Thoughts on Africa so far

Africa is beautiful, frustrating, overwhelming, fantastic and maddening. Here follow a few thoughts I’ve had about the place, some more fully-formed than others. I worry that most of them sound bitchy or condescending, and I suppose in some cases they are. Remember that I’ve spent most of the last few week sin Tanzania, though most of what’s below applies toa Africa in general. All I can say is that I’m trying to keep an open mind, but Africa is a real challenge. I’m in Malawi now, and am happy to report that it seems generally more prosperous, orderly and clean than what I encountered in Kenya and Tanzania.

A sadly prescient quote on the bulletin board in the truck.

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It fesls like there is garbage everywhere – sometimes it’s like to whole continent is one giant garbage dump. It’s scattered along the roadside, or blowing down city streets, or piled in heaps that slide down riverbanks towards the water. The charitable part of me wants to think that people are living in such poverty that they’re far more worried about simply getting food in their mouths and shelter over their heads than in keeping things tidy. The uncharitable part can’t help but feel that even a hand-to-mouth existence could be made more tolerable by pleasant surroundings, and it wouldn’t take much to clean things up, or at least to stop making it worse by continuing to throw things out whenever and wherever the mood strikes. Perhaps they simply don’t care, or that those who do care are vastly outnumbered and overmatched. Tanzania was awful for this, but as soon as we crossed into Malawi there was a marked difference, despite the fact that Malawi is generally poorer than Tanzania.

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Similarly, we pass a lot of unfinished buildings by the side of the road. In some cases it’s easy to see that they’re under construction. But most of the time it’s impossible to tell if the structure was halfway through being built, or halfway through being demolished. In some there are trees growing up through unroofed rooms and doorways with lintels that have sagged so badly they look like half-lidded eyes. I think a lot of the time people start building with a small amount of money and simply plan to continue whenever they have the funds to do so. It seems that most of the time, the funds just aren’t there. I asked about this in Uganda and was told that in some cases people will construct the bottom level of a building and rent it out, thus earning the money to continue building the next level. But this was in urban commercial areas, where there was obviously a lot more wealth than the places we were driving through.

Hand-made red mud bricks, the most common building material for small houses.

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The service industry in Africa is… well, let’s just say it’s not exactly up to a Wal-Mart level of speed and enthusiasm. As I suspected, my experience with Fed Ex in Uganda was not a one-off but a sign of things to come. This is most obvious in restaurants, where the service can be unbearably slow. I’ve started to think that I should order what I suspect my grandchildren will want to eat, since sometimes it feels like generations could rise and fall in the time it takes to get a plate of food. Laurie ordered a cheese and tomato sandwich from a Zanzibar restaurant and after waiting for about 45 minutes finally asked about the hold-up. She was told that it would take much much longer still, because they were going to have to bake the bread. However, she could have a hamburger, because they had hamburger buns. Clever Laurie elected to have her cheese and tomato ON a hamburger bun, which was a revolutionary solution that seemed not to have occurred to anyone in the kitchen. Nor did it occur to them to simply explain that they were out of bread when Laurie placed the order. It’s just weird.

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In general it feels like most things in Africa are broken but still in use. Buildings appear to be abandoned - leaning, tumbledown, and in danger of imminent failure - but in many cases they’re inhabited. On the way up to the north of Zanzibar we passed a long bus shelter with a corrugated metal roof. One end of the shelter was completely collapsed with its front corner resting on the ground, but people were sitting under the uncollapsed end, calmly waiting for their bus. It seems that the decay is so pervasive and overwhelming that they simply have no choice but to accept it, make the best of it, and carry on. The infrastructure in Africa is just a disaster. The main reason it takes us so long to get anywhere is that the roads are often in a bad state. We have a couple of big brains on the truck, and the consensus among them seems to be that the road beds may not have been properly prepared and compacted so that the heat of the sun, coupled with the weight of the heavy transport trucks, causes them to degrade quickly and develop big ruts. We’ve passed over some very nice sections of newly-laid asphalt, and we’ve passed areas where they’re fixing old roads or constructing new ones. But we also bounce over a lot of roads so dismal that I fear they will jar loose the fillings in my teeth.

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Maybe because of the bad roads, or maybe because of less-than-cautious driving techniques, but most likely because of a nasty combination of the two, we’ve passed an alarming number of overturned, smashed or otherwise incapacitated transport trucks. Sometimes they’re off to the side of the road, but as I mentioned before, in one case there was an overturned truck completely blocking traffic in both directions. I estimate we’ve seen about six catastrophic accidents in the time since we left Nairobi, and I that’s more than I’ve seen in a lifetime of highway driving in North America.

