Rusinga Island - Matt

We've been on Rusinga Island for a little over two weeks now and we've had a chance get a lay o' the land so to speak. We've hiked all through the hills including a bloody bush whack to the top of the island. We've taken a weekend trip to camp in Ruma National Park. We've been teaching at a primary and a secondary school. We've ridden the ring road all around the island. And most importantly we've been living, eating and drinking the life of Rusinga.

Rusinga cell towers looking north

Given all of these recent experiences I would like to take this opportunity to depict in detail the rural African life that sits quietly on the island Rusinga. The island is covered with small tin roofed houses that pepper the landscape in varying densities. In between the houses are either shrubs and short trees in the steeper, rockier areas or fields newly plowed and waiting for the rains. Some of the denser sets of buildings have names like Wanyama and M'tare. These towns consist of a small convenience store, a spare motorcycle parts store a hair salon and maybe one other unique thing. M'tare has fish processing plant since it's right on the Lake and I use the term plant loosely here.

We live with Odula family on the northwestern slopes of the island just outside the small set of buildings called Kaswanga. These slopes give way to a shoreline with an empty horizon filled with the flat blue green expanse of Lake Victoria. The Odulas seem to be on the higher end of the economic strata of Rusinga. Michael Odula sr., our host father, is a well educated, well traveled and well thought of member of the community as far as we can tell. He has been involved with education on the island for the past 40 years. For much of that time he was a principle at the largest secondary school (high school) on the island. He is one of the UN Environmental Project's 500, which he is eager to remind of us frequently and is clearly one of his most prized accomplishments. He is on a "council of elders" that is involved with the entire lake region of Kenya. He's built a primary school on land he owns just above his property with his retirement fund, another fact he is eager to remind us about. We help out at this school two days a week. The school is a cement foundation with tin sheeting wired to wooden poles made from the local trees. It is basic but it takes in a lot of students. He has clearly done a lot in his life for which he is widely respected.

The Primary School Where We Work

In old age his passion for education, that he's had through his whole life, remains strong, however his energy and cognitive strength to accompany that passion must have faded somewhat. We have heard many of his stories multiple times. He seems to be hard at hearing which leads to some interruptions and loud repeations. And sometimes, when we're eating dinner or just sitting quietly with him, he'll murmur '...mmmMM. Yes. That is how it is.' or something to that effect. As though he is responding to the last statement made in a conversation that ended minutes ago. This by no means that what he has to say is meaningless. Far from it in fact. His experiences lend very credible and effective insight to Sam and I discoveries about Africa. 

For instance he has one anecdote Sam and I have heard a couple times about one of the conferences he's attended, maybe it was in Mexico, where the presenters show clips from, and describe the biggest slum in Nairobi, and maybe in Africa I can't remember. They used it as an example of poverty and how it hasn't got any better in Africa. At the end of the presentation Mr. Odula got up and said that they have just showed the most impoverished part of the city and that if they were to show the rest of the city or even the country it looks nothing like that. So why have they shown it? To this they did not say much apparently but invited Mr. Odula to meet with them after the presentation. They went up to their hotel room and had a couple drink and told him that if they were to show the Africa that he described they would loose funding. 

This is a huge part of the problem in our misconception of the way the world is improving. People want their organization to continue to be effective and profitable so they have to present the most heart wrenching data/images/stories possible to gain financial backing. 

It is difficult for me to say what is better. To have the misconception that much of the world is impoverished and thus acquire the financial ability to at least try and correct the problem, or, to spread the more objective truth about the matter and lose much of the ability to fix the many problems that are still present within impoverished communities. What I can say is that Odula long ago stopped attending these conferences. He can't understand how people can pay for him to fly business class around the world to stay in hotels that presidents stay in and are given stipends while there all to talk about how to fix poverty, and for that matter neither can I. What he has described to me would cost at the very lowest end 2000$ per person for a conference of at least 100 people, then add in who knows how much for speakers' fees and the cost of putting one of those one is huge. Looking around Rusinga I can see how just the cost of Odula's trip to that one conference could change the lives of many here on the island and Odula sees that as well.

The Odula household. Kitchen on the left. Living room on the right.

Though his accomplishments are somewhat unique to the island his position is not. The eldery in Kenya retains a respect and reverence, regardless of merit, that is seldom given to those in the US as far as I can tell. I would attribute this to the strong family and community bonds that permeate and sustain the culture on the island. Every single day we have neighbors walking onto the Odula property, essentially in between our bedroom and the kitchen and the living room since these are all separate buildings. Maybe they're neighbors asking for a cup of maize flour, maybe kids on their way to school, maybe it's just a cousin walking to town and decided to stop in to say 'hi'. Whatever it is they are all welcomed.

Since there is a lack of traditional western stimulants (TV, internet, books, model trains, etc.) due to lack of electricity and access and since the weather is so hot, many people spend their free time outside in the shade of their houses and talk. Talking is what humans used to do for fun before Thomas Edison and Alan Turing came along and ruined everything. This eagerness for human interaction seems to encourage keeping up relations with your local community.

Another reason for strong local ties could be this; Jane Odula, our host mother, told us yesterday that she has six sisters and five brothers and uncountable nieces and nephews, most of whom live on the island, just after she got back from a funeral for one of her cousins. On an island with maybe 5,000 people on it is not hard to see how families of that size would enforce and require strong community ties. Just the fact that we were able to find the people we were supposed to stay with just knowing their first names AND thinking they were white shows an interconnectivity that I could never imagine existing in the town of 8,000 from which I come in Idaho.

Think about it. How many unannounced visitors come by your house a day? What would happen if you went to a small town in America or Europe and started telling strangers that you were supposed to be living with Pete and Diane and they live somewhere in town. I don't see the reaction being more than a half hearted 'good luck'.

The Odula living room. With tea and chapati laid out.

A day in the life of the Odula family looks like this. Family's up with the sun. Young Michael and Gloria off to school which starts a 6am and goes till 5pm. Jane makes tea and breakfast for Michael sr., Sam and I. Breakfast is usually just a bread product. Chapati (fried flat bread), white bread and butter, fried chunks of dough, etc. Michael Martin (that's the middle Michael who graduated from secondary school last year and is waiting on his A levels results before going to college.) usually eats later in the morning if at all. After breakfast Michael sr. heads off to the secondary school he is the principle at and where we work. Sometimes he'll spend his morning checking in on the primary school he built he's involved with near their house. After he has left, Michael Martin cleans up the house, does the breakfast dishes, makes sure the solar panels are charging the batteries and takes the donkeys down to the lake to water then and fill up large jugs of water which the donkeys haul back up to the house to fill a large tin basin which stores all the water used for anything that isn't drinking. Drinking water is collected in a large black tank behind the house from rain gutters along the house and then treated with some chemical that tastes like bleach. After chores are completed then Jane and Michael Martin relax through the heat of the day or take care of any social matters they have.

The Odula kitchen where Jane spends most of her time. Notice the chicken.

