The Vagabonds

 

Where in the world has an entire continent, a myriad of cultures and multitude of histories, peoples and languages been reduced to a few singing lions and a warthog?

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Africa. Or to be specific, East Africa, as Africa is a continent not a country.

Believe it or not – and take a deep breath here whilst clutching your chair – there is more to East Africa than famine, wars and poverty. In fact, almost immediately upon arrival it was startling how normal everything was: yes, the roads were slightly more tumultuous than those in placid England; yes, there were more street peddlers; but ultimately people lived here and there is nothing more normal than humans.

 

Thus, it was no surprise when Oli – my travelling partner for the first part of the trip – and I were extorted in our first taxi ride upon arriving in Dar Es Salaam, the capital of Tanzania.

But before that taxi ride was an even more protracted and convoluted affair. If there is one piece of advice to take from this blog, let it be this: think twice before booking a bargain flight with Egypt Air. Not only was our flight delayed from Heathrow airport by two and a half hours, but our ‘direct’ flight from our transit in Cairo to Dar Es Salaam, also included a stopover in Entebbe. Yes, that’s right: the plane decided to stop in Entebbe without prior warning. Having grown up exorcised by stories of the terrorist plot at that airport in the 1970s, this was not the most welcome news.

Fortunately, the purpose of this stopover was to offload no more than a handful of passengers and not to recreate the ghost of Idi Amin, so we were safe.

 

Back to Dar Es Salaam: A taxi had been arranged to pick Oli and me up from the airport by Peter Meela, our booking agent for our trek up Mount Kilimanjaro and safari. Conveniently, our avuncular driver also happened to be Peter’s father. The driver was kind and patient. He had waited for four hours as our flight was delayed due to the aforementioned round-the-continent air trip across East Africa. He also demanded $40 for the twenty minute drive. This was only overpriced by approximately 70%. After a compromise at $20 and a foreboding threat that he was going to “tell Peter about this”, Oli and I boarded a ferry to Zanzibar.

Zanzibar was quaint and idyllic. We stayed in the Stone Town, a stone’s throw away from the port (blame the delirium caused by malaria tablets for that pun, sorry). It was a maze of narrow intersecting streets and whitewashed alleyways. Our first day was spent relaxing. On our second day we opted to do what all Brits do best: go on an organised tour. Surprisingly however, this ‘spice tour’ which allowed us to smell and taste an array of – you guessed it – spices, was fascinating. If you are interested, cinnamon chewing-gum tastes identical to the cinnamon, whereas vanilla flavourings are made more pungent compared to its rawest form. The tour also included a stopover in a ‘slave cave’ where Zanzibar’s slaves were ‘stored’ when slavery was made illegal (God bless the ingenuity of humankind) and an hour at a beach.

That evening Oli and I sampled the beers Tanzania had to offer (Zanzibar is a province of Tanzania) whilst watching a competitive 18-a-side beach football match with the sun setting over the ocean.

Now, for a moral tale. When you have a an early morning ferry which it is essential to catch, decline any advances to go out for a couple of drinks by friendly people you have met earlier that day. Oli and I, of course, were too naïve to refuse this kind invitation by two girls we had met on the spice tour earlier that day.Several beers, a few Amurula shots, a snooker-bar and a rooftop club which would be better placed on the set of a B-rated, lewd and sleezy Hollywood film later, Oli and I missed our ferry the following morning. I blame Oli for this; he blames me. After all, it was he who agreed to the drinks. It was I, though, who managed to set my alarm for 6:30am without turning it on.

Waking at 9:15am, we ran to the port, dehydrated and tired. We just managed to catch the 9:30am ferry. Good news.

Back in Dar, we caught the first taxi to the bus station. Upon arrival, a fixer was waiting for us:

“Where do you want to go”, he asked.

“Moshi”.

“The next bus is going at 6:30am”.

“We need to go to Moshi today”.

“Not possible,” he gently replied.

“We need to go NOW.”