The first of many, this one was on the way to the Serengeti

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The luggage system on the Zanzibar ferry is a bit primitive. It works like this: anything too large to carry with you in the cabin is left dockside where a team of loaders passes it in a human chain up to the front deck of the boat. Once everything is loaded they tie a tarp over the pile and set off. At the other end the tarp is removed and another human chain passes each bag down off the boat to the dock where your only choice is to push your way through the crush of people to grab your things as they’re passed down.

Or at least that’s how things are supposed to work. In my case, on the way back from Zanzibar, it works like this:

The bag – in this case my trusty Aeronaut – is passed to a less-that-capable link in the chain who fails to grasp it properly and drops it into the Indian Ocean. Then the crowd gasps, and I look on in horror, and other members of the chain frantically fish it out and hand it over to me, apologizing profusely. I snarl “Thanks”, filling the word with such vitriol that it drips as much as my bag, and start pushing my way through the crowd to get out while seawater soaks into my shirt from the sodden straps of the bag. It’s at this moment that a taxi driver decides I’m a prime candidate for his service and asks, “Where do you want to go?” Without even looking back I bark, “I want to go somewhere they won’t drop my fucking bag in the ocean!!!” He wisely backs off, as does everyone else in my way. (Note to self: Appearing to be dangerously unstable and on the verge of violence is an efficient way to get through a crowd.)

Safely back with the rest of the group my hands literally shake with rage (and adrenalin, probably) as I try to open the locks on my bag to assess the damage. Remarkably, it’s not bad. The Aeronaut is supposed to be pretty much waterproof, though I suspect that claim doesn’t extend to dunking because there’s some water in each compartment. I think most of it got in through the small space between the zipper pulls, so the damage is minimal. Clothing and gear is a bit wet, but the only real concern is my external hard drive.

Later that night I hang clothing out to dry and spread out gadgets and knick-knacks and turn the Aeronaut inside-out. The next day it’s all fine, and I test the hard drive and it’s fine too. And I pack it all away and carry on.

And that’s how the luggage system on the Zanzibar ferry works.

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People really do carry things on the top of their heads. It seems mostly to be women, though I’ve seen men doing it too. Baskets of fruit, plastic jugs of water, laundry baskets, cases of soda, bags of potatoes, bunches of bananas – anything and everything. We even saw a woman walking down the street balancing a large rolling suitcase on her head. And I’m pretty sure I saw a guy with a small generator on his head in Zanzibar. And of course they don’t use their hands – the load is simply balanced on the head. It’s everywhere and yet, paradoxically, I have no photos.

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I was expecting the bugs in Africa to be bad. I mean, it’s AFRICA – the land of malaria and mosquito nets, right? Well I think I’ve had two mosquito bites the entire time I’ve been in Africa. Others in the group are getting bitten by mosquitoes and sandflies and things that leave angry welts the diameter of a coffee cup. Laurie left with enough small red splotches on her legs to make one wonder if she might be contagious. I, on the other hand, appear to be completely unappetizing to the insect life of Africa, despite not having applied repellent once. I get more mosquito bites in a hour in Winnipeg than I’ve had in 28 days in Africa. Nice.

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I’ve come to accept it, but it still grates. Everywhere we go, we pay mzungu prices (“mzungu” means “foreigner” or something like that, in Swahili). If the locals pay 500 shillings for a bottle of Krest Bitter Lemon, we pay 1,000. If we get stopped for speeding it’s likely because the petty official doing the stopping simply wants us to throw money at him to make him go away. (Kudos to our driver Dave for not taking this approach – he simply pulled out the recorder device attached to the truck’s tachometer and showed the guy he wasn’t speeding. Nevermind that it’s often impossible anyways, given the road conditions). Shopkeepers, roadside hawkers, cab drivers – everyone seems to be determined to swindle. This is especially odd because overland trucks go through these parts frequently, and it’s pretty easy for the group leaders to remember who screwed them around last time, and to pass the word among the fleet. It’s true that the difference in the prices might sometimes be insignificant to a wealthy western traveler, but it’s hard to develop a friendly and charitable attitude to the local population when you feel like they only see you as a wallet with legs.

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I’ve complained a lot here, but I really can’t complain about the kids. They are almost always excited to see us pass and wave and shout “Jambo!” (“Hello!” in Swahili). And they seem genuinely pleased when we wave back. If we’re walking in a village they’ll come running out of houses to see us, and will often want to hold hands and walk along with us for a ways. They love having their picture taken and then looking at themselves on the camera display. Yes, some of them want money, and the older the kids get the more likely they are to say “No pictures” or to flash rude gestures from the side of the road. I suppose as they get older they start to understand and resent the immense gap between us. But when they’re little they just think we’re fun mzungus and it’s great. And I swear I’ve seen them playing the hoop-and-stick game that looks, to my North American eyes, like it belongs in an episode of “Leave it to Beaver”.