In the evening Michael sr. will return at various times depending on the day’s work load. He has the time to relax and maybe shower, which is down by filling a bucket with water from the afore mentioned basin and taking it to a ring of tin sheeting around a pad of gravel. From there you strip down and pour water on your head, soap up, and pour more water on your head. Michael Martin will take the cows down to water by the lake. The kids come home from school and Gloria will start doing her homework, little Michael just hangs around and Michael sr. snoozes in his designated chair. Dinner happens sometime between eight and nine pm. We come in a little before and sit with the kids and Michael sr.. Little Michael and Michael Martin bring in the food and set it out in the living room. After washing our hands and a quick prayer it is time to eat. Sam and I are always allowed to serve ourselves first. Michael sr. is next. Then Little Michael and finally Gloria is forced to put her homework away and eat. About one out of two days we have Omena (the little sardines). About two out of every three days we have a stewed cabbage. And about three out of four days we have Ugali (essentially corn flour and hot water). The meal seems entirely dependent on what Jane can find at the market. She has been looking for Nile Perch since we arrived since it is the classic fish of Lake Victoria but has been unable to find it. Apparently, it is all shipped out to places like Nairobi and Mombasa now. After dinner everyone kinda sits around in a food comatose, Michael sr. will sit with his shirt unbuttoned leaving his huge hairless belly free to expand as necessary, until about 10 o'clock and then it's time for bed.

Ugali and fried omena (sardines)

Weekends change in that there is more food ate and they go to church on Saturday for four or five hours. And other than the essential chores they just relax and eat.

Life he has been a relaxing and eye opening oasis from the stresses and tunnel vision of the road and travel. It has given Sam and I the time we need to prepare for the second half of our journey. Our Sudanese visa has been applied for and should be on its way to Nairobi soon. We've mapped our itinerary for travel north through Ethiopia and are already feeling the calling for the road and the next leg of our journey. But it will be hard to start up from the peace, quite and relaxation that has characterized our time here.

Arrival on Rusinga Island - Sam

We arrived in Mbita, the town you reach before you cross over to Rusinga Island, with little information about the family we would be staying with. All we knew was that they were connected to a school (of which we didn't know the name), that they lived on Rusinga Island, and that their first names were Jane and Michael. We have been in contact with them for the past couple months talking briefly with one another through email. A few days before we left Nairobi, I realized we didn't know much more about them than their first names and the area in which they lived. I emailed them to get some more info about them, but got no response. We left for Rusinga a couple days later. 

We arrived on the island in the evening of the Feb 1st, the day they should have been expecting us. We knew Rusinga Island was small enough that we expected we could ask around and find them. After asking a local man if he had heard of them, he said, "Oh yes!" and directed us towards a school. He also said something about them being muzungus (white people), which was news to us. We then went to St. Joseph's Secondary School, an all girls Catholic school. We talked with a woman and asked her if she knew of a muzungu couple, Jane and Michael, who worked with a school on the island, whom we only assumed were actually a couple. She said no, but directed us to a man who seemed to be of importance with the school. He, not knowing who they were, then directed us to the Priest Father Sewe. Father Sewe was very friendly and welcoming, but didn't know who we were asking about so he gave his friend a call to ask if he knew of a muzungu couple by the name is Jane and Michael. He hands me the phone. The man on the end didn't know who we were looking for, but gave us another clue, the number of a muzungu woman, Linda, who runs an eco-lodge on the island. With this information Matt and I retired back to Mbita and got a hotel. We had been riding all day and decided to give up for the day hoping we would get a response from them by the next morning. Back at the hotel we decided we might as well call Linda. She, again, wasn't sure who we were asking about, but said she would call someone and get back with us. Within the hour she was back on the phone saying she has found Jane and Michael! She gave them our number and within the evening their grandson Michael Martin was in contact with us. We then made a plan to meet with them the following morning. It took 8 people and about 4 hours to find Jane and Michael Odula. As we learned, if we would have known their last names it would have taken far less people and we would have been at their house that evening. That's village life on Rusinga Island for you.

Home Sweet Home

The next day we rode to their house and were greeted by the family. There is Michael Odula,  that patriarch,  and Jane, his wife, their two grandsons, Michael Odula Jr. (known as Martin, his middle name) and Michael Odula III (known as little Michael) and one granddaughter. They are Rusinga Island natives and are certainly not muzungus, a fact that certainly made it more confusing to people when we searching for them. Michael showed us to our room which has two beds with mosquito nets. The property consists of four concrete buildings with metal roofs. There are chickens that roam around, a couple cows, and occasionally goats roam through the yard. I'm not sure who the goats belong to. Probably a neighbor nearby, but people often let their animals roam around freely so it's hard to to say for sure.

Our Room

That afternoon we accompanied Michael to Wanyama Secondary School where we would be volunteering. It is a small building that has two offices and three classrooms, although only one of the classrooms is being utilized as there aren't enough students, or supplies, to fill all three of them. Michael is working to get more students at the school and four more have recently shown up. With that being said other students seemed to have disappeared. The day before we arrived, Michael said he sent a few students home to try and collect their school fees. That may very well be why there are students that do not always show up to class. The school has a cook who cooks the lunch for everyone at the school. She cooks on an open fire right behind the school. There is a small room on the backside of the school where she can keep wood and prepare meals. 

Mr. Michael Odula

That same day, Michael sent Michael Martin with us to town to get some groceries on our motorbikes. As we were walking around the grocery store I began to wonder if we were going to be paying for these groceries. Occasionally Michael Martin would look at me and wait for me to pick out a brand of coffee or a brand of bread. I would look at him and say, "I don't know man. Whatever you guys usually get is fine." Then there would be an awkward pause and he would choose something. When we got up to the counter and everything was rang up and ready to be purchased, Michael Martin just looked at me. Again, an awkward pause. "Are you expecting me to pay for this," I asked. "Yes." I replied as if I should have assumed as much. "Well will I be reimbursed," I asked. With which Michael Martin assured me, Oh yes, yes of course." Of which I knew immediately was not the case. In Africa if people are unsure of what you said or feel uncomfortable they just tell you "yes, yes!" 

I was a little pissed off about the complete lack of communication that had just occurred and the assumption we would pay for everything. Upon returning to our host family's residence I showed Michael the receipt. Upon which he exclaimed dramatically, "Ohhh people in America are so kind and generous!" "No", I said dryly. "Am I going to be reimbursed the groceries I just bought?" His tone immediately flipped to a deep sadness, again very dramatic. "I am not sure how it will be possible." I explained to him that this time it was okay, but I did not appreciate him assuming I would buy things without any prior communication. I also added that on their page on workaway.info, the site we used to find this place, it clearly states that there is an exchange of volunteer work for room and board. Many other people are honest about needing a little money to help out with food and potential costs and that's fine. A large reason Matt and I can afford to travel as long as we are is because we are volunteering for a month. But everyone in America is wealthy right? No, of course not. Well, sort of. Wait...Maybe?

