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.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The Ilala to Nkhata
Bit of trivia for you: which body of water played host to the first naval battle of WWI?
The answer is Lake Malawi. In 1914, only days after the outbreak of the Great War, the British gunship HMS Guendolin fired her guns on the German vessel Herman von Wesselmann, the former rendering the latter utterly useless.
Nowadays, you won't see anything in the way of European military craft patrolling this massive lake; fishing boats, dhows and the odd barge are much easier spots. However, there does remain one ship that navigates the lake today as often as it did during the colonial days: the Ilala Ferry.
The Ilala carries passengers and cargo on its once-a-week return trip from Monkey Bay in the South to Chitemba in the North. The trip includes 13 stops on both the Malawian and Mozambican shores of the lake. Inasmuch as many of the ports are isolated villages with no road access, the ferry represents the lifeline for many of the lakeshore's inhabitants.
Tickets come in 3 classes. Most tourists and rich locals choose first class, which permits you to stretch out in the pleasant confines of the open-air upper deck. The journey up top is relaxing and peaceful, and includes access to a restaurant and an outdoor bar that sells Kuche Kuche lager for about 75 cents.
But if you dont have the Kwacha for the privilege of climbing the stairs, you can do as the Malawians do and ride economy. It's pretty grim though - the lower deck is a cramped, rat-infested, diesel-choked pileup of human bodies, barnyard animals and sacks of festering cassava. It may be a more authentically African way to travel, but after a few days spent in the bowels of the ship (the whole journey takes 60 hours), you may have dysentery and feel as if you've wound up in a refugee camp. I was more than happy to part with the $60 to ride upstairs.
The Ilala may be slow-going, but it's far less grueling than road travel. Moreover, you have the opportunity to see some very remote villages. Many of the ports are little more than a few huts on a beach, where the baobab trees and lizards outnumber the human population. A few towns, such as Nkhatakata, have Arab-built structures that are leftover from the days of the slave trade.
Each port call is chaotic. Lake Malawi's shores are shallow, and the Ilala cannot dock. Instead, anchor is dropped a few hundred metres out, and people (and animals and luggage and corn and bags of charcoal and sheet metal and logs and and and) are shuttled to-and-fro on life rafts. It's an absolute shambles, but it's a tight operation and is done quickly and efficiently, even if port is reached at 3AM.
For those of us in for the long haul, good times were had. At each stop, we all plummeted from the top deck into the blue waters, a spectacle that seemed to entertain the locals immensely. There was even a filming crew for the show Globetrekkers, which you've probably never heard of since you don't get HBO. I was interviewed on camera. Finally, my big break.
Taking the Ilala was one of the most enjoyable experiences I've had during my time in Africa. I arrived in Nkhata Bay feeling rested and refreshed, which is a significant departure from how I feel after a minibus taxi ride. Example? To reach Monkey Bay from Lilongwe, I had to endure a 9-hour ordeal sitting next to a newborn baby who spent most of its spare time regurgitating freshly-suckled breast milk onto my shorts. Then, during a breakdown, some local village kids stole my water bottle. Rat bastards. I'll take the boat any day.
The answer is Lake Malawi. In 1914, only days after the outbreak of the Great War, the British gunship HMS Guendolin fired her guns on the German vessel Herman von Wesselmann, the former rendering the latter utterly useless.
Nowadays, you won't see anything in the way of European military craft patrolling this massive lake; fishing boats, dhows and the odd barge are much easier spots. However, there does remain one ship that navigates the lake today as often as it did during the colonial days: the Ilala Ferry.
The Ilala carries passengers and cargo on its once-a-week return trip from Monkey Bay in the South to Chitemba in the North. The trip includes 13 stops on both the Malawian and Mozambican shores of the lake. Inasmuch as many of the ports are isolated villages with no road access, the ferry represents the lifeline for many of the lakeshore's inhabitants.
Tickets come in 3 classes. Most tourists and rich locals choose first class, which permits you to stretch out in the pleasant confines of the open-air upper deck. The journey up top is relaxing and peaceful, and includes access to a restaurant and an outdoor bar that sells Kuche Kuche lager for about 75 cents.
But if you dont have the Kwacha for the privilege of climbing the stairs, you can do as the Malawians do and ride economy. It's pretty grim though - the lower deck is a cramped, rat-infested, diesel-choked pileup of human bodies, barnyard animals and sacks of festering cassava. It may be a more authentically African way to travel, but after a few days spent in the bowels of the ship (the whole journey takes 60 hours), you may have dysentery and feel as if you've wound up in a refugee camp. I was more than happy to part with the $60 to ride upstairs.
The Ilala may be slow-going, but it's far less grueling than road travel. Moreover, you have the opportunity to see some very remote villages. Many of the ports are little more than a few huts on a beach, where the baobab trees and lizards outnumber the human population. A few towns, such as Nkhatakata, have Arab-built structures that are leftover from the days of the slave trade.
Each port call is chaotic. Lake Malawi's shores are shallow, and the Ilala cannot dock. Instead, anchor is dropped a few hundred metres out, and people (and animals and luggage and corn and bags of charcoal and sheet metal and logs and and and) are shuttled to-and-fro on life rafts. It's an absolute shambles, but it's a tight operation and is done quickly and efficiently, even if port is reached at 3AM.
For those of us in for the long haul, good times were had. At each stop, we all plummeted from the top deck into the blue waters, a spectacle that seemed to entertain the locals immensely. There was even a filming crew for the show Globetrekkers, which you've probably never heard of since you don't get HBO. I was interviewed on camera. Finally, my big break.
