The Vagabonds

 

Let’s play a game.

Guess how many people you can fit into the following vehicle:

 

The answer is below, just after the video of the car.

 

So, following on from the previous entry, after my second foray in Rwanda’s Kigali, I went to Musanze. This town was my base for gorilla tracking. I had no plans to go gorilla tracking before I arrived in East Africa, but became seduced by superlative stories people told me once here. The problem is that it is notoriously difficult to obtain a permit to do this: in Kigali, the tourist office told me that I would have to wait until the end of September.

A few days earlier in Gisyeni, however, I was told that a last-minute cancellation permit was available for the 22^nd. It was for this reason that I returned to Kigali since I had nothing to do in the intervening period.

So, in Musanze, after a four day wait, I called up ‘Mr. David’ who was my fixer for the permit. Once we agreed upon a meeting point, he told me he would be there in five minutes. Three-quarters of an hour later, he turned up and ushered me into his car.

“How are you, Peter.”

“Very good, Mr. David.”

“I have bad news.”

“What is it?”

“How flexible are you with time?” he asked me.

“I have booked a bus to Kampala for tomorrow evening, so not at all. Why?”

“You see, when I told you I had a permit, I did. But then before you paid, I sold it on.”
This was despite the fact that I sacrificed a day arranging the payment in Gisyeni.

The conversation concluded with him advising me to go to the Volcanoes National Park in the morning and hope that he was there with a permit.

Exasperated, I returned to my room. TIA, I thought: This is Africa. However, to Mr. David’s credit, he called me at 8pm and told me he had found a permit. Game on.

That evening proved more interesting than I anticipated. Somebody who worked at the guesthouse I was residing in had helped me book the bus to Kampala and arrange a shared-jeep to the National Park. For his efforts, which I thought were solely altruistic, I offered to treat him to dinner.

The conversation over dinner was initially pleasant enough. Shortly after we had finished, however, he dropped the bombshell. His sister was ill, I was told, and he needed money.

“How much?”
“Not much, but you are a muzungu and are therefore rich.”
“How much?”
“$1000”

After I politely told him that $1000 is a large sum of money, his temperament developed into something between anger, despair and disappointment. C’est la vie.

 

Gorilla tracking was predictably tremendous. I was designated the Umubano group whose towering ‘Silverpack’ patriarch, Charlie, dominated above the rest of his large family. If you are interested in the group, search for them on Google.

It may be clichéd to state this, but the most momentous aspect of the experience was witnessing how human the gorillas appeared. When we initially discovered Charlie and one of his offspring, I was no more than two metres from them. The baby gorilla tried to reach out to us, but the guide bellowed out a ferocious roar to deter him.

Shortly afterwards, Charlie and his child staggered over to a more open expanse where the rest of their family were nestled chewing a tree bark.

The experience only lasted an hour, excluding an approximate 90 minute trek each way to reach them, but it was unforgettable. As-per-usual, you can see pictures below and they will depict the experience better than my words. For the meanwhile, here is a video of when we first saw Charlie and his child:

 

Back in Musanze, my $1000 friend approached me again, reminding me about the promise I made him. Curtly, I told him that no promise was made and that a muzungu is not a walking wallet. I soon left for Kampala, the capital of Uganda.

 

Despite how I had been previously told that Kampala is a small and accessible city, I found it unduly large and fairly sprawling. It was fairly interesting to walk around and witness, but the interminable traffic and asphyxiating fumes certainly mitigated its appeal. Nonetheless, it was fun traveling around on a ‘boda-boda’ motorcycle taxi – notably, one of them, just for the hell of it it seemed, decided to head straight for the potholes rather than glide around them.

I met an interesting cohort of people at the Red Chilli Backpackers I stayed in. For one, a missing piece of the backpacking jigsaw was now complete: The Israelis had landed. Those pieces of travelling furniture who seem to traverse the entire globe had hitherto eluded me on this trip. I met three groups of them at Red Chilli. Additionally, I was kept occupied on a couple of nights by picking the brains of Luke, a PhD law student from Belfast who was specialising in Ugandan Criminal Justice. It was a far-cry from any Carbolic Smoke Balls or Brown v Brown (law banter, sorry). I have an extensive reading list for when I return home.

