Photo Yumminess Vol. II

Welcome to the second round of the picture pages. About time, I know!

Captions for the following photographs:

1. Not child porn! The Umlanga Festival in Mbabane, Swaziland, wherein the King chooses a new wife from a selection of young virgins.
2. The crystalline waters of Paje, Zanzibar.
3. Children posing, Chizumulu Island, Malawi. African kids make for photographic perfection.
4. A family fishes in the shadows of Maputo, Mozambique.
5. A jacaranda tree in full bloom, looming ominously over a traditional village. Great Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe.
6. Courtyard with palm tree explosion, Stone Town, Zanzibar.
7. The kids of Chizumulu decide to give me a close shave. One machete is better than a Gillette Mach 3 any day. Malawi.
8. Marooned fishing boats, old harbour, Dar-Es-Salaam, Tanzania.
9. Worthless! What 20USD gets you in Zimbabwe dollars. If you look closely you can see the date of expiry on the notes. Mutare, Zimbabwe.
10. Zebra ambling in the savannah, Hell's Gate National Park, Kenya.
11. Absolute mayhem: the minibus taxi rank, Kampala, Uganda.
12. Another day comes to a close, Lake Malawi.
13. Your not-so-distant ancestor, Parc National des Volcans, Rwanda.
14. Packing for an African safari? Don't forget your hubble telescope! Stupid tourists, Murchison Falls, Uganda.
15. Dhow on blue, Bazerutu Archipelago, Mozambique.
16. Riding in a taxi with an Aussie friend, Nairobi, Kenya.

Garbage Delight

Now Im not the one who'll say no to a bun
And I can always manage some jelly
If somebody gurgles, please eat my hamburgles
I try to make room in my belly
I seem, if they scream
Not to gag on ice cream
And with fudge I can choke down my fright
But nothing's enticing
Or even worth slicing
Compared to Garbage Delight.

This is an excerpt from a poem that my mother used to read to me when I was young. "Garbage Delight" denotes heaps and heaps of good food.

Those of you who know me well are aware that I have a profound love for all things culinary. On several occasions throughout the past six months, certain members of my family have put forth queries as to why I'd abstained from discussing the food in Africa to any degree. Today, the answer becomes clear: I had been planning to publish a list of my five best dining experiences on the continent as a whole, and for the sake of accuracy I was sworn to wait until my final week.

So without any further ado, I unveil to you the winners, counted up from fifth-best.

NUMBER 5
Meal: Springbok shank with red wine and rosemary jus
Location: Mama Africa's, Cape Town, RSA
Here I was, less than a week into my time in South Africa and already sinking my teeth into their national animal. The antelope meat was tender and succulent and the sauce divinely thick, ideal for being mopped up with some bread. I'd hardly expected to be eating this well on the Dark Continent.
What makes Mama Africa's special is that it's not just a restaurant - it's dinner theatre. After the meal is done, the lights are killed and the place fills with jugglers, musicians, singers, acrobats and mimes, and everyone gets gunned on Castle Lager. The party rages into the night, or at least it would have for us, had my friends and I not been sitting with a devoutly racist family of White South Africans. Their malicious, disparaging and shockingly audible comments to our Black waitress eventually sent us fleeing from the place in embarassment.

NUMBER 4
Meal: The Malawian Vegetarian Buffet
Location: Mayoka Village, Nkhata Bay, Malawi
Could it be that a fully vegetarian meal makes it into my top four?
Yes, it is so.In fact, I'll hazard that even the most seasoned flesh-addict would put his steak aside for a night for a chance to dig into this symphony of garden delights: deep fried cassava chips, spinach in peanut sauce, savoury red beans, curried sweet potato, okra and tomato stew, grilled eggplant and homemade mango chutney are all available, served in massive steaming cauldrons that line the bar. Remember boys, this is a buffet, so if eating a meal devoid of meat makes you nervous, just overcompensate and put back 5 kilos of the stuff.
Mayoka Village is just a hostel, by the way.

NUMBER 3
Meal: Mixed grilled seafood
Location: Forodhani Gardens, Stone Town, Zanzibar
By day, Forodhani is a park where Muslim women hang out in the shade and gossip. By night, it's a barbeque bonanza, where hundreds of pounds of sea delicacies are cooked up on smoking coal grills. The selection is unprecedented, and each table has at least 10 local guys hustling you to buy from them. Funny how they all claim that theirs is the freshest. For $10, I feasted on calamari, octopus, shark and tuna, with a side of chipati, hot sauce and beer. Seafood this cheap? Forodhani should be a no-brainer for the #1 spot. The sad reality is, however, that any leftover bits from the previous night go right back on the grill, and many tourists who eat here end up feeling dodgy afterwards.

NUMBER 2
Meal: A bologna sandwich
Location: Shoprite Supermarket, Kasane, Botswana
Under normal circumstances, it would be a pretty sad state of affairs if a bologna sandwich managed to snag the silver medal. So before you start feeling sorry for me, know this:
I had just completed my 8-day crossing of Zimbabwe. During that stint, the most appetizing meal I ate was a plate of rice with some chopped-up hot dog and salt, and on some days I was unable to find anything more than bananas and soda water. I was famished. More than that, I was craving something greasy and satisfying.
As I entered the door of the Shoprite - having walked 10km from the Zimbabwe border to get there - I was awestruck. After only seeing empty shelves for more than a week, the sight of a stocked supermarket make me feel like a pilgrim would upon arriving at his ashram after a long quest. I bought fresh bread, processed cream cheese, bologna, potato chips, lettuce and milk. Later, at my hotel, I made the mother of all hoagies, ate the whole damn thing, then spent the remains of the day lying in bed like a satiated lion, listening to the happy gurlges in the depths of my stomach.
Oh, and the milk: not 5m out of the grocery store, I cracked the seal and drank the whole litre in one go. It began to seep from my mouth and run down my shirt, causing the locals to stop and stare. I served them a peremptory scowl in return... I deserved this.

NUMBER 1
Meal: Meat, meat and more meat
Location: Carnivore Restaurant, Karen, Kenya
I suppose I was preordained to visit this place before I left Africa, and as I approached the front doors of the restaurant, I could practically sense its gravitational pull. At Carnivore, you sit around a table. In the centre of this table are two things: an assortment of sauces, and a flag on a stick. Raise the flag, and a battalion of waiters carrying giant skewers of meat descends upon you, hacking bountiful slices onto your plate with their pangas. Each man carries something different, and over the course of the evening you'll be served pork, lamb, beef fillet, chicken, turkey, sausage, liver, ostrich and crocodile. It's a true Brazilian churrascaria, done African style, and until you lower the flag, the meat keeps on coming.
One of the Canadian girls sitting at the table couldn't stop talking about how her favourite food was rice. Rice? What the Hell kind of favourite food is that? Can you imagine, sitting here with this meat extravaganza in front of you, rattling on about your preference for rice? God help the person who ever does that at my dinner table. Rice is for losers. And Koreans.

With a nip and a nibble
A drip and a dribble
Dollop a walloping bite
If you want to see grins all the way to my shins
Then give me some Garbage Delight.
Right now.
Please pass me the Garbage Delight.

Uganda, Alphabetically

My 16 days in Uganda are over. In this post, I offer a summary, with help from everyone's favourite 26 letters.

A for Aussies. I didn't meet too many of them in Africa, but in Uganda I met three extremely nice ones, and we ended up having a great time.
B for Boda Boda. The name given to the motorcycle taxis that whizz around cities and countryside alike, taking you to your destination in kamikaze fashion. Not for the faint of heart, because these guys drive like banshees and disobey most traffic laws.
C for Clean Clothes. I had them washed for the first time since Malawi, two months ago. In other news, no girls have talked to me since Malawi, two months ago.
D for Double. That's what Muzungus pay for nearly everything in Uganda.
E for Ebola Virus. My arrival in the country coincided with an outbreak of this nasty little ailment in the Western region, and even as I write this its spreading towards Kampala. Nothing like bleeding out of your ass and eyes!
F for Fluent English. Most Ugandans speak it, even out in the bush.
G for Giles Foden. The author of The Last King of Scotland, a semi-fictional novel about a Scottish doctor who becomes Idi Amin's personal physician and confidante. It was a pleasure reading this story while in the country, as it highlighted some of the more poignant characteristics of the people around me.
H for Hippos. Gotta love 'em. They're fat, they're slippery, they're loud, they're vegetarians, they kill people and when you pass by them on a Nile River cruise they grunt while staring at you with their googly eyes.
I for Idi Amin. Perhaps Africa's most despotic dictator, and he's had some stiff competition in that department. During his reign of terror, Amin slaughtered his own people, expelled all foreigners, renounced his nation's ties to the Commonwealth, and brought Uganda to its knees. Fortunately, he declared war on Tanzania - a war the Ugandans lost, and Amin was forced to flee to exile in Libya.
J for Jinja. Great place to whitewater raft. And to meet an army of tools, if one so wished.
K for Kampala. Churchill dubbed it "The Pearl of Africa" and it truly is a wonderful city.
L for Lake Bunyoni. This little gem is in the South of Uganda, and I spent my first few days there, swimming and piloting my rented dugout canoe. At one point, while paddling near an island, a local man beckoned me to the shore and asked me to take his mother to the local market on the opposite bank. I obliged, she planted herself in the bow, and off we went. She spoke no English, so she just sang in Bugandan for the trip's duration. Mike's Muzungu Boat Taxi Serivce.
M for Murchison Falls. The most powerful waterfall in the world, situated in the North where the Nile tumbles into Lake Albert. Impressive, and no casinos, therefore better than Niagara Falls.
N for Nile Special Lager. Beer. Enough said.
O for Omweso. A board game played in Uganda (and other parts of Africa, where it is known as bao), wherein players compete to win seeds from their competitor. I bought a beautiful carved wooden board to send home to myself. Someday I'll teach you lot how to play.
P for Plantlife. Uganda is painted in watercolor green from bottom to top.
Q for Qatar Airways. Bought a flight with them while I was here. C'mon, that counts!
R for Red Chilli Backpackers. My Ugandan home-away-from-home in Kampala.
S for Streetfood. I recommened goat brochettes, grilled corn on the cob, banana and cassava pancakes and chipatis stuffed with egg and avocado. The taste is enhanced, seemingly, when your snack is purchased through the window of a minibus.
T for The Source of the Nile River. You can see it in Jinja by paying 5000 UShs to walk up a road to where Lake Victoria starts to drain. Or, you can see it for free by cutting across a golf course and approaching from the opposite direction, though the guard with the massive gun will probably be very sore about it.
U for Ugandan People. Nice bunch.
V for Vindaloo. Had one of the mutton variety at a restaurant in Kampala and it was so hot, I nearly started to cry. But I gleaned the respect of my Aussie brethren.
W for Waragi. The local Ugandan firewater (gin-like and distilled from millet grain). We wanted to buy a bottle at the hostel, but it was 45000 UShs (25 dollars), so instead we paid one of the hostel cooks to take a boda boda to some private grog distributor. She came back with an old plastic jerry-can, half full of some mysterious liquid that smelled like jet fuel and made your eyes hurt when you smelled it. We were fully prepared to flush the stuff, but the hostel bartender had a sip and said it was decent. IT WAS AWFUL. Even the syrupy Fanta Orange couldn't mask the burn. Fortunately, none of us went blind.
X for ? I'm not bothered to even think of something for X.
Y for Yes, Friend! What the boda boda drivers yell at you on their way past.
Z for Zebu Cattle. Cows with astronomically large horns. Do a google image search. The Texans would be impressed.