Taking the Ilala was one of the most enjoyable experiences I've had during my time in Africa. I arrived in Nkhata Bay feeling rested and refreshed, which is a significant departure from how I feel after a minibus taxi ride. Example? To reach Monkey Bay from Lilongwe, I had to endure a 9-hour ordeal sitting next to a newborn baby who spent most of its spare time regurgitating freshly-suckled breast milk onto my shorts. Then, during a breakdown, some local village kids stole my water bottle. Rat bastards. I'll take the boat any day.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Zzzzzzambia
The Lonely Planet Southern Africa guidebook describes Zambia as being famous for "excellent fishing". Well I don't know about that, but I can share a few of my experiences from this pleasant, but decidedly dull country.
I entered Zambia after crossing the Zambezi on a ferry from Botswana. It is the shortest international border in the world at only 650m long. It's also a very perilous border, though not insofar as the two nations are warring; the danger is brought on by hippos and crocs who on occasion come to shore and kill people who are sitting about waiting for the boat to depart.
At the immigration control, I paid $55US for the privilege of a 2 week visa. To date this year, I have spent $365US on visas, and there is no end in sight. Of the remaining countries I intend to visit before the end of my African sojourn, none of them offer free entry. $55 seems a tad steep, but it's exactly what Canadians charge Zambians to enter our country. For me, that represents less than two hours of work. For them, it could be weeks' worth of income.
My first stop was Livingstone, a town named after the famed Scottish missionary who is credited with the discovery of nearby Victoria Falls. Livingstone is excellent - it has nightlife, it has amenities, and it has food, the latter being a refreshing change from Zimbabwe. It also has Jollyboys, which was one of the best hostels I've been to in Africa as of yet, though that may have been because there were 20-some Swedish nurses staying there...
What Livingstone does not have at this time of year is much in the way of a waterfall. The long dry season is nearly over but the rains haven't yet begun, and so Vic Falls is running at 10% of its peak output. I'm now very glad that I visited the Zim side in August, when things were still thundering. Nonetheless, a visit to the Zam side in October still pays off, if only because you can walk straight across the nearly dry Zambezi river bed, and have someone take a picture of you with 50% of your body perched precariously over the edge. No need to fear - it's only 108m to the jagged rocks below.
From Livingstone I head to Lusaka. It may be the capital, but Lusaka must be the most uninspiring city I've ever visited, and my list includes Sudbury, Dusseldorf and Newark! Lusaka is little more than a network of dusty streets flanked by rows of graying Soviet-era buildings, interspersed with malodourous and ramshackle shantytowns. A German guy told me that Lusaka is great "if you know people". Well danke for the insight, Klaus, but I'm from the Canadian prairies, and most of the people I'm acquainted with are like characters from Corner Gas, so how is it that I'm expected to have friends in Southern Zambia? After 2 hours spent walking around the city I was suffering from ennui, so I returned to the hostel to endure an entire evening of listening to an Israeli guy regale me with tales of all the girls he's bagged in Africa. I'm sure that most of these strumpets were of the plastic inflatable variety, or perhaps just mere figments of his vivid imagination.
My ultimate Zambian stop was Chipata, a nondescript bordertown from which you can cross into Malawi. I saw little of interest in Chipata save for the sign in the bathroom of my guesthouse that read "Please flash toilet after use". I'd say most people flash it during use! Ohhhh!
It is a shame that while Zambia is a well-to-do country with outstanding people, it has little to offer to backpackers. Many of the principle attractions, such as Lake Kariba and South Luangwa National Park, cater to the affluent package tourist (ex: 5-day excursions to SLNP start at $595US). Zambia is also massive, oddly-shaped and has poor road conditions, which together make for some marathon bus rides. For those with a great deal of cash and their own transport, this may be an ideal destination. As for me, I'll just have to settle for a short visit to see 10% of a waterfall, drink Mosi beer and chat with Swedish nurses.
Querida: tou brincando =)
I entered Zambia after crossing the Zambezi on a ferry from Botswana. It is the shortest international border in the world at only 650m long. It's also a very perilous border, though not insofar as the two nations are warring; the danger is brought on by hippos and crocs who on occasion come to shore and kill people who are sitting about waiting for the boat to depart.
At the immigration control, I paid $55US for the privilege of a 2 week visa. To date this year, I have spent $365US on visas, and there is no end in sight. Of the remaining countries I intend to visit before the end of my African sojourn, none of them offer free entry. $55 seems a tad steep, but it's exactly what Canadians charge Zambians to enter our country. For me, that represents less than two hours of work. For them, it could be weeks' worth of income.
My first stop was Livingstone, a town named after the famed Scottish missionary who is credited with the discovery of nearby Victoria Falls. Livingstone is excellent - it has nightlife, it has amenities, and it has food, the latter being a refreshing change from Zimbabwe. It also has Jollyboys, which was one of the best hostels I've been to in Africa as of yet, though that may have been because there were 20-some Swedish nurses staying there...
What Livingstone does not have at this time of year is much in the way of a waterfall. The long dry season is nearly over but the rains haven't yet begun, and so Vic Falls is running at 10% of its peak output. I'm now very glad that I visited the Zim side in August, when things were still thundering. Nonetheless, a visit to the Zam side in October still pays off, if only because you can walk straight across the nearly dry Zambezi river bed, and have someone take a picture of you with 50% of your body perched precariously over the edge. No need to fear - it's only 108m to the jagged rocks below.