The following day I took a day trip to Entebbe with Dahlia, one of the Israeli’s I had met. Considering that this was once the capital of Uganda and also was the venue for the notorious plane-hijacking incident in the late 1970’s, it was ostentatiously placid. With Lake Kivu engulfing its coast, it was a lazy and lugubrious day, but nevertheless pleasurable.

My next stop in Uganda was a Muzungu-must: white-water rafting in Jinja. My rafting guide was Geoffrey who was part of the Ugandan national kayaking team. It was an enjoyable experience, but not as exhilarating as I expected: the eight rapids were intermittently dispersed and they each lasted no more than a minute each. I guess that I prefer being smacked over the head repeatedly rather than just the occasional blow.

That evening, I resided in a hostel Bujugali Falls which picturesquely overlooked the Nile. There, I met Alex and Nicola, two friends (or rather, friends of friends) from the College of Law.

From there, I took a bus East to Mbale in the morning.

Arriving at 1pm, I feared it was too late for me to attempt to travel to nearby Sipi in order to climb its resounding waterfalls, so it was a lazy day. Despite this, it proved to be one of my most pleasurable. After acquainting myself with the city, I sat outdoors by a café, shaded from the sun, and updated my diary. A man then approached me.

“How are you, sir?”
“Very good, thank you. Yourself?”
“Not at my best. I am ill.”

Following my experience in Musanze, I regrettably retorted that I had no money to give him. As it materialised though, Weyusya did not want anything in particular from me. He was articulate and had travelled to England (Bristol of all places) in his capacity as a social worker.

So he sat down, and we spoke. And he enlightened me about several aspects of Ugandan culture and its prospects for future development. He told me how he had twelve children and regretted this number since the quantity meant he could not provide them with the quality of life he would have liked, despite his relative wealth. Weyusya also had two wives – by Ugandan standards, he told me that this was actually relatively restrained: some of his friends have over a dozen wives each. One can only imagine what that entails:

Mbale itself was nice enough, but, as Weyusya warned me, there were an upsetting number of street children hungrily roaming around in the evening, with no shelter or family.

 

The following morning, I sat in what I thought – and was told – was a taxi. Four people, including myself, were inside it. We were going to Sipi. Magically, however, five minutes into the journey, four turned into more, and more turned into something ineffable. Here is the video:

 

So, in answer to the question at the beginning of this post, ELEVEN PEOPLE were crammed into that car. It became even worse for me towards the end of the journey though: see the fat man dwarfing the driver in the video? For a reason unbeknown to me – perhaps he just wanted a change of scenery – he decided to change seat:

Sipi’s waterfalls were beautiful. Despite having seen the colossuses of Niagara and Iguazu Falls, I still found Sipi remarkable. Almost because Sipi’s waterfalls were a bit more contained and I could stand right next to them, their force and might seemed more tangible. The only problem was that I had inadequate footwear so the final part of the trek for the last waterfall largely consisted of me rolling down the muddy hills like tumbleweed. It was worth it though.

 

Back from Sipi, I took an overnight bus from Mbale to Kenya’s capital, Nairobi. As far as such journeys go, it was fine, although the bus’s flashing disco lights which turned on at nightfall were at once both psychedelic and terrifying: these people are psychopaths I thought.

 

Nairobi was not as dangerous or as daunting as I had been led to believe. Generally, I felt safe walking around the leafy city centre which, like a lightning locomotion, was incessantly teeming with people. One evening , alongside Anna Starling (a friend from university) and two of her friends I was treated to homemade Kenyan cooking by my friend Gath, also from University too. It was delicious. Later on we went to ‘Electric Avenue’ where all the muzungus go for a party – it was a Thursday night, but as the UN has a half-day on Friday, Thursday is their primary partying night.