The fixer turned to his colleague and told him to run on ahead. He ushered Oli and I to hurry and follow the man disappearing into the distance. Poetically, rain started to drizzle at this point. The last bus to Moshi – or rather, overcrowded minibus packed to the seams with luggage and people – was filling up with petrol, ready to leave. After handing over an overpriced bus fare, Oli and I took a deep breath and crammed ourselves on to the vehicle.

It was essential to leave that day as we were beginning ascent up Mount Kilimanjaro the following day. Was it worth the inconvenience? Yes. Was it an experience? Yes. Was it comfortable? Yes, if your idea of comfort includes standing on subway with somebody’s raised moist armpit gently pressing against your face.

To summarise the journey: Oli and I could not feel our legs, primarily because there was no where to put them. Magically, however, after a baby had wretched all over a seat 3/4 of the way through the journey, a seat appeared for one of us to sit on. After the first hour, a wicked wench decided to sit on my rucksack, leaving me to stand by the door for three hours. It was an unparalleled way of preparing for the impending seven day hike up the world’s tallest free-standing mountain.

We arrived in Moshi ten and a half hours later having only consumed half a bag of nuts and a 1 litre bottle of water between us. This was ninety minutes later than scheduled, but by the end of the journey we had made great friends with the other participants in this cattle cart.

Peter Meela met us at the bus station and we finally ate our evening supper almost at the stroke of midnight.

 

Peter was kind, patient and personable. We experienced problems transferring payment to him the following day, but he did not express his frustration and was forthcoming in agreeing to wait for an emergency wire-payment from our parents (thank you again!!!).

 

By and large, we shall let the pictures of the Kilimajaro hike tell most of the story. In short though, it was one of the most memorable and mesmerising experiences of my life. Oli agrees too. Our team, comprised of six porters, a munificent cook and a guide and assistant-guide named Gerald and Prosper respectively, were superb and supportive.

We climbed the Machame route over seven days. The diversity of flora, fauna and scenery was something to behold. The peak aside, one of the most salubrious scenes was seeing sheets of billowing clouds drifting past the horizon. Whilst they do not capture the raw beauty of the scene, just look at the pictures.

Gerald and Prosper entertained us throughout. They carried a radio blaring the best music had to offer during the first five days. Here is a personal favourite. It is like a psychedelic and surreal Swahili version of the chipmunks:

The ascent to the peak was always going to be difficult and more notably, cold. I wore the following layers:

-          Four pairs of standard socks and one thick, fleeced pair.

-          Underpants, a pair of thermal trousers, swimming shorts, jeans and a pair of ‘windbreaking’ pants

-          A t-shirt, a thermal top, a shirt, a football shirt, a fleece and a thick waterproof jacket

-          A scarf

-          A woollen hat

-          Three pairs of gloves: one thin, one thermal, one thick.

It was still freezing. Halfway up the climb, Gerald supplied me with a balaclava and substituted my thick pair of gloves for an even thicker industrial pair.

The climb began at midnight. The first hour was fine. In fact, I recall Oli asserting in a blasé manner how warm he was. That changed as soon as the sharp and icy wind started cutting against our bodies. The altitude did not seem to affect us, although the coldness took its toll, particularly on me. Oli wishes he took a photograph of me incoherently asked Prosper to pour water and stuff a snickers into my mouth. Lies, I promise. Kinda.

Now for a confession: I welled up once we reached the mini-summit. It was cathartic. I have also just relinquished any of the little dignity I may have had left. But so what: it felt as if we had achieved something and there we were, figuratively overlooking the whole of Africa. The sunrise from the top, twenty minutes after reach arrived, was also beautiful.

We walked a further thirty minutes to the very peak, took our gratuitous photographs to prove that this is not all some sort of elaborate lie a lá News of the World, and soon began our descent down.

 

We are now back in Moshi.