From Livingstone I head to Lusaka. It may be the capital, but Lusaka must be the most uninspiring city I've ever visited, and my list includes Sudbury, Dusseldorf and Newark! Lusaka is little more than a network of dusty streets flanked by rows of graying Soviet-era buildings, interspersed with malodourous and ramshackle shantytowns. A German guy told me that Lusaka is great "if you know people". Well danke for the insight, Klaus, but I'm from the Canadian prairies, and most of the people I'm acquainted with are like characters from Corner Gas, so how is it that I'm expected to have friends in Southern Zambia? After 2 hours spent walking around the city I was suffering from ennui, so I returned to the hostel to endure an entire evening of listening to an Israeli guy regale me with tales of all the girls he's bagged in Africa. I'm sure that most of these strumpets were of the plastic inflatable variety, or perhaps just mere figments of his vivid imagination.
My ultimate Zambian stop was Chipata, a nondescript bordertown from which you can cross into Malawi. I saw little of interest in Chipata save for the sign in the bathroom of my guesthouse that read "Please flash toilet after use". I'd say most people flash it during use! Ohhhh!
It is a shame that while Zambia is a well-to-do country with outstanding people, it has little to offer to backpackers. Many of the principle attractions, such as Lake Kariba and South Luangwa National Park, cater to the affluent package tourist (ex: 5-day excursions to SLNP start at $595US). Zambia is also massive, oddly-shaped and has poor road conditions, which together make for some marathon bus rides. For those with a great deal of cash and their own transport, this may be an ideal destination. As for me, I'll just have to settle for a short visit to see 10% of a waterfall, drink Mosi beer and chat with Swedish nurses.
Querida: tou brincando =)
Friday, October 12, 2007
Cunning Linguists!
As a change of pace, I've decided to make this blog a little more interactive. Here's why:
Night after night, no matter where I am in Africa, there is always a local guy who sees me as his ticket to free liquor. I'll be sitting at a bar or cafe, either alone or with friends, and some dude will approach and tell me that I should buy him a drink.
They don't even ask nicely! It's never "Hello, I couldn't help but notice that you are a handsome and distinguished young man, and I was hoping you'd be so kind as to purchase me an alcoholic beverage so that I may enhance my evening." No. Instead, they'll wander up, put an empty glass on the table in front of me and say "Hey. Buy me a drink. I want whiskey and coke."
Believe it or not (and I'm sure many of you won't) I'm actually polite with these people. I'll often counter with "Sorry, not tonight" or "I really can't help you man" or, if I'm feeling pissy, "Please go away and leave me alone!!!" I actually say PLEASE!
Well I'm tired of saying please. I want to say something else- something that will not only cause them to beat it, but also to make them think twice about asking the next time.
This is where you come in. Put yourself in my shoes... you're having a couple of drinks, and some freeloading tosser informs you of your obligation to buy him some tipple. What do you say?
I invite you to post your retorts as comments affixed to this post. Remember, I can't say anything that is going to get me stabbed, so this should be witty and clever, not malicious. Also remember that my dear mother reads this blog, so if your ideas are unquestionably inappropriate, email them to me.
I open the floor to your suggestions...
Matt, Jacko, Iain, I know you guys have got something good.
So let's have at it, shall we?
Night after night, no matter where I am in Africa, there is always a local guy who sees me as his ticket to free liquor. I'll be sitting at a bar or cafe, either alone or with friends, and some dude will approach and tell me that I should buy him a drink.
They don't even ask nicely! It's never "Hello, I couldn't help but notice that you are a handsome and distinguished young man, and I was hoping you'd be so kind as to purchase me an alcoholic beverage so that I may enhance my evening." No. Instead, they'll wander up, put an empty glass on the table in front of me and say "Hey. Buy me a drink. I want whiskey and coke."
Believe it or not (and I'm sure many of you won't) I'm actually polite with these people. I'll often counter with "Sorry, not tonight" or "I really can't help you man" or, if I'm feeling pissy, "Please go away and leave me alone!!!" I actually say PLEASE!
Well I'm tired of saying please. I want to say something else- something that will not only cause them to beat it, but also to make them think twice about asking the next time.
This is where you come in. Put yourself in my shoes... you're having a couple of drinks, and some freeloading tosser informs you of your obligation to buy him some tipple. What do you say?
I invite you to post your retorts as comments affixed to this post. Remember, I can't say anything that is going to get me stabbed, so this should be witty and clever, not malicious. Also remember that my dear mother reads this blog, so if your ideas are unquestionably inappropriate, email them to me.
I open the floor to your suggestions...
Matt, Jacko, Iain, I know you guys have got something good.
So let's have at it, shall we?
Monday, October 8, 2007
My Zimbabwean Diary, Part II
DAY FIVE
With each day spent here, my sympathy for the Zimbabwean people deepens. I've gone on and on about the hardships I've had to endure while traveling in this country. Feeling sorry for me yet? Don't bother. This isn't my world, I'm just a transient here. For Zimbabweans, this is real life.
As I was walking through central Bulawayo this morning, I came across a store where people were queued up. The line was enormous, 500+ people, the type of thing you might see in Canada when Rolling Stones tickets go on sale. Know what they were all lined up for? Sugar. Yep, these people where going to spend their entire Saturday waiting to buy sugar.
Waiting in lines is the national pastime in a lot of these countries, and the people do it with remarkable patience and good humour. Not so much for me. A few hours before, I had been waiting in a line for nearly 90 minutes to buy a train ticket, when a little old man sidled up and cut in front of me. It took every last ounce of my restraint not to sock him one. Why? I'm on vacation, I didn't have anywhere else to be. It was only because the waiting had made me cross.