Near Nairobi, I also took a day’s excursion to Hell’s Gate National Park which is unique inasmuch that you are able to walk or cycle around it. There, I saw zebras and lots of them. There were also a few warthogs and wildebeest. No lions unfortunately. It was an enjoyable day, mired only by the fact that my bike made me do all the work for it – in fact, it was easier and more efficient to walk than peddle that fragile paperclip.

 

That evening I took a night-bus to Mombasa which led to the chain of events leaving me without my passport, my debit and credit cards and only $21 to my name.

The bus journey was debilitating. It was cramped with bellowing intrusive music playing throughout the night. I arrived in Mombasa at 6:30am and the bus drove off without offloading my rucksack. Distraught, I directed a tuk-tuk to follow the bus. Finally catching it at a petrol station, I grabbed my bag from the boot. However, someone followed me from the bus back to the tuk-tuk and made a swipe at my bag. Shouting in disdain at him, the tuk-tuk driver then intervened and started quarrelling with the assailant. Soon after, as we were driving off, the latter brought out a knife and began ominously flailing it in the ever-increasing distance. In retrospect, the incident could have ended up much worse.

So, I went to a hotel. And after looking at the squalid room, I decided that Mombasa was not a place I wanted to stay in. (It also reminded me of India). So, I went to catch a bus to Malindi, which is two hours up the coast and has a strong Italian heritage. I was hustled and bustled by three men as I boarded this bus; halfway there, in Kilifi I was also instructed to change buses. During one of these two instances, somebody swiped my money-belt containing my essentials (wallet, passport) which was in a secret compartment in my bag.

So, from Malinidi I boarded an overnight bus back to Nairobi with the remaining $21 I had. Gath graciously agreed to take me under her wing whilst sorting out my life. I may now return home early due to the impracticalities of travelling without a debit card and the risks fraught with carrying a large sum of cash on myself.

The temporary travel document which the British High Commission will have to issue to me costs £100 – another blow to the wallet. But in what can only be described as an obliteration of my finances, my flight home is with EgyptAir and it is via a transit in Cairo; Egypt is one of the only countries in Africa which will not recognise such a document (even in transit), so I may have to purchase an entire new flight.

It was a matter of time before someone mugged me, and holding out for over four weeks is impressive compared to my previous escapade in South America.

Always look on the bright side of life; Even if it is overcast.

 

To brighten up your spirits, here are some photographs:

The remaining photographs can be accessed by clicking ‘Africa links’ above, or by following the url below:

East Africa

 

What will the next global battle be over? Received wisdom deems it will be a war between an ailing American and a rising China. Some point to a resurgent Russia instead, or those oil-rich nations with immense Sovereign Wealth Funds. Others, such as Tony Blair, expect strife to occur not over ideology, but over values, notably of the religious variety.

Perhaps they are all wrong though. The next global battle may be peaceful. It is arguably already under way. With the globalisation of markets being the main paradigm through which countries plan their economic strategies, communication is pivotal. And what is communication without language?

So maybe the next global battle will be over the way in which countries strive to maintain their uniqueness within a framework of global sameness.

As a case in point, take Rwanda where I am currently stationed. A former German and French colony, in 2008 English was made an official language alongside French and Kinyarwanda. This is evident in the capital, Kigali. Older generations by and large only speak fragments of English. Younger people on the other hand deftly speak English with ease and comfort. If you ever need a reason to visit Rwanda, let it be this: you will be helping to fight the war against le franchise Francais.

If you want further evidence of why English rules supreme, it is not necessary to take my word of it. This is Eric, an erudite and eloquent 21-year old I ended up speaking with for a couple of hours in a café overlooking Gitarama’s bus station in Rwanda.

 

So, in aid of this switch to English, Paul Kagame, President of Rwanda, I salute you:

 

 

Before arriving in Rwanda, I went on safari in Tanzania with Oli. The safari was booked through our venerable tour operator, Peter Meela. It comprised of Lake Manara, the Serengeti National Park and the Ngorogoro Crater.