Last year I made far less than the standard poverty level wage in America. I also have the privilege of working jobs that pay for my room and board, so I am able to save much of what I earn. I also don't have a wife, kids, or even a girlfriend for that matter. That has allowed me to invest all my time and money into traveling a third of this past year. So no I am not rich, BUT I am traveling a third of the year and Matt and I just bought new motorbikes that cost about $1200 each. We are living a life of luxury and excess compared to that of a rural Kenyan. We just learned today that five students at a local primary school cannot afford their school fees that cost only $2.50 per month. That mean no education this month and quite possibly next month as well. After that who knows. So the question remains, are we wealthy? At this point, I barley have enough money to get through the rest of the continent and get home, let alone get back to work in Oregon. I'm counting on selling my bike at a somewhat reasonable cost. That may be a long shot. I honestly don't have the answer to the question. It's very clearly circumstantial, but I do have the insight at least to see how I am lucky and clearly privileged. Sometimes it makes me feel like I shouldn't be here. Sometimes I feel like an asshole for complaining about splitting a $40 bill with Matt with a family that barley has enough money to get by. And maybe I am. Other times I think why shouldn't I be able to travel and experience different places and meet different and inspiring people along the way. I didn't choose where I was born or what advantages I have in life. I'm just playing the cards I am dealt. Again, I don't have the answer. I suppose there is truth to both scenarios.

I think it is fair to also add that after getting to know Michael Odula a little better I believe he is a sincere man. He is passionate about education and has worked his entire life as an educator and principal. He is also well traveled and has studied education and environmental studies around the world. It may be that the incident on the first day was due to cultural differences and expectations of ones culture that in Michael's case turned out to be a little skewed.

The Secondary School Class

On a more positive note we are making progress with students that we are working with here. They are very shy and are not very inspired to participate in class. This proves to be a large obstacle as the only guidance we have been given for volunteering is, "Just interact with them." Yeah, interact with a group of 13 students from 2 -5PM who don't answer simple yes or no questions. Easier said than done. With the help of our cultural exchange that we have set up with my sister Diana's class, however, we are making some progress. The kids, ages 15-17, are beginning to come out of their shells and seem to be very interested in interacting with students from America. This week we are going to try and buy a soccer ball and volleyball for the school and teach a PE class. We're hoping that if we can get out of the classroom and get the kids moving and laughing, we will make even more progress. The kids are after all very bright. They just have never had a muzungu from America interacting with them in their class before. They are a little out of their comfort zones and that is OK. In fact is a very good thing and we hope that in the next 2 or 3 weeks we can create a more open and comfortable environment. At least as much as we can within such a short frame of time.

Me Enjoying Ugali and Sardines

The meals here have been quite interesting. Simple, but interesting. A common dish is a stew made from sardines that are caught regularly here in Lake Victoria. They are caught in large numbers and then dried and taken to market for sale. They are found in markets all through Kenya and in Tanzania as well. They have a wretched fishy smell that fills the air unmistakably when one gets even near a market. They are then stewed  in a salty broth that actually doesn't taste too bad. It isn't great, but not horrible. Today, however, there was no broth. Just salted, cooked sardines and ugali. Ugali is another staple food of both Kenya and Tanzania. One that the people here eat enthusiastically as it provides them with nutrients and energy to perform their daily tasks. It is made from maize and is a bread like dish that has little to no taste. I personally don't love it, but when eaten with salty fish or beans and rice, it isn't too shabby.

One of my favorite dishes we had just two nights ago. We had chicken that was cooked in a broth with rice, ugali and a green that resembles kale mixed with seaweed, also very popular. The soup had whole pieces of chicken in it and before I knew what I had grabbed I realized it was the chickens head. This honestly excited me as I love trying strange food that I am not familiar with. It is part of the joy of traveling. I began tearing the head apart and eating bits and pieces of meat including the comb, the fleshy red thing on top of the chickens head. Unsure whether I should eat the eyes, I turn and ask Michael whether I should indulge or not. He looks at me blankly and says, "I eat everything," and immediately returns to eating. So I pop one in, chew it up and swallow. It was as delicious as the comb, although the texture was a little unsettling. It had a rigid, almost crunchy bit that must have provided structure to the eyeball. After picking the thing clean, all that was left was the skull and what was inevitably inside. It is here that I regrettably refrain from continuing. I nibble at the brain stem momentarily and give up. That was a bit more than I was willing to eat, but as I am writing this I feel should have indulged a bit further. They may be time still before Matt and I depart for redemption. One of the worst meals I had here was plain beans and maize. It was not seasoned and the maize was not cooked thoroughly. It was a bit of a chore to get through. Neither Matt or I could finish the heaping bowl that sat dauntingly in front of us.

Matt and I on his Birthday

Nairobi on our own - Matt

Beating up the dusty dirt road our bikes rattle and moan against the bumps and the incline. I beep my horn a couple of times to get Sams attention and we bring our little convoy to a halt. 'Can we check the map again? This can't be the road.' Sam gets out his battered Wal-Mart smart phone, examines it for a bit and 'yep, this is it. Check it.' He passes the phone to me which shows the little blue dot (that is us) on the nice solid yellow line just west of Lake Naivasha. On the map the road looks like any other highway in Kenya. In reality the "road" looks to be the spawn of a poorly maintained dirt bike track and a riverbed. Comparing the map with what lies in front of me I try to trace our "highway's" path up the steep ridge line in front of us but have little luck. Just then little wet droplets appear on my hands and our shortcut has just become a race to the top of the valley. 'You know, those giraffes and warthogs on the side of the road were really cool and all,' I said as I restarted my bike 'but I really wish we hadn't missed that turn back in Mai Mahiu.'

Did I mention we'd bought motorbikes.

A week ago we arrived in Nairobi, Kenya. Sam and I have emerge triumphant from our multi week long quest to acquire motorcycles. You are now reading the blog of two proud owners of Bajaj Boxer BM 150s. In short they are awesome and riding them in Africa is awesome. However traffic laws here are a little bit different than in the states. Even the laws regarding motorcycles seem a bit different from the regular cars here. Motorcycles can basically do what they want. Is there a space on (or off)) the road that a motorcycle can ride on? Then that is considered a perfectly acceptable route for motorcycle travel. Is traffic at a standstill on the highway? Then feel free to fight your way between the semis, matatus (decked out buses with bumpin' tunes and a sweet paint job) and other standard 4 wheeled vehicles up to the front of the congestion to get where you're going. With some liberal application of the horn all options are possible.

Delivered from the oppression of public transportation we wasted no time getting out into the Kenyan country side on short excursions outside Nairobi with the twin objectives breaking in our motorbikes, since we are not supposed to take them over 55 km per hour (35mph) for the first 500km, and just practicing the feat of riding bikes in Africa. This has taken us to some beautiful and remote places allowing me to realize my purpose for coming to Africa in the first place; to get off the beaten path, out of the tourist trail, into the bush and into rural Africa without the shackles of guide or group. The day after we bought them we went on a ride and saw a hill covered in windmills. Said to ourselves, 'that looks nice let's go there'. Lo and behold 40 minutes later we were underneath the majestic twirling arms of modern clean electricity on top of a ridge that looked down into the Rift Valley. The day after that, a long 250km day sent us down into the Rift to the town of Magadi, where we remembered that Africa is quite hot actually, since Nairobi is quite cool, and where we were able to visit the Tata soda chemical factory sitting upon a lake of about five feet in depth and some two miles long. The road there allowed us to practice swerving our bikes along a road that appears to have received sustained artillery shelling sometime in the recent past. For there are miles and miles of road which is literally covered with potholes of no more than six inches in depth and in between six and 24 inches in diameter. I felt like an action hero zipping along at 50kmph weaving my way between the holes with only the numerous butterflies to contend with for open tarmac. Suffice to say, being freed from the tyranny of the bus, guest house, train, hostel cycle is exactly what I need.