To conclude, I'll just say that now I know my ABCs, and also that Uganda is excellent.

The White Nile

In Africa, they do everything BIG.

BIG animals.
BIG traffic jams.
BIG voices.
BIG tragedies.
BIG rivers.

The BIGGEST river, as a matter of fact, because inasmuch as the Nile River stretches 4132 miles from Lake Victoria in Uganda to the Mediterranean Sea in Egypt, it eclipses all other rivers of the world in length.

It's also an angry river. Right from its outset, the Nile rages and churns, down slopes and over waterfalls as it tumbles nearly 3000m on its way to the sea. There are hundreds of sets of rapids, some of them reaching "Class 6", which in whitewater terms basically means "try to paddle me and you're going to die". As a result, it was only paddled in its entirety by humans for the first time back in 2004.

So what does this mean for me? No, I had no plans to paddle the whole damn thing. That would have required a trip through the Sudan, which I've heard isn't all that nice at this time of year. Or any time of year. Luckily, there is another alternative: a one-day whitewater rafting trip at the very source of the White Nile, in the Ugandan town of Jinja.

I know that you'll all be expecting me to use a whole whack of descriptive language in order to convey the idea that my day out on the river was some intrepid, adrenaline-pumping experience that brought me to the verge of death and back. It wasn't. So I'll step out of character and just say that the rafting trip was fun. Fun, and a bit nerve-racking at times, because though the whitewater looks a bit scary to the onlooker standing on the shore, it looks downright terrifying when you're flying through it. There were 5 of us in the boat, plus guide, and for 7 hours we paddled until our triceps combusted, through the rocks and the waves and the impending doom. I must say we were a pretty decent team, too, because we were the only boat that didn't get flipped. With flipping comes the risk of being caught in an eddy, which can keep you under water for up to 20 seconds in places. Sounds frightening, though to be honest I was a bit crestfallen that I didn't end up getting tossed into the river once or twice. Would have made this blog post way more badass.

The point is that I had a great time, and would definitely be interested in trying it again... maybe next time in the Zambezi, where for added fun you have to contend with crocodiles.

Regrettably, the whole experience was nearly ruined by the high population of assholes that was permanently ensconced in the hostel in Jinja. Never in Africa - and only a handful of times in all my trips - have I been in a place with so many people that I didn't like.

The river itself is the culprit. With world-class rapids comes world-class rafters and kayakers - although that's just what they think they are, because in reality they're nothing but world-class wankers: young, testosterone-charged college dropouts who flock to Uganda from various corners of the 1st world to battle the river by day, and pickle their livers by night. You know the "Extreme" guys from Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle? These were them, times a thousand.

And where there's smoke, there's fire. Or in this case, a more fitting analogy is "where there's muscle, there's tail". Yep, what would a party hostel be without an infestation of teeny-bopping young ladies who've probably told their parents they've gone to Africa to volunteer at a school, but are actually spending most of their time exchanging contaminated bodily fluids with the local studs?

It was like clockwork. Each day at 6PM, the boys would rock up at the bar, strutting and yeahbroing and highfiving each other after a hard-fought day out in the whitewater. Shortly thereafter, Little Miss Camel Toe and her brood of virile pigeons would arrive, and for the next 8 hours, the STD Festival would be in full swing.

Now I'm not trying to say that I've forgotten how to have fun, or even to deny that a little promiscuity isn't chicken soup for the teenage soul. What I am trying to say is that this was not exactly the convivial gathering I'd been looking for when I came to Jinja. Normally, my fellow African travelers have been interesting, sometimes even inspiring types, capable of holding a decent conversation, namely one that doesn't always revolve around the soporific topic of past drunken escapades. I HATED the people at this hostel. If you weren't a full-time kayaker or a moonlighting skank, you basically had no place there, and since the entire venue was little more than a bar and some dorm rooms, there was no retreat for those of us who weren't keen on confabulating with incompetent McFuckwits.

So I rafted, and then I left. I've called in the US Military to strafe the place with napalm, though they haven't gotten back to me yet.

Echoes of a Genocide

On April 6, 1994, in a tiny country in the heart of East Africa, all Hell suddenly broke loose.

At 8:20PM, there was an explosion at the Kigali International Airport. A plane had crashed, killing all the passengers inside, including Rwandan president Juvenal Habyarimana. The aircraft had been shot down by a rocket.

Within an hour, a dark shadow befell the entire nation. Roadblocks were erected everywhere, manned by ordinary civilians armed with guns and machetes, who demanded to see ID cards from any passers-by. Meanwhile, just as people were settling into their beds for the night, a series of home invasions began to occur. Again, those responsible were plainclothes Rwandas with weapons.

Who were they? Members of the Interahamwe, an extremist militia whose named meant "Those Who Kill Together".
Their mission? To systematically exterminated every single Tutsi living in Rwanda.

During the month that followed, an estimated 800,000 Tutsis lost their lives. Many of them suffered unimaginably horrific deaths. The rest of the world, meanwhile, turned a blind eye.

The UN, who already had a small task force in Rwanda, proved its ineptitude beyond any reasonable doubt. Mission Commander Romeo Dallaire, who recognized what was happening, pleaded with his senior bureaucrats in New York for more troops to help curb the violence, but his cries fell on deaf ears and were only met with skepticism.

The Belgians, who lost 10 peacekeepers at the hands of the Interahamwe, pulled all their men out.

The French sent in a small army, though only to oversee the safe evacuation of all French nationals in the country.

The Americans, who were perhaps in the best position to help, spend the entire month arguing internally over whether or not "genocide" was a suitable term to apply to the atrocities. In the end, congress deemed that it was only "ethnic tension" and decided to do nothing. (Though to be fair, the Americans had just suffered a humiliating defeat in Somalia and weren't too keen on shipping men back to Africa).

So the Tutsis were left to die. And they probably all would have died, had it not been for the Rwandan Patriotic Front, a rebel army of previously-exiled Tutsis led by Paul Kagame, who captured Kigali in May of '94 and put an end to the slaughter.

...

It's now 13 years later, and I am in Rwanda. What shocks me the most about the place is that, from my perspective, things seem pretty normal. There are stray goats, busy markets, honking horns, women selling mangoes, men yelling at the TV while watching football, and children playing with old tires. Nothing amiss there. But that said, it isn't hard to realize that many of these people have been through Hell. And to understand their plight a bit more, I made a pilgrimage to the Genocide Memorial Centre in Kigali.

The GMC was set up by the government and is meant to show the world what they missed seeing the first time. Admission is free. The visit starts with a video documentary that highlights the genocide from beginning to end. There were many grisly images, though for me what was more difficult to stomach were the interviews with Clinton and Annan - people who could have done something, but didn't. Boy, is hindsight ever 20/20.

Next, you have a chance to learn about the history of Rwanda up until the time of the genocide. You discover that "Hutu" and "Tutsi" do not have racial denotations; before the Belgians arrived in 1923, Rwanda had 18 tribal clans, and Hutu and Tutsi were terms used to describe one's socio-economic status within their own clan. By introducing identity cards, the Belgians consolidated Rwanda into two clans, and thus racially divided the nation, with the Tutsis becoming the rich minority. The Catholic Church, which had an active role in the country at the time, fully supported this new system. The seeds of genocide were planted by foreigners.

Soon, you reach the exhibition detailing the genocide itself. It is horrific. The Tutsis were not just killed. They were beaten. They were mutilated. They were crucified on trees. They were thrown into pits and stoned. They were drowned in septic tanks.
Women were raped by Hutu men who knowingly had HIV.
Husbands were forced to kill their own wives.
Children were murdered so that the next generation of Rwandans would be 100% Hutu.