Our safari guide and driver was Emmanuel, whose knowledge of the surrounding wildlife was as extensive as his imagination – quite literally. When asked a question, the facts he uttered were not only blatant fallacies, but inconsistent. For example, the lifespan of giraffes increased from 26 years to 42 overnight. Who knows: had we asked again he may have espoused Buddhist liturgy about how they never die but reincarnate.

Joining us on the safari were two Germans, Cornelius and Timote. They were the type of people whose idea of good conversation was to remain silent over dinner. Without wanting to resort to crass national stereotypes – but I will anyway due to a certain compulsion in this case – they were rigid, methodical and about as entertaining as uncooked chicken. That said, they did have some compassion: in one of our very few conversations, they told us that they booked a Kilimanjaro trek which treated the porters with dignity – it later materialised they tipped the porters and guides less than £1 each per day. Every little helps.

The wildlife spotting on the safari itself was as expected: enthralling and engaging as we saw a spectrum of animals. In one case, a lion casually sauntered around our jeep. Similarly, an elephant lacking scruples washed itself in mud mere metres away from us in the Serengeti. Unfortunately we did not manage to see any death in gladiatorial battles of malice and might, although I was entertained for ten minutes in the Ngorogoro Crater as a sluggish hyena chased a wildebeest across a vast expanse in an epic marathon which the hyena was always destined to lose, yet it remained hopeful throughout.

As with Kilimanjaro though, the pictures are the best indication of what we saw and between Oli and I, we took close to 250 photographs. You can view them via the link above.

 

After the safari, Oli and I returned to Arusha, Tanzania’s second-city for our last night together. Arusha was a sprawling mess with no discernible centre and we spent the better part of an hour looking for somewhere suitable to eat before capitulating and trying our luck in a hotel-restaurant overlooking the salubrious sight of the bus station.

The following day we woke at 5:10am and after hurriedly eating breakfast, walked to the bus and went our separate ways: Oli to Mombasa in Kenya before his return flight to England four days later, myself to Kigali.

 

Now, briefly back to a specific point on language. There are two interpretations of the word ‘classic’. On the one hand it may signify something that is tried and tested; something so reliable that it is etched onto a national psyche. Conversely, it may refer to something antiquated and by extension, sub-standard, flawed and best to be forgotten. Guess which category my first bus en-route to Kigali was.

The tone was set within 45 minutes of the journey as the ‘Classic Mohamed’ broke down for the first of four times. That flamboyant Tanzanian music was being played throughout the journey – even when the bus was stationary – only added to the misery. Finally, another dimension was added after 2 hours and 15 minutes when the roads began oscillate between paved concrete and bumpy, red, raw dust.

Things could have been worse, however: I could have been in Oli’s position. In his very own words:

“Ive just got to Mombasa, Tahmeed Coaches Ltd and I have spent the day hiding from the police. It turns out the bus wasn’t road worthy and they didn’t have ‘papers’ so we got word of a checkpoint and basically had to wait until it shut down for the night. Not sure how late we are but something like 4 hours and I’m giving serious consideration to jumping on an overnight vip bus to Nairobi (its also chucking it down here).”

Poor soul.

Oli aside, I should also add that I was not wholly certain about where I was going. I had booked a bus to a place called Kahama which is notable only for the fact that it is on the map yet features in no guide books or travelling websites about Tanzania. I was told that I would easily be able to catch a connecting bus to Kigali from there though.

As it happens, this was correct, although, I had to spend the night in Kahama as the bus left at 6am. This was not too bad within itself as Kahama was much more sedate and obliging than Arusha. I was even assisted by a bus salesman called James who took it upon himself to guide me to a hotel and internet café, the latter at which he enthusiastically sat down next to me and peered over all my emails and facebook messages.

The journey to Kigali was relatively seamless. The only real issue involved having to wait 2 hours at the border for the guards to arrive to search every bag on the bus; it was a job they enthusiastically endeavoured to complete, barely glancing at my bag before giving me the thumbs up.

