Primates - 2003

“The darkest thing about Africa

has always been our ignorance of it.”

George HT Kimble (1951)

Director, Survey of Tropical Africa, Twentieth Century Fund, New York City, 1953–60. 

Professor of Geography, Indiana University, Bloomington, 1957–66. 
Author of Tropical Africa (2 vol.)

Planting a Seed

Having returned to South Africa after two years in the Far East, my intention was to settle down, get married and have kids…… uhm…….? Well, it was something along those lines,

but plans don't always work out. And so, when my relationship ended, I was left with a sizeable figure in the bank, and no fixed date on which to do anything at all.

I moved into my brother’s home, and on one arbitrary night, my sister-in-law and I were discussing movies that we had enjoyed. I asked if she had seen ‘Gorillas in the Mist’, the one that dramatised Dian Fossey’s study of the primates in Rwanda.

Before she could answer, my eyes bulged in their sockets. I had inadvertently, innocently planted the seed for what would become an epic journey.

My heart racing, I dashed to the nearest bookstore to purchase a copy of the Lonely Planet’s Africa guide. I also made enquiries at tour operators whose routes covered the land between Cape Town and the rainforests of Uganda. (Though Miss Fossey had done her research in Rwanda, gorillas, of course, do not consider the faulty borders randomly drawn by European powers in their race for dominance. The apes can, therefore, be visited from both the aforementioned countries, and also from the Democratic Republic of Congo.)

During the next few weeks, I devoured the relevant Lonely Planet chapters, like a rabid rottweiler. The idea of traveling in Africa had long interested me, but having grown up in a country whose history and propaganda instilled deep fear, I had never acted upon the desire. I had, in fact, about five years earlier, been asked by a Canadian to join him on his overland trip from Cape Town to London. Cameron was a colleague of mine, and for a short period, he was also my roommate. At the time, I was preparing to move to London, but his invitation came before I had ever left South African borders, and I was too afraid.

The tour operators offered reasonably priced transportation and accommodation, but excluded from their packages were the costs of the great African attractions. Doing it independently, using public transport and carrying a tent, my total was lower. This way I could better afford the gorilla trek and some diving off the coast of East Africa.

Before setting off, I had to acquire visas and preventative medical shots. All went well, except the trip to the Mozambican Embassy. I was making application just a few weeks ahead of a long weekend, and it seemed every Johannesburger had decided to visit our neighbour. I waited in the queue for more than three hours! As if that wasn’t enough, I had to return a couple of days later, and stand in an equally retarded queue to pick up my passport.

To put it into perspective, I traveled alone, for five weeks, and covered 14000km. I used public transport all the way - buses, ferries, trains and, at last, a plane from Zanzibar back to Jo’burg.

Pula & Thebe

The coach from Johannesburg to Gaborone, the Botswanan capital, was as comfortable as a coach can be, which is usually not very comfortable at all. Crossing the border went smoothly. I entered through Tlokweng Gate, between the South African town of Zeerust and Gaborone, on April 14^th, 2003.

Arriving in Gaborone, I tried to exchange 

money at the hotel where the bus dropped me off, but alas, it was after hours. I had to wait until morning. The currency is called pula, and each pula is divided into a hundred thebe. Pula means rain, which is as precious to this desert nation as is money. The taxi driver was gracious to accept South African rand, but he overcharged me. Whatever – I was tired after the journey, and just wanted to set up my tent at Citi-Camp Caravan Park. Said campsite was a short distance out of town by taxi, and it was a peaceful setting.

I must admit, throughout my journey, and particularly when I was camping, I was a little worried about the possibility of being robbed or worse while I slept, but I had been careful while planning to avoid troubled areas, and trouble did not find me.

I stayed there for only one night, and in the morning woke early. I walked the distance back to town, along none other than Nelson Mandela Drive, and of course, on foot it seemed way further than the night before. The walk reminded me of many-a-backwater-town in South Africa. The terrain was entirely flat, the roads broad and dusty, and the grass brown. I was also astonished to notice that many houses were surrounded by electrified fences. I had thought that this was only a feature of the South African city, but then again, Gaborone was not deep into Botswana.

I found pula at Barclays Bank in The Mall, a location nothing like a mall. It was instead a rectangular city block with two-story buildings on the outer edges, surrounding an uncovered pedestrian walkway. The feeling in the air was laid-back and comfortable.

From there it was a short walk to the long-distance bus terminal, where I caught a bus north to Francistown, a settlement about half-way up the eastern part of the country. We stopped en route for refreshments, and this was the first time I felt I was not home: the shops were entirely unfamiliar. Arriving in Francistown, there was no time to wander. I transferred to another coach heading to Nata, which journey was to once again halve the distance to the Zambian border.

I arrived in Nata at sunset. This didn’t really seem like a place. There were a few unattached buildings. I couldn’t really distinguish if they were dwellings or places of business. Then there was a gas station, and behind it, Sua Pan Lodge. This was where I pitched my tent, and I didn’t see any other guests. When I'd disembarked earlier, a group on tour was refueling their truck. I'd happily anticipated some conversation with fellow travelers, but they were on their way immediately. Instead I found less familiar but more interesting conversation with the owner of the lodge and a few of his friends.

I woke very early again in the morning. Since I was traveling on my own, and camping most of the way, I was going to bed not long after sunset, and therefore getting up every morning at the crack of dawn. As I waited for the next transit installment, I tried to enjoy breakfast at the lodge. It wasn't particularly tasty.

On this leg of my trip I met a foreigner who had been volunteering off the beaten track in the country, working with AIDS victims. He was a very pleasant fellow, and the conversation was easy. We got about 60km out of Nata, and were stopped at a foot-and-mouth control gate in the middle of absolutely nowhere. We all had to

alight and walk through a trough of treated water. The bus then drove through a different trough with perhaps the same or maybe a more potent mixture. The wait at this check-point seemed inordinately long, but I was impressed by the interest in the country’s health.

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No sooner had we gotten across and returned to the rhythm and hum of the tyres and engine, than the driver suddenly realised that he didn’t have his log book. It seemed trivial to me, but it was obviously a matter of great importance to him, and so it happened that we turned around and drove back the entire distance we had covered that day, all the way to Nata! I was exasperated, especially considering that I wanted to make it across the border into Zambia, and to reach Livingstone in those diminishing daylight hours. But what was one to do? The vehicle and its operation were in the hands of Forgetful, and so we all shut up and bore the monotony and irritation. On the return journey, we had once again to endure the length of the foot-and-mouth stop. At long last, we made our way to Kazungula, the only border-post between Botswana and Zambia. It is in fact situated on the tiniest sliver of Botswanan soil, and at this location, one could enter Namibia, Zambia or Zimbabwe.

Botswana struck me as a sophisticated country within its means. The landscape was dusty, flat and dry. The people were friendly and well dressed, and the ladies spent at least a portion of their income at the hairdresser. Many people carried cell phones. Sadly, I did not get to see the main attractions of the Okavango Delta or the Chobe Elephant Park. With so far to go and so much to do, I decided to save these for another trip.

Cascades

From Kazungula, there was a ferry to the Zambian side of the great Zambezi River. I was amused by the warning sign.

Stepping off, I knew I was in Africa. Everything seemed to have been built a long time ago and left unkempt since then. I hopped on a minivan heading for Livingstone, the town at Victoria Falls. It was to be my first ride in a truly African minivan. In South Africa, the minivan is the most common form of transport for those who cannot afford their own wheels. Motorists there 

complain about the bad drivers, and the vehicles’ state of repair. This one was rusty, and the attendant / fare collector, who rode in the back, held the door by hand to keep it from opening. Livingstone was 60km away! I turned to speak to a local, who worked as a chef in one of Livingstone’s hotels, and thus kept my mind off the safety issue.

We arrived at dusk, and I found Jollyboys Backpackers’ Hostel, arriving, by chance, the night of a lunar 

rainbow over Victoria Falls, a phenomenon that happens only once every four months. I initially decided not to go to the falls – I was worn out by two and a half days on the road with scant rest. However, the hype was overpowering, and I hopped on the bus from the popular backpackers’. In the end, it was not particularly spectacular. It was dark, and the spray from the falls – which was much like a torrential downpour -- wet my specs, so I couldn’t see anything, anyway. Still, it was early in my trip and the thrill of being at Vic Falls (!!!) was enough.

I stayed in Livingstone for two days and three nights. On the morning of the first day, I wandered around town, stopping in to get some Zambian currency, the kwacha. At the time, US$1 bought ZK2500. It was strange to be paying amounts with so many zeros attached. The locals of this town were friendly and welcoming. There seemed an air of sophistication similar to what I’d experienced in Botswana, perhaps because this community was made more affluent by the constant flow of tourists. The same was not true in the parts of the country I was yet to pass through.

Then I returned to the national park that surrounded the falls. The park was a few clicks east of town along the Zambezi. I wanted to have a wander in the small forest to enjoy the

setting by the light of day. There I met a Japanese man who was on a break from his volunteer position as a math teacher in another part of this country. We ventured down a rocky descent to where the fallen water raged against the constraints of the gorge into which it had tumbled.

Leaving this place, my new companion and I separated. I went to devour lunch on the banks of the river, a short way along the road back into town. There I stumbled upon information regarding microlight flights over Victoria’s cascade. As it was my birthday the next day, I decided to kick off the festivities with that. I paid for the flight and returned to Jollyboys with enough time to have a shower and join the group to a different part of the gorge, further east than the falls, where we enjoyed the sunset and the company. Our ‘concierge’, who drove us to the viewpoint, was hugely entertaining, and kept us in stitches with his repartee.

As planned, Friday began with the flight over the falls. It was beautiful to get an aerial perspective of what I had seen through mist on the first night, and from the base the following day. However, the sensation of being perched in nothing more than a seat supported by a naked frame was not in the least bit comforting. In addition, the land surrounding the falls was entirely uninteresting: - a flat, dry plain as far as the eye could see in every direction. Upon landing, I let out a sigh of relief, so absolute that the pilot commented on it! I will never do that again. In fact, I think that might be where my fear of heights was born. Never mind, I had done something I had never really considered doing.

From there, a local offered me a tour by bicycle of the settlements surrounding Livingstone. He was a very pleasant young man, and the information he imparted made for an interesting and relaxing ride, which included a stop at his own home to meet his family. I was taken by the effort made to beautify the environment. Old trees stood over pretty gardens, and

the exterior walls of the houses were painted cheerful colours. We stopped to rest on the banks of the river (this time upstream from the falls), where a lone fisherman sat with a dozen or so baited sticks, waiting for his catch. We also caught a glimpse of a hippo, lazily wasting away the day in the depths of the Zambezi.

The people at Jollyboys were great. By convenient accident, a BBQ had been arranged on the premises on the evening of what had been a truly fulfilling birthday, which made for a fun end. Due to plenty of interesting conversation and a good few beers, the next morning was not an easy rise. That was when I was leaving for Malawi. I felt like staying right here, but I knew that there was way more ahead, so I rose at 05:00, packed up my tent, and at 06:00 I caught the bus.

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The ride to Lusaka was long and impatient. We arrived in the capital at twenty minutes after 14:00, and I had missed my connecting coach by those same few minutes. As I had no plan or desire to explore this city, I bought a ticket for the very next bus to the eastern border. I asked the assistant how long the wait might be, and he said not to worry, the next coach was around the corner and we’d be on our way soon. I was to learn that, in Africa, the word ‘soon’ has no meaning. I then asked other waiting passengers, and they gave me the same answer. At long last, we boarded a bus at 17:00! Throughout the wait, I did not wish to venture away from the departure point, for fear of missing the bus. As a result, I didn’t get to enjoy a hearty meal, and entered the bus with only a box of cookies and a bottle of water to keep me nourished for the next few hours.

It was on this bus that I first feared for my safety, not from ill-meaning locals, but from the madly reckless driver. As I had expected, the road was riddled with potholes, but I had not anticipated the need for speed. The driver avoided the lurking danger by veering too violently from side to side, or worse, correcting in the middle of a swerve. Fortunately, I was debilitated by exhaustion, and I actually managed to sleep through most of it. A few hours into the journey, I allowed my fear to give way to resignation, and the rest of the journey was way more manageable.

I have heard many horror stories about traveling through Africa. Sometimes the buses break down, and on occasion the next bus will only be along in a few days. Passengers have to make do with what they have, and sleep on the side of the road until alternative transport arrives. Of course there are also accidents, but these happen the world over.

Then there are the road blocks. Local officers of the law are poorly paid, if at all, and so to supplement his wages, a policeman often sets up a makeshift boom on a random stretch of country road, far away from any town. Passing drivers have to give this man something to be allowed to pass. The value of the bribe depends, I guess, on the number of occupants, the market price of the vehicle, and perhaps a few other arbitrary standards. Failing to pay the bribe may mean that you get arrested and left in a prison cell (or did I hear that about Mexico?), or made to turn back hundreds of kilometers to choose another route, along which you will be faced with the identical situation. I did not see any of these fly-by-night operations in Botswana, but they were present on every other stretch of country road along my journey. I was fortunate to avoid having to haggle as I was using local transportation, a solitary Caucasian speck in the sea of Bantu.

We arrived in Chipata the next morning at 01:00 early. This looked like a very nice little town, from what I got to see on the walk to the hostel – I was not pitching my tent tonight! Departure from there was once again at 06:00 after the rooster, across the border to Malawi, Lilongwe (its capital), and beyond.

The Warm Heart of Africa

An early morning pick-up truck took us to the border. By now I had become wise to the convenience of exchanging at least some money with the touts at the border crossings. (I would first go online and check the latest exchange rates so as not to be taken for a fool. As it turned out, these money vendors - at every single border crossing - were entirely honest.) Malawi’s currency is also called the kwacha. I forget now which currency was stronger, but I do remember that at that time, the difference was negligible.

A minivan then took me to the bus terminal in Lilongwe.

I had scarcely retrieved my bags from the minivan when an over-zealous operator grabbed my forearm and began jostling me towards my connection to Mzuzu. Why the rush? The next hour was spent painfully stationary, waiting for the bus to fill. This is how much of the public transport works in Africa (as indeed it does in the Philippines). And when I say fill, that is exactly what they do. This bus had five rows of four seats each. One seat in each row folded up to create the narrow strip along which passengers entered and exited. Bags, shopping and live chickens were jammed under the seats, on the roof racks, and in every nook and cranny. Then five large ladies were squashed onto the four seats in each row. For the duration of this journey (about seven hours), I was unable to move any part of my body even an inch, save my forearms, which could change the CD in the walkman, or drop a snack in my mouth, with great difficulty.

The countryside was greener and hillier than what I’d seen in Zambia, and I preferred this place. My fellow passengers were also more pleasant in their approach and in the general feeling I got from them. We stopped about half-way for refreshments. On the side of the country road was a group of buildings, all in a row, and in front of these were vendors with an assortment of snacks and drinks. 

We could make use of the facilities at a small cost. What I had not expected to see, though,

was that after getting back on the road, used containers and bags were discarded out of the bus’s windows. I guess one takes education and the media for granted. Most of these people have probably never imagined an alternative, and they are probably unaware of environmental issues. I was saddened by the abuse I was seeing, but I had not come here to educate. I was instead receiving an education, and was in the fortunate position to choose which parts of that education would influence me.

My destination was Nkhata Bay on the shores of Lake Malawi, and so I was to make one more connection in Mzuzu. During this wait, trying to dodge scores of waiting passengers-to-be, I stepped over a hawker’s bananas that were spread out on the dusty ground for sale. She barked at me, which came as a surprise, given that hygiene did not seem to be an issue. My apology was only begrudging, due, I guess, to far too many hours in transit. Later I thought that I should have been more humble: when in Rome, respect.

A welcome relief from tedium of tar was a choir that spontaneously erupted into song en route to Nkhata Bay. There was even a drum! 

The chanting group was returning home after a church service. We arrived on the shores just before sunset, and I was truly relieved at the opportunity to rest for a few days before I would once again have to hit the road. 

The Malawian kwacha I had procured at the border had carried me all the way to the lake, but it was at this point that I ran into trouble. So taken by my birthday festivities at Victoria Falls, I had not computed that this was also the Easter Weekend. The lodge where I was pitching my tent would not accept travelers’ cheques, and the shops in town were closed until Tuesday. It was Sunday night, and I had absolutely no cash. Fortunately, I could eat and drink on tab, and the receptionist was even kind enough to spot me a few bob until I could make it back to Mzuzu and the bank.