After out spice tour on Zanzibar we had lunch at a local house and the neighbourhood kids gathered to peek at us from the porch. After lunch we went out an played with them a bit, and gave them our souvenir origami frogs and hats and baskets made from leaves. This serious guy wanted me to take his picture, so I did.

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And now, as I said earlier, we are in Malawi. We’ve landed at Kande Beach, on the shores of Lake Malawi, and a small mutiny in the group means we’re staying three nights here instead of the two that were scheduled. (We’re skipping one out-of-the-way spot to add an extra night here and an extra night in Livingstone) Everyone simply decided that after two very very long days in the truck, we want to sit somewhere and do nothing for a while. Well, not nothing. There is sleeping in, and having laundry done, and catching up on the internet (when the power is on). Also, the campsite is full of big overland trucks from different companies, and tonight we’ve joined forces with another Dragoman truck to share in the cost and preparation of a roast pig for supper. It’s on the coals now, which means I am done here.

(Please note: I realized a little while ago that a big section at the beginning of my post on Nairobi did not get published. I've fixed that now, so go have a look here.

I like Pam, but… : A guest post

(Note: Laurie traveled with me for two weeks from Nairobi to Dar, so I asked her to write a post to give you all the unvarnished truth about what it’s really like to travel with me. And once again, no photos yet, so just suck it up.)

Laurie, your guest blogger, with the kids of Lushoto, Tanzania

I have always thought that Pam was quite a nice girl, but since traveling with her in Africa I have discovered she is actually the Packing Nazi. Her first mention of my luggage was favourable: “Not bad, Laurie. I thought you would have way more stuff than that.” This was, of course, before she found out that I didn’t bring a towel, rain gear, insect repellent, flashlight, and extra batteries or any kind of timepiece. The look on her face was memorable as she asked me how many things I would need to plug in and recharge each night, and I told her none (a cross between amazement and glee).

We have different systems of packing. Her system appears to have a specific place and order for each and every item, while mine involves throwing it all in until there’s nothing left lying around. I started to roll up a clothesline one morning and was told politely not to bother, she was going to have to do it over anyway.

Ah, laundry. Pam taught me how to do travel laundry. Rule number one being: Don’t even bring jeans, much less try to wash them (I ended up having the hotel staff rewash them and wore them until they dried). There is a neat trick of rolling your wet clothes in your towel (should you happen to have brought one) and squeezing the excess water out. I’m pretty used to damp, wrinkly clothes by now. Others on the tour have commented on how “well turned-out” Pam is. I guess her system works.

Africa is amazing. There are so many more people and animals than expected, maybe because I come from sparsely populated Canada. And traveling with Pam is great. She is fun and relaxed (well, once the packing is done) and very good at getting around, figuring out money, and knowledgeable about things and places. She took good care of me, even unpacked for me, when I was too sick to look after myself, and afterwards admitted I did have a system “of sorts”. (My system involves grocery bags. One for wet clean-ish laundry, one for dirty laundry, and one for really gross, smelly laundry.) Unfortunately, I hadn’t told her before I got sick so she opened all three. Poor girl.

Anyway Pam, thanks for inviting me, and for letting me include this blog (my first!). And thanks for letting me phone my kids and my guy on Christmas Day.

She really is a nice girl.

Laurie, Pam, and Daisy the giraffe. Nairobi.

Zanzibar by candlelight

Zanzibar gets all its power through an undersea cable from mainland Tanzania. Wait, that’s not right – Zanzibar used to get all its power through an undersea cable from mainland Tanzania. On Dec. 10th, that cable broke. It had been guaranteed to last for 20 years and was, at the time it failed, 32 years old. Not surprisingly, there was no backup and no contingency plan in case of failure. And there’s no money for a replacement cable. As of Dec. 10th Zanzibar went dark, and it looks like it will be that way for some time.

It’s remarkable how well people are coping – certainly far better than we would in any western population centre of 1.25 million. There are a LOT of generators, though they’re usually only run for a few hours a day, and we heard that diesel to fuel them is becoming scarce. Thankfully, many of them are used to power coolers and refrigerators, so it’s still possible to get a somewhat cold drink. (Though strangely, in a land where the temperature regularly seems to approach that of the surface of the sun, coolers are generally kept much less cool than they are in the west. It’s just another thing that makes you shake your head and think, “… Africa…”) Our hotel ran its generator from 6pm to 9am every night, which meant we could sleep in relative comfort under a working ceiling fan, and not have to wear headlamps to the bathroom. Luxury indeed.