Christoph showing Sam the ropes.

After all this driving practice we convinced our guest house owner, a German named Christoph but who's been in Kenya for over 30 years, to give us a quick motorcycle mechanics lesson in his garage behind the guest house. Christoph is a very funny man. Very happy and eager to please but also habitually gives ambiguous or sarcastic answers to things.
Sam asked him 'What time do you want to meet to work on the bikes?' '9:12 and 40 seconds' is his instant reply as he walks away.
Or I'll ask him 'Christoph, how much do we owe?' '5' is his response. '5 what? Hundred? Thousand?' I'd inquire. To this he responds "ho Ho! Dollars. I'd be rich then wouldn't I? Go on vacation I would.' and walks away. Sam later had to figure out how much we actually owed. Chris is always telling us to embrace Africa, give up on any expectation of the definite and just go with the flow. I tell him that 25 years of western indoctrination on the subject is hard to break but that I am trying. He also tell us that talking dirty to your motorbike is the best way to get it to do what you want. It's worked so far.

Once we'd settled up with our lodgings we struck out west for the two day trip to Rusinga Island on Lake Victoria, where we would be spending the majority of our February. We missed a turn and ended up at a nice bird viewing lake for lunch before we decided we knew a shortcut that would put us back on route. This resulted in what you have read above. All land is flat on maps. Luckily we beat the rain to the top of the valley and continued our bumpy ride through wheat fields down into the Rift., watching the rain pour down in the valley below. Even with the quality of the road being what it was, life in Africa must go on so Sam and I spent the ride avoiding motorcycles carrying 300+ lbs of baggage/people (this seems a prerequisite for African motorbike travel), herds of cattle, farm tractors and box trucks on three separate occasions. Eventually, we made it back to pavement both of us unsure if we were actually unhappy with our detour or not. Now I can say that I am quite happy with with it, even if we did end up riding the last hours of daylight into Narok in the rain and 100km short of our target for the day. We scrambled for a room in the mud drenched streets of Narok and found one for the both of us for 5 bucks. Shelter at that price wasn't much of an argument.

Up at six AM and on the road by seven, we road through the cold clear morning letting our shadows lead the way east to Rusinga Island.

Tanzania and the Hindu Temple - Sam

The past week and a half we have been researching what it will take to purchase a motorbike and drive it though the remaining countries. To our avail, we have learned that to cross borders with a motorcycle, it will be extremely expensive. According to what we have researched online, which may or may not be true, each country charges their own tax for bringing a vehicle into the country. It ranges from around 200% of the price of the vehicle in Kenya to 800% in Egypt. Once you exit a country with your vehicle you will get the majority of the money back. It is designed to ensure that people are not importing and exporting vehicles into the country, keeping business within that country rather than elsewhere. For us the issue lies in that we DO plan on selling the vehicle in another country, not to mention 800% of a motorcycle that costs $1000 is an additional cost of $8000 each, which needless to say neither of us have. We are beginning to realize that doing the Cape to Cairo trip by vehicle is a rich man's game. The cost of doing the trip by a land rover would be unimaginably expensive.

Matt and I have not given up hope though. We are going to continue to look for bikes in Nairobi for the month we will be in Kenya. We are also planning to stop into the Ethiopian Embassy in Kenya and get more information about bringing the bikes into Ethiopia, where we would tour around for 2 or 3 more weeks and then attempt to sell them there. It is just a matter of how big of a hit it will be to our budget. We will see in a few days. The thought of having our own means of transport is too appealing to give up just yet.

We've been in Tanzania now for a little over a week. It's been quite the change in culture. Tanzania has a large Muslim population, unlike any of the countries we have been in prior. It is also much more developed and multicultural. It's been a nice change from Malawi and Zimbabwe whose economies are doing very poorly. We arrived in Dar Es Salaam late in the night, groggy and tired after a 36 hour train ride that should have taken less than 24 and not quite recovered from the food poisoning we recieved. We bought dinner on the train, the all too common rice, chicken and salad that makes up the majority of the cuisine in all of southern Africa.We take a bite of the chicken which tastes unusually like fish. We both look at each and both shrug and say,"oh well," and coninue eating. Within two hours we begin feeling funny. I began getting flu like sympstoms and immediately think Malaria. We spend the rest of the night running back and forth from the bathroom. Thank god we had toilet paper. Lessons in Africa often come at a high price.

The train to Dar Es Salaam

We awoke the next morning to the sound of the Muslim call to prayer sometime around 5am. A man on a loud speaker chants something in Arabic, amplifying the sound of his voice to the whole area our hotel is located in. Many people in the streets wear traditional Muslim clothing. Muslim women often wear brightly colored dresses, headscarves that wrap around their heads long ways called a hijab, or veils covering most of their heads and part of their face called a niqab. Occosaionally, you see a woman wearing all black with only a slit cut out for for her eyes called a burqa, resembling some kind of secretive ninja. Muslim men will often wear long white robes that nearly touch the ground. Matt and I think it would be cool if we could find one for ourselves. I'm not sure how much I would actually wear it, but it would be a cool thing to take home from Africa, not to mention it has to feel amazing wearing one without any underwear.

We left Dar a little disenchanted by the fact that we didn't have motorcycles and had to continue by bus, something that is beginning to feel more like a chore than a pleasure, this time especially. I was still sick from food I had eaten in Dar just days after the train ride. I was up all night running to and from the bathroom yet again, this time vommiting and not being able to keep even water down. The next morning I decided I would risk taking the bus and just before we got into the taxi to take us to the station I vomitted right in front of the driver. That was miraculously the last time and with the aid of anti-diarreal medication I made it to our destination without incident.

We were headed for Arusha to get out of the big city, continue looking for bikes and meet up with a friend of mine who is living outside of the city. Arusha is known for being halfway between Cape Town and Cairo, meaning with how much travelling we have done off the beaten path we must have travelled a few thousand miles at this point. We hung around in Arusha for a few days being very lazy. We had wifi, met a guy travelling from the states to hang out with and restaurants that offered things like cheeseburgers and pizza. It was a nice change from the rest of southern Africa

A variety of grains and spices in a market in Arusha

While wondering around the city, Matt spotted the top of a Hindu temple off in the distance. We decided to go check it out. We arrived at the front of the building and proceeded to attempt to enter when a local man came up and questioned us about what we doing. He instructed us to follow him around back. We were skeptical, as usually when someone in Africa helps a white person, there is a reward that is expected, even for the most menial of tasks. We start to follow him and then turn around and go back to the entrance. The man begins yelling to someone, "Muzungu muzungu!," or "white person white person!" An Indian man comes from around the building and greets us with a smile and a firm handshake. He welcomes us warmly and explains that the temple is not open just yet for visitors, but invites us back that evening as there was a special speaker from India there to give a talk and explains that there will be food provided. Obviously, with the invitation for free food and a chance to expereince something culturally unique, Matt and I graciously excepted.