I just wish that one of these poor sods would raise their fists in the air and put an end to all this bullshit. But who is going to speak out against the government? Not the media - it's state-controlled. And besides, publicly slandering Mugabe is a punishable offence. Instead, Zimbabweans have simply chose to ride out the storm and speak of this desperate time as if it's just another punch to roll with.
"What this country needs is leadership," says Chris, a father of 3 who lost his job in a factory and now sells cigarettes on the street corner. "We need change. Because the situation here is not fine."
I cringe when I hear that last bit, since Chris is about the 10th person to say that. That the situation is not fine is both the new Zimbabwean proverb and the world's biggest understatement.
DAY SIX
Bulawayo is a fantastic name, but the city is proper boring. Especially on Sundays. My train to Vic Falls didn't leave until 8PM, so I spent the day sitting in the hostel, drinking coffee and reading "news"papers.
I had booked a berth in a sleeper cabin for the overnight trip. It was a pleasant journey and i was comfortable and in good company. And, having seen the looks of some of the rogues who were riding in the economy cabin, I thanked myself for having splurged for the 1st class ticket.
The trip took 14 hours. There were frequent stops, and one passenger told me that the conductor must often slow down due to herds of elephant crossing the tracks. A train hitting an elephant? Sounds potentially messy!
DAY SEVEN
Victoria Falls is not like the rest of Zimbabwe. It is an island unto itself. Sure, there are many poor and desperate people, but because of the town's proximity to Botswana and Zambia, shelves are well-stocked and life is generally normal. And another thing: Vic Falls has tourists.
Up until this morning, I had met one other backpacker during my week in the country. Now suddenly, here were many. This was a welcome change, since I had started to feel conversation-starved.
Having seen the Zim side of the falls on my previous visit, I gave it a skip. I still have to see the Zam side anyway. Besides, I didn't return to Vic Falls to look at water flowing over a gorge. No. I came here to buy a giraffe.
Zimbabweans must be among the most talented artisans in Africa. Carvings, sculptures and jewelery are of the highest quality, and the Vic Falls market is THE place to shop. Since my last time here, I'd had my heart set on an olive-wood carving of a giraffe, and today I finally had the pleasure of being able to mosey through the hundreds of available specimens, looking for the most handsome candidate. After finding the one and taking care of a little business, I walked away with a 4' high giraffe, and a young artist named Clement walked away with $40 + my T-shirt + my shorts. Good thing I'd brought spares!
In the evening, I drank beers with some local guys who were giving "African names" to all the White people. I ended up with the title of Mchaza, which is Ndebele for "man's anus". Great. Just great.
DAY EIGHT
By this point, I'd eaten a big enough slice of Zimbabwe and it was go time. The plan was to cross the bridge over the Zambezi into Zambia, but of course nothing ever goes according to plan.
I had $59 to my name, and the Zambian visa costs $55. A quick internet search revealed that there were no banks on the Zam side that would give me money, and the prospect of arriving in a new country with $4 and a hope and a prayer wasn't too appealing. Food thing I had Plan B: B for Botswana.
I caught a ride in the back of a truck, 70km to the Kazungula border crossing, for which I paid $3 (extortion). But who cares? My arrival at Zim's Western frontier meant that I had accomplished what very few travelers have been able to do in recent times: blitzkrieg across the whole country. As I walked forth to the border, I turned back for a moment of contemplation. I had just completed the most ambitious, challenging and calorie-deficient journey of my life. Tout seul.
Giraffe in hand, I marched into Botswana, walked 5km to Kasane town and checked myself into a luxury resort complete with full breakfast, fresh towels and a fine view of the Chobe River. Good old credit card!
I will return to Zimbabwe one day. There are still places to see such as Harare and Mana Pools National Park - both famous in Africa. But the real reason I'd like to return is my affection for the Zimbabwean people. They are classy, they are educated, they have infinite potential, and they deserve better. Someday, when the country stops being run by apes, Zimbabwe will one again thrive and find its place on the world stage.
Hope you all enjoyed this story.
-Mchaza
With each day spent here, my sympathy for the Zimbabwean people deepens. I've gone on and on about the hardships I've had to endure while traveling in this country. Feeling sorry for me yet? Don't bother. This isn't my world, I'm just a transient here. For Zimbabweans, this is real life.
As I was walking through central Bulawayo this morning, I came across a store where people were queued up. The line was enormous, 500+ people, the type of thing you might see in Canada when Rolling Stones tickets go on sale. Know what they were all lined up for? Sugar. Yep, these people where going to spend their entire Saturday waiting to buy sugar.
Waiting in lines is the national pastime in a lot of these countries, and the people do it with remarkable patience and good humour. Not so much for me. A few hours before, I had been waiting in a line for nearly 90 minutes to buy a train ticket, when a little old man sidled up and cut in front of me. It took every last ounce of my restraint not to sock him one. Why? I'm on vacation, I didn't have anywhere else to be. It was only because the waiting had made me cross.
I just wish that one of these poor sods would raise their fists in the air and put an end to all this bullshit. But who is going to speak out against the government? Not the media - it's state-controlled. And besides, publicly slandering Mugabe is a punishable offence. Instead, Zimbabweans have simply chose to ride out the storm and speak of this desperate time as if it's just another punch to roll with.
"What this country needs is leadership," says Chris, a father of 3 who lost his job in a factory and now sells cigarettes on the street corner. "We need change. Because the situation here is not fine."
I cringe when I hear that last bit, since Chris is about the 10th person to say that. That the situation is not fine is both the new Zimbabwean proverb and the world's biggest understatement.