 

Tomorrow begins the next episode. Hint, it may involve the following:

 

 

N.B. Comments are open

N.B.B. I am having difficulties uploading pictures. Follow the link above as they may have been added by the time you read this. In the meantime:

 

 

 

Here is the link for the most recent pictures:

East Africa

In 1970, the captain of England´s football team, Bobby Moore, was arrested in Colombia under the false premise that he had stolen an expensive bracelet from a jeweller. In retrospect, he probably got off lightly.

When I was in Quito, the capital of Ecuador, something worse – much, much worse – happened. I was walking around the Old Town; an area renowned for archaic architecture. It was midday. I was near the Plaza Grande which could be called Quito´s equivalent to Trafalgar Square. In other words, it is the centre of the city, bustling with tourists and, supposedly, security.

So, picture this: There I was, minding my own business, when I felt something fall on my left arm. As I looked down, I felt something in my hair and the bottom of my legs. It was brown and fluid. ´Surely not´ I thought. But my worse fears were true: as I gathered a dollop of the substance in my hair and steeped down to smell it, it became clear that I had been attacked by shit – literally, faeces.

Before I had time to orientate myself, somebody was ushering me into a shop with a tissue, telling me to clean myself. ´How kind´ I thought. ´What a mensc h´. But he seemed awfully persistent in telling me to take off my bag (which I must add, also had excrement running down it). When I eventually did, he seemed to want to take it away. As I protested, another man swooped past the shop – which had no doors – and tried to snatch my bag. When I firmly took it back, he began shouting at me in Spanish, presumably complaining about the mess I had made.

In despair, I fled the shop and walked to a nearby square where I began to clean myself with wipes I had in my bag. I must have been looking away for less than three seconds before someone else tried to steal my bag.

So there I was, with shit infesting all over me, and it seemed as if the whole of Quito had their eyes gleaming over my bag. My guidebook states that The Old Town “is what makes Quito special in terms of sightseeing.” How so.

Even now, I am unsure whether Venezuela or Ecuador has the worse capital city. On the one hand, in Venezuela, the police mugged me. On the other hand, they did not throw shit over me.

I subsequently learned that it is a common ploy in Quito for thieves to throw mustard over unassuming tourists, hoping that they can snatch their bag amidst the locomotion. I obviously received the professional treatment.

The good news, at least, is that I still have my bag.

Things seemed to be going fine before the curious incident of the faeces in the day-time incident. Bogota, the capital of Colombia, was pleasant to walk around – or at least the Downtown area was. It has spacious plazas juxtaposing with nearby cobbled streets and the city seemed to have a thriving purpose without ever feeling unsafe.

I embarked on a daytrip to the Zipaquira Salt Cathedral with Roland, a friend of Cheryl´s from Caracas. In comparison to the solemn and striking sight of the cathedral buried underground – which despite being somewhat of a tourist trap was fascinating to behold – Roland was a boisterous and gregarious guy to spend the day with. We also ate the best steak I can ever recall laying my eyes upon (not that I eat steak often, mind you).

That evening I trawled my bags across the city to meet Roland and his friends in a thriving area of Bogota before leaving for Medellin. The conversation was interesting until one friend, Wilder, began screaming and flailing that I must leave ´now´ – as in that second – in order to catch my bus. So hurried into a taxi with Roland´s and Wilder´s support and soon was on my way out of Bogota.

Medellin is the most interesting, diverse and beautiful city I have hitherto visited on this trip. It is also, coincidentally or not, the plastic-surgery capital of the world. Each of the city´s districts had a unique vibe, ranging from the spacious commercial centre to the leafy resort-like El Pobaldo. The highlight was undoubtedly Puiblito Paisa – a viewpoint offering picturesque viewpoints over the city.

After Medellin I visited Salento which is in the heart of Coffee Country. Salento itself was a quaint hamlet which has based its economy upon tourism. The highlight, however, came when I trekked through the thickets of forestry in Cacora Parque alone. The Parque had numerable rickety bridges without support which you had to cross over small but gushing river streams; thankfully, my balance whilst trekking is better than whilst playing football and I managed to not to fall.