At the GMC, you get to see all of this. There are silent photos of kids with gangrenous wounds, recorded interviews with Tutsis who had watched their loved ones get killed, and piles of rusty machetes used in the massacre.

In one room there are clothes on display, worn by the victims on the day they died. One of the t-shirts said "Ottawa Senators" on the front, and had a blood-stained slash across the chest. That shirt would have fit me when I was 5.

In another room you see the faces of the actual victims: over 1000 photos of people who had been killed, their innocent eyes staring at you as you try to comprehend the potential magnitude of the evil inherent to humans.

Still feel like more?
If at this point you haven't got the message, then it's the last room that truly puts your heart in a vise.

In this last room are photos of children. Life-sized photos, taken from when the kids were happy and full of life, before they were stolen from this world by monsters. Each photo has an inscription with the child's name, as well as a few other pertinent details. An example:

Mami MPINGANZIMA
Age: 12
Enjoyed: Chips with mayo
Favourite Song: The Beauty of Women
Last Words: "Mom, where can I run to?"
Cause of Death: Shot dead

Sadly, this kid was probably lucky. Here are a few more.

Patrick Gashugi SHIMIRWA
Age: 5
Favourite Sport: Riding his bike
Best Friend: Alliane, his sister
Behaviour: A quiet, well-behaved boy
CoD: Hacked with machete

Ariane UMUTONI
Age: 4
Favourite Food: Cake
Enjoyed: Singing and dancing
Behaviour: A neat little girl
CoD: Stabbed in her eyes

Irene UMOTONI and Uwamwezi UMUTONI
Relationship: Sisters
Favourite Toy: A doll they shared
Behaviour: Daddy's little girls
CoD: Grenade thrown into their shower

Fillette UWASI
Age: 2
Favourite Food: Rice and chips
Best friend: Her Dad
CoD: Smashed against a wall

Aurore KIRIZI
Age: 2
Behaviour: Very talkative
Favourite Drink: Cow's milk
Favourite Game: Hide and go seek
CoD: Burnt alive

To conclude, I'll go back to what I said earlier: Rwanda, now, is pretty normal. To the average tourist, there is hardly any difference between here and Tanzania or Malawi. But beneath the surface, Rwandans still have the scars from what happened. There are still women here who have HIV from being raped. There are still children here whose parents were killed. There are still men here who did the killing, and will have to live with it forever.

As will all the people who saw what was happening and ignored it.

The world really sucks sometimes.

$33 Beer

Boy, am I ever glad that I'm a Canadian. My country is excellent. We have no history of violence. There is no racial strife, no abject poverty. The crime rate is low, the health care generally good, and the people are nice. We're also not belligerent idiots on the world stage. Yep, suffice to say that Canada is A-1.

That said, there are many other countries on Earth that I wouldn't mind being from. It might be nice to be Norwegian. It sure would be swell to come from Holland. I'd even hazard to say that to be a New Zealander wouldn't be awful.

Bad sadly, there are also many countries that I'm positively ecstatic NOT to be from. Countries where civil wars leave thousands dead. Countries that get plundered by imperial Superpowers in the name of "freedom". Countries where the life expectancy barely exceeds 35. Which countries are these? Well, there are lots, but today we're going to keep it to one: The Democratic Republic of Congo.

The Congolese people haven't exactly had a lot to cheer about. Belgium began plundering their land in the 1800s, and King Leopold III treated the place like his own personal stomping ground.
Next came perennial asshole despot President Mabutu Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu Waza Banda, whose name meant "the fearless warrior who will go from strength to strength leaving fire in his wake". A more suitable name might have been "the good-for-nothing klepto who spirited away all the country's money to spend on himself"; the man was a serious tool.
Congo is rich in prized natural resources such as gold, diamonds and rubber, and has therefore made some of its neighbouring countries rather jealous. After Mabutu's ousting by Laurent Kabila, there followed a great deal of political infighting, and 9 other African nations joined the fray, all looking for their own piece of the spoils. Sitting at the pole position was Robert Mugabe, who gained control of the Gecamines mineral deposit and pocketed himself a few hundred million. A civil war erupted in 1998, and over 3,000,000 Congolese lost their lives in the next 5 years.

These days things are on the mend, though there's still a lot of work to be done. Joseph Kabila won the presidency in 2005 after a series of democratic (?) elections, but rebels continue to cause problems in the Northeast. Most of the rebels are former Interahamwe, the Hutu militia that was responsible for the Rwandan genocide. Recent turmoil has produced a few million refugees, poorly timed because tourists were just beginning to trickle back into the country. These days, the only foreigners you're likely to find in the DR Congo are UN soldiers.

And me.

Well I'm sorry, but the lure of visiting the Congo was simply too great to resist. From Gisenyi in Rwanda, it's a short hop, skip and a jump to Goma on the Congo side, which makes for an easy day-trip. I took a moto-taxi to the border, paid for the visa, and walked in.

Was I ever nervous. But then again, having convoys of UN armoured vehicles pass you by can do that to you. I didn't enter the Congo to witness a humanitarian crisis first-hand though. My interest in the place was more geolicial than anything else, since Goma was buried by an eruption from the Nyiragongo volcano in 2002.

Aside from the fact that the roads were littered in pyroclastic material, Goma struck me as being pretty normal. That's impressive considering a civil war was taking place in the bush a few hours to the North. The town is a hive of activity, full of colourful people, minibuses and young men transporting petrol drums on wooden pushcarts that look like the predecessor of the American Chopper.

I walked around for a few hours - quickly, so as to appear as if I was on a mission and not to be disturbed. The trick worked a charm, and for the most part the Gomans ignored me, except for this one crippled guy who kept yelling "Whassssssup, my nig*a?????" whenever I passed. Even the Congo has comedians.

I exchanged a few USD for Congolese Francs, and used some to buy a wooden mask from a local artisan. Yes, the ubiquitous African mask... they're all over the continent, but if you're going to own one then it might as well be from the Congo, because this country is famous for them.

When I finally tired to walking, I escaped to one of the posh hotels that line the shores of Lake Kivu, and made directly for the bar. I ordered the biggest, frostiest beer in the cooler, and spent the next 90 minutes sitting at a table, sipping away and watching the sunlight as it danced on the water. I also took the time to read the 8x11" certificate you get when you go through Congolese immigration: a unique souvenir.

Now before you all start reading me the riot act, know this: under NO circumstances would I ever have ventured into the DRC if I hadn't been certain that things were safe. I've no desire to become the innocent victim of a crossfire, and I sought plenty of local information on the Rwandan side before entering.

I'm glad I went. When I arrived, the border official said "Karibu" (you are welcome), and it was an enjoyable experience from then on in. There is definitely an air of uncertainty about the place, but it's the same dark cloud that has been hanging over the Congolese people for more than 100 years. They really deserve better.

All told, the visa cost me $30 and the beer $3. Hence, $33 beer.

"It's not that democratic, it's barely a republic, but it is Congo." -The Lonely Planet

Gorillas In My Midst

Part of the reason that travel so enthralls me is that not every moment can be memorable. Some days just plain stink, and are totally unfit for the highlight reel.

Maybe you get stuck in a butt-ugly place.
Maybe you shell out a lot of money for an unforgettable activity which winds up being totally forgettable.
Maybe you decline to participate in an activity on account of being too tired, only to find out later that you missed out on having a blast.

Fortunately, it's the great moments - the ones where the highlight reel nearly runs out of tape - that make this business of solo travelling worthwhile. And for me, tracking the gorillas in Rwanda's Parc National des Volcans was perhaps one of the greatest moments yet.

A small helping of background info on mountain gorillas (Gorilla gorilla beringei):
-They can only be found on a small volcanic ridge that straddles Uganda, Rwanda and DR Congo
-There are only 720 living specimens, making them one of the most endangered species in the world
-They share 97% of their biological make-up with humans (and 99% with my Gr.8 math teacher Mrs. Case)
-They live in groups consisting of one dominant male (the silverback), several females and their offspring
-They were made famous by the late scientist Dian Fossey, who was played by Sigourney Weaver in Gorillas In The Mist
-To track the gorillas, you must purchase a permit from the country they reside in

Getting a permit is no easy task. There are only 108 available each day in the 3 countries combined, and given that the DR Congo is currently off-limits, that number is down to 72. They also come with a whopping 500 dollar ticket price, which is what I normally budget for one month of African travel. But some opportunities are too good to pass up.

I hardly slept the night before. At 6AM, I was picked up from my hotel in Ruhengeri and taken to the Park headquarters in Kiringi. The Park itself is gorgeous - 5 towering volcanoes covered in electric green vegetation.

At the HQ, tourists are divided into groups of 5-8 people, and each cluster of people visits one family of gorillas. I pulled some strings (meaning: got the Aussie girl I was hanging out with to bat her eyelashes at the group coordinator) and secured a chance to see the Hirwa family, which purportedly had many young gorillas. Then we set off.

It begins with a ride in a 4WD up the World's Worst Road to the base of the Muside volcano. Once there, you are met by your guide, as well as 2 soldiers from the Rwandan Army.

Perhaps I should account for the presence of the G.I. Joes: Gorillas, being extremely rare, are highly coveted on the international black market, and are therefore subject to illegal poaching. Poachers mean business. In 1999, 8 tourists and their guide caught some poachers in the act while tracking the gorillas in Uganda, and were subsequently kidnapped and murdered. Nowadays, no one hits the mountain without an armed escort.

