and warm with the only drawback being the almost toxic level of mutton fumes..  Some five hours after arriving the chunks of meat and fat were still bubbling away.  However I was pleasantly surprised by the tasty meal served up.  Instead of presenting me with a slab of dried out sheep, it was flacked and tossed through some pasta to make a sort of mutton bolognese.

Standing in front of the Yurt, digesting my food in the chilling mountain air, I craned my neck upwards to look at the spectacular stars.  It's not that Kyrgyzstan has prettier stars than elsewhere, it's just that there is zero light pollution, which coupled with the altitude, allows these little balls of gas to show their full glory.  I haven't seen the milky way so clearly since nearly slicing my penis off on barbed wire in Bolivia.  I wasn't trying to molest the wire, I was simply relieving myself during a break on a long overnight bus journey and nearly impaling myself on the spiky metal.   I'll always remember that night for nearly getting tetanus via my cock but also the spectacular starry night in the Andes.

With such a clear view of the night sky it wasn't long before I saw a shooting star.  After making that noise everyone makes when watching fireworks 'ooohhhh' I became suddenly panicked about the wish I was meant to make.  What more could I wish for at that moment?  Somehow, all the usual things like success in job, happyness, Playstation 3 all seemed very irrelevant standing on the pastures of Kyrgyzstan.  A few weeks ago in the office I welled up whilst watching an analyst talk on Bloomberg news.  It wasn't the dreary man who almost drove me to tears, but the guy behind him who was looking at the most horrific looking stats and graphs on his wall of six monitors at 7 in the morning. Just watching him made me depressed.  The contrast of that sphere with the rural life around Son Kol was so harsh I couldn't justify a wish which seemed valid.  I probably should have stopped being so wet and just asked for mid table security for the Wanderers.

The next few days involved on average six hours riding a day punctuated by lunch at a random yurt on the plains.  It seemed like our guide would simply drop in on a family and an hour later we would be served up food. It's not like there was any phone signal after all.  The riding was straight forward but absolutely spectacular.  We climbed up the cliffs surrounding the lake, the water of which was perfectly clear and different shades of blue looked like a commercial for a Greek island.

Given that the last trip I'd made to really 'exotic' shores was to Africa it was only natural that I made comparisons along the way.  Kyrgyzstan was a lot more developed than the majority of African countries I visited making it simpler and more comfortable to travel around.  The people, particularly around Son Kol, had a very different mind set.  A good example was the young guide.  He felt comfortable interacting with comparatively rich tourists on a daily basis and showed no signs of longing to perceived gold paved roads in Europe.  He said he loved living in Kochkor and he, like other people on the pastures, seemed to embrace their way of life and acknowledge the benefits of life by the lake.  After all they had fresh food, shelter, close family ties and with a little wheeling and dealing could probably make a bit of cash selling their animals.  I'm not going to make some outrageous hippy statement that its 'heaven on earth' but their link to the land and family was something I admired.  Too many times in Africa, I encountered people who assumed that moving to Europe would solve all problems and they often would make desperate statements about doing any job in the UK to leave their homeland.  Many of the people in Kyrgyzstan seemed to have a closer tie to their country, this was maybe because of the more favourable outcome of their 'colonisation' by the Soviet Union compared to the Britain and France's role in Africa.

Te last nights accommodation was again in a yurt but this time away from the lake and perched on the mountain side.  Being a Saturday night the son of the family had some of the boys around.  Quite impressively five young men arrived on the back of a horse.  A bit different to pulling up in a Ford Fiesta.  Two teenage girls, who were the granddaughter and niece, were also hanging about.  It's amazing that you can can be sat outside a pre-historic looking hut, freezing cold on a mountain face in Central Asia yet the teenage girls wouldn't have been out of place on Wycombe High Street.  All they needed was a can of cider.  One of the girls was the 'cool one' from Bishkek who, between very broken English, would spit and generally snarl.  All this whilst waring the latest fake designer tracksuit and baseball cap.  Her cousin was the 'quiet one' who just generally whispered.

This final camp would also turn out to provide to best meal of the trip.  Having agreed earlier in the day to try the fish from the lake, I soon began to regret this decision after seeing a dozen or so flies buzzing around the small limp fish on the floor of the yurt.  However a few hows later, beautifully cooked whole fishes were brought out for dinner and thankfully they were steaming hot in the middle.  Like the food generally around Son Kol it was simple but fresh and extremely tasty.

One day we shared lunch with a group of walkers.  I generally try and avoid fellow foreigners whilst in other countries as I largely hate them. This middle aged, fat spectacled, Spanish man can firmly be put in the " Hi, I'm an arrogant twat" category.  I came all patriotic when, in summary, he said he went to London twenty years ago and the food was shit therefore all British food was still dog crap.  He cleverly evolved this argument to the point where anyone who lived in a capital city was some sort of donkey pedophile. Arrogant bell.  Later in Kochkor there was the classic hippy traveler.  "Hi, I'm really down with the locals,  I've got my hair in a massive matted dread".  This pair spoilt my view of the street as I sipped on a warm beer.  Would they sit on the curb in their home town eating bread like someone who has a real problem?  No, so why travel thousands of miles tand sit right in my line of sight.

Back in the relative civilisation of Kochkor I did the usual things after a few days in the wilderness.  Had a beer (warm)  checked the Wycombe result (lost) briefly browsed Facebook (inane).

Kochkor to Jalalabad - Dust, Taxis and Bogeys

The plan was to cut across Kyrgyzstan, rather than go the easy route via the capital, stay the night in the mining town of Kazarman ending up in Jalalabad in the west of the country.  However, after getting to the town of Naryn which should have been the source of transport for Kazarman, the taxi and bus drivers were all insistent there was no transport west that day.  At this point you could feel the heat from the taxi drivers hands as he rubbed them together, he new he was in for a big pay day.  This very nice man ended being my driver for the next 12 hours across the gravel roads of central Kyrgyzstan, climbing a few spectacular passes in the process.  The journey meant the landscape and surroundings became very different.  As we progressed slowly down the Ferganna Mountains, it became increasingly obvious we were entering an area which was more populated and more fertile.  As the old Audi brought us down towards sea level, dozens of bee hives started to appear along the side of the road and in the distance large sunflower fields popped out of the hazy dusk.  One less than welcome change to the landscape were Daewoos.  Hundreds and hundreds of Daewoos.  Every which way were these shit-mobiles, created by a company which makes washing machines and I though had gone bust 10 years ago.  The average models were only slightly above the size of a toy car and despite this handicap, they were the vehicle of choice for taxi drivers.  They literally made up 95% of cars in Jalalabad, even the local rude boys whizzed round in them, like they were something to be proud of.  I can just imagine the conversation between two spotty seventeen year olds "got my first car innit?" "wat iz it?" "Daewoo.  5 door. white." "shit man, I got one of those..."