On the walk back I also met Dave and Becks, an affable couple from Ireland who have the most unique plans I have yet to encounter: in a few months time they will be volunteering for a year in northern Canada to help support the Inuit tribes there. And who says backpacking has lost its de rigueur!
Later that day I also toured a coffee farm. The views were blissful; the coffee was average. I guess it shows: I miss my chai.

Then, I went to Quito.

My main reason for going to Ecuador was to visit the Amazon Rainforest before meeting up with Georgie (King) in Peru´s capital, Lima. Short of time, I realised that I had to book my ongoing bus to Lima in advance. However, whilst the travel agency guaranteed that I would be able to visit the Amazon and arrive in Quito in time to reach my connecting bus to the border four days later, it later transpired that this was not viable. Thus, I had to run around the New Town – not the safest of places at the best of times (although, there is seemingly never a best of time there) – trying to find an alternative bus company to travel with. This also happened to be on the day I had shit thrown over me. It was also raining. Heavily. Never have I encountered pathetic fallacy personified so acutely.

Besides the incident in Quito – you should know which one I am referring to by now – it was still a ghastly city. It never bodes well when locals incessantly warn you not to take any valuables, or much else, out with you. Even in the New Town, outside of one small square with upmarket bars (and by small, I am referring to something no larger than the size of lorry truck), the city had a pernicious and perilous air. It seemed as if I was under siege.

Outside of Quito though, Ecuador seemed more pleasant. I hiked up to the bottom of the glacier of Mount Cotopaxi – Ecuador´s highest active volcano.
The Amazon Rainforest was also beautiful. I visited the area in the Oriente part of Ecuador – or more specifically, Cuyabeno. There, I saw an array of wildlife including anacondas and monkeys, fished for piranha, walked through the jungle in the day and night and swam in a warm lagoon with Caiman lurking underneath. The four days passed quickly, not least because of Robert, a towering and confident, but considerate German student who had spent the past year in Quito.
Back in Quito, I managed to arrive in time for my bus to Guayaquil, which I cannot comment upon bar its magnificent bus terminal. From there, I took another bus to the border and onwards to Lima. I had been travelling for close to 48 hours by the time I arrived. Hoorah!

Lima, despite the plethora of pitiful descriptions of it I had heard, was nice. The downtown district was industrial, but I never felt unsafe and it had a pleasant aura about it despite the blaring traffic. Miraflores, the area where I resided, was as safe as a remote Fijian island.
Georgie arrived on time and immediately it became clear how bereft I was without speaking Spanish.

We spent the following day in Lima before taking a luxurious bus (sans the bellowing baby which threw up in the middle of the night) to Ayacucho where we are now.
Cusco tomorrow, then the Inca Trail, then who knows. Time is short. But everything is great. Bar the flying shit, that is.

P.S. Comment by scrolling to the bottom of the page after either clicking the title to this post or by clicking HERE.

P.P.S. After my first post from this trip, I have received several threats from people in Venezuela due to my recollection of the ´courting´ incident. They told me never to write about Venezuela or Caracas again. So, I will not. Instead, here is the better part of the last message they sent to me:

“The worst is that u dare to make laugh of me…. Yes, i know what`s mean Court, also, my english friends, who by the way are real gentleman, read ur blog! also the comment of ur friends about me trying utmost to court you!
So, this is my advise, delete everything about Caracas written by u….. everything!
If we (me, my mother, my venezuelam friends, my friends all over the world) find a little word about Caracas, about me, my friends will go to the police in england!
They also will go to The low College, to ur work… they gonna say how ungratefull you are!
Do never write to my friends! never! never to anybody about me! never about Caracas!
Do as u never had been here.
Cause the world is smaller than u think, and if u continue saying things about me… MY friends will kick ur ass and this time u will PASS OUT! REALLY, U WONT NEED ACT.
u don´t know whith who u got troubles, im a lovely girl who have friends around the globe.”

Happy days.

Downtown Bogota

This is made from salt – Zipaquira Salt Cathedral

Roland and Co.

Medellin

The PC is unfortunately running too slowly to add more pictures to this post. View the gallery here:

South America