DAY SIX
Bulawayo is a fantastic name, but the city is proper boring. Especially on Sundays. My train to Vic Falls didn't leave until 8PM, so I spent the day sitting in the hostel, drinking coffee and reading "news"papers.
I had booked a berth in a sleeper cabin for the overnight trip. It was a pleasant journey and i was comfortable and in good company. And, having seen the looks of some of the rogues who were riding in the economy cabin, I thanked myself for having splurged for the 1st class ticket.
The trip took 14 hours. There were frequent stops, and one passenger told me that the conductor must often slow down due to herds of elephant crossing the tracks. A train hitting an elephant? Sounds potentially messy!
DAY SEVEN
Victoria Falls is not like the rest of Zimbabwe. It is an island unto itself. Sure, there are many poor and desperate people, but because of the town's proximity to Botswana and Zambia, shelves are well-stocked and life is generally normal. And another thing: Vic Falls has tourists.
Up until this morning, I had met one other backpacker during my week in the country. Now suddenly, here were many. This was a welcome change, since I had started to feel conversation-starved.
Having seen the Zim side of the falls on my previous visit, I gave it a skip. I still have to see the Zam side anyway. Besides, I didn't return to Vic Falls to look at water flowing over a gorge. No. I came here to buy a giraffe.
Zimbabweans must be among the most talented artisans in Africa. Carvings, sculptures and jewelery are of the highest quality, and the Vic Falls market is THE place to shop. Since my last time here, I'd had my heart set on an olive-wood carving of a giraffe, and today I finally had the pleasure of being able to mosey through the hundreds of available specimens, looking for the most handsome candidate. After finding the one and taking care of a little business, I walked away with a 4' high giraffe, and a young artist named Clement walked away with $40 + my T-shirt + my shorts. Good thing I'd brought spares!
In the evening, I drank beers with some local guys who were giving "African names" to all the White people. I ended up with the title of Mchaza, which is Ndebele for "man's anus". Great. Just great.
DAY EIGHT
By this point, I'd eaten a big enough slice of Zimbabwe and it was go time. The plan was to cross the bridge over the Zambezi into Zambia, but of course nothing ever goes according to plan.
I had $59 to my name, and the Zambian visa costs $55. A quick internet search revealed that there were no banks on the Zam side that would give me money, and the prospect of arriving in a new country with $4 and a hope and a prayer wasn't too appealing. Food thing I had Plan B: B for Botswana.
I caught a ride in the back of a truck, 70km to the Kazungula border crossing, for which I paid $3 (extortion). But who cares? My arrival at Zim's Western frontier meant that I had accomplished what very few travelers have been able to do in recent times: blitzkrieg across the whole country. As I walked forth to the border, I turned back for a moment of contemplation. I had just completed the most ambitious, challenging and calorie-deficient journey of my life. Tout seul.
Giraffe in hand, I marched into Botswana, walked 5km to Kasane town and checked myself into a luxury resort complete with full breakfast, fresh towels and a fine view of the Chobe River. Good old credit card!
I will return to Zimbabwe one day. There are still places to see such as Harare and Mana Pools National Park - both famous in Africa. But the real reason I'd like to return is my affection for the Zimbabwean people. They are classy, they are educated, they have infinite potential, and they deserve better. Someday, when the country stops being run by apes, Zimbabwe will one again thrive and find its place on the world stage.
Hope you all enjoyed this story.
-Mchaza
Friday, October 5, 2007
My Zimbabwean Diary
Dear Mom,
A short while back you made me laugh by likening my blog to Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Perhaps, I've finally written the true African story you were looking for.
I invite you all to read the words I wrote while traveling in one of the most unforgettable countries I have ever visited: Zimbabwe.
P.S. This is long, so instead of making you all pack a lunch, I will divide it into two separate posts (next one to come in a couple of days).
DAY ONE
I entered the country at the Forbes' Road border crossing from Mozambique. I don't know why, but I always get a feeling of satisfaction whenever I cross a border on foot - it seems somehow romantic. I handed over $65US for the Zimbabwean visa - my second in as many months - and swallowed hard for two reasons. First, Canadians pay the second highest fee to enter Zimbabwe, after Angolans. Second, I can't help but imagine my precious money being transfered directly into the back pocket of supreme despot and rotten son-of-a-bitch President Robert Mugabe. Before heading to town, I had to change money, which is both funny and scary at the same instant. It's scary because it's illegal, unless you use an official exchange bureau, which will give you 30,000 Zim$ for $1US. Few people use that outlet, however, because the dodgy-looking fellow sitting under the tree outside the exchange bureau will pull banknotes out of a stack 6" high and trade at a rate of 200,000:1. It definitely pays to use this "parallel market", though doing so could land you in a local prison, which I'll hazard isn't much fun.
I paid a local guy to drive me to Mutare, a large and rather pleasant town in Zim's Eastern highlands, and walked to a guesthouse wherein I paid 1.7 million dollars to become their only resident. It would be my 3rd night in a row sleeping in a place that had no electricity, though the power did come on for 7 minutes a little later in the evening.
Mutare's principal attraction is a nearby national park, but I had no car to get there so I just walked around. I'd heard all the tales about the nationwide shortages of food and goods, though nothing could have prepared me for what I saw as I gazed in the shops. Supermarkets - massive ones - had almost nothing in them, perhaps just enough clutter to occupy 5% of the space. There are no eggs, milk, cheese, Coke or bread.
I walked home and ate the buns, tomatoes and cookies that I'd brought with me from Mozambique.