On our first night in Stone Town we all trooped down to the night market – an outdoor food fair set up in a nice park on the waterfront. We went as a group because we were told several times that it wasn’t safe to go out alone after dark – especially because the streets of Stone Town are a maze and there would (of course) be no working streetlights. No matter, because we’re a big group so the night market was great. There were dozens of tables set up with people hawking food falling into 3 main categories:

1. Skewers of fish and seafood (tuna, kingfish, marlin, snapper, shrimp, scallops, mussels, lobster) with some side dishes like sweet potato and salad
2. Freshly squeezed sugarcane juice
3. Something called Zanizbar Pizza.

A fuzzy picture of one of the tables of seafood – they all had bright Coleman-style lanterns on them, which flummoxed the primitive camera on my cell phone.

There are touts/cooks affiliated with each table, and each tries to draw you in to his place. Once they suck you in, you get a paper plate and pick your skewers, which your man then puts on the grill to reheat. When that’s done he brings you your plate and you dig in. A skewer of seafood was 4,000 shillings (about $3.25) and one of fish was 1,000 (about 80 cents).(At least that was the price for 99.9% of the people in attendance. For Kerry and Bill – two of the Aussies in the group – it was 3,000 shillings for seafood. This is because Kerry is a champion at dickering. She can talk anyone down from anything. I strongly suspect that if it had been Kerry at the burning bush instead of Moses, we’d only have six commandments.) Laurie and I started with some fish skewers – she had scallops and I had one skewer of marlin and one of mussels. They were ok, but a bit dry, perhaps as a consequence of being cooked once and then reheated.

We also tried the sugarcane juice, which was quite tasty and not nearly as sweet as I’d expected. The best part was watching the guy feed the cane into the hand-cranked press. The press had one side that was sort of serrated – to break up the cane, and one side that was flat – to squeeze it. He’d feed a fresh two-foot long chunk of cane into the first side, then into the second, and then fold it in half lengthways and tuck a chunk of lime and a chunk of ginger into the fold. Then back into the press – left side, right side. Then fold again and press again. And again. When the piece got too short to fold lengthwise he’d fold it over sideways, because by then it was completely shredded. The juice ran down a metal pan into a little plastic pitcher with a chunk of ice in it (Ice! Hallelujah!), and after two chunks of cane the second guy at the stall would pull out the pitcher and strain the juice into glass and collect your 500 shillings. You had to bring the glass back when you were done because it was, well, glass.

But the highlight was certainly the Zanzibar pizza – an odd concoction that resembled pizza only in the sense that it was hot, circular, flat, and edible. There were sweet and savoury varieties – we tried both. The base was a paper-thin bit of dough stretched out from a ball about the size of a quarter onto which toppings were added. Savoury ones got a mirepoix kind of thing, plus chicken, cheese, mayonnaise and egg cracked and mixed in. Sweet ones got a smear of Nutella and then thin slices of banana or mango, and a second bit of dough on top. Each was then carefully slid onto a round, concave grill and cooked and flipped until it was hot and tasty. The chicken one was really nice, but the chocolate-mango was the clear winner, especially since it was finished with a drizzle of chocolate sauce and sweetened condensed milk. Chocolate-mango is clearly the apotheosis of the Zanzibar pizza form.

The next day we had a full schedule of touristy things including a visit to the former slave market. Thankfully there’s not much of it left, though we did see an example of the subterranean holding pens into which they used to cram 50-70 people for two weeks at a time while they were awaiting sale. It was cleaned up but still pretty awful, and unbelievably tiny for that amount of people. We also visited the local food market, which had sections for fish, meat and veggies. It was probably the most… raw market I’ve been to so far. There’s nothing like walking past a guy hacking a skinned cow’s head in half with a cleaver to make you seriously consider vegetarianism (The other thing to make you consider it would be the quality of the beef in Africa, which has been uniformly awful so far. Our cook does his best, but the steaks we had one night were so tough and sinewy I found them inedible. Bring on the veggies!)

Picturesque peppers, instead of cow’s heads.

After the market we went to visit an orphanage with which Dragoman tours have started to develop a relationship. We brought a few bags of school supplies with us – workbooks, colouring books, posters for the walls, coloured pencils, markers, paints, and a new soccer ball. It was a bit awkward, and sort of fun, and sort of sad too. The kids ranged in age from about two to fifteen or so, and they greeted up at the entryway, among their strings of drying laundry.

The kids and the laundry

All of us – kids and tourists – were ