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.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 23, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, November 19, 2007
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
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
Friday, November 16, 2007
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.
...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.
Monday, November 12, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
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
"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
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