At the lake, the foreigners were less friendly than the ones at Livingstone. But I was not here for foreigners. The next day I met Special, a local teenager from whom I bought a couple of paintings. He made a deep impression. Malawi is a poor country, yet the people are unbelievably friendly. The Lonely Planet calls it the “warm heart of Africa.” People try to do business with you wherever you walk, but their approach is warm, comforting and honest. As they near, they introduce themselves and exchange pleasantries in the most unassuming manner. When they see that you feel at ease, they request permission to show you their wares. If you refuse, they thank you for your attention, and let you be. If you do want to take a look, there is never a sense of obligation.

On Tuesday I took the minibus back into town, exchanged some travelers’ checks, and checked the rate for my impending cross into Tanzania. I also booked a ticket to Dar es Salaam. This bus was to leave on Wednesday evening at around 20:00. I was happy to have another night at the lake, and better yet, to enjoy the next day’s sunlight before setting out yet again.

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On Wednesday in the late afternoon, I packed my tent, settled my bill, and enjoyed a last cigarette overlooking the lake. On the opposite bank was Mozambique, whose rolling hills beckoned – I was still to travel there, on the southbound leg of my adventure. I took one of the last minivans back into the hills, up to Mzuzu. This arrived way earlier than the bus to Dar, but I met some foreigners who had made their home just outside this town, and they invited me to kill the time with them. While enjoying their stories of Africa and their own adventures, the power went out twice. This is apparently common in Africa, and they were well prepared.

Rusty German Tracks

The bus from Mzuzu was late, of course. 

Worse yet, it was smelly. The floor had likely not seen a mop in some weeks, neither had the seats been treated to a steam clean in way longer. As luck would have it, I was the afflicted sod whose booking had not reached the right information desk, and so for the first hours of this journey, my seat was on the same grubby floor. But there is always a silver lining, and I was the only one who, once resigned to the impending scrubbing of skin and cloth, got to stretch out and catch forty winks. This leg was to last 22 hours. I met an American and a Japanese man, both of whom were preparing to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. (I noticed for the first time that if one asks an American where he is from, he  most often replies: “The States.” Ask a Californian, though, and his response is: “California.”)

Also on this journey, the efficiency of African bureaucracy was driven home. I had been told by the Tanzanian and Kenyan officials in Johannesburg that I did not require a visa. The Ugandan Embassy had been hugely competent and kind in issuing the one I needed for their country. Upon entering Tanzania, however, I was made to cough up US$60 for a visa which allowed me three months to travel at will between these three countries. To say the least, I was not amused. But the thought of retreating with my tail between my legs and returning to Malawi was not appealing. I had already paid for my visit to the gorillas, and moreover, there was no telling how long the wait might be for a bus in the opposite direction, or indeed whether there would be a seat for me. I paid the blooming money and got back on the bus.

Dar seemed a nice place, reminiscent of Cape Town, relaxed and unaffected. I got a room in town, and went for a little wander. I found an outdoor pub where I could sit and work on my memoirs. While enjoying the quiet reflection, I was unfortunately harassed by a lady of the night who had spotted an obvious catch – lone foreign male, singularly economic. Fortunately she was not persistent, but she later returned with a side-kick who was hopeful that I might contribute to her good cause scribbled on a weathered piece of paper. Having been robbed of sixty AMERICAN that very morning, I was not generous. I paint an ugly picture, but I do understand that desperation is a powerful motivator, and I was only slightly put out by the performance.

A quick aside here: - I feel the need to say that traveling such a tremendous distance in so little time is NOT something I would advise. While I gained hugely from the experience, I could not help but become ratty due to the growing hours spent in tiresome, inactive motion. At times I missed the point of absorbing every enticing stimulus.

The next morning I wandered about town, got tens of thousands of Tanzanian shillings, and found my way to the harbour to inquire about taking a dhow to Mozambique. I would be heading in that direction only after Uganda, Kenya and Zanzibar, but getting from Dar es Salaam to Maputo was the least clear part of the trip. I had read that the operators of these Arabic sailing vessels were not always willing to take passengers due to safety concerns. The alternative was to catch a ride to the Tanzanian border post, get additional transport for a short distance, and then wade for up to 45 minutes through the Rovuma River bed to reach a dugout canoe that would deliver me to the Mozambican border post. This option was not in the least alluring. To my dismay, there were no vessels whatever that would take a patron. I decided to put this obstacle out of my mind until I was once again in Dar, and instead addressed the next task of purchasing a train ticket to Mwanza, slightly north and many kilometres west of Dar es Salaam, on the shores of Lake Victoria.  The Tanzanian railway was built by the Germans in colonial days, and indeed one station was delineated by a single sign chiming "HALT."