We arrived at the temple around 6pm with empty stomachs thinking we would be eating dinner shortly. Pranesh, the man we had met earlier in the day met us at near the entrance of the large temple. He began showing us around the main room of the temple where there were many shrines where people would come twice and day pray to their different gods. In the corner there was a shrine of a man named Swaminaryan who had left his home at the age of 12 and began travelling through India teaching people about how to be more spiritual and become better Hindus. We came to learn that the name Swaminaryan is also the name of this sect of Hinduism. The shrine was surounded by flashing neon lights and brightly colored, resembling something out of Las Vegas rather than in a holy temple, but this was classic Hindu extravagance. Pranesh then told us that the evening was going to begin with Hindu prayer and song and then we would move to a different room where the talk would begin. We found a seat and the ceremony began.

The men and the women sat in different areas with the men up front leading the chanting and drumming and the women in the back. The reason for this, Pranesh explained, was "so that the men would not be distracted by the the women." As we were not in any place to question their faith or practices, we nodded and smiled. There were four men sitting in front of the shrines on a large mat. They had microphones and were chanting something in their native language, Gujarati. I believe the chanting and drumming was the signal that the evening had begun. People began filling the room. Women would find a spot in the back and sit together and men would come into the center of the room to the mat and start their prayer rituals and jooin with the rythmic chanting. Occasionally a man with an orange colored robe would come in and walk up to the shines and perform his prayers giving respect to the figures. After the chanting all the men walked in a line along the shrines and close their eyes and appeared to be soaking in the energy of the figures. We were invited to do the same and we did so respectively which in all honesty felt a little silly being that I didn't know what I was doing. I just followed what everyone else did and moved along.

We then all filed into a large room in a different part of the temple that had more seating available and a stage where there were chairs set up and a podium for the speaker. We followed Pranesh and he instructed us to sit near the front row. Again, the women sat in the back and men in the front. As we sat not knowing what to expect from this talk, whether it was going to be in English and our stomachs rumbling away, we began to feel that we may have made a mistake. At this point it would have been rude to get up and walk out and we were still intrigued by what was to come, so we sat there politely with Pranesh waiting for the talk to begin.

It began with an introductory speaker. To our relief he spoke in English as well as Gujarati. We realized that the ceremony was to promote a book that was written recently about conversations that took place between a living guru and the ex-president of India. Through the series of talks that took place, the well educated ex-president of India began to realize that something was missing from his life and to the plan he was making to help build up the country of India. He realized his plan was missing a spiritual component. The speaker talked of friendship, told some stories and introduced the main speaker Sadhu Brahmavihardi, the translator between the ex-president and the guru Pramukh Swamiji.

I expected it to be something that was unrelatable and overly spiritual, but to our surpise was actually quite good. He talked a lot of the different faiths in the world, including agnostics and atheists, needing to have more diologue and understanding. It was important to accept each others beliefs as their own and have respect for one another. The speaker wore an orange robe and was very charasmatic. He was educated in London, held multiple degrees, and could speak multiple languages. He was clearly a scholor before he became a holy figure.

Sadhu Brahmavihari in the large chair with Pramukh Swamiji pictured above

After the talk the men all lined up to thank the speaker and the different holy men he travelled with for coming all the way Africa to speak, shaking their hands and touching the feet of the speaker. Pranesh instructed us to wait until the end and he would introduce us. We waited and hopped in line at the end. We came through the line thanking the men for coming. We approched the Sadhu Brahmavihari and he stopped us and we talked for a while together. He was extremely kind and asked us what kind of work we do. We explained to him what Outward Bound was and he told us a story of Edmund Hillary, a famous mountaineer. We couldn't believe he knew of him, let alone told us a story of his childhood. He encouraged us to keep exploring and travelling and then proceeded to give us each a book in which he wrote a message to each of us and signed his name. We then took pictures together and Matt and I thanked him once again and headed downstair to eat. It was around 10pm at this point and we were starving.

Sadhu Brahmavihari writing a message in our books

They served traditional vegetarian Indian food which was amazing, much better than the Indian food I ate in Dar es Salaam which got me violently ill for about 24 hours. They servered different curries with vegetables and paneer, an Indian cheese, rice, salad, and homemade desert that resembled a donut mixed with a cookie. At the end of the dinner Pramesh insisted that we once again go talk with speaker and say our farewells. We felt like we had had enough special treatment for the evening, but also felt like we couldn't tell our guide no. We approached Sadhu Brahmavihari in his room and we said our goodbuys. He then proceeded to give us prayer beads and a bracelet as further gifts to take with us. By this time it was nearly 11pm and Pranesh insisted on driving us back to our hostel because it wasn't safe to walk home alone. We relunctantly accepted. We were honestly blown away by the evening. The kindness we were shown was more than we ever expected and the talk was actually one that we could relate to. We had no idea that when we wandered up to a strange Hindu temple in Africa that we would be shown such hospitality or have such an experience.

After spending a few days in Arusha, we headed for Usa River, about 30 min outside the city to meet up with my friend Halle who is studying Swahili at the University there. We met her and met a couple of her friends who are also studying there. It was great to hang out with fellow Americans for a few days as they are so few on the continent. One of the days Matt and I took a bus to a small town about 30 minutes away and then took a tuk tuk another 30 minutes into the bush to find a natural spring. The spring was bubbling up from under the ground and was so clear it was difficult to tell how deep it was. There was a rope swing and trees you could climb into and jump from. We were getting a bit restless and feeling disapointed about not getting bikes before we got there. Finding a spring like this in the African bush has the ability to transform one's mood from one of disdain to one of hopefullness. It was exactly what we needed and the following day we daparted and headed for Nairobi with motorcycles still on the radar.

The Ilala - Matt

After the seven days of journey through six countries, five borders and a new year, Sam and I found ourselves longing for a little R&R and the three day ferry ride from Monkey Bay, the southern port on lake Malawi, up to Chilumba on the north eastern shore sounded like a just the respite we were looking for. We envisioned three days of Mai Thais on the deck under the sun and two nights of early to bed late to rise. But first we had to get up to Monkey Bay and we had just a day to do it before the ferry left without us, not to return for another week. To make this the 240km trip from Blantyre, Sam and I decided to take the bus, sitting next to the good people of Malawi.

Let me now indulge you on the intricacies of central African public transportation. Mind you, this all comes from an outsider's western point of view and I have no doubt that this system of transit is perfectly comprehensible to those that use it daily. First, you grab your luggage and walk to where all the buses are. Mini-buses, regular school-bus-sized buses, smaller pickup trucks, cars with taxi signs on them, cars without taxi signs on them, colorful motorcycles, tuk tuks (sigh), and rickety old bicycles soon all have their various representatives charging at you in a fevered attempt to determine where you're going before anyone else can steal you away. It is not unlike how I imagine being the only girl at a Marine ball would feel. Everyone wants your attention and their kinda aggressive about letting you know.