On arriving in Jalalabad I had a substantial covering of dust and therefore the best crusty bogeys in the history of man.  Jalalabad is the sort of random non-tourist town I love when traveling, not humongous but big enough to have a few places to eat and somewhere to buy a Mars and check the internet (lost again).  Just an average town.  Craving a hot meal, I tucked in to a ice cold beer (for once) and a couple of keema Shashliks.

Arslanbob and the largest Walnut Forest in the world - old mutton and French

One of these less than spacious cars was my transport to Arslanbob.  The sheer impracticalities of these vehicles was demonstrated by the driver trying to squeeze in my backpack into a shoe box which doubled as a boot.  Arslanbob is surrounded by the largest walnut forest on the planet. *geek voice* 'did you know that walnuts originate from these very hills and Alexander the Great took them back to Europe after being presented with them in return for not pillaging the region.'

The homestay for the first night was fine and gave was the first night I camped.  One of the really interesting aspects of the area is how people look.  Two girls were playing with a couple of boys in the grounds of the house.  Running through the old outhouse and beneath the fruit trees.  They were both dressed in cooling Islamic dress but they looked so different.  One girls' pale skin and dark eyes could have been from anywhere in Europe whilst her playmates complexion was darker in every aspect and was more akin to the region.  Through out the trek over the coming days, faces would peer up from the fields which could have been in Baghdad, Bucharest, Tehran, Shanghai or Seville.  Diversity doesn't only exist in Elephant and Castle.  The guide for the three day trek said Chechens had moved to the region after falling out with the new soviet government after the First World War.  It really is striking the fluidity of peoples movements in the region.

The first day of the trek was deceiving.  Walking through shaded orchards stopping for a tasty picnic and finishing the day off in a flat and sheltered camping spot was probably about as perfect a day of trekking I'd ever had.  But problems were already starting to show.  The springs which were meant to be the source of water for the trip were generally dried or drying up and looked pretty rancid.  Our two guides were friendly and helpful but their cooking was pretty sub standard.  By the second evening, I could only wonder how the mutton managed to stay fit for Lovegrove consumption after 48 hours sweating in a  rucksack on the back of one very flea ridden and moody donkey.    The second day was salvaged by 30 un-recreatible minutes.  The guide said he like classical music and although I was short of any Vivaldi to play him from my phone, I searched for any music I had which involved violins.  Mountain.  Stars.  Fire. The Verve.

One of the strange things about traveling in Central Asia is the French.  French are everywhere.  Normally you bump into a token Frenchie when abroad but around here they were bloody everywhere.  To the point where many of the English speaking guides spoke in a French accent.  I got quite defensive when they would greet taxi drivers with 'Bonjour' or say 'Oui' to a border guard.

Finishing the trek I was pretty dehydrated as I didn't trust the water.  The trek was still good.  Walking though the orchards was a relaxing way to see very different surroundings and learning and seeing the different groups of people was also worthwhile.

Kidnapping

Fear is in the mind.  The Lonely Planet warned that the journey on the dusty roads up the Ferganna mountains would have passengers grabbing for imaginary bibles.  But it was fine, in fact by South American standards it was more like to a Sunday drive in Chiltern Hills.  However the journey back from Arslanbob to Jalalabad left me considering my own demise at the hands to a Daewoo taxi driver.  Being the only passengers in the car the driver was steadily making his way back to Jalalabad on the nice flat tarmac road.  I was dreaming about breaking open a fresh cold bottle of coke.  Suddenly the little crapster turned off the road.  No this isn't right, I thought.  Straight, you just go straight.  I was now assessing the Daewoo in the light of my immanent death.  This particualr version wasn't as well maintained my first Daewoo experience.  The electric windows were stuck a quarter down, the windscreen had more cracks than usual and the dash hadn't had the love a diligent taxi driver should give.  As the driver crept onto a waterless river bed, it became clear in my head the lack of TLC was because the driver was an assassin and not a helpful taxi driver.  He turned and smiled at me, flashing his gold teeth.  Brilliant, he's going to sell my testicles to a witch to complete his collection of gold teeth.   There was no reason to be on the river bed as it was totally inappropriate for a car which struggled to cope with the undulations of a smooth road, let alone a stoney waterway.  As he approached something that resembled a track, he turned again to his right and offered me a cigarette.  Oh well, I thought, my last smoke this really is it.  I thought I might end up in some tragic kidnap video in Uzbekistan, but death in Kyrgyzstan was not on the schedule.  I declined his offer, as I don't smoke, and although one last cancer stick would have somehow been poetic, it would just made me cough and loose what remaining manhood I had left.  As I peered out the corner of my eye at the driver, he was smirking.  I realised the last vision of my life would be the windscreen of this Korean skip as I was sodomised by the gold toothed assassin.

As it turned out the taxi driver was a bloody taxi driver and his mind fuck journey across the river bed was part of a ridiculously elaborate shortcut.  It turns out that guide books can't tell you when to be scared.  Emotions aren't rational.


... into Uzbekistan -  The journey of the secret Arab, vomit fruit and sticky sheets.

It turned out the border crossing near Jalalabad was closed because the Uzbek side was still jittery after an attack by militants from the Kyrgyz side.  It just would have been better to find this out before trying to make our way there that morning.  As it turned out, a helpful Daewoo driver took us to the taxi park and the taxi drove us, and a couple of other passengers to the border.  The journey was pleasant for two reasons.  In Africa the five seat car would have had three people in the front; driver, normal passenger and passenger with gear stick between legs.  In the back there would be four passengers meaning a serious case of testicle squashing for Peter.  Nowhere on the trip did I see or experience the extreme ridiculousness which is a common feature of African transport.  It was also a pleasure to hear the driver and his front seat passenger exchange two hours of banter, even though I couldn't understand their words.  In my head they were scoring the women by the side of road whilst analysing Jalalabad Wanderers crushing defeat at the weekend.