The plans sorted, I went to pick up my things at the hostel and made my way by ferry across the mouth of Mzizima Bay, to a lovely, secluded camp site beneath the trees, flowing directly onto the white shores of the Indian Ocean. Here I found peace and rejuvenation.

The train to Mwanza (40 hours) was rendered less daunting because I could sleep horizontally.  I had a discourse with some interesting locals in the restaurant carriage, and I met Jean Claude, a retired 

French naval officer who was on a world tour. This was to be the first and only time I would eat an entire cooked meal by hand, rice and all. I was again surprised at the care the locals took of me. We remained in the restaurant carriage for some hours, but as we were approaching Tabora, the only interchange station on this line, where one could head north to Lake Victoria, as I was, or switch to a train heading due east towards Lake Tanganyika, they told me to get back to my compartment. Tabora, they said, was notorious for the disappearance of travelers’ possessions.

Mwanza was a pretty little town. The train had arrived about noon, and the ferry would be leaving at 21:00. Jean Claude and I agreed to get a single room to dump our bags, after which we explored independently. My first stop was at the ferry office, where I was disappointed to find that the vessels no longer crossed directly north into Uganda. It was now necessary to take a ride west to Bukoba, another Tanzanian port, from where a minivan would carry me across the border and on to Kampala. I read afterwards that this lake is the deadliest stretch of water on the planet. Even if one is lucky enough to be close to the shore when one’s ferry sinks – there are sometimes ferocious storms, the vessels are poorly maintained, emergency equipment is scarce, and overloading was common until recently – one is still likely to fall prey to crocs.

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Great Apes

At Bukoba, Jean Claude and I parted – I was heading immediately to the Ugandan capital, while the former officer wanted to spend more time in Tanzania. My gorilla trek needed to be finalised, and it was booked only a few days hence. In Kampala, I discovered that 

my bank transfer from South Africa, sent at least a month earlier, had not been received. I tried to remain calm and dignified, but by the third day, exasperation took control, and I lost my temper with the clerk at the Uganda Wildlife Authority. I was ashamed, but the gorillas were the highlight and the focus of my trip. It later became apparent that the mistake lay with the bank transfer – my own bank in South Africa had neglected to add an itsy-bitsy piece of vital information to the documentation. My guilt was now complete.

Kampala is a great place. It is rather hilly, and getting anywhere on foot involves a cardiovascular workout. The traffic is mad, the roads are more pothole than tar, and the whole place is sandy when dry and muddy when wet. The downpours are short and intense. Yet, despite this apparent mayhem, there is a sophisticated air – nice pubs, internet shops, friendly folk...... and armed policemen everywhere. But the officers wear their weapons loosely, or even rest them slackly between their legs while they enjoy a meal or a cigarette with their friends on the sidewalk. Walking around at any time is safe. When people stop to talk with you, they have a genuine interest. (In many other parts I traveled through, the underlying psyche was often more financially mercenary.)

After securing my place on the gorilla trek, I bought a bus ticket to where the primates awaited. This ticket cost 15000 Ugandan Shillings! I have never paid that much for land transport. Of course, it is only the equivalent of around US$10.

The Ugandan countryside is gorgeous. Lush green banana and tea plantations adorn the rolling hills around Kampala; dramatic mountains punctuate the southwest. It was in the southwest, at Bwindi Impenetrable National Park, that I saw the mountain gorillas. The world’s entire population of this creature exists in the rainforests that straddle the borders between Uganda, Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. This was a spiritual experience......

Before ever reaching Uganda, I had heard reports that some trekkers were only able to catch a distant glimpse of the beasts, while others had not spotted them at all. At first this bothered me, but I later decided that if I did not see them, I was at least going to enjoy the hike through the rainforest, it being my first time in such a place. (Also, the UWA had a policy to refund a portion of the US$250 to unsuccessful visitors.) The hike was taxing, beautiful, wet and muddy. We stumbled over rocks, slipped in the mud, and laughed at our lack of expertise. Even our guide went tumbling head-over-heels at one point. The tree canopy was dense, the undergrowth thick.