But, no matter where you're going or who you tell it to they always seem to know which vehicle is going where and shepherd you towards it like the lost and helpless child you always knew you were. Once you reach the vehicle in question you inquire about the price to get to X. The doorman (There is a doorman and a pilot on each of the buses. I'll come to their rolls in just a minute.) tells you a price depending on the style of vehicle, everything except taxis being exceptionally cheap by western standards. Once the price is agreed upon and paid you become objectified. What I mean to say is, you become a commodity that is to be traded. Bought and sold on the African roads by anyone heading somewhat in the direction you were going. Because, contrary to what you were told, your vehicle is not going to the destination you requested but it is going that direction.

Along the route the doorman will be hanging out the window of the bus yelling or whistling at anyone who looks like they might be interested in a ride. That's the door man's job. He's crowd control. Inquires to passing pedestrians if they would like to ride with a yell or whistle (whistling seems to be a prerequisite for the position), convinces them to ride, takes their money and packs the bus with both people and commodities (since they are one and the same). The pilot, well the pilot just drives. Like a dancer on the road dodging pot holes, pedestrians, bicyclists, and looking for any opening to get around slower traffic. Together these two are picking up and dropping off people at arbitrary, though presumably designated, points all along the route. At one point you might be sitting next to a woman with a child on her lap and a chicken on the child's lap. The bus will stop, she'll get out and you'll think 'yes, finally some space to move about', but it is only 50 feet down the road that the doorman has spied another passenger. This one's legs are covered in mud and he has three 50 kilo sacks of maize that gotta fit somewhere.

At one of these arbitrary stops you are shuffled out of the bus. 'Is this our stop? Have we arrived at X?' You might ask. Everyone seems to think no, but the doorman has run off into the crowd that is milling about. In a moment he will return and with him another person. 'He will take you to X' he'll say. Some money changes hands between the two men and then you are shuffled off to another vehicle. I'm sure the sacks of maize you were just sitting next to have similar stories in their lives.

It is using this method that Sam and I finally arrive triumphant to Monkey Bay, covering the 240km distance for only 9000 Kwacha (about 12 dollars) for both of us. Ready for a cabin on a boat, Mai Thai in hand we discover that cabins are about a hundred bucks. Well second class, which means sleeping on the deck, will be fine. We purchased our tickets and climb on board The Ilala.

When preparing for a three day boat journey there are some simple things that need to be taken into account. Chiefly of which is how will you get food. Since there is a restaurant on the boat Sam and I figured we'd be able to buy food, we also bought some chips and biscuits before we got on for snacks. The restaurant on the boat operates on this curious little thing called money. Sam and I had brought about maybe 11,000 Kwacha, which is equivalent to 12 US dollars on board with us. This was enough for one meal on the first day before we realized how financially ill prepared we were since each meal cost approximately four dollars for the both of us. After that we saved our money to buy drinks, since we had neglected to bring any water.

To survive Sam and I broke out the stove and cooked what was left of our rice and our dehydrated split pea soup and refried beans that I'd been packing around with me since I stole them from my work last summer. At this point, we were both quite thankful that I'd lugged them half way around the world. This food totalled to one meal a day and a bag of chips or a packet of biscuits for a snack but given the heat and lack of physical exercise our appetites were pretty low anyway so we didn't mind all that much. We read mostly, and soaked up the rays.

There were several stops along the three day journey, perhaps 12 or 13 in all. At only three of these stops did The Ilala actually dock; Monkey Bay, where we got on; Chilumba, where we'd get off; and Nkhata Bay. At each of the other stops passengers embark and disembark through the use of two dingys attached to the side of the Ilala. These ships were painted off white and had the words ILALA 22 PERSONS painted on the side. While these two are taking the various passengers, sacks of maize and livestock ashore the Ilala is swarmed by numerous of small craft. Most of these are are fishermen in dugout canoes trying to sell fish to passengers on the boat, there are also some of small dingys dropping people off and picking up goods. I once saw a boat about twice the size of a pool table loaded with an actual pool table, stacked sideways on the boat so that it's legs dragged in the water, and about 8 other men to unload it on shore.

I went ashore at one of the more major looking settlements trying to find an ATM where I could procure some money so Sam and I can eat more than a meal a day. After fighting through the crowds below deck to board the small craft I looked up at towards the top of the ship and saw Sam. He yelled down with a smile 'I count 32. Good luck.' I don't think he counted the few chickens with their feet tied who'd been thrown rudely into the bottom of the boat. As soon as the boat hit the beach I jumped out and waded through knee deep surf ashore. Maneuvered my way through, what I assume, is half the entire population of the town gathered on the beach. After only ten minutes on land I had been laughed at by some locals, apparently entertained at the novelty of having an ATM in such an inaccessible location, and I gave up the search for a cash machine. These shoreline and island settlements that we stop at couldn't have had more than a couple hundred people in each and it made me wonder what their economy was based on. With no regular access to banks, did they use money that could only brought in from the outside or was there some other entirely different means of exchange of goods and services that circumvented the traditional monetary system? I imagine it must be somewhere in the middle but a comprehensive answer continues to elude me. It also seemed that the Ilala was the most exciting thing that happened each week in these small remote little villages.

Our first night was complemented with a spectacular electrical storm (these seem to be the norm in Malawi from around 5pm to 9 or 10pm) that entertained us all the was up until it forced the five or six deck passengers under the small shelter of the covered bar with torrential rains around one in the morning. This afforded me the once in a life time opportunity to sleep behind a bar, which gave me the best protection from the wind and the rain. A great night in all. The next night it didn't rain water on us, but Sam and I choose our sleeping location poorly and woke up covered in soot from The Ilala's smoke stack.

We arrived late, like 10pm as opposed to the advertised 3pm, into Chilumba, found a local guest house for the night and planned our entry into Tanzania. Here's a quick little anecdote about passports and visas. Each country we've been to so far has required a visa for our entry. A visa comes in the form of a sticker with a bunch of information on it about the size of a page in your passport and that's where it goes. In northern Malawi, I was out of blank pages and still had a lot of visas to get. But lucky for me these stickers are so robust that they are really hard to tear, but their sticky side is kinda of weak. So I have started carefully tearing visas out of my passport to make room for the new ones. It's a neat trick but try and keep it on the hush hush for me.

In all Malawi is a great country. The people here seem much more optimistic and jovial than was our experience in Zimbabwe. The land is far more green and lush than we have seen since southern most Africa and the goats and cows on the side of the road look much healthier. Lake Malawi is a perfect deep blue and the cleanest water I've seen since being in Africa. It's shores are lined with small villages accessed only by boat and looked at only with wonder. Even up to two miles off shore the lake is peppered with short dugout canoes manned by fishermen who cast their lines all day to bring in the ten or twenty fish that is their family's subsistence. The air is thick, as though it could be cut with a knife, and leaves you quite in the mood for a day full of swimming and relaxing. I am constantly sticky from sweat and my shirt, within minutes of putting on a fresh one is not soaked but has that warm, heavy, not-quite-dry feel, as though taken out of a dryer too soon. As was with Lesotho Malawi seems unaffected by the goings on outside its border, and as with Lesotho, I regret having to leave this place but Cairo calls. Next stop on the road Tanzania (pronounced tanzAnia, like we say Tasmania).