Arriving in Kigali at 6pm, I initially took a taxi to a budget hotel. However, upon arrival I had a change of heart and directed the driver to the other part of the city for a slightly more expensive but ‘backpacker’ option. Let the following words be a guiding principle to all those who travel: if the Lonely Planet recommends somewhere, avoid it like the plague. I should know this by now, but I was tempted by the fact that I would not be the only ‘mugunzu’ (foreigner) staying there. However, upon arrival I was told the One Love Hotel has recently increased its rates to close to £20 per night for a ‘basic’ room. Exasperated but tired as I had not eaten all day, I took it. That is, I took it until I saw what basic entailed – it looked like a prison cell. Needless to say, thirty minutes and a motorcycle taxi later, I was back at the first budget hotel which is a 1/3 of the price and dare I say, nicer (relatively, of course).

The prices of the hotels are indicative of the overall costliness of Kigali in general though. Indeed, paying £7 for the most rudimentary of accommodation is more expensive than Sydney or Buenos Aires. The reason for this can be added to the list of noble causes with unintended consequences: expatriates and NGO works. As mugunzus have flocked into the city – and indeed, the country – inflation has accordingly risen due to fundamental supply and demand dynamics. So, whilst the altruistic mugunzus live in their central gated communities, the local population in many cases (but not all) suffers. But they are here to help the country develop and Rwanda is a thriving African economy. Whoever said life is simple?

Kigali itself is tranquil. It is all too easy to invoke the 1994 genocide, but really, I have never felt safer walking around a foreign city at night. There was not much to do but the speckled lights dotted around the surrounding hills were reminiscent of Damascus, whereas the sloping streets harked to San Francisco.

In a broad sense, everyone was friendly too. When bartering with a taxi-driver, I asserted that he was charged me a ‘mugunzu’ price. Deeply affronted, he retorted that in Rwanda, I am a Rwandan too and that he was charging me the local price. He was, as far as I know, telling the truth.

As aforementioned, there is little to do in Kigali but roam around. I visited the Genocide Museum which was absorbing but predictably saddening. Most of you will be aware of the Rwandan genocide, if only due to the movie Hotel Rwanda. Here are some uplifting UNICEF statistics regarding the percentages of children affected by the genocide:

• 99.9% witnessed violence
• 79.6% experiences a family death
• 69.5% witnessed someone being killed or injured
• 61.5% were threatened with death
• 90.6% thought they would die
• 57.7% witnessed killings or injuries with machete
• 31.4% witnessed rape or sexual assault
• 87.5% saw dead bodies or parts of bodies

If you would like to know a bit more, watch the following trailer for ‘Raindrops over Rwanda’ at www.facebook.com/explorerwanda – it will also help contribute towards a $50,000 fund for the museum which will be granted if 50,000 people watch the video.

 

On a less serious note, I subsequently visited Huye (formerly known as Butare) where I met a Belgian student who had been to the Democratic Republic of Congo with a contingency from his university to conduct research. It seemed like a torrid and terrible place; almost as if it was a thousand miles from the peacefulness of Rwanda. I had tentative plans to visit the DRC. These have now been abandoned.

After Huye I went to Kibuye via Gitarama where I met the affable Alex who features in the video above.

The journey from Gitarama to Kibuye was woeful. With my two bags pressing anchored over my thighs, the sweeping road twisted and turned and rose and sloped like an interminable rollercoaster. It was so bad that above the volume of my ipod, I heard what I thought was a woman weeping. Only I was wrong. She was not weeping. She was wretching, and she eventually wretched over the back of my shirt and shorts. Thus I sat with a sodden and stinking shirt and shorts for the final 45 minutes. I subsequently discovered that this journey was notorious for people puking. This would explain why it seemed to me as if I was more apologetic to the culprit than she was to me.

Kibuye was bliss. Lake Kivu engulfed the island with its rich, azure colour. In my guesthouse, once I had showered, I spent the evening sharing a bottle of banana beer (which has a 14% alcohol volume level, but is distinctly sweet and quite thirst-quenching) with Kate and Steve, who were volunteering for America’s Peace Corps in Uganda. They were impeccable ambassadors for their country and it was fascinating to hear about their experiences within the Development sphere.