What I had not expected was the entourage. There were three trackers, which was hardly surprising, but added to those men were an additional three soldiers, weapons over their shoulders. In 1999, 14 tourists were abducted by Rwandan Hutu militia. Eight were killed. So eager had I been to see the apes that I had not even begun to consider what might be done to ensure our safety, and I was initially shocked to see the weapons. It was, however, reassuring that an effort was being made. On the other hand, I did know that the war and genocide in Rwanda had ended, and I would not have considered visiting the gorillas if that had not been the case.

After trekking for two hours, we found our family. In our short allotment to observe them, the full impact of the experience did not hit me. The concern at the time was to keep them in sight, to get as many pictures as possible without disturbing them, to keep my footing, and to pay attention to their apparent mood. (We had been warned that, should the gorillas become aggressive, we were to get down on the ground, as low as possible, and avoid any eye contact. Gorillas are not aggressive unless they feel threatened, but submitting to their dominance is a pretty sure way of not being mauled.) Our family was aware of our presence, but not particularly interested, and more concerned with the pressing task of refueling. They were kind enough to wander into an area where there was a clearing in the canopy, and we got to take some well-lit photos. (Flash photography is prohibited.)

On the bus the next day, I was so overcome with emotions that I wept.

This bus back to Kampala gave me an insight into the workings of the African economy. Our vehicle doubled as a delivery van, and at many roadside stops, goods were put on and taken off the bus. The most common commodity by far was the banana.

Back in Kampala, I stayed in a backpackers’ hostel for two days of rest and recuperation. There I met Aussies Francis and Sue. They were 50-year-old women on a six-month tour of Africa. Francis was abroad for the first time in her life and I was so impressed that she chose “wild” Africa.

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It was with a heavy heart that I left Uganda. This place really impressed me. I hope that I will one day return and spend more time here. Some twenty four years earlier, Uganda had been reeling from the aftermath of the regime of Idi Amin. Their nation had been brutalized. My experience, by contrast, was one of great calm, and I got the impression that nobody in southern Uganda would dream of instigating such destruction. There are still problems with rebels in the north, but I did not venture up there.

Entering Afrorabia

The trip to Mombasa, Kenya was the start of my return journey. I was happy to be heading south. The long bus trips with their crazy drivers were taking their toll. From Kampala, a bus carried me across the border and all the way to Nairobi. There I had to change buses. At this stop, I was more than a little afraid. The minute I had left 

South African borders some four weeks earlier, people everywhere had told me to watch out for ‘Nairobbery’. This left me with no desire whatever to spend any time here, and I paid nervous attention to all goings-on for the duration of my three-hour wait.

I arrived in Mombasa in a bad mood. I found a room and went to bed. The next morning I wandered around for a while. The buildings displayed a sensational mix of Arabic, colonial and African architecture. The old part of town, near the harbour, was somewhat crumbly, yet vibrantly colorful and alive. But I was tired, and one morning was enough. I headed south to Tiwi Beach, where I stayed at a camp site adjacent to the shore. (Further south again, in a tiny town called Diani, I had arranged to meet up with Luca and Paola, a couple of Italians I had met on the gorilla trek.) I had the campsite to myself, having just missed the overlanders, and it was great. Both mornings, I was woken by a polyphony of monkeys in the trees overhead.

The beachfront walk to Diani on the second day was nerve-wracking – touts hassled me all the way. By the time I was half way to my destination, I had four young men walking with me, which made me very nervous indeed. There was no one else around, and they could have done to me whatever they wanted. Initially avoiding talk of a sale, exchanging meaningless pleasantries, they soon turned verbally forceful and conniving, and tried to intimidate me into buying. They were contemptuous when I refused their wares. When they failed to convince me, they resorted to emotional blackmail, expounding how bad life was for them. They did not leave my side until I arrived in Diani, at which point they demanded water in exchange for the company they had provided. It was thoroughly unpleasant…. In hindsight, they had no intention of harming me, or they would have done so, but I had no way of knowing this at the time.

Luca and Paola were excited to see me and I was relieved to be where I felt safe. They ran a safari company from an office in Diani, and they had been immensely impressed with the Ugandan government’s involvement in and handling of its wildlife. The same, they said, was not true of Kenya. After lunching with them, they invited me to their home, and then Luca kindly drove me back to Tiwi, thus saving me from the treacherous return along the beach.