My bowels generally loosen whenever I get close to borders.  It's because I'm acutely aware I'm vulnerable to a crooked official.  Everything went smoothly apart from the most annoying and inappropriate border guard ever.  "Where you from?"  "UK."  "No, where you really from?"  "England."  "No you're Arab."  No offense to Arabs but I seriously didn't want to be accused of being some secret ninja Arab when crossing into police state which was seriously concerned about terrorism, especially considering its neighbors. This one guy just followed me for a full 5 minutes with me refuting his claims.  When he discovered I was half Mauritian, he just became a little confused and shut up.  Other than being inferred I was a terrorist, the other sort of character you don't want to be accused of at border is a drugs mule.  The two nice Columbian guys who were our  companions in the taxi to Tashkent looked mortified as the drivers joked, 'oh Columbia, you have coke? Lots of drugs in Columbia...' and so on and so on.  Our car made it in time to Tashkent as the sun was setting and in time to book tickets on the overnight train to Bukhara.

The journey from the border was slowed down by continuous police stops.  Uzbekistan is my first ever police state and although I could feel a bit of lower intenstine action during the early police checks, it wasn't too intimidating.  I even got to have a chuckle at the unfortunate soldiers, with large guns and Hollywood sunglasses, who had the envious job of guarding a 200 meter tunnel.  Inside.  Carbon monoxide anyone?  One of the benefits of the police state was that Tashkent had an amazingly clean and well ordered train station.  I raised a smile as the money changers suddenly started scuffing their feet and staring at the pavement as the police did their rounds.

I love traveling by train.  The only time I really dislike them in England at rush hour where they are the most soul destroying place on earth.  In the four bed compartment was a young family, which is always preferable to the imagined buggerer. One of the features of travelling in the region was people often buy their fellow passengers food.  I'd already managed to dodge a melon bullet earlier when the taxi driver had offered me a piece of the vomit fruit.  He pulled over to the side of the road to offer his passengers dessert after we bought him some shashlik for lunch.  Now, enclosed in the small compartment there was no way I could turn down the offer of the the largest slice of melon ever cut.  Not only did it have that distinctive melony vomity taste, but was also ridiculously juicy meaning my sheets for the night would be sticky.  But for a very different reason than normal.  From the first day of the trip it was obvious I would have to end my hot drink abstinence and drink tea.  That was just about bearable with three spoons of sugar.  But melon was a step too far.  Melons really bother me.  As they remind me of sick, I was in fact eating vomit and not necessarily my own.  If it had been water melon I may have deliberately tried to choke myself rather than endure the horrific taste.

Squat Toilets - When will the UN do something about these abominations?

As a male, sitting on the toilet is something which I enjoy.  If I had to create a list of 'pleasurable solitary activities' it probably would be vying with masturbation for the top spot.  However, all too often leaving Europe means saying hello to squat or pit toilets which in turn means painful knees.  The award for most disgusting pit toilet goes to a little number in Mozambique which was in a small border town and involved squatting over a hole in the ground, and being in a tropical country covered by a hot tin roof, lots and lots of cockroaches.  The trouble is for Europeans is that we have got so used to sitting down.  In front of the TV, at work and you can't go to a football game without some cock telling you to "sit down prick, my boy can't see the pitch" and, most importantly, on the thrown in the bathroom.  Always sitting down.  I am aware not everyone sits down at work, I for one often walk to the toilet.  But all this sitting means we have weak knees.  Thailand, Malaysia, Uganda, Kyrgyzstan there always people. of all ages and sexes squatting, knees fully bent and arse approaching the ground, as a way of waiting.  If I have to wait for more than four minutes I soon start looking around for something to at least lean on.   But their squatting ability, these squatters, really come to the fore when they go to the toilet because the pit toilet requires this athletic position.  At least twice on the trip I thought my kneecaps were going to burst through my skin, and every time I stood vertical again I would have a little cry.

Around Son Kol toilets consisted of planks with a hole and some sheet metal as walls.  Thankfully it doesn't get very hot by the lake otherwise it would be transformed from the Land Before Time paradise to a stinking toilet purgatory. But it is quite something to have an unobstructed views of two months worth of shit.  Its amazing how much human crap.  Different shapes and different sizes; a technicolour of pooh.  I remember one was full of very fat maggot type things and although obviously disgusting and off putting when trying to see to business, with time to reflect, it was a rare occasion where I'd seen the full circle of life. 

Bukhara and Samarkand - Bugger the beauty, I met a world cup winning manager

Morocco has it all.  Ancient culture, mountains, beautiful cities, great weather.  When I was there I felt like every other person either wanted to call me Jewish and threaten to get a shotgun and kill me or try to sell something to me.  "Haggling is a part of the cutlure'" the guidebooks say.  Maybe, but its also a pain the arse.  Bukhara and Samarkand have stupendous buildings from hundreds of years ago.  There would be more but Ghengis Khan didn't like them and therefore destroyed them in the thirteenth century.  The buildings in both towns were intricate, colourful and spectacular given their age.  But unlike Morocco, every other word wasn't 'no' to a hawker or having to do that annoying walking quickly thing to ignore some pushy kid trying to sell you a rug.

Getting to Bukhara meant a very different pace for the trip.  I was hundred percent ready for a little sight seeing, some casual lunch and beer in the shade followed by a little more walking around old mosques to return to the aircon room.  However, the situation changed as my bowels started doing the diarrhea waltz.  I was earlier really smug when I heard panicked package tourists worryingly telling their guide that the food for lunch mustn't be too spicy and cooked properly. Seconds later I waltzed into a butchers which doubled as a street side seller of tasty pastries stuffed with meat.  However I realised something was wrong when I wasn't hungry at dinner time.  In typical Lovegrove battling fashion I gulped down couple of kebabs.  I'm always hungry after all.  As it turned out my wish for a tactical bout of weight loss food poisoning would come true.

So Samarkand.  Beautiful. Wonderful.  Beautiful.  Blah, blah, blah.  Lets skip forward to the last day of the of the trip.  Walking into yet another spectacular building where there were a pair of very nice Italian shoes along with brand new trainers.  Footwear had to be taken off before entering sacred buildings.  A change from the usual worn tourist leather sandles.  Interesting I though.  A pretty lady guide shouting her information to........... Luis Phillipe Scolari.  World Cup winning manager.  I'd found a world cup winning manager in Uzbekistan.  I would later have my photo taken with him to end on a perfect note, a near perfect journey.

Note.....
It didn't end on a perfect note as I had to wait at Tashkent airport for 6 hours. The only seating available was on metal chairs which had fixed armrests, meaning you couldn't lie in any comfortable position.  What fucking genius invented these?