DAY TWO
I wanted to go to Masvingo, 400km away, but I had no idea how to get there. Fuel shortages have crippled the transportation network, which is a shame because Zimbabwe has excellent infrastructure and a reliable system of trains and buses. I was encouraged by a local guy named Ian, who remarked that "you can always get from Point A to Point B, it's just a question of how." I had a stroke of luck by finding a bus headed in the right direction, though I paid for my good fortunes by spending the next 7 hours stuffed into a seat, unable to so much as fidget, with my body pressed up against a window, face exposed to the hot sun while some lady's colic baby wailed in my ears at 20,000Hz. The passing view (one with many baboons) and a cheap 1960s romance novel were my only escapes.
Buses here stop often, mostly due to "fundraising" roadblocks set up by local police. It's a bit annoying, though one consolation is that many villagers congregate at the stops, waiting to sell their wares to the idle passengers. For several minutes, an impromptu market manifests itself, and commerce takes place through the windows. Most touts sell tomatoes and bananas, though today I was offered a selection of fried snacks such as roaches and whole fetal birds.
Masvingo is the access point to the ancient ruins of Great Zimbabwe, but the town itself is just a truck stop. I paid 196,000 Zim$ for a bowl of rice and sausage, ate 4 bananas and spent the rest of the night in the hostel, sitting alone in the dark.
DAY THREE
The realization sets in that finding even the most basic item in Zimbabwe is a tall order. Neither the hostel nor the supermarket has toilet paper, though I won't tell you how I solved that problem. I rise after a sleepless night courtesy of the 101st Mosquito Airborne Division and meander down to the only eatery in town. I wolf down a plate of beef stew and sadza (maize meal) before heading to the grocery store to arm myself with bananas, chocolate and soda water for the day ahead. Then I catch a minibus taxi to Great Zimbabwe.
Great Zimbabwe is an ancient Shona city, built of stone and thought to date back to 1200AD. It was once the focal point of one of the most powerful civilizations in the region, which is why, at independence, the Rhodesian government chose to rename their country after this exact place.
I strolled around the ruins for a while, somehow managing to avoid all the guys who wanted to be my guide, then headed back to my lonely room. It was only 1PM; wishing not to wallow in bed for the next 9 hours, I walked to the expensive hotel up the road and spent the afternoon drinking 600,000 dollars worth of beer and watching Spring Break Shark Attack on TV (no, really!) As I skulked home, I paused amidst a family of vervet monkeys and stared at the afterglow of the day's denouement as it reflected in orange off the old rock walls of the city. I thought that, once, the Zimbabweans were a powerful nation, led my a fearless chief who built great cities and led his people to glory. Somehow, things have regressed in the last 800 years.
DAY FOUR
By 645AM, I have already succeeded in hitching back to Masvingo. Upon arrival, I order tea and french fries at a confectionery, and discover that my Zim dollars had lost half their value overnight. My sights set on getting to Bulawayo, I staked out the petrol station until a bus arrived going the right direction. I should mention that I employ the term "bus" in the lightest sense imaginable... it's only my best guess that this bucket of bolts was a bus in its previous life.
20 minutes out of town and things begin to unravel. There is a loud bang and the driver screeches to a halt. Some shouting in Ndebele ensues, followed by a sea of groans. We have blown a drive shaft bearing. Everybody gets out, and there we all were, sitting in the grass on the roadside, myself speaking to a nice guy named Lawez who claimed to know Donovan Bailey, while meanwhile the bus driver was hitching back to Masvingo to find a mechanic.
To my surprise, they had the bus repaired within an hour and we set off once more. I must say I was enjoying sitting outside in the morning sun - Zimbabweans see very few tourists and I was quite popular as I took pictures of the debacle.
Hell broke loose for good shortly thereafter when the bus threw a second bearing. Picturing myself passing my 27th birthday on that ride, I grabbed Lawez and told him that if he found us a substitute set of wheels to Bulawayo, I'd pay for it. We waited nearly 2 hours, but eventually managed to pile into the back of a pickup truck along with 13 others. It cost me an extra million and it rained all the way, but I couldn't have cared. We got there.
To make matters more interesting, the only hostel in Bulawayo was full. Full? Up to this point I'd imagined being the only tourist in Zimbabwe. Perhaps I still am, because the other lodgers were locals, so in an act of desperation I paid $15US to rent a tent which I pitched in the hostel parking lots.
Travel in Zim sure ain't no picnic.
Stay tuned...
A short while back you made me laugh by likening my blog to Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Perhaps, I've finally written the true African story you were looking for.
I invite you all to read the words I wrote while traveling in one of the most unforgettable countries I have ever visited: Zimbabwe.
P.S. This is long, so instead of making you all pack a lunch, I will divide it into two separate posts (next one to come in a couple of days).
DAY ONE
I entered the country at the Forbes' Road border crossing from Mozambique. I don't know why, but I always get a feeling of satisfaction whenever I cross a border on foot - it seems somehow romantic. I handed over $65US for the Zimbabwean visa - my second in as many months - and swallowed hard for two reasons. First, Canadians pay the second highest fee to enter Zimbabwe, after Angolans. Second, I can't help but imagine my precious money being transfered directly into the back pocket of supreme despot and rotten son-of-a-bitch President Robert Mugabe. Before heading to town, I had to change money, which is both funny and scary at the same instant. It's scary because it's illegal, unless you use an official exchange bureau, which will give you 30,000 Zim$ for $1US. Few people use that outlet, however, because the dodgy-looking fellow sitting under the tree outside the exchange bureau will pull banknotes out of a stack 6" high and trade at a rate of 200,000:1. It definitely pays to use this "parallel market", though doing so could land you in a local prison, which I'll hazard isn't much fun.