And so the ascent begins. It can take up to 4 hours to reach the gorillas, though at this time of year they are fairly low, due to the snow at the summit. We reached them in 1 hour, and thank God for that, because the hike was no picnic. There is no path; you simply follow the guide as he slashes his way through the foliage with a machete, and to make matters worse you're slogging through foot-devouring mud filled with stinging nettles and army ants. But nothing Nature could throw at us was going to ruin this.

Finally, we arrived to within a few hundred feet. We received our final instructions ("Don't point at the gorillas or they might get nervous and kick your ass"), and then trudged through a last bit of bush and into a clearing.

[Insert words that may accurately describe the magnitude of my awe]. Fact is, there aren't any. Gorillas are one of the most majestic beasts on Earth, and here I was, seeing them in their own house.
My first sighting was of a female and her baby. Upon seeing us, the young one stood up, batted its chest, then promptly lost its balance and fell over backwards.

Then I saw HIM - the silverback. He was less than 6 feet away, sitting on a rock between a pair of palm trees, watching us with his crimson eyes. I fully expected him to roar, but instead he chose to roll on to his back, stick his feet in the air and sigh. "Bugger off, I'm tired."

For the next hour (because that's all you get), we all sat and watched gorilla TV. Gorillas are gentle and (thankfully) vegetarian creatures and are quite content to go about their routines despite the gallery of spectators. The females in the family spent their time munching away on bamboo shoots and wild celery. The young ones thrashed about, climbing trees, doing somersaults and generally causing a ruckus. The silverback, meanwhile, policed the area, charging us once to establish superiority, though all he did when he got close was rip a fart that was likely heard on the Congo side of the hill. I preferred that to the alternative of a physical encounter, because the old boy was 6ft tall and 200kg.

Then, in 2 minutes, the hour was up. Back down the muddy slopes, 500 dollars poorer but richer for the experience. In fact, having now visited them once, I'd pay twice that to do it again.

Just wait till you see the photos.

TZ from R to L

There are two possible routes you can take to cross Tanzania from Dar Es Salaam to the border with Rwanda: the North Road and the South Road. Get out your maps.

The North Road climbs up the coast before turning inland, skirting Mt. Kilimanjaro on its way to Arusha. It then banks 90° to the right and proceeds to Nairobi, where it about-faces back towards Tanzania, approaching Mwanza and Lake Victoria from the NE.

The South Road, meanwhile, heads directly inland to Dodoma, after which it bushwacks through the remote towns of Singida and Shinyanga, finally arriving in Mwanza from the SW. At Mwanza, the two routes become one and a second choice must be made between proceeding directly W to Rwanda, or else taking a ferry to Bukoba and coming back down.

Some points to consider:

1) It is necessary to pay $20 for a Kenyan transit visa when using the North Road. There is also a distinct possibility that you will be made to pay $50 for a new Tanzanian visa upon your return, even though you're not supposed to. Why? Because you're White!

2) Arusha is the getting-off point for Kilimanjaro treks, the Ngorongoro Crater and Serengeti National Park. As such, buses on the North Road are full of package tourists.

3) The South Road is extremely rugged. So much so, in fact, that the Lonely Planet recommends you outright avoid using it.

I saw no reason to be ambivalent when it came to choosing a route. Nuts to you, North Road!

DAR -> DODOMA
The South Road breaks you in nice and easy. The highway to Dodoma is well-paved and the trip only takes 6 hours. You even get water and stale cookies on the bus!
Say, can anyone enlighten me as to how Dodoma managed to usurp Dar as the capital of Tanzania? It's a dusty, one-horse town that has no electricity half the time. It makes about as much sense as would moving the Canadian Parliament from Ottawa to Moose Jaw, SK.

DODOMA -> SHINYANGA
I was feeling confident at this point, but things soon came unraveled. The bus for this leg of the journey looked like it had endured a mortar attack. I was stuffed into a seat at the back, sitting next to a manatee-sized woman, with my bag wedged between my lap and the seat in front of me. There was no room for the bag in the hold of the bus, since the space had already been filled with many large bags of charcoal. It seems that someone was planning a record-breaker of a barbeque at the expense of my physical comfort.
20 minutes out of Dodoma, the road conditions changed from "nicely maintained" to "obstacle course". A network of craters suddenly appeared, some of them big enough to swallow the manatee, who by this point was doing battle with my bag for that strategical bit of seating space on my lap. The asphalt virtually disappeared, replaced by sand, with a generous helping of large boulders thrown in to ensure that we would all be ejected out of our seats every 3.8 seconds. And, just to ice the cake, the road began to slant to one side, causing the bus to tilt precariously. All this at 100km/hr.

You think I'm exaggerating? Not a chance. This was hands-down the worst bus/bad road combination I've ever seen. The steel bars from the seat in front of me were exposed, and I soon had blood running from my knees due to the abrasion. On the side hills, the manatee would crash down on me like a piledriver, her sideways momentum being delivered to the frame of the bus via my ribcage. I could continue to rant, but I won't. This Hell lasted 11 hours.

We arrived in Shinyanga at 9PM. The bus wasn't scheduled to leave until 3AM, so I spent the better part of the break drinking beer with a Tanzanian detective while his cute kid played with my iPod.

SHINYANGA -> MWANZA
Things took a turn for the better as the paved surface reappeared and the manatee found a new seat. My knees were swollen and my head throbbed from the beer, but we arrived in Mwanza by 7AM. I split a cab with the detective, who showed me around his house and then directed me to a good hotel. It had a TV, so I squandered the day sleeping and watching the Discovery Channel, failing to give Mwanza even the most cursory glance.

MWANZA -> BUKOBA
I purchased a ticket for the ferry, but I almost missed the boat. When Swahili people tell time, they use 6 o'clock as a reference point instead of 12, so that 1PM = 7PM etc. The ticket agent informed me that the ferry would depart at 6PM, so I was all set to show up at midnight. Fortunately a local guy set the record straight for me, but by that point it was after 5 (English time) and I had to hustle to the port.
Normally, the Mwanza-Bukoba voyage is serviced by the MV Mwanza. The trip takes 8 hours and there are cabins available for sleeping. I regret to inform you that the Mwanza is currently under repair, and is at present being replaced by the cargo vessel MV Serengeti, which does the trip in 12 hours and has no cabins. So I slept outside on the deck.

It was cold. Bloody freezing. Luckily, I was befriended by a Ugandan guy named Moses, who'd brought along a bottle of whisky with him. It was that second-rate Irish crap, but it did the trick, and I was soon fast asleep, my hand clutching my bag to deter some sketchy kids who were trying to steal it. If they had done, I would have fed them to the tilapia.

We arrived in Bukoba just after dawn, and Moses insisted that I spend the day with him. It was a very interesting day. Moses is a construction sub-contractor and part-time liquor smuggler, so we split our time between supervising some brick layers at a hotel, and shipping bottles of Jamieson's on buses headed to Kampala.
In the evening, Moses decided we'd dine on Lake Victoria fish, so we plunked ourselves down at a local bar and paid some kid to bike down to the shore to buy today's catch. The bar had no kitchen, so Moses paid the place nextdoor to grill everything up. It was excellent, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself, until Moses decided that he wanted "dessert" and called up a prostitute halfway through the meal. Ha ha... awkward!
Anyway, Bukoba is a pretty town. Very leafy!

BUKOBA -> THE BORDER
Escaping the country proved easy. I woke up at 5AM, spent 15 minutes banging on my hotel door so that they'd let me out, and walked to the bus station. I caught a bus to Lusahunga, and though the road was little more than a dirt track through the jungle, the bus was in good shape and the ride was pleasant.
The leg between Lusahunga and the border is the tricky bit. There is no public transportation available, and from what I've read, foreigners rarely use this route, electing instead to enter Rwanda from Uganda.
I bought some provisions from an 8-year-old shopkeeper, then sat on the side of the road. The locals were absolutely shocked at my presence, and to be honest, they should have been. I've never been more nowhere in my life.
As luck would have it, I found a Rwandan fellow who was taking his mother home from a hospital in Tanzania, so the three of us split a taxi to the border. I felt quite content, sitting in the front seat of the car with my legs stretched out in front of me, watching the countryside roll by. The area is pretty, with palm and banana trees speckled over rolling hills painted in lush green.
Near Rwanda, we began to see refugees. They were Burundian, and have been living in Tanzania since the Hutu/Tutsi conflicts boiled over in their homeland in the late 90s. They had that awful look of desperation about them, and I tried to imagine how terrible their struggle must be. I couldn't.
The cab crested a hill, and Rwanda exploded onto the scene. I instantly felt the excitement of coming to a new country, as well as the satisfaction of having crossed the old one in a most unorthodox manner.

I spent nearly a month in Tanzania, and though I enjoyed it, I can't say I was a huge fan. Tanzanians aren't too fond of foreigners, and they let you know this at every available opportunity. That, and White people are generally thought to be walking ATMs.
As I crossed the bridge into Rwanda, I didn't look back.

Marooned at 6°S

In Arabic, Dar Es Salaam means "Having the Peace". For me, it meant a place I was stuck in for 10 days. That's a long damn time! So let's discuss...

First and foremost, Dar should be commended for being one of the safest cities in Africa. Day and night, it is perfectly okay to stroll about in the town, without having to fear a violent attack or a terrifying mugging. Even in the wee hours of the morning, you can see groups of women meandering around, free of the fear that hangs over more perilous cities such as Nairobi and Johannesburg. Tanzanians will tell you that this is due to their country's peaceful history; even in the imperial age, no blood was ever shed here.