I spent most of the following day with Kate and Steve. The former’s language adroitness proved particularly helpful as she negotiated for a boat to drive us around the circumference of Kibuye. Kibuye can be epitomised as thus: a place to write a book in seclusion.

This can be contrasted to Gisyeni, Kibuye’s coastal neighbour. Slightly larger but with equally little to do, it lacked Kibuye’s quaintness and thus was fairly banal. Some good news did materialise from my time there though, involving a tourist office – that is for the next blog post though.

6km from Gisyeni lay Rubona which was more picturesque at least with its dainty harbour and fickle fishing boats.

But now I am back in Kigale, waiting a couple of days for the next big part chapter in the trip. Earlier today I bumped into Team America again, where Steve was kind enough to buy me a celebratory cupcake for passing my exams. Here is a hint as to what is upcoming next:

Some Selected pictures

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is the link for all of the pictures (you can also click ‘Africa Pics’ at the top of the page):

East Africa

 

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

I almost made it.

Until two days before my return flight to England, I had not been mugged since my last update. What a wonderful swan song for South America, I thought; it would be nice to leave on a high.

Instead, I broke a new record: two mugging attempts in two days, both in the same city, Buenos Aires. So, what savage attacks did I encounter this time?

The one on the final day was a wonderful parallel of the Quito experience, albeit sans the excrement. Whilst passing by the intersection dividing Florida Av with Peru Av (one of the city’s most commercial streets), I felt a drop on the back of my neck. As I felt my (now) moist hair, harrowing memories of flying shit reverberated around my mind. Looking at my hand, the liquid was charcoal coloured. It smelt of vinegar. Suspicious of what had happened, however, I continued to walk. Those tyrants had no idea that this was my fifth mugging experience in South America. I was now a seasoned veteran. And so I remained a bastion of coolness. On cue, as two women approached moments later asking to help, I turned, stuck up my nose and continued to walk nonchalantly down the street.
I would have called this a personal victory, but once I had returned to the hostel to shower, it was clear that the result was closer to a draw. My jumper was stained, as was my bag. At least vinegar is a more pleasant scent than shit.

The other mugging experience occurred the day before this. Again, I was walking in what is considered to be a safe neighbourhood named Recoleta. It was 14:00. Without initially noticing him, a man crossed the road a short distance ahead of me and then proceeded to walk directly up to me, staring intently into my eyes. He then began espousing Spanish rabidly, occasionally touching my jumper. As I pleaded with him to let me pass, he became more forceful, before beginning to actually grab hold of me. Throughout this, he had a hand concealed within one of his pockets – this may have been incidental, but it looked more like a threat. Then, somebody at the end of the block noticed this and began shouting towards us frantically. (It later transpired that this person had noticed what was happening and was telling guy grappling me to let go). Seeing a window of opportunity to escape, I broke free from the vagabond’s grip and turned around. Fortunately, at this moment, four people were stepping out of an apartment block so I positioned myself between them. The assailant ran away.

So, the good news is that I finished the trip without any scarring. That is bar from the indelible insect bites which run like fault-lines around my legs. The bad news is that South America clearly sees me as a victim.

Mugging memoirs aside, the end of the trip was exhilarating.

From Asuncion in Paraguay, I donned my rugged travelling cap and travelling long distances in a short space of time. I boarded a midnight bus to Encarnacion which arrived at 5am; I then took another bus the following morning at 2am, which arrived in Ciudad del Este at 7am. In other words, the GDL (law conversion course) exam period was such a memorable experience that I decided to replicate my sleeping patterns during that period whilst of holiday.
Encarnacion is renowned for the Jesuit ruins in nearby Jesus and Trinidad. Indeed, they were fascinating to see, particularly the latter due to their sheer scope. Encarnacion was also memorable for the 15:00 nap I took in its central plaza. Never has a power-nap been so fulfilling.
Ciudad del Este borders Brazil and Argentina, so it was an inevitable transit point for visiting Iguazu Falls. However, it also boasts one of Paraguay’s principal attractions: the Itapu Dam. Now, it should be noted that one can boast about something without reason – just think of Mcdonald’s healthy salads for instance, or Pakistan’s outstanding contributions towards cricket. The appeal of the Itapu Dam lies within its name: it is a dam. In other words, it is a vast slab of concrete which is about as interesting to behold as a checkout line in Tesco. That it is a symbol of national pride is shame – the country’s delectable chipa bread and affable people is worthy of more merit. At least the tour was free…