Friday, July 21, 2006

My last entry. Africa. When I was in the North of Mozambique it all started to get a bit much. I couldn't take anymore smoking over barrels of petrol. But even then I new that I would miss it, almost instantly, and I still do. As stupid as so many things are in the parts of Africa I have seen I love this place because of these things and for so many more reasons. African's are not stupid, they know the problems they face. They know they are poor, they know that fitting 27 people in a mini bus is ridiculous and they know that the shacks they often live in are inadequate for their families. But thats life, and if they have peace, they just get on with it. Its easy to shed tears for the starving kid from Sudan, they deserve our sympathy after all. The best people in Africa truely are those who are bare arsed and not the militias with their guns and machetes or the politians in their suits who have kind words but selfish motives. Africa has the best wildlife, the friendliest people and so much potential it is almost unbelievable. She just needs a chance.

As for my time. Its exceeded every expectation I ever had. The two-and-a-half months in PEDRRU was so special. I thought I was a well rounded person before I came on this trip but my time with the refugees and those at Mirembe school taught me things which I don't even have words for. I will never forget the people I met. Albert, Bolingo, Mary, Jacques Bwira and many more people showed me strengh that I didn't know existed. Terrible things continue to happen in their country. Over one thousand people a day die in the Congo from rebels or terrorists as they may be called if they operated in other parts of the world. This is incredible for a country which is so fertile that feeding itself shouldn't even be a consideration and for a country which has a well educated population. Unfortunately the world cares little for the most deadly more since WWII when there is no oil up for grabs.

Whilst many deserve our sympathy, lets not get a distorted image. Not every African has flies sitting on their distended belly. The kids here are enough to give anyone hope and I will never forget the smile on the Kissu girl at school, it had enough energy to power Kampala for a week.

As for me. I now know.

Well this is the second time I have tried to write this entry. The last time the bloody internet lost its connection so my blog was lost in cyber space forever and quite frankly I can't be all that bothered to go in to much detail. After the leopard sanctury we went to the Namib Nakulf national park, which despite an unpromising start turned out to be beautiful. Freakishly flat grass plains studded with numerous groups of ostriches and springbok. Another night under canvas and stars. We then should have had a nice relaxing three hour drive to the sand dunes of Sousousvlei but Tazzy apparently went out for a joy ride in the night and we had no fuel. Quite literally, the fuel gauge was showing empty for two hours whilst we sat in silent dread and comtemplated our slow demise in the namib desert. How we made it to the fueling stop of solitaire only Tazzy will know, but for the girst time in my adult life I fell in love with a car. We went to Sousovlei which is the main tourist destination in Southern Namibia and was a truely manificent place. Theres little point in me trying to decribe the colours and shapes of these huge sand dunes and patterns that the wind carved, as is quite obvious from this blog I don't have the words. You will instead just to wait for the slide show when I'm back (estimated time of slide show ; 9.5 hours). We spent two days there, got our first puncture of the trip on one of the best roads of our road journey, quickly learnt how to change a tyre from the users manual. Another new skill aquired on this trip; its going on the CV.

After Sosousvlei we went to Windhoek again because we fancied some civilisation again. Probably the wrong choice on reflection, but what can you do. Spent a few more nights there. Spent a day driving down to the area around Fish River Canyon, waste of time although we did get to see an African wild cat. Drove back over to the border to South Africa. The night before we had to drop off the car we spent the night near Augerbies National park which has the seventh largest waterfall in the world. Really nice place and wish we had more time to spent there, but we had to get back to Upington to drop off the car. By the time we handed over the keys we had clocked up just shy of 6000 kms in 18 days and I had been transformed in to a world class off road driver. Although I still can't reverse for sh*t.

The same night we got on a night bus and travelled down to our final destination, Cape Town. Stayed on Long Street and we splashed on a double room for the remainder of our days. We saw the waterfront, drank lots of wine, went to Simons Town and boulders beach and saw the penguins and finally saw a football match. But it wasn't exactly the match that I had been expecting. By chance I read in the paper that Manchester United were coming to play the Kaiser Cheifs in Cape Town so we just had to go. Standing in a pub next to the ground, sipping a pint, watching Sky Sports News talking to a couple of die hard United season holders I could have been anywhere in the UK. It was fun though in all. The game could have done with more goals and if anything it was good way to reacclimatise myself back in to British life. The next day we did a wine tour round the wine growing regions, good fun. Day after we visited Robben Island and then, well, got smashed for it was our last day in this great continent.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Our next destination was the town of Swakopmund which bills itself as a bit of an adventure/extreme activity mecca but these were all well out of our budget, so it would simply provide us with some civilisation after a week or so of bush living and camping. Our plan was to drive down the much lauded skeleton coast which is famed for its trecherous sand banks and fogs which has claimed many a ship. We entered the easily accessible southern section of the park and we were greeted by truely obscene prices; 6 quid each just to drive through the sodding place. And because the place was so remote we couldn't just turn around and leave. So we unhappily paid the money and started the long drive down the skeleton coast. And after a bleak and unpromising start it got more and more bland and the unpromise just carried on we started to rue the extortinate entry charge even more. We saw one wreck which looked so small and pathetic that I couldn't even be bothered to leave the car for. The day was somewhat salvaged by the seal colony further down the coast. I had previously never seen a seal before and before I new it I was looking at a pebble wind swept beach which was home to an estimated 80 000 fighting, stinking, feeding seals of all shapes and sizes. Their amazement brought on by their sheer numbers and noise they generated was almost over shadowed by the stink they produced. We then had a nervous drive along the salt road as our petrol gauge blinked red and cued some rally driving by myself as a figured the faster you drive the more use you get out of the little fuel you have left. We made it, just, and treated ourselves with a sausage role and made our way to Swakopmund, arriving just before dark. We did what we had to do, treated ourselves to a kudu steak, checked the internet and visited the big sand dunes outside the town. I will mainly remember Swakopmund for three things though 1) The fog 2) The school which we walked by showed that whilst Apartheid has ended as a policy, white kids still play with white kids and black kids still play with black kids. 3) It showed me how cynical people can be. Watching the first semi final World Cup game, I have never seen people cheer so loudly at another teams and nations misery as when Italy knocked in their goals to sink Germans. I can't critisise toomuch because I probably jumped the highest of anyone.