Five Borders in Seven Days - Sam

Matt and I recently crossed 5 borders in 7 days; South Africa to Botswana, then into Zambia, down through Zimbabwe by train, and through Mozambique to get into Malawi. It isn't our intention to blow through countries without spending much time, but that's the way it went. We had six days to get to Monkey Bay on the southern shore of Lake Malawi to catch the ferry up the lake and were coming from Livingstone, Zambia which lies on the border of Zimbabwe on the Zambian side of Victoria Falls, quite the distance. If we didn't make it there on time it would mean we either wait another week for the next ferry or we travel north by bus to get to the Tanzanian border, two options neither of us we interested in.

We crossed the Zimbabwe/Zambia border by foot and caught the train from Victoria Falls to Bulawayo. The train was built in the colonial days by the British sometime in the 1950's and it looked it. It was old, dirty, known for breaking down and certainly not fast to begin with. The trip was scheduled to take around 15 hours to go only 450 km, a distance that should take around 5 hours to drive. The train offered 3 classes of accommodation, economy, 2nd class, and a 1st class sleeper ranging from 8-12 USD. Matt and I bought a ticket for the sleeper car thinking how amazing it is that 1st class is only $4 more. After we took off we walked through the train end to end exploring the different cars. There didn't seem to be much difference between economy and 2nd class cars other than the 2nd class cars being nearly empty and the economy being full of people. There are also no white people in the economy class. For two American travelers, $4 seems like nothing, but to local Zimbabweans it clearly meant more.

The train had little to no regulations to what we could tell. We dangled our feet off the sides of the train and out of doors that stayed swinging open most of the time anyway. We could hang out the doors holding on to the handles used to assist people up the steep stairs, smoke cigarettes and drink beer and no one said a word. It was an amazing feeling. Riding the old train through the African bush smoking and drinking really felt like we were in the old west, besides of course passing a couple wild elephants on the way out of town.

In Bulawayo we were forced to spend the night as the train to Harare only ran 3 days a week contrary to what is posted online (a reoccurring theme we are learning to accept in Africa). The following day, we got our tickets and were walking through the station when I saw an empty room with locked doors. It had a sign labeled "lounge" swinging above the door. As I peered in a woman and a man came out of the office next door and approached us. The woman said hello and I asked her if we could sit in the lounge. She turned to the man and asked, "Can these two passengers have somewhere to put their things and relax?" The man nodded and she unlocked the door for us. As we entered the room, we noticed a sign that read, "1st and 2nd class passengers only." The lounge had a tall ceiling that stretched nearly 20 feet high and reminded us of Victorian era style architecture. The room had pictures of different landscapes in Zimbabwe and like everywhere else we have been in Zim a large portrait of President Robert Mugabe, or as we affectionately refer to him, Bobby Mugabe. As we walked around the room we realized many of the landscapes were the same picture. There may have only been 3 out of 6 pictures that were actually unique. There were 6 small 2 person chairs in the room that were surprisingly clean. The room looked as though it hadn't been used for decades. It made us wonder why they allowed us in and why they didn't check our tickets to see if they were 1st or 2nd class.

Our suspicion is that because we didn't see any whites in the economy or 2nd classes, they must have assumed we were riding 1st class and their assumption would be right. That assumption was consistent with all other white passengers we met as well. It felt strange to be treated differently, like I had more privilege than anyone else, but I certainly did. It seemed very apparent at the time that because we were white we were being treated differently, something that occurs in the United States, but to a lesser degree and is far less apparent, at least for those with more privilege. For those with less privilege it is likely far more obvious and gives reason to why some people in America don't feel that racism still exists. If someone is not outwardly prejudice and does not experience prejudices firsthand, it is easy to assume it does not exist.

The train from Bulawayo to Harare was the same dirty old rickety train putting down the tracks at the same slow pace. To our surprise there was a working sink in our sleeper car, also to our surprise it smelled as if people used it to piss in. Fortunately, Matt had already claimed the bottom bunk, which was closer to the pissed in sink so I didn't have to sleep anywhere near the thing. The train has windows that roll down and ventilation ducts near the ceiling so there is an abundance of air whipping through the car which helped.

We met a few local guys on the train heading home to Harare after the holiday to go back to work. They were nice enough, still drunk from the night before. We talked about traveling, politics and about life in America. I asked them if they like President Mugabe. They laughed and replied, "No one likes Mugabe." Apparently things are getting better in Zimbabwe though. After adopting a new constitution in 2013, people seem to enjoy more freedoms than they previously had. For example, they said that people are able to talk about politics openly. Before they were afraid of talking openly as they were not sure who was listening. Apparently there were harsh consequences for saying anything against ol' Bobby Mugabe, who is still maintaining control in his nineties.

When talking of going to America, the guys were unsure of whether it is safe or not. "Don't people get shot all the time?" they would ask. I replied, "Well...yeah, but it's not like that everywhere." "And can't people carry guns on them anywhere they go?" "Well...yeah, but most people don't actually carry them everywhere." I'm finding it harder and harder to explain why America is safe and a great country to come visit, because it is. It's funny to have this kind of reaction from Africans about America. It's a similar reaction that Americans have when they think of coming to Africa. America is a wild place where no one is safe from the gun wielding citizens who shoot up churches and schools just as Africa is a dark war torn continent where soldiers from the latest military coup might move in to massacre the people. Both scenarios have truth to them, but are a tiny fraction of the actual story which is far more complex than headlines let on, in Africa as well as America.

We arrived in Harare and our new friends helped us find the bus station that was a few blocks from the train station, which was quite nice considering they were starting to feel the effects of drinking the night before. We bought out tickets, but not after having to convince the guy in the ticket office to sell them without having our Malawian visa. I asked how easy it was to get a visa at the border, realizing quickly that I should have kept my mouth shut. He attempted to turn us away, but after seeing that Matt and I were not going to back down, he sold us the tickets. We get back to our hostel and I decide to double check whether or not we need a visa prior to arriving at the border. I discover that as of Oct. 1, 2015 (contrary to what I remember researching likely before Oct. 1) you need to obtain your visa prior to arriving in the country. In a panic I look up the address for the Malawian embassy in Harare. It states that it is open until 4:30PM. We rush out of the hostel and into the street and grab a mini bus downtown. We walked swiftly down the street from where we were dropped to where the embassy was. When we arrive at 42 Harare St, all that we find is an old hardware store in an area of the city that did not seem very diplomatic. We rush back to an internet cafe that we had passed and look up the correct address (don't ever trust embassyfinder.com, it's a terrible website only created to infuriate travelers and create mayhem). It's on the other side of town of course. We grab a taxi and zoom off once again back to the side of town we just rushed away from. We arrive at the embassy thinking we have minutes to spare until they close just to discover they closed at noon. I asked the guard about visa requirements. He walks up to the building and taps on the door. I follow him up the porch that leads to the door. He gets some visa applications and gives them to us just as an official looking man walks out of the door. I smile and introduce myself and ask if I can talk to him briefly about visa requirements. He was a friendly man and told us that we should have no problem crossing the border the following day. A man in a suit at the Malawian embassy said go for it. That was good enough for me.

We board the bus the next day and a woman in the front of the bus asks if we have our passports. We tell her yes and go to our seats. The whole bus ride we are anxious as to what was to come. Would they let us in no problem or were they going to deny us entry into Malawi leaving us stranded in no man’s land that is the border between Mozambique and Malawi? Better yet, was it going to take so long the bus driver, tiring of waiting on two tourists who just lied about having visas, would just leave us there at the border? We were on our way to find out.