At the camp site, three entirely pleasant local men hung about, waiting to offer services and wares to the campers. As I was the only one, I spent a lot of time chatting with them. Their fresh coconuts and mangos provided much of my sustenance. One of them also walked me to a rocky part of the coastline, where he waited while I went snorkeling with the equipment I had hired from him.

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Afrorabia at Peace

The trip south to Dar es Salaam presented an interesting scenario. We stopped en route for a complimentary lunch, and a young woman, seeing that I was at a loss (everything was done in Swahili), helped me to get my fill. 

I thought she was acting a little suspiciously, but put it down to paranoia. Arriving in Dar, she again approached and offered to help me to the town center, where I would be staying, to ensure that I did not get ripped off by the cabbie. This immediately set alarms ringing, but I was indecisive. Should I question her intentions and run the risk of insulting her, or should I cross an uncomfortable bridge when I got to it? I opted for Plan B. En route, she tried to convince me to take her clubbing, and then she followed me all the way to my hostel. There, realizing that she was barking up the wrong tree, she demanded taxi fare home – double what I had paid to get there!!!

The next day I took a ferry to Zanzibar. Approaching the port, I felt like I was coming home. This is a great island. Islam is the dominant religion, but far from the animosity I would

anticipate in the Middle East, the people seemed unaffected by things non-Islamic. Stone Town, the capital, is a labyrinth of narrow walkways between old Arabic, European and African structures. Zanzibar was once colonized by Oman and one of the sultans even made Stone Town his capital. It is now part of the United Republic of Tanzania, has its own government and president, and visitors get their passports stamped, even if arriving from the mainland. (The name Tanzania was formed by combining Zanzibar with Tanganyika, the former name of the mainland state.) The island does have a different feel from elsewhere in the union.

Being defeated by the process of getting from place to place, I decided to remove Mozambique from my itinerary, and to make this my final stop. (I had come here for a day, and stayed for a week.) I hired a vesper to get around and immediately headed north to book a dive. There was a boat the very next day.

A year earlier, I had completed the open-water dive course in the Philippines. Since then, I had not been back under the water. It was therefore imperative that I review the theory, terminology and procedures, to which end I had picked up the PADI bible in Johannesburg before embarking on my travels. While on the many buses, trains and ferries, I consumed the contents very carefully.

By the time I donned the equipment, I was stupidly confident that I would be okay. PADI offers a refresher course for divers like myself who have been inactive, and in hindsight, I should have done that first. The others on the dive, including my buddy, were very confident, and this made me a little nervous. On the first dive, my equipment was faulty, so I lost air quickly and was sent up. As if that wasn’t bad enough, my nerves got the better of me on the second dive, causing me to breathe too quickly, and I was once again banished to the surface. I wanted to go again on another day, but my third mistake prevented me from doing this: any diver knows that if he cannot equalise properly, he should abort the dive; I ignored this rule, and two days later, I got an ear infection! I have not been back in the water since.

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I soon exchanged the vesper for an off-road bike. At first I was nerdishly cautious, but by the 3^rd day, I was trailing the big ditches and speeding up!! That really surprised me: - I have never been into such boyish activities. I met a load of people, the most memorable being a group of Irish girls and a Kiwi couple. I latched onto their group, with their blessing. In the mornings everybody did their own thing, but sundowners and dinner were a communal affair. On one of my solitary mornings, I secured another lovely piece of art from a local painter.

After much consideration, I decided that overlanding home was not an option, and I took a plane. Back in South Africa, I continued to travel for another week. I had indeed traveled around the country considerably before heading for Botswana. But that is not what I set out to tell in this story, and so I will leave it alone.

In Conclusion

I said earlier that I had been afraid of traveling through Africa. My country’s history made us unpopular and in many cases unwelcome throughout the world. I had expected this to be more evident on the African continent. I was entirely mistaken. The locals everywhere were interested in foreigners, and eager to strike up a conversation. What astonished me, however, was that their interest in me was amplified when they heard I was from South Africa. I felt more welcome outside South African borders than I ever have within them.

South African president Thabo Mbeki likes to include the phrase “The African Renaissance” in his rhetoric. After this trip, I came to thinking that these are perhaps not mere words. I got the sense that at least the folk I met were genuinely on the brink of a new age. Governments are corrupt everywhere, and Africa’s problems are not small, but there is a strong spirit and an emerging desire for stability.