I paid a local guy to drive me to Mutare, a large and rather pleasant town in Zim's Eastern highlands, and walked to a guesthouse wherein I paid 1.7 million dollars to become their only resident. It would be my 3rd night in a row sleeping in a place that had no electricity, though the power did come on for 7 minutes a little later in the evening.
Mutare's principal attraction is a nearby national park, but I had no car to get there so I just walked around. I'd heard all the tales about the nationwide shortages of food and goods, though nothing could have prepared me for what I saw as I gazed in the shops. Supermarkets - massive ones - had almost nothing in them, perhaps just enough clutter to occupy 5% of the space. There are no eggs, milk, cheese, Coke or bread.
I walked home and ate the buns, tomatoes and cookies that I'd brought with me from Mozambique.
DAY TWO
I wanted to go to Masvingo, 400km away, but I had no idea how to get there. Fuel shortages have crippled the transportation network, which is a shame because Zimbabwe has excellent infrastructure and a reliable system of trains and buses. I was encouraged by a local guy named Ian, who remarked that "you can always get from Point A to Point B, it's just a question of how." I had a stroke of luck by finding a bus headed in the right direction, though I paid for my good fortunes by spending the next 7 hours stuffed into a seat, unable to so much as fidget, with my body pressed up against a window, face exposed to the hot sun while some lady's colic baby wailed in my ears at 20,000Hz. The passing view (one with many baboons) and a cheap 1960s romance novel were my only escapes.
Buses here stop often, mostly due to "fundraising" roadblocks set up by local police. It's a bit annoying, though one consolation is that many villagers congregate at the stops, waiting to sell their wares to the idle passengers. For several minutes, an impromptu market manifests itself, and commerce takes place through the windows. Most touts sell tomatoes and bananas, though today I was offered a selection of fried snacks such as roaches and whole fetal birds.
Masvingo is the access point to the ancient ruins of Great Zimbabwe, but the town itself is just a truck stop. I paid 196,000 Zim$ for a bowl of rice and sausage, ate 4 bananas and spent the rest of the night in the hostel, sitting alone in the dark.
DAY THREE
The realization sets in that finding even the most basic item in Zimbabwe is a tall order. Neither the hostel nor the supermarket has toilet paper, though I won't tell you how I solved that problem. I rise after a sleepless night courtesy of the 101st Mosquito Airborne Division and meander down to the only eatery in town. I wolf down a plate of beef stew and sadza (maize meal) before heading to the grocery store to arm myself with bananas, chocolate and soda water for the day ahead. Then I catch a minibus taxi to Great Zimbabwe.
Great Zimbabwe is an ancient Shona city, built of stone and thought to date back to 1200AD. It was once the focal point of one of the most powerful civilizations in the region, which is why, at independence, the Rhodesian government chose to rename their country after this exact place.
I strolled around the ruins for a while, somehow managing to avoid all the guys who wanted to be my guide, then headed back to my lonely room. It was only 1PM; wishing not to wallow in bed for the next 9 hours, I walked to the expensive hotel up the road and spent the afternoon drinking 600,000 dollars worth of beer and watching Spring Break Shark Attack on TV (no, really!) As I skulked home, I paused amidst a family of vervet monkeys and stared at the afterglow of the day's denouement as it reflected in orange off the old rock walls of the city. I thought that, once, the Zimbabweans were a powerful nation, led my a fearless chief who built great cities and led his people to glory. Somehow, things have regressed in the last 800 years.
DAY FOUR
By 645AM, I have already succeeded in hitching back to Masvingo. Upon arrival, I order tea and french fries at a confectionery, and discover that my Zim dollars had lost half their value overnight. My sights set on getting to Bulawayo, I staked out the petrol station until a bus arrived going the right direction. I should mention that I employ the term "bus" in the lightest sense imaginable... it's only my best guess that this bucket of bolts was a bus in its previous life.
20 minutes out of town and things begin to unravel. There is a loud bang and the driver screeches to a halt. Some shouting in Ndebele ensues, followed by a sea of groans. We have blown a drive shaft bearing. Everybody gets out, and there we all were, sitting in the grass on the roadside, myself speaking to a nice guy named Lawez who claimed to know Donovan Bailey, while meanwhile the bus driver was hitching back to Masvingo to find a mechanic.
To my surprise, they had the bus repaired within an hour and we set off once more. I must say I was enjoying sitting outside in the morning sun - Zimbabweans see very few tourists and I was quite popular as I took pictures of the debacle.
Hell broke loose for good shortly thereafter when the bus threw a second bearing. Picturing myself passing my 27th birthday on that ride, I grabbed Lawez and told him that if he found us a substitute set of wheels to Bulawayo, I'd pay for it. We waited nearly 2 hours, but eventually managed to pile into the back of a pickup truck along with 13 others. It cost me an extra million and it rained all the way, but I couldn't have cared. We got there.
To make matters more interesting, the only hostel in Bulawayo was full. Full? Up to this point I'd imagined being the only tourist in Zimbabwe. Perhaps I still am, because the other lodgers were locals, so in an act of desperation I paid $15US to rent a tent which I pitched in the hostel parking lots.
Travel in Zim sure ain't no picnic.
Stay tuned...
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Under da Sea
While working on the game reserve in South Africa, I gained a great deal of knowledge with regards to the many wonderful creatures that live and roam on the land.
And so when I arrived in Mozambique, I decided to expand my zoological horizons a wee bit further by turning my eyes to the sea and completing my Open Water Scuba Diving Certification course.