We get through the Mozambique border as we did have that visa already. When we arrive at the Malawi border we rush to get to the front of the line. We get to the window and they take our money and passports without hesitation and tell us to go sit down while they process everything. We sit and talk to the people working in the office who seem very excited that we are visiting their country. Every minute the line dwindles down until eventually everyone else on the bus was through and we were left sitting in the office thumbing through tourist brochures. We are shuffling around nervously and I keep standing up to make sure the bus is still there. A man at the desk tells me to go tell the bus driver we are still waiting. I run out and try to talk to him, but he brushes me off and seems too busy to care. They seemed to be shuffling around luggage for some reason. I go and sit back down. Eventually the man says he will go tell the driver for us. The man and the driver return just as they hand us our stamped visas. We felt a powerful sense of relief and rush out to the bus to join everyone standing outside waiting to be let on. The timing was impeccable. We board the bus and head off towards Blantyre, Malawi. 

Give Up On Plans - Matt

Our car's waved to a stop by the traffic officer not 10 minutes after entering Botswana.
'You were speeding,' says the officer in a gotcha sort of tone, as if he's just won a game.
'Speeding? No I wasn't,' quips Pete instantly in his most offended tone. As if just the thought of him speeding is insulting.
'You were,' retorts the officer. 'Pull the car over and go talk to that man.' And indicates to a officer sitting at a picknick table near by.
Pete pulls the car off the road and as he gets out mentions in an offhand way, 'I'll just take 100 rand with me and sort this out.' Sam and I debate for all of two seconds whether or not we should film this and then pull the camera out. We watch the exchange between Pete and the officer from the safety of the car and try to conceal the camera recording the action. After a couple of minutes Pete comes back with this shit-eating grin on his face.
'Sharp-sharp?' I asked using the South African slang for 'all-good'.
'Not quite,' he says. 'Guy wanted 520, so it might take a little more than a hundred to get us out of this. Now gimme some small bills.'

Nothing in Africa seems to go to plan

After leaving lesotho four days ago Sam and I booked it up to Kruger national park with the hopes of seeing the big five (an elephant, rhino, lion, giraffe and hippo) and hopefully to camp in the park. We hadn'tconsidered the holidays and that everyone and their mum was trying to stay in the park. But anyway, a day and a half of driving and a night on the side of the highway put us at the sourthern gates of Kruger where Sam decided to withdraw some money to pay for entry. While I was waiting in the car Sam had some trouble at the atm. He was having some trouble with the machineand two men came over to help. With some exceedingly light fingers they walked away with Sams card leaving Sam to think that the machine had eatin it. He immdiately was able to get on the phone to his bank where he found out they'd already withdrawn over 300 dollars and would eventually get 400 more. At this point he'll get the money back and the card is canceled. The trouble is gettin him a new one.

After that dibacle you could say spirits were understandably low, but Sam handeled it well and the only thing left to do was to get into the park. It was around noon by the time we got in and we found out that the gates close to the park at 6:30pm. So we scurried around trying to find some sort of camp site for the night where we were met with defeat at every attempt. With only a few hours left in the park Sam and I are like great, pay a bunch of money and we're not even gonna see any animals. No way we can see anything in a hnadful of hours.

But we turned down some random road and were able to see some elephants off at a watering hole about 100 feet from the road. Pretty cool. Then an exclamation from Sam and I turn to look out the other side of the car and see a herd of 15 some elephants meandering towards the water with us in between. They walk around while the massive matriarch screens her family against us. Powerful behemoths have the ability, apparently, to lift dipressed spirits and to revitalize the energy of a sad man. In all, we saw elephant, rhino, hippo, nearly drove past giraffe only feet from our car as the blended so well with the trees they were hiding behind, hyena, warthog, tons of elans and a lion stretched out next to the carcass of a rhinocerrous the size of a small pickup accompanied by a stench that permiated everything for a radius of some 50 or 60 feet. I can't really explain the impact of the smell but consider this, a slab of raw meat the size of a car sits in the direct African sunlight in about 90 degree weather for two or three days. It definitely leaves an impression.

So Kruger worked out, but we had to get out and move towards Polokwane where we'd catch our bus north into Zimbabwe and hopefully make it to Victoria Falls for New Years. At Polokwane we return our car but not before finding out that the only way to pick up our bus tickets was with the debit card that purchased them, and since Sam was the one who bought them, and since his card is currently financing some South African's bathroom remodel, we were unable to get the tickets. Can't use any sort of ID even though our names are attached to the tickets and since the bus was full (except for the two empties that were meant for us), we had to wait till tomorrow for the next bus, meaning we'll now be spending new years on a train instead of in Vic Falls. Nothing goes to plan in Africa. Another example.

Even though we bought two set of tickets for Polokwane to Bulowayo (Zimbabwe) we didn't end up using either one, because the extra night we were forced to spend in Polokwane allowed us to meet Pete. Let me tell you a little about Pete. Austrailian but born and raised in Papua New Guiena. He's been traveling for the past two years and is constantly dropping these outlandish little snippits of himself, like his family's close ties with Russel Crow or how his great uncle's a Danish duke. He's a charismatic silver tongued devil with an almost pathological propensity to break rules and push limits. Sam thinks he's a little like Han Solo before meeting Obi-wan and Luke and I have to admit Sams not far off.

So Pete's heading north to Victoria Falls by way of Botswana and Zambia and invites us along within a minute or two of meeting. So it was off to Botswana for Sam and I where we ran into the above mentioned problems with authority. But after that it was smooth sailing through Botswana with the occasional stop to watch Pete chase after the elephants that wander the bush on the side of the road. He even convinced us to try and get close for a good photo. Sam and I abandoned Pete as soon as the elephant started it's charge and I didn't stop running till I had the car between me and the elephant. So we drive across the entire country in about 36 hours with an over night in Nata for some local color. In the whole drive the scenery never really alternated from the flat expanse of bush that stand about 12 feet off the ground.

We reach the Zambezi river that separates Botswana from Zambia and acted as David Livingston's highway to the interior on his fateful attempt to find the source of the Nile over a century and a half ago. When drving onto the ferry Pete tells us that the car rental company told him explicitly not to go into Zambia and would only give him a pass for Botswana. So in front of the customs office Pete does a little blunt forgery to the documents pertaining to his car and it's off to the office. We get the visas easy but Pete then spends the next two hours running from line to cash machine to line and so on and so forth, until they finally allow him to take his car through with a significantly thinner wallet.

On to Livingstown and Vic Falls. Arrive with only eight hours remaining in 2015. Scramble to find a room for the night and then it's out on the town to bring in the new year Zambia style, which means exchanging sweat with Africans and a spinkleing of tourists in the packed cement skeleton of a dance club.

Happy new year guys.

PS. While trying to upload photos just now, our tablet's SD card slot seems to have taken a poop. So we may be relagated to uploading photos only at internet cafes. We're working on it but Africa seems to have this magical field all around it inhibiting electronics from working correctly. Demon ex machina.