After a couple of nights experiencing urban life we headed back in to the bush. We made the relatively short drive to Spitzkoppe which sounds pretty bland dscribed in words. Just really a series of big blood red rocks jutting out of the ground. But it was a spectacular place and we climbed one of the islands of rock which gave us a special and isolated moment to look at the Namibia stretch out before us. Again we had a great isolated campsite, this time straddled by some huge rocks which framed the beautiful star studded desert sky. After Spitzkoppe we again had a relatively short drive to Tsaobis Leopard Sanctury. We didn't know much about it but it was on the way and promised to provide something different and had the allure of a promise to see the one big cat which we had failed to see in the wild. On arrive at the reception we were met by friendly french researcher who had been at the sanctury researching the movements of baboons for the last seven months. He informed us that we were the first visitors in over a week and the place had actually been sold the Monday before we arrived and was now closed for visitors. They kindly, though, realised we had gone out of our way to get there and let us stay for free. We did a nice, and sweaty, walk and also got to see the leopards as well as some a few lynx and cheetahs. The place was little more than a gloryfied zoo but it had a nice campsite again and we again just enjoyed being in the bush with just us, tazzy, our slightly decepit tent, a log fire and a lot of stars.

I'm running out of steam....

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Unlike the other countries we have visited on this trip it is not really possible to just get on a bus or in a taxi and visit the places you want to in Namibia. The country is huge with practically nobody living here so public transport is very sparse to say the least as well as quite expensive. So to get around you need to either go on an overland tour or hire your own car. Having spent six month doing our own thing in Africa there was no chance we were going to sign up to a tour so we opted to hire a car. We spent the day walking around the small town of Upington looking for the best deal on hiring a car. To hire a car in Namibia was just too expensive so we got the best price we could find in Upington and drove over the boarder. We hired a gleaming white beauty of a Toyota Tazz which because of the gravel roads in Namibia and also general abuse from her drivers, would not be beautiful and definately not gleaming for very long.

Our first aim was to get to Etosha National Park in the north of Namibia. This meant covering some serious milage and took us about three days to drive. The boarder crossing was ok, if a bit tedious, but was brightened up by Marte's lack of English vocabulary when it comes to cars. Marte confidently got out the drivers seat and opened the boot of 'Tazzy' when the customs official asked her to open the bonet. After both of us laughing at her, I don't think she will be making that mistake again. We drove for as long as there was sunlight and got to the small town of Keetmanshoop which had a basic campsite where we pitched our tent in a little thatched shelter. Apart from the now obligatory freezing night time tempertures the campsite was most memorable for a litter of puppies which took pleasure in biting, gnawing and generally throwing themselves on our tent as well as making us think we were about to be murdered. The campsite was a bleak windswept place which was looked after by one bloke who slept in a very battered caravan with only one other set on campers. So in the middle of the night when we heard footstep directly outside our tent we both awoke thinking 'this is it'. As I prepared myself to fight off the intruder a little puppy let out a wimper and were both reassured that our assasin was in fact a three month old puppy.

Anyway, the next day we drove the 500km's to Windhoek which is the capital. Because of the good main roads we arrived shortly after midday and soon had our tent up and made our way in to town to the national parks office. We had unfortunately timed our stay in Namibia to coincide with both the Namibian and South African school holidays. This means two things, lots of big 4 by 4's on the road and the national park accomodation in generally all booked out. We were lucky enough to get two nights camping at Etosha but in meant speeding of a day early to Etosha and head north the next day. We set off early and arrived in Etosha by mid morning. Etosha is famed for its large amounts of wildlife and also the ease in which you can self navigate around the park. On both these counts it did not let us down. On the first afternoon which we spent driving around the park we saw loads of game including easily the best hunt of our trip. We pulled up at a small watering hole which turned out to be flanked by two prides of lions. As the sun started on to set one pride started to get restless and wander around. They walked right up to our car and we quickly put our cameras on our laps and wound up the windows; they were no more than a few feet away. We hoped they might show interest in some of the zebra's or alike around the watering hole but the lions in Etosha are apparently more ambitious than that. As a giraffe wondered carefully to the watering hole I boldly made the assertion to Marte's prediction of 'I bet they go for the giraffe', that ' I will eat my own pooh if they try and hunt the giraffe.' Any yes, before you know it, the lions are creeping stealthily through the long grass, creeping towards the the long legged, long necked animal. Given its advantageous anatomy, the giraffe saw the lions early and then used its gangly legs to gallop away from the hunting lions. Although it was yet another failed hunt, to see this outlandish attempt to kill an absolutly huge animal was fantastic and to hear the hooves of the giraffe on the salt pan, with out the circus of minibuses like at the Massai Mara, was really exilerating (Note: Marte kindly said I didn't have to eat my own excrement). We went back to the campsite and found our little twon man tent dwarfed by gargantuan tented villages of the holidaying South Africans. But it was a great introducation to Etosha and we made a braii (BBQ) with the help of some friendly South African's and spent the evening cooking and watching the flood-lit water hole. The next day and a half was spent driving around the vast open spaces of Etosha spotting more wildlife, the high light of which was proably a close encounter with a cheetah which was eventually attacked by as a small group of pointy horned oryx. We would have liked to have spent another night but the accomodation was simply all booked out. So we moved on to the near by town of Tsumeb to watch England progress to the semi finals of the World Cup.

We found a sports bar, which because the Namibians had just been paid, was filled with people wisely spending (noisily) their hard earnt money on fruit machines. I sat, nervously, and watched England take on Portugal and was relatively pleased with proceedings until the stupid bloody sending off. I got louder and louder as the game went on and some locals saw an easy target and started to cheer for Portugal. Football has a way of making normal people loose contact with their normal emotions and before I new it I was shouting across the bar like the idiots I normally shake my head at. As Jamie 'yeah he's a world class penalty taker, bring him on' Carragher missed the final penalty I called a few people 'dickheads' in a very enlightened manner and calmly walked out in to the cold Namibain night. Theres not much more to say about that really. Apart from that English people now have a somewhat tarnished reputation, because of a football supporting idiot, in a small northern Namibian town, as well as across most of Europe.

We moved on to the town of Outjo in the search of nothing more than internet and somewhere to restock our backseat which now doubled as a kitched. Because it was a Sunday everywhere was in lcok down so we camped at a nice campsite and bided our time. The following morning we did all our chores and then a lot more very hot dusty driving on gravel roads. We visited the acient rock paintings at Twyfelfontein which are estimated to be anything up to 80 000 yeard old. We then found a truely magnificent campsite. It was actually outside a luxury lodge but for mere peasants like ourselves they had three amazing secluded campsites. It was a really special place and we felt like we were truely out in the nature for the first time as we cooked over our wood fire under the beautiful African stars. A perfect place to reflect on our trip.