Due to its eclectic mix of cultures and close proximity to the sea, Dar is a food lover's paradise. Seafood is available everywhere, and the fish will taste good at even the shabbiest local eatery. (I recommend the grilled changu at the YMCA cafeteria). On the restaurant scene, your choices are practically unlimited, with quality Indian, Lebanese, Chinese, Ethiopian and Zanzibari cuisine on offer. It's a refreshing departure from the ordinary Tanzanian fare, which is oily and salty and generally awful. Example? A classical local breakfast is a french fry omelette. I tried one. I could feel myself getting fatter.

Islam is very prevalent here, and the architecture tends to reflect that. The city skyline is dotted with minarets that are painted in pink and blue and white. The spires cast their shadows on the walls of the modern office towers next door. Down below, Muslims peacefully mill about the streets, chatting in groups over a cup of chai, awaiting the call to prayer that emanates from the mosques. The first call comes at 5AM. I know this because it woke me up every damn day.

Dar has two excellent markets. The first, known simply as the Fish Market, is in a massive lot next to the shore, where many tons of ocean delicacies change hands 7 days a week. The place is a massacre of blood and entrails, where young men walk about with giant stingrays draped over their backs, and even younger boys use giant machetes to hack away at 50lb yellow-fin tunas. On the nearby beach, fisherman bang away at the woodwork of rickety dhows, preparing the small crafts for the next day at sea.

Back in the city is the Kariakoo Market, which acts as the centre of commerce for the local agriculture and livestock industries. Tropical fruits are sold by the truckload. I wanted to buy a ton of pineapples, but didn't have the correct change.
One of the buildings is dedicated solely to spices. Cardamom, cloves, saffron, cumin seed and a multitude of other small fragrant pellets are on display there, stored in giant burlap bags that line the hallways. If you close your eyes, your olfactory senses run wild, and you could imagine that you're swimming around in a very large curry.
But it's not all that pleasant. On my way out of the market, I found myself in the live poultry aisle. There must have been hundreds of crates containing thousands of chickens, stuffed into the boxes with their feet tied together. The smell was rank and the sound - an orchestra of pleading clucks - was haunting. I booked it out of there as fast as I could, preferring as I do my blissful ignorance when it comes to eating flesh. It goes without saying that I ordered a Greek salad for dinner that evening.

Sick of Dar city? Good thing there are some nice beaches nearby. A quick ferry across the bay and a 10-minute minibus ride takes you to Kipepeo, a stretch of sand and palm trees so pretty that you could never imagine a giant city was just down the road. I spent a great day at Kipepeo, roasting my outers in the sun and wetting my inners with Tusker Lager. Then I spent a night being horribly dehydrated.

Did I say safe city? Well, even the greatest of utopias still have jerks. On my ultimate day in Dar, a potentially dodgy situation manifested itself while I was heading to lunch with a pair of American girls. As we were walking on the road between the moving traffic and some parked cars, we were passed by a couple of local guys proceeding in the opposite direction. Suddenly, one of the guys stepped on my foot, then wheeled around and grabbed my wrist, looking at me as if in apology. Just then, I noticed that his buddy has his hand in my pocket.
It's remarkable how fast your instincts can kick in. In one movement, I wriggled free from the grip of the first guy and lunged at the would-be pickpocket, my hands going directly for his neck. He recoiled quickly, but I still got a handle on his shirt collar, and I shook him violently. Apparently he was just looking for some free cash and not for a fight, because he immediately went limp and raised his hands in the air. The first jerk came over and began to yell, saying that it had all been an innocent mistake, but I'm no fool; I saw exactly what was happening and so did the girls. No big deal in the end, though I did feel bad for one of the Americans... she had just arrived in Africa that morning and spent the rest of the day muttering about wondering what she had gotten herself into.

But it matters not. Dar is a cool city. Even if there are a couple of shit-for-brains thieves hanging about.

Mushroom Farm

You'll have to forgive me - this one sort of fell by the wayside, so we're going to have to play catch-up here. I invite you all to time travel with me back to Malawi.

Livingstonia: A small town nestled high up in the hills that adorn the Northwestern shore of my good friend Lake Malawi.
Hard to find and even harder to access, Livingstonia is a sleepy and oft-overlooked place which has little to offer to tourists in terms of excitement. It does, however, have one major draw card: one of the best views in all of Africa.

To reach Livingstonia, you must follow a dirt track, which is at times no wider than a car, as it snakes for 15km up the side of a mountain, switchbacking 21 times in the process. There are very few vehicles making the trip up, especially during the rainy season, so for the most part it's hike or bust. Not a pleasant task when it's hot as Hell and you're carting everything you own on your back - trust me. The good news is that most backpackers - myself no exception - choose to stay at a hostel called Mushroom Farm, which is 5km closer to the bottom of the hill.

Why Mushroom Farm? Quite simply because the place is a famous landmark on the South/East Africa backpacking circuit. It is a self-sufficient, fully sustainable lodge (read: smattering of bamboo huts) that comes complete with solar-heated water, a composting toilet and a shower built into a tree. The owner is a rather eccentric Aussie named Mick, who seems to have taken a page out of Carlos Valderrama's hairstyling manual, and the chef is a Mr. Bundu, who cooks up a wide selection of organic vegetarian dishes in cauldrons that bubble over an open flame.

Right, this is beginning to sound like a brochure for the place, so let's cut the crap and get to the entertaining bit: my walk up.

Despite an honest effort, I wasn't able to reach the base of the hill until 5:30PM. The daylight dwindling, I was faced with a decision: do I call Mick and have him come down in his Land Rover to pick me up, a service for which he charges 35USD? Or do I walk up the hill alone in the dark? Forget Option #1; 35 dollars is a complete piss-taking. But the second choice is equally dicey: I don't know how safe the road is.

A very nice thing about Africa: as long as you are willing to pay, someone will guide you to anywhere you wish to go. I had only to stand at the entrance to the access road, and before long there were two teenage boys who were keen to come along. We agreed on a price of $6, and set off.

The pace was gruelling. You'll know, if you've ever watched an athletics competition, that Africans are light on their feet, quicker than the wind and have unlimited stamina. I'm no couch potato, but with 30lbs of weight on my back I simply could not keep pace with these guys, bounding as they were up the slope like gazelles. I did my best to stay with them, but they kept shouting at me to go faster, only relenting when I threatened not to pay them.

To make matters worse, they lead me on a series of shortcuts: near-vertical climbs through rock gardens and root ladders that have formed on the face of the mountain. Technically, these did save a lot of time, but clambering on my hands and knees was exhausting. By the fifth or sixth shortcut, I began to teeter with lightheadedness.

It was during one of my frequent "catching my breath while trying not to wretch" breaks that I remembered an interesting fact: Northern Malawi has an abundance of poisonous snakes. I asked one of the boys if he knew about that.
"Oh, yes!" he chirped enthusiastically. "There are definitely green mambas and puff adders here!"
He must have seen the terror disclosed in my face, because he hastened to add:
"But they are not dangerous!"

A very problematic thing about Africa: people often are not educated about what can hurt them. Green mambas are highly venomous, and one bite is potentially lethal to even a full-grown, healthy adult. Your only hope of survival in the case of being bitten is to administer the appropriate anti-venom as quickly as possible. My guess? The closest bottle of serum to Livingstonia is in Lilongwe, 11 hours away by bus. By that time, you'd be carrion.

Anyway, after nearly two hours we arrived at Mushroom Farm. I paid the kids and threw in a generous tip - they'd earned their keep. Mick, who'd seen me coming up the path, sweating profusely and near the point of losing consciousness, greeted me in the most Australian way:
"Oi, Mate! Noyce ta see yeh! Care foha bee-uh?"
Did I ever, Bruce.

Needless to say, once you do the walk up to Mushroom Farm, you can't be arsed to leave for a few days. But it's not exactly a taxing holiday; the prices are cheap, the food is delectable, the music is good, and the view - HOLY SHIT - the view is mind-blowing.

From just about any spot on the property - the bar, the tent platforms and even from the seat of the composting loo - you can see the entire valley below, along with a huge piece of the lakeshore, as well as the mountains on the opposite side. The latter are 50km away. In Tanzania. Since the rainy season was just about to begin, farmers were lighting massive brush fires (to sterilize the soil and flush out the rats, which are captured and eaten), and the landscape glowed at night, with red and orange balls of flame dancing against the black backdrop. It felt like you were staring into space, only the universe was below you, and the stars a Hell of a lot closer.

So I stayed for a while. Probably would have stayed longer, if it wasn't for the fact that I ran out of money and had to make for the border. On my last day in Malawi, I walked down the hill and hitched a ride to Tanzania, feeling a bit sad that I was leaving a country I'd grown to love. Then, one kid made sure that even my last few moments would be unforgettable.
I heard the call as I walked across the bridge between the two nations:
"MAAAAAAAZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNGUUUU!!!"
It came from all directions at once, as if riding on the back of the wind. I froze. I looked around, but I couldn't spot the kid who belonged to the voice.
"MAAAZUUUUNGUUUUU!"
Got him. He was just a head and torso, swimming in the river about 100m downstream. I raised my arms in the air, questioningly.
"GIMMMMEEE MONNNNEEEEY!"
What did he want me to do, throw some bills in the river? I shook my head, laughed, and continued along.
Just then, a group of Africans passed by me, and they laughed too. A few moments later, they burst into song.

Mike Spits on Embassies

If one were to, say, be compiling information for a research paper entitled "The Scourge of Mankind: A Treatise on Those Who Retard the Human Condition", then that person would be wise to begin their investigation with a visit to an Embassy or Diplomatic Consulate.