I subsequently visited Iguazu Falls, both from the Argentinian and Brazilian sides. The waterfalls are nestled amidst the rainforest and the sheer array of them, varying in size and force, is salubrious. Akin to Machu Picchu, there is little point in attempting to describe the beauty of the scenery. However, it can be stated that the perspectives offered by the Argentinian and Brazilian sides are incomparable: the former is more immersive and allows (much) more time to wander whereas the latter is shorter but more panoramic.

From Iguaza I took an overnight bus to Buenos Aires where I stayed for one night before travelling on to Uruguay. However, during this stopover I went to watch the local football derby between River Plate and Independiente. The football itself was superb, but a particular highlight had to be the Independiente supporter. This gent made a gesture towards the Home Team’s fans which can only be described along the lines as ‘suck on this’. However, this man was no person to make half-witted gesticulations. He stood there looking on towards the River Plate fans with his exposed penis flapping freely in the wind. I think that this was art imitating life.
You can watch the highlights of the match, which was won 3-2 by River Plate, here:

My first destination in Uruguay was Colonia, which is a mere one to three hours away from Buenos Aires (depending on which ferry you board). It was so compacted with riveting culture that I had seen everything worth seeing within two hours. There, I also ate Uruguay’s national ‘snack’ (or so they say):
Chivitos – I think you can find Evander Holyfield’s ear in there too.

Needless to say, I felt nauseous for the following three days.

Next, I visited the country’s capital, Montevideo which with its expansive coast line and quaint downtown area is gratifying to walk around. However, it must be noted how soulless the city becomes at night: I was there the night before Independence Day, and had been informed that the street would be flowing with throngs of merry and inebriated people – come 20:00, the only shops to be seen open were supermarkets, and the people there were certainly not embracing themselves for a convivial night.

Finally, I travelled back to Buenos Aires for my final five days. The city really is as memorable and monumental as I had been told to expect. It is a wonderful and vivid dissection of numerable cultures. The nocturnal lifestyle harks to the Brazilian Samba spirit of Eastern South-America; the elegant architecture and al-fresco dining mirrors Continental Europe; the fervorous mentalities of the people living there is South American. And the food: well, the food is steak, and the steak is distinctly Argentinian.
I saw a great deal in BA, yet this was still not enough. The experience was augmented by the people I met there too – the people in my hostel were diverse, interesting and sociable, and on my final night I also met up with a lovely group of American girls studying there who I initially stumbled across in Cordoba.

Whilst there, I also saw Fuerza Bruta which translates into Brute Force. It is a physical theatre show comprised upon four episodes which are all unique and breathtaking.

More importantly though, Fuerza Bruta provides the perfect analogy for my experiences in South America. Every day was unique and exhilarating. There was also a sinister, or even ominous, aura lurking underneath it. Whilst I would not go as far to say that this lends itself to the region’s charms – for I genuinely hope, for example, that the police in Venezuela do not remain corrupt, if only for the sake of the people living there – it certainly impacts the local cultures: they are at once open, forthcoming but forceful. The scenery and landscapes are perpetually panoramic, with new vistas emerging from every new kilometre travelled. All in all, it was a great experience. And I say that despite the muggings.

And hello Manchester.

Jesuit Ruins in Jesus

Itapu Dam – Now available in 3D

Iguazu Falls

Olé

One way to collect garbage in Montevideo

Don’t cry for me Argentina

South America