No more time....again.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

I was quite pessamistic about South Africa. It felt a bit like the end of the trip, which it will be eventually, but only a month too early. Everywhere we had been in Africa had been 'African' Africa which is what we really came for and not the largly westerised South Africa. As the park warden at Nyika described it, South Africa can best be summed up as 'Africa Lite.' Our first destination was Johannesburg which wasn't exactly somewhere where we wanted to go. The middle suburbs are reputed to one of the most dangerous places on earth with people attracted to the city by the same old promises of money and opportunity and instead only find guns, traffic lights surrounded by smashed car windows and lots and lots and a bit more crime. It would have been easy just to miss out the city and go to Pretoria but to Marte's credit she pushed me to go to Soweto, which is the largest township in South Africa. Estimates put the poplation between 1.5 to 3 million people and became famous for its role in bringing down Apartheid and just being a general pain in the arse to the racialist government. We stayed at a place called Lebo's Backpackers which was really just his house, well his grandmothers, with a few beds for guests. One of the first things that we noticed was that it was bloody freezing. We spent two nights shivering under our bedsheets only to hear on the radio as we left that the temperature was approaching freezing point at night. So when (no, if) England get to the World Cup in 2010 they will not have the old heat excuse for being lame; although they will no doubt still be bunch of bottle boys. Anyway, thats a discussion for another blog.

Lebo took us on a truely brilliant day tour of Soweto. Our chosen mode of transport for the day was bicycle which in true African style had brakes which cannot have been working to more than ten per cent of their potential capacity. He took us to the Hector Pieterson museum which is named after the thirteen year old boy who was shot in the back as he ran away from police during the Soweto/ students uprising. The museam was dedicated to the students uprising who were protesting about the truely disgusting Bantu education system. The white government went too far and on top of giving the non-white population sub-standard education introduced Africaans as the official language for a large portion of the lessons. Not only could the students not speak their oppressors language the sodding teachers obviously couldn't either. One girl got so over wealmed during an exam she simply threw herself out of the window. On the back this the students in Soweto led a peaceful march and we can all guess what happened next, the police opened fire and young Hector was one of the youngest victims. He was immortalised because his dead body was pictured being carried by a fellow student protester whilst his sisters ran sobbing by his side. The post uprising crack down was so complete by the South African security services that even the young lad carrying his body was forced to flee the country. The museam was well done and very comprehensive and satisfied my urges for a bit of history. We carried on cycling round Soweto, visiting Nelson Mandela's former house as well as seeing both Winnie Mandela's current abode and also Desmond Tutu's occasional house. We also went to a she-been. Because during Apartheid blacks were only allowed to drink in governement establishements, many opened up their house for to sell beer on the quiet. They still exists and are brilliant, it just like going to someones back garden for a few beers except you have to pay for the drinks. It was an all round top experience and gave us the opportunity to see and experience the township residents at their level rather than peer down on them from a tour bus. Soweto will also host the final of the next World Cup so if our boys get their act together I've at least got a place to stay.

On our way to the bus station we spent stopped at the Apartheid museum. This again was a really indepth museam with lots, maybe even too much, information. The museum starts with some very strong imagery. When you purchase your ticket you are given a slip which enables you to enter the museum through either the 'white' or 'non-white' entrance. I've always considered myself racially androgenous but this is one of the few times in my life I have had to think about it. Marte was given a white ticket and I was forced to go down another entrance, we were kept apart by a steel fence before met again to continue through the rest of the museum. The museum was both interesting and shocking as expected and as my concentration began to fade we watched a video of the young and very innocent and sweet looking Winnie Mandela. Against the back drop of all the violence and just hellishly mistreatment of non-whites, this beautiful young women in her khakis confidently said that one day South Africa would be free and it would be everyones nation where everyone was welcome and that, remembering this was in the 1970's at the latest, that the first President of the free South Africa will be 'Mandela'. Such forsight was impressive and the cool manner in which she laid out her manifesto for a free and fair non-racial South Africa, well...left both Marte and I with wet eyes.

After a great few nights in Soweto we caught the bus to Bloemfontain. It was a very uninspiring town, to put it nicely, and the hostel we stayed in was both expensive and sh*t. But it was the main way to get in to Eastern Lesotho. Lesotho is a strange little country if you look at it on the map. It's toally surrounded by South Africa and is pretty tiny, and the equally strange thing is that when you actually get there you are flung straight back in to 'African' Africa. Our reason for going to Lesotho was to do a Pony Trek through the beautiful mountains of the 'Kingdom in the Sky.' My stallion was called 'Bowing' and for three days and two nights he trustfully guided me through this truely beautiful country. I can't really say any more about the trip other than apart from being very easy on the eye, it was very and I mean VERY cold. I'm not being a big spoilt baby either. On our last night staying in a small village it only sent and bloody haled and snowed. "Snow in Africa?" Thats what I said as well. Overall, like Rwanda and Uganda and Kate Moss, Lesotho was small and perfectly formed and I wish I had more time to spend there. We were forced to spend another night in Bloem before getting the bus to Upington to plan our assault on Namibia.

No more time....I'll finish this later.

Run

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Uh oh, it's another long blog coming up.

Well my last entry kind of ran out of steam again, for which I must apologise, but I did at least have a good reason! It turned out my tiredness was because I had malaria and although it was only mild it still made me fell pretty run down and apparently write not very good blogs. Anyway, there is a lot to catch up on.

After spending too long in Lilongwe we moved on to Lake Malawi and experience a bit of the lake life as it was something which we were yet to do. We didn't want to go to the places jam packed full of backpackers and instead opted to stay on two small islands in the middle of the lake. The first was called Chizimulu and there was really only one place to stay on the island which was run by a very friendly English guy. The place was really tastefully done and right on the water and was a nice place to recharge after being ill. He also wins the twin awards for having the friendliest dogs of the trip and also the bread baking award. After we came better aquainted he invited us to watch the champions league final at his house although as the powe went off at ten every night we missed the sad demise of Arsenal and had to content ourselves with listening to it on the world service. I think watching it would have made it even more depressing anyway. After about four nights there we moved on to Likoma Island which was about ninety minutes in a dhow across the lake. The journey would normally have been fine but with the combination of the extreme sun and my antibiotics I did threaten to get heat stroke but luckily I had Marte there to look after me and put a wet shirt over my head and cool me down. Before we boardered the boat I had asked if the captain could take us to the place we wanted to stay which he hapily said he could. I foolishly assumed he meant in his boat only for him to land the boat nowhere near our accomodation. He then lead us on foot in the mid day searing sun with our full backpacks wearing only our flip flops to the place we were staying. I have to say that I have never seated so much. And given my history of sweating, particularly in my first year at univeristy and earlier in this trip, that is quite an achievement. The place in Likoma was nowhere near as friendly and I kind of wish we stayed in Chizzie, but you take the highs with the lows.