Let me draw you a scenario: You enter the embassy office. Which embassy? It's irrelevant. Pick a country. In fact, pick two: one for the nation being represented, and another for the country that you happen to be in.

You proceed through the door. Ahead of you are a group of chairs, made of the cheapest materials possible and chosen with the specific intention that no one sitting in them could be comfortable. In the corner there is a water cooler, but there are no plastic cups.

You survey the room. The walls are painted in the official embassy colour: off-white. Hanging above the chairs is a framed portrait of the esteemed Head of State of the republic whose embassy this is. He sits frozen, with awkward posture, a hideous tie and a lecherous grin. The portrait is tilted. The rest of the walls are empty, save for a dilapidated pin-up poster that bears the insignia of the country's federal tourism bureau, and a cheesy photograph of a famous landmark in the country itself, shown as it was when the image was taken... 20 years ago.

There is a distinct foul odour that causes you to wince. At the time, you suppose it is stale air coming from the ventilation ducts, but it is only later that you discover its true source. This is the stench of incompetence. Of sloth. Of futility. It is the stench of all the negative aspects of the human species, pooled together as if into a giant thundercloud, which cloaks the room with its pestilence, darkening the soul of anybody who ventures underneath it.

Sorry.
I still haven't mentioned the source.

You look to the left. There he is, slumped into a swivel-chair, positioned behind a desk that has no paper on it; only a few discarded soda cans and a broken 2H pencil are visible. He is little more than a bi-valve dressed as a person, with pants hiked well above the waistline and a cheap white shirt that has the remnants of something ketchupy tattooed onto the lapel. Below the unkempt wisps of his disheveled hair are two sightless eyes, which are glassy like those of a dead fish. You wonder whether or not he is breathing.

You approach the desk and position yourself directly across from him. He doesn't respond to the stimuli, so you elect to say something.
"Hello. I'm here to apply for a visa."
There is a thirty second pause while your words try desperately to penetrate the thick walls of his skull. His mouth opens slightly, revealing a drooping tongue, yellowed from years of cigarette smoking, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he uncurls a fat pointer finger from a greasy hand and half-assedly directs it to a sign posted on the notice board behind you.
Instructions for visa applications.

"Thank you," you say. "And, how long do applications normally take?"
Again, a delay. With great effort, he raises his eyes towards you. The eyes seem to stop for a rest halfway, like a weightlifter performing the clean-and-jerk.
"We'll call you," he growls. His breath nearly renders you unconscious.

That's when you realize that embassy officials are not living creatures. They are robots - circuit boards - into which is programmed one simple text string: how not to give a definitive answer to any question.

A second hypothetical situation: an interview room, where a candidate has come to apply for a job at an embassy.
INTERVIEWER: Welcome! Could you state your name?"
CANDIDATE: Well, technically I could, yes.
INT:Correct! And could you please tell me who was Jesus Christ?
CAN: Um, sir, you'll have to consult the bible for that.
INT: Excellent! Finally, are you an utterly useless boob with the cerebral capacity of a gastropod, who would probably be turned down for a job cleaning toilets at the local Red Lobster?
CAN: Why yes!
INT: You're hired!

You're probably all thinking: such MALICE! What brought this on? How does he have the time to sit down and write these scathing rants?

The answer to these questions can be found in a small office with off-white walls and plastic chairs, on the 4th floor, Barclay's Tower, Ohio Street, Dar-Es-Salaam, Tanzania. It is an embassy of a country I plan to visit soon, but since this rant is targeted at embassies in general, I'll refrain from using the name. So let's say for argument's sake that it is the Embassy of the Republic of Kerblackistan.

Okay. I've named the culprit, and laid the foundation for my crusade against them, so now I feel obliged to back it up.

I dislike this embassy, and all those people working in it, for the following reasons:

1. They will not grant travel visas to Kerblackistan unless you have 6 blank pages in your passport.
->The visa is 1 page. A few entry and exit stamps: 1-2 more. Why the other 3? I must say, this sets the bureaucratic idiocy bar at a new height.

2. They demand a bank statement as proof of sufficient funds to travel to Kerblackistan, then make issue if the amounts are not listed in US$.
->I am Canadian. We have our own currency.

3. They open 15 hours per week, and take both Tanzanian and Kerblackistani public holidays as vacation.
->I'm sure they deserve the break. It must be exhausting spending all day wrapping things in red tape.

4. They promise a 72-hour turnaround time on visa applications. Mine took 7 days, which is why I'm stuck in DSM, unable to travel.
->It's a good thing they don't deliver pizza (72 hours or it's free!). They'd be out of business.

5. There are no Kerblackistanis working at the Kerblackistani embassy.
->A final hypothetical situation: You are a Kerblackistani in Tanzania. You have a problem. Maybe some family members are trying to contact you in an emergency. Maybe you had your passport stolen and you need the embassy to help. So you call them up - and they only speak broken English and Swahili. How useless is that?

To summarise: embassies suck. Their procedures, regulations and office hours are astronomically inconvenient, and the people who work there are hand-picked in order to provide the lowest level of service possible.

There are some people in this world who don't deserve their own share of the world's oxygen supply. You see, Charles Darwin was wrong; if natural selection is the governing force behind the development of a species, then why are there still so many individuals excercising their God-given right to be stupid?

But don't take this too seriously. I'm just bored.
Yours sincerely,
Paul Theroux's understudy

Stone Town

There are some places on Earth whose names, when mentioned, project images of their own mystical pasts...


...ZANZIBAR...


...Anything come to mind? The Periplus of the Ethyranean Sea? The trading settlement of Menouthias? The Shirazi sailors from Persia calling port at Unguja Ukuu?

Freddie Mercury's birthplace?

For being such a tiny island, Zanzibar does have a history rich in tumult. The full details of this are beyond the scope of this blog, so let's just say that the place found itself changing hands many times between various imperial powers who found it a convenient rest stop en route to the Orient.

Nowadays, the foreigners Zanzibar sees arrive on passenger ferries from Dar-Es-Salaam instead of frigates from Muscat, and come with cameras and snorkeling gear in place of spices and glassware. Nonetheless, it is still a spectacular place to visit.

I myself rolled in a week ago with my friends Hugo and Roisin, who've now been with me for 3 weeks, and we decided to hole up for a few days in Stone Town.

Stone Town is Zanzibar's beating heart; once an Arab trading port, it is the sight of a bustling, labyrinth-like village where towering minarets pierce the crystalline skies, and whiffs of cardamom and cloves tickle your nose with their exotic essences. The streets, sometimes no wider than an armspan, are chock-a-bloc with people from many walks of life: Indian, Portuguese, Persian and of course African.

We struck gold on our first night there. Just after dark, the waterfront park, by day a shady refuge from the blazing sun, turns into a sprawling outdoor fish market. Prawns, octopus, lobster, sharks, marlin, scallops and just about every other type of pelagic goody can be found, fresh from the ocean, cooked up on a coal grill by a local guy and served with chili sauce and some chapati bread. It's not cheap, but then again, if I told you that $10 for a massive portion of seafood isn't cheap, you'd probably think my mother dropped me as a child.

The next day - another beauty - I grabbed my camera and headed out with every intention of getting lost in the maze and the mystery. Stone Town is a photographer's wet dream, with its myriad colours, spectre-like shadows, old Islamic buildings, narrow passageways, traditional spice markets, lush coconut fronds, hole-in-the-wall shops, whitewashed stoned fences, decaying streets and flowery enclaves, not the mention its plethora of children, tuk-tuks, sailboats, dispensaries, stray cats, women in kangas, mosques, minibuses, mango trees, donkey carts, baobabs, fake Maasai warriors, butterflies, wood-carvers, tea-sellers and the occasional rat. I took 150 shots in the span of half an hour.

Unfortunately, I got a little ambitious. Whilst leaning against a wall adjacent to a busy street and snapping a portrait of a few ladies in their traditional headdresses, I was approached by a man in a suit. He was accompanied by a guard whom, I carefully noted, was carrying a large firearm. I was invited to into an office and told to sit and wait, while some angry phone calls were made in Swahili. Several minutes passed before a second stuffed suit ('the boss') appeared and informed me that I had just committed a crime by photographing the Civic Courthouse. I thanked him for informing me that it was a court house, because it sure wasn't evident from the ruddy street, and assured him that I was only using the court house wall as a brace while framing the photo of the ladies. He demanded that I relinquish my camera, but I managed to appease him by deleting the offending image. I left the place, still under armed escort, feeling guilty for not having done anything wrong.

Stone Town marks only my second visit to a place where Islam in the dominant faith. Muslims intrigue me - everything from their traditional dress to their outright, all-encompassing devotion to Allah. I find them very peaceful, wandering the streets in their skullcaps and sandals, stopping to wash their feet before entering the mosques, then congregating after a prayer session to drink tea and gab on their mobile phones. It's a pretty far cry from the guys you see on CNN, shooting guns into the air and crying for the bloody death of all non-believers.

Sadly, despite its bargain-basement seafood and old-world charm, Stone Town can be difficult to swallow for its cohort of resident street touts. Wherever you go, be it the waterfront, a sidewalk cafe or an out-of-the-way backstreet, there will be some guy tagging along, calling you "Friend" and reciting fourteen million different reasons as to why to should hand over some cash. You know, when I first arrived in Africa I was tolerant of these pests - I'll even go as far as saying that I found the attention endearing. But now I've had enough. Beyond being solicitous, I'm now outright hostile with them, hitting them with any of a selection of prepared rants within moments of their initial approach. Some do desist, but others seem to relish the challenge, becoming more deliberate in their attempts to expunge a donation. One day soon, I'm going to give one of them some free dental work.