Well, it wasn't exactly that simple. Before, when I thought about Scuba diving, a lot of dangerous scenarios popped into my head...
Riptides!
Drowning!
Decompression sickness!
Getting eaten by a seahorse!
It wasn't until I hung out with a Captonian guy in Maputo who happened to be a diving instructor in nearby Tofo that I gave diving some serious thought. Then all I had to do was part with $400 and I was on my way.
Getting your open water certification is quite an easy task, actually. You watch some corny videos, write a few exams, tool around in the swimming pool for a while, and you're all set to head out on the boat.
Which isn't to say that there's no intimidation factor. It's one thing to practice recovering a lost breathing regulator in a swimming pool, and quite another to do the same thing with 18m of ocean above your head. There are many challenging tasks to master on a dive, including mask flood purging, buoyancy control and emergency assents.
But let's cut to the chase here: Scuba diving is excellent. One, you're breathing underwater. Two, you're moving around in a 3-D environment, almost as if in slow motion flight. Three (and this is the big one), you are immersing yourself in a world that is far more rich in species diversity than on land.
Throughout the course, we did 4 dives, ranging in depth from 10-18m. Tofo has many reefs, all of which go by rather interesting names such as Hogwarts, The Office, Krakatoa, and my personal fave, Big Boobs Canyon. Well okay, I made that last one up.
The first 4 dives sucked, actually. Conditions were poor (as in bad visibility and strong swells) and I spent most of my time underwater trying to avoid crashing into the reefs instead of looking at fish. No harm done though... the purpose of a training dive is to hone your skill sets and not to identify the resident species of grouper anyway.
So in the end, I elected to fork over a bit more dinheiro to go on a deep water dive, which took us to Manta Reef, a massive dive site that rests 28m below the surface.
You know that tingly sensation you get when you bust your hump at something and end up being rewarded for it? Well, this is NOT what I was feeling at Manta. Sure there were tingles, but those were due to the nitrogen narcosis (a feeling of lightheadedness due to excess nitrogen in solution in the bloodstream) you get at such depths. It's a bit like having a few too many martinis, which can be quite disconcerting when you are at the bottom of the sea. The dive, however, was incredible. I saw dolphins, moray eels, lionfish, devil rays, parrotfish, scorpionfish, lobsters, octopi, (duh) mantas, and a giant sea turtle who came so close to me I could have kissed him. Though, that may have been awkward.
So now, as I travel further up the East coast of Africa, I can use my newfound aquatic talents to visit other famous dive sites, such as Lake Malawi, Zanzibar, and Comoros. Booyakasha.
"Each little snail here know how to wail here
Each little clam here know how to jam here
Girl we in luck here down in de muck here under da sea."
-Sebastian the Crab
And so when I arrived in Mozambique, I decided to expand my zoological horizons a wee bit further by turning my eyes to the sea and completing my Open Water Scuba Diving Certification course.
Well, it wasn't exactly that simple. Before, when I thought about Scuba diving, a lot of dangerous scenarios popped into my head...
Riptides!
Drowning!
Decompression sickness!
Getting eaten by a seahorse!
It wasn't until I hung out with a Captonian guy in Maputo who happened to be a diving instructor in nearby Tofo that I gave diving some serious thought. Then all I had to do was part with $400 and I was on my way.
Getting your open water certification is quite an easy task, actually. You watch some corny videos, write a few exams, tool around in the swimming pool for a while, and you're all set to head out on the boat.
Which isn't to say that there's no intimidation factor. It's one thing to practice recovering a lost breathing regulator in a swimming pool, and quite another to do the same thing with 18m of ocean above your head. There are many challenging tasks to master on a dive, including mask flood purging, buoyancy control and emergency assents.
But let's cut to the chase here: Scuba diving is excellent. One, you're breathing underwater. Two, you're moving around in a 3-D environment, almost as if in slow motion flight. Three (and this is the big one), you are immersing yourself in a world that is far more rich in species diversity than on land.
Throughout the course, we did 4 dives, ranging in depth from 10-18m. Tofo has many reefs, all of which go by rather interesting names such as Hogwarts, The Office, Krakatoa, and my personal fave, Big Boobs Canyon. Well okay, I made that last one up.
The first 4 dives sucked, actually. Conditions were poor (as in bad visibility and strong swells) and I spent most of my time underwater trying to avoid crashing into the reefs instead of looking at fish. No harm done though... the purpose of a training dive is to hone your skill sets and not to identify the resident species of grouper anyway.
So in the end, I elected to fork over a bit more dinheiro to go on a deep water dive, which took us to Manta Reef, a massive dive site that rests 28m below the surface.
You know that tingly sensation you get when you bust your hump at something and end up being rewarded for it? Well, this is NOT what I was feeling at Manta. Sure there were tingles, but those were due to the nitrogen narcosis (a feeling of lightheadedness due to excess nitrogen in solution in the bloodstream) you get at such depths. It's a bit like having a few too many martinis, which can be quite disconcerting when you are at the bottom of the sea. The dive, however, was incredible. I saw dolphins, moray eels, lionfish, devil rays, parrotfish, scorpionfish, lobsters, octopi, (duh) mantas, and a giant sea turtle who came so close to me I could have kissed him. Though, that may have been awkward.
So now, as I travel further up the East coast of Africa, I can use my newfound aquatic talents to visit other famous dive sites, such as Lake Malawi, Zanzibar, and Comoros. Booyakasha.
"Each little snail here know how to wail here
Each little clam here know how to jam here
Girl we in luck here down in de muck here under da sea."
-Sebastian the Crab
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