We then headed over the lake in to Mozambique. Things in Africa are often a lot more complicated than they need to be and this the case in this instance. The Lake is serviced by a passenger ferry which places various places along the lake twice a week. So when our none English speaking woke us up at five in the morning and said our taxi was not here (sign language) and that the boat was going, from the other side of the island, in an hour we had no choice but to trek, again, with a full packs only this time very early in the morning. Of course once we had walked the eight plus kilometres with our twenty kilograms of baggage the boat told us that they would not be leaving for another four hours. So we just sat on the boat and enjoyed the view and the chaos around us as they piled in more passengers and more bags of maize. We arrived in the port town of Metangula and Dover it certainly wasn't. The bays are nearly all to shallow for the big passenger boat fo dock so you have to get taken ashore in the smaller life vessels. This is pretty James Bond-esque at the best of times but in the dark in choppy water it was certainly as a challenge. We jumped off the boat thigh deep in Lake Malwian water with nlots of people staring and not helping as we struggled on to the shore. Luckily we managed to encounter apperently the friendliest immigaration officer in Africa who found someone who spoke English to help us find our way out round the pitch black town. We were taken to a very local place to stay with very large cockroaches but it had a mozzie net and a place to wash and was only for a night so it did the job.

The next morning we got a minibus to Lichinga which was the provinces capital. The first part of the journey was pretty average apart from the conductor of the minibus behind us wearing an ankle lenght fur coat and large father christmas hat which flapped in the wind as we dangled out of the minibus. Quite a sight. We were going to stay in Lichinga but we got there relatively early so we decided to crack on. This was a lot easier said than done. Transport here leaves at just stupid times, I mean four in the morning stupid. So after that time your transport is limited to chapa's which although they have their own special name are often just pick up trucks which you get stuffed in to which leave when full. We waited in Lichinga for nearly six hours waiting for trucks to leave. Hopping from one truck to the other. When we did finally leave we were lucky enough to sit in the cabin with the driver rather than in the back with twenty other people and their luggage exposed to the sun and wind. We were about halfway through our journey when we got a Malawian border town when the all the passengers climbed out the back and driver helpfully informed us that he was going no further because he has no passengers. This was not particularly good news as it was dark and African towns in general are not that great after dark, let alone seedy border ones during a powercut. Marte and I took differing approaches to the situation. I just threw my hands up and thought 'well that's life (in Africa)' and started thinking about were we could stay the night. Marte stuck out her bottom lip and was adament that we get to Cuamba that night. I told her not to be stupid and had one of those hushed voice arguements, then there was lots of shouting and pointing outside to another truck. This next truck, this time an even bigger one, was going to Cuamba and before wither of us new it we were sat on the floor of a truck, in the pitch black ready to go. The other passengers took great delight as I fell on my backside as the truck accelerated in to the night but it was actually a pleasant trip. Of course being night time the driver drove doubly as quick but wrapped up in our coats, staring up at a stars from the open back of a truck, holding on to whatever I could; I felt very content. Like the previous night in Metangula we arrived in Cuamba well after dark and once again the people were extremely helpful. A bloke on the truck pointed out two places were we could stay and before we new it we had a room and were tucking in to a substantial portion of chicken and chips. The days comedy came from myself. In every African town or city there are numerous holes and ditches in the ground. They are hard enough to dodge in daylight as they are hardly cordoned off, so after a second day of over fourteen hours travelling, walking with full backpacks in the dark; we all know what happened. One minute I was walking the next moment i had half fall down a meter deep drainage ditch. After it was apparent I had not broken my leg it gave Marte something to point and laugh at me about, but I have to say it was quite funny.

We stayed in Cuamba two nights because the train was not running the next day and although hardly the most inspiring of towns it was really pleasant to stay in random medium sized Mozambiquan town and try to adjust to the fact that suddenly everyone is speaking Portugues. The other drastic change was how beautiful the women are here. One of the few advantages of having a previous pro-communist government was that the women were given a more equal standing and the women are much more in the public sphere and dress accordingly. Anyway, we got the train to Nampula and although it left bang on five in the morning after the predictable delays we got to Nampula after dark....again. We jumped in a taxi outside the station, stayed in a pensao which was way too expensive but we were too tired to care. The next morning we headed for Ilha de Mocambique (Mozambique Island). This had been the aim of our traveling since crossing in to Mozambique. About five hours from Nampula, it is a small island just off the mainland whioch was used by the Portugues as the capital for the country until it was switched to what is now Maputo. After being inland for so long we were looking forward to seeing the Indian Ocean again and we new we were getting close when the usual hawkers outside the bus were selling large trays of huge pink prawns and bread. We stayed in a really beautifully decorated pensao which was all teroctoa washed and had a nice rooftop to watch the sun set and the kids and fisherman on the waterfront. Ilha was a really unique place. The north of the island is filled with grandiose colonial architecure but since the Portugese have left the island all the colonail buildings have been left detereorate. It is quite a place to walk around with these imposing ornate buildings just crumbling with just a few squatters living in them. A few have been renovated which helps get an idea of what the island must have once been like. The island also gave us a nice change in diet as well and allowed us to have some quality seafood and Marte insists she had the best prawns of her life. We stayed there for about three nights and then moved on to Pemba.

To get to Pemba required another unholy early pre four in the morning wake up. Waking up at this early hour was somewhat helped by the fact our room was directly opposite possibly the loudest mosque in the whole of the Southern Hemisphere. Whilst all infidels were trying to sleep the Mosque would belt our morning prayers before morning had bearly started. We got a truck to the junction in the round where the bus passed which was going to our destination, when it finally happened. After over five months in Africa, I was pick pocketed. As I was just getting ready to put my backpack under the bus I felt someone brush pass me and I new straight away what had happened. I turned around and guy started to run. Luckily for me he was wearing dungeries which made him easy to grab. I had hold of him and spun him round and then suddenly thought 'mmmmmmm, so what now then Pete?'. I quickly came to the conclusion that this probably was not the best time to open my fighting account in my life and let him go. Then I had a change in heart and semi chased him for a bit, sqealing like a big girl, then he was gone. He did look pretty scared when I had hold of him. This was no doubt partly due to the muscles bulging out of my shirt and slightly because of African's like of rough justice. In Kenya and Uganda at least it is not uncommon for angry mobs to beat to death thieves and alike. Anyway the incedent brought many howls of joy from all the hawkers, left Marte rather confused at why I was chasing some poor little African lad and me very angry. After all of that we got on a bus to Pemba and we arriv ed in the mid afternoon.

Pemba took us both by surprise becuase it was a lot more developed than we imagined. The place was swimming with expats, particularly from South Africa, who were busy buying up the coastal plots attracted by Pemba's climate and nice beaches. We stayed there a few days and planned our next move. The plan was to go to Ibo Island which in theory should have been perfect destination for us both. It was remote and tough to get to, we like a challenge, it was off the main traveller trail, we love getting off the beaten track, and it was the place where many of the slaves were shipped to Mauritius, we love a bit of history. It was total crap and the trip kind of broke us, especially me. To get to the patch of sand where the boats left from was a little over 120 kms away, this took about seven hours. Yes, that is seven hours. This means two things. One, we were going extremely slowly and at certain points men on their bicycles had to brake so not to ride in to the back of our pick up. Two, the road was very very bad. Our transport there was a pickup truck which we got mpre out of luck than anything else. We both perched on the back, exposed to the sun wind and dust but as normal Marte was kindly offered a seat in the cabin which she had no choice but to accept. That left me on the back for five hours with my legs wedged between leaking Jerrycans of petrol. Now I wasn't too fussed with the highly flamable liquid spilling on to my legs, these things happen. But when the young lads standing on the back of pick-up start smoking, then it starts to get a bit much. I enjoy the disorderlyness of African life but sometimes it is infuriatingly stupid. We were talking to an Aussie couple and they were saying that they went to a fish market in Maputo selling the most beautiful fresh fish, yet in the middle there was a steaming pile of rubbish. Sometimes the carelessness gets a bit much, and it is such a pity. We got there eventually, without first degree burns, and we quickly chartered a local dhow (sail boat) to take us to Ibo. Because it was low tide we spent a lot of time stuck in various sand backs but we made it after a couple of hours. We stayed at a particularly crap French place and it was so unfriendly we left the next day to stay at the local telecom companies place. The trouble with Ibo was.....there was bugger all to do, eat or sea. The forts were all really run down, the old colonial town was deserted (as we new it would be) but wasn't all that compared to Ilha de Mozambique, and there was nothing to eat. All we could get was cold fried fish from the one local bar in town. These things happen, sometimes places places just don't live up to your high expectations. But then it happened, again, Marte was sick. This time it was a full out vomiting frenzy including a great effort in the hallway. This of course meant we could not leave the day we wanted so we spent another crap day just feeling bored, marte feeling vomity, knowing we had twelves hours of horrendous travelling to come the next day.

I am used to overfilled African minibuses and buses, thats one thing. But when they start doing it on small dhows which have to take us on the choppy Indian Oceans, thats a bit much. We were so low in the water everytime we turned I thought we were going to get inundated and then I saw something that no young man should have to see. An elderly lady put her arse over the side of the boat and had a wee. I don't know what was more disgusting, the look of satisfaction on her face or her urine on the side of the boat. The less said the better I guess. Anyway we made it safely to shore and jumped immediately in to the waiting truck. At first everything looked to be fine, a big truck with benches on the side, it could have been worse. Or so I thought. By the time left the truck was jammed with approimately eighty people. This would be troublesome on a well sealed road but on the rutted tracks we were going down this was just dangerous. As the truck stuttered over the deep gullies in the road there a few heart stopping moments when it felt like the whole thing would tip. As the road flattened a little the only things worrying Marte and I was the elbow of a gentlemen which was consistently hitting her in the face and the iron bar which my spine kept hitting in the same place, over and over. By the time we got back to Pemba we were tired, dirty and pissed off. Plus, meat had not crossed our lips for a week. I was sick of breast feeding babies, poohing toddlers and pissing grannies. For the reasons outlined, and the fact we were running short on time, we indulged ourselves and flwe to Maputo. This saved both a lot of time and a certain amount of sanity.

Maputo was the first major city we had been to since Dar and its streets filled with cars and people was difficult for the sense to comprehend. We flew with the national airline (an hour and half) which was very professional and could have been any airline in Europe. But then we got to the airport and jumped in to a 1960's Toyota Corona taxi and it reminded us we were most certainly still in Africa. The high light of our day was most certianly going to the cinema, something which we had not been able to do since Kampala. We watched Mission Impossible III and I don't know if it was because we had not seen a film for a while, but it was a cracker of a film. We watched it in what is porbably the biggest cinema I've ever been to, about a thousand seats I would guess. Including ourselves there was a total of four people in this huge theatre watching Tom do his thing. After Maputo we moved up to Tofo beach. This was significant because it was the last time on trip we would be able to Swim in the beautifully warm waters of the Indian Ocean. We stayed at a place called Bamboozie was like a little village in itself, but was a great place relax in and we found a nice shady spot and pitched out tent. The beach itself was amazingly dramatic with a long stetch of sand bordered on one side by high sand dunes and on the other by the wild Ocean. At Tofo, It started. Yes the World Cup. This is the second World Cup I've watched away from home now, and I do get a bit homesick when I watch it but it's always nice to be able to walk out on to the terrace of the bar and look in to the horizon at the moon making patterns on to the Indian Ocean. I watched England stumble to their victory against Paraguay and also won the score prediction betting that was going on in the bar. The football did threaten to take over our trip a bit, I found myself watching Iran versus Mexico when I should have been enjoying the sun. But it made a nice change.

Also on Tofo we did one of the best things of our trip and gave me one of the best images of the trip and one which I don't think that I will forget for a very long time. We went snorkelling but not the usual coral reef sort of trip but look for whale sharks in the deep blue water. After only a few minutes of looking out trip leader said, we had one and to get ready to jump in the water. Seconds later I was bopping about on the ocean surface trying to looking for this whale shark and then it gracefully and effortlessly appeared out of the gloom and I didn't whether to panic or marvel at its beauty and size. It was well over ten metres long and had about half a dozen fish swimming underneath it cleaning it. It was straight out of BBC documentary and beat all other wildlife viewing that we had done on the trip so far. I could barely breath through my snorkel I was so in awe of it. We were lucky enough to see eight more whale sharks and I can still see that first one as it slowly ermerged in to view.

After Tofo we went back to Maputo, watched England beat T&T, and then moved on to South Africa.

More to come.....

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Here are some more photo's of our trip which Marte's dad has kindly put on th internet.

http://home.online.no/~finnoges/Marte/index.html