But not yet. After two days in Stone Town, which I enjoyed very much, we escaped to the beach.

I Know What I Know

Let me tell you a story. The date is January 27.

The alarm woke me up at 6AM. I blinked my eyes a few times and sat up. Thursday. I slid out of bed, wondering why I'd seen fit to drink so much on the previous night. I walked to the window. From where I was staying - the 9th floor apartment of my host family in Rio - you could see the Jesus statue high atop the Corcovado Mountain. But today it was cloudy. I cursed. It was always cloudy.

I showered, dressed, ate breakfast and made my way out the door, stopping to give the maid the customary pecks on the cheek. Down in the street, I caught the bus headed to town. Language school stared at 8.

Classes adjourned by midday, so the afternoon was free for whatever. Along with a friend, I took the bondihno (cable car) up to the top of the Bairro Santa Teresa, an opulent neighbourhood that affords a fine view of the city. We strolled down the hill slowly, stopping once every so often to peer through the white iron fences at the old colonial houses that line the drive. Near the bottom, we sat at a cafe and had lunch, sitting in a topical courtyard, enjoying the food and agreeing that this had been a wonderful day.

It's later in the evening now. I had promised my flatmate, an American named Raul, that I would join him for a few drinks, but at 10PM he was still missing in action. Stuff it, I thought, and I changed for bed, put on my headphones and laid down. Time passed.

There came a knock at the door.
"Mike! You ready?"
I looked at my watch. It was after 11.
"Huh? Now? Where have you been?"
"Yeah, sorry, got caught up. C'mon, Alex and Janacea are waiting outside."

Great. Not only has he waited till the last minute, but he's also invited two painfully annoying American girls. I hide my head under the pillow. Raul opens the door.
"Mike. I'm going home tomorrow. Last night. Get up."

Damn you, guilt. I go to the sink and splash water on my face, then throw on the closest thing I have to a clean T-shirt. Well, it's only a couple of drinks.

I smile reluctantly at the girls when I get downstairs. They are dressed very smartly, but I don't clue in. Raul hails a cab.
"Why the cab?" I ask. "Aren't we just going to the-"
"No," he interjects. "Somewhere better."

We head towards Leblon. I cringe. I'm not mentally prepared for a big night out. The cab pulls to a stop and I look out the window. We've arrived at a dance club of some sort. There are a dozen Brazilians lined out outside, and a massive MIB frisking people at the door. When we reach the front of the queue, a girl with a laptop asks me my name. I look at her, and say as sarcastically as possible in my 10-day-old Portuguese:
"Believe me, Lady, I'm not on the guest list."
"Okay. Than that will be 40 Reais."

40 Reais? That's 20 dollars! I peer around for an escape route. There is a taxi parked a few feet away. Bullseye. I'm about to exit stage left, but Raul must have thought me a flight risk, because he was poised at the ready. His pointer finger prods me in the back.
"Don't even think about it."
My shoulders drop. Fine. I pay the cover and go inside.

The air con is cranked. I'm suddenly freezing. I'm on a landing, and there is a sunken lounge below me, behind which a giant projection screen is playing surf videos.

That's when I see her.

She's down a small set of steps, leaning against the bar as she waits for a drink. Her auburn hair is tucked neatly back into a ponytail which bobs playfully against her back. Her complexion is light, almost creamy, and her eyes a deep brown. They blaze with an inferno of Latin sensuality. She's looking right at me.

I hot flash engulfs me. In a microsecond, my core temperature skyrockets to the brink of combustion. I can't move. My body has seized. I try my hardest to fix her with a look, something like Zoolander's Magnum. The end result is probably closer to Shrek's bashful grin.

My trance is broken my Raul as he enters the club. There is a dance floor upstairs, and that's where we head. The next 30 seconds are hazy, but when I finally regain my ability to speak, I say something to the effect of "Raul... thanks for bringing me here."

The party on the 2nd floor is in full swing. We grab some drinks and jostle our way into the middle, letting the music overtake us. There is little room to manoeuver, but the Brazilian girls still manage to groove as if the source of the rhythm is inside them. Meanwhile, the men lurk in the shadows of the periphery, watching the women like lions. The atmosphere is electric, but after 1 hour we are exhausted and in need of a rest.

We return to the lounge and seat ourselves at a table. I instantly regret leaving the dance floor, since the lounge music is quiet and I'm relegated to listening to the two American teeny-boppers once again. They are talking about bath gels. My mind begins to wander. I gaze around, searching for better options.

The I see HER again. She's sitting at the table next to us, chatting with a girlfriend. I must have stared too long, because she turns to look at me, and I'm forced to avert my eyes quickly. But no matter, I've already spotted my target: the empty chair at their table.

Now comes the difficult part: I am not shy, but I'm in a foreign country and I barely speak the language. My Portuguese is insufficient when it comes to ordering a drink - how am I going to talk up a couple of local hotties? I lean in their direction, trying to hear what language they're speaking, but the bath gel debate drowns out any other sound. I hesitate. I need a sign.

Fortunately, Oasis comes to my rescue. The DJ plays 'Wonderwall', and I watch as the girl sings the words. Perfectly. God she's cute. My mind is made up.

Grabbing my beer, I rise out of my seat. I don't even glance at the American girls, and Raul appears to be asleep. I approach the Vixen's table. Here goes.
Me, in Portuguese: Hi. My name is Mike. How are you girls?
Them: Fine thanks.
Well, that's it for the Portuguese. Time to revert to the mother tongue.
Me, in English: Great! So, um, do you speak English?
Dream Girl: Yes. (She smiles - oh Lordy). Would you like to sit down with us?
My ass is in the chair before she finishes the question.
Me, to the friend: So, what's your name?
Friend: Cintia.
Me: Nice to meet you. (I shift my gaze to the Fallen Angel). And yours?

She gives it to me, then looks me dead in the eyes with a raised eyebrow. It's an uncommon name, especially when pronounced the Brazilian way, and she probably thinks I didn't get it.

But I got it. Perfectly clear:

"Isis."

***

I'm off to Brazil to visit her for three weeks beginning just after Christmas. After that, the travels will continue to Asia as planned. New Years in Rio anyone?

"She looked me over and I guess she thought I was alright
Alright in a sort of an innocent way for an off-night" - Paul Simon

Big Tanzanian Dance Party

When I'm traveling in dodgy places - and these days that's just about always - I like to abide by a few self-imposed ground rules:

1. The tap water is probably not potable. So drink beer.
2. Always travel with the locals. Let no bus, car or boat be too sketchy.
3. The grungier the restaurant, the better the food.
4. Don't arrive in a brand new town after dark.
5. When locals ask you to hang out with them, go. But keep in mind that you'll probably be footing the bill.

To get to Mbeya, Tanzania from where I was staying in Malawi, I had to do the following: 10km walk. Wait. 2 hours in the back of a pickup. Wait. 1 hour in a minibus. Cross border. 2km walk. Wait. 1 hour in a minibus. Wait. 1 hour in a bus.
Add it all up, and you'll not be astonished to discover than I ended up violating Rule #4.

The nighttime can be scary in Africa. Exit the sun, and all the good people are gone: disappeared into their dwellings, replaced by the macabre. Whereas the daylight brings laughing children, clucking ladies and charming old rastas, the darkness unleashes the wolves. The streets fill with phantoms, ruffians, thugs. Smiles turn into scowls, music to silence, the pitter-patter of kids to the menacing footsteps of prowlers.

So what invariably ends up happening when I rock up in a new town at night is that I sleep in the first place I can get. It often means I pay too much, usually for lousy facilities. Beats walking around in the gloom with all your valuables, though.

Mbeya was no exception. From the bus station, I stole across the street towards a hotel I spotted, quickly mind you because several street urchins were already making inroads on me. I swear these ghouls have Mazungu Radar. I paid an African fortune to drop my bad in a dilapidated room with prisonesque decor and a mosquito net with holes the size of my fist. I then proceeded back out to the shadowy street to find some nourishment - preferably of the sudsy liquid variety.

Within 20 seconds I heard "Hey! Friend!" and a young dreadlocked man was bounding down the stairs toward me. "You hungry? Come eat with us!"
Rule #5: say yes. I am, of course, proceeding with caution at this point, but the guy had a disarming personality and knew a good place for chicken and chips and beer.
Though "come eat with us" sounds like the offering of a complementary meal, what it really means is "come pay to eat at my brother's restaurant". But I didn't fuss; the food was toothsome, the beer cold and I got to sit and banter with some resident Mbeyans. The man who flagged me down was called Elly, though in Swahili 'L' and 'R' are interchangeable, so sometimes he was Elly and other times Erry.

After dinner I excused myself, the soft pillow at my nearby hotel beckoning my sleepy head. Didn't make it out the door, though, before:
"Mike! Where you go? It's Sunday! Tonight we dance!"

Damn you, Rule #5, you'll be the death of me. I acceded, and soon I was on the heels of Elly/Erry as he led me to some backwater dance club that was so far up an unlit street, Sherlock Holmes would have had trouble locating it.

In we went, and I instantly froze. Upwards of 50 black faces were pointed at me, frozen in bewilderment. For a second I wondered why, before reality struck: I'm white.
At this point, you have two choices. You can utter something to the effect of "Uh, don't mind me, just here to check the meter..." and shuffle out, or you can throw yourself headlong into the thick of it with reckless abandon.
And that's precisely what I did. I hit the dance floor like a splash of porcelain paint hitting the hood of a jet-black Corvette. I got down. Laid the cut straight. Kept it real. Rolled with the homies. Shook my ass. Watched myself. Hell, I started having such a good time that I even outlasted (Ell/Err)y, who decided he'd had enough after only about 3 hours. He went home and left me to my own devices.

Brave Mazungus actually get a fair bit of respect here. Once the locals get over the initial shock of seeing you in their establishment, they become very welcoming. The whole night I had guys coming up to me, shaking my hand and telling me they we're pleased I'd stopped by. I even had a few ladies come up to bust a move or two, though most of them had bums so big that I just ended up being bounced around the dance floor like a human pinball. At times, I felt like I was in a 50 Cent video and couldn't get out.

But... eventually the DJ stopped the hooks and we all had to go home. Sweaty and exhausted, I slunk into my bed and slept in my shoes.

Go dancing at the rocar bal in Aflica. You'rr have a learry gleat time.

Notice to Customers

Writing is often easier when someone else is doing it for you. Please enjoy a selection of literary gems as taken from a sign posted on the wall of my guesthouse in Mbeya, Tanzania.

"WARSAME GUEST HOUSE is famous for cleanliness, peace and safety. [Editor's Note: Cleanliness? I have issues with that.] To maintain such situation for making your stay unforgettable we invite your cooperation as hereunder:

-When the room is handed over to you fill the guestbook and pay immediately the required sum of money. [So far so good]
-It is not allowed for anyone who is not a tenant to pop in the Guest House, to make the Guest House as a hideout for express sex services. [I couldn't have written that one better]
-It is not allowed for the Guest House to be a gathering place or jobless corner. [Right... there are about 10 old Tanzanian guys doing absolutely fuckall on the front stoop as I'm recording this]
-Make sure you hand over all your money, weapons and valuables as suddenly as you enter the room. [I had to give them my M-16]
-It is forbidden to make noise or any form of assault at the Guest House [Well that ruins MY plans]
-It is not allowed to take a drink in the Guest House or being in possession of any of the toxic elements. [Good thing I left my Polonium in Malawi]
-It is the duty of everyone to ensure our surrounding are clean. It is sad to note that some customers use bed sheets and blankets for personal cleaning after sexual acts. [I'll say! I USED that blanket!]
-The room should be handed over at 10AM if you are not entrusted with occupying it otherwise cost for another day will be charged.

UTAWALA - WARSAME GUEST HOUSE

Islandhopping

It's 1:30AM and the air is crisp. I'm roused by my Dutch friend. Time to go. My eyelids are heavy and my back full of kinks after two hours of sleeping on the ferry's wooden deck.
We gather our packs, and I lead a procession of 12 down the stairs to the life raft. There is a touch of pandemonium as we push and shove with the locals to disembark, elbows wielded. A second raft has arrived especially for us, and we tiptoe across sacks of corn and even human heads in order to reach it. By the time we're all seated, the poor boat is nearly submerged.
We push off. Absolute silence save for the soft sweeping of a paddle through the still water. All eyes point to the sky and its conflagration of stars.
Chizumulu Island slowly emerges from the blackness. The raft docks at the hostel and we climb out, a group of weary somnambulists with hangdog expressions, desperate for sleep.

Flash forward to dawn. Satiated with rest, we emerge from our beds, anxious to view Chizumulu in the day's light. It is stunning; a small island in the middle of Lake Malawi, near the Mozambican shore. The hostel looks like a pricey tourist resort, though we are only paying $5 for the privilege of staying. Everyone wolfs down a breakfast of toast, eggs and coffee.

Chizumulu has no cars, so if you'd care to move about, you have to walk. I set off with the Dutch guy and a South African girl, the three of us keen to explore some of the island's other shores.
The island is small - 8 sq. km. - and there are fewer than 4000 inhabitants. The lifestyle is traditional: men fish and women do practically everything else. It is also sustainable: the lake provides more than enough bounty to feed everyone, and mangoes and maize are indigenous crops.
Tourists are not prevalent here, and as such our presence garners a great deal of attention. Women crane their necks to peer at us as we meander down the sandy trail. Children drop everything and flock to our location, tracing orbits around us like buzzing satellites. The inevitable conversation begins:

"Mazungu!!!" [white person]
I nod.
"Hey-loooooo!"
"Hello."
"What's my name?" [they mean what's YOUR name]
"Mike."
"Mank."
"Mike."
"Mikk."
"Yes."
"I'm fine!" [they mean HOW ARE YOU]
"I'm fine."
"Ohhhhkay!"

Words can't describe how much I'll miss these exchanges once I leave Africa. It continues...

"Gimme money."
"No money."
"Gimme pen."
Bless their hearts. I would if I had pens to give away.
"No pen."
"Gimme picture."

This is doable. I reach for my camera, and the children shake with anticipation. African kids are naturally photogenic. They stick their faces to within inches of the lens, and grin brightly while you liberally snap away. Some turn into troubadors and will pose in the most ridiculous ways, giggling all the while. When the time comes for you to show them the photos, they stare wide-eyed at the viewscreen, their minds mesmerized by a foreign device that can capture them in a frozen moment. Ansel Adams never took shots this good.

Exhausted from the heat and the local attention, we pause further along the road. I take more photographs, this time of a group of wooden dugout canoes that sit rocking gently in the waves that lap against the shore. My friends recharge themselves with Pineapple Fantas and another island staple: popcorn, purchased from a fat lady sitting under a tree.

On the third day, we hire a small boat to carry us over to Likoma Island - Chizumulu's bigger sister. Every boat on Lake Malawi seems doomed to sink eventually - you only hope that you won't be there to bear witness to the occasion. The serenity of the bay is misleading, and once we eclipse the point, the water becomes turbulent. Night is falling. An electrical storm looms in the distance, lighting up the Mozambican coast with its intense flashes. The waves lash against the hull, and once again we plunge into silence, until two of the English guys elect to lift our spirits by belting out tone-deaf renditions of a selection of sea chanteys. History repeats itself as we rock up in a hostel that is blanketed in darkness.

Another island, another walkabout. My friend Rachael has an eye infection, so I accompany her over the hills and along the path to the village on the other side. Being Mazungus, we don't wait long to see the doctor. Malawians treat foreigners with reverence, and we are ushered to the front of the queue.
That taken care of, we take a stroll up a hill to the local cathedral. It is the 3rd biggest cathedral in East Africa. It is ornate; not made of stone like its European counterparts, but of wood. Like most cathedrals, its antiquity evokes an essence of spirituality. The shrill of the village disappears the instant you enter, and is replaced by a silence so thick you could cut it. God's presence?
Serenity abandons us the moment we leave, as a group of schoolchildren zero in on us. I soon have four tiny African hands gripping each of my arms. One of the kids, a shy boy of about 4, wears a t-shirt with Tigger on the front. I suppose he has no idea who Tigger is.
The children have decided to escort us back to the hostel. It is a 45-minute hike through rocky hills, and many of them have no shoes. The matriarch of the group is a 15-year-old girl named Catherine, who hands my friend her umbrella to protect us from the sun. She then leads the rest of the group in a series of gospel tunes. The voices are as bright as I've ever heard. Rachael and I attempt to teach them "If You're Happy and You Know It", but to no avail: they are familiar with the tune, and interject almost immediately with their own version in Chichewa. It's funny how great the song sounds in a Bantu language. I bloody hate the English one.
We come to the top of the final descent that takes us back to the hostel. The children insist on going the entire distance. I am hobbling slightly, the result of having sliced my foot open on a shell the previous night. I hesitate as I step across a slippery gap, and a young girl, her feet throbbing from the walk, extends her hand to guide me over. I grin sheepishly. I'm wearing hiking boots.

Time to return to Nkhata Bay. The Rugby World Cup Final dictates your schedule when you're travelling with 7 English people. The boat to the mainland isn't running that week, but that's nothing a little hard currency can't fix. The initial price is extortionate, but we cut it to 10% by allowing locals to travel with us. The boat owner is also Likoma's only EMT, so we are driven from the hostel to the port in an ambulance. We look at the ship, and I imagine that the average Chinese stowaway would turn his nose at it in the interest of personal safety. But there is a rugby game to be seen and we clamber aboard.
It's nearly 8 hours on when Nkhata's lights first come into view. We are on schedule and the mood is good. Suddenly, the boat begins to veer away from the town, towards some unlit stretch of coast further to the South. A bunch of locals have convinced the captain to drop them off at a different village first. We object - an unforeseen port call would make us late for kickoff. My friend Hugo, a big ol' Yorkshire boy, gets into an animated discussion with the captain. The boat turns back to Nkhata. There is an uproar. Teeth are bared, and for the next 10 minutes it seems as if there will be a brawl. Shouts in Chichewa are matched by venomous threats in Mazungu, myself spitting verbal unpleasantries about some guy's mother in my French-Canadian tongue.
Cooler heads prevail though, and soon we are drifting slowly up to the gangplank at the Mayoka Village Hostel in Nkhata Bay. It was Happy Hour at the bar, and to the patrons at the top of the stairs, it must have seemed like the Amistad was arriving. Shirtless, and with my cowboy hat and rucksack, I climbed up the stairs with conviction, my mind sensing the prickle of many incredulous stares.
"Muli bwanji?" I say. Chichewa for HOW ARE YOU.
"Ndiri bwino" comes the collective reply. GOOD, AND YOU?
I casually walked to the bar and ordered a beer.
It was the best entrance I've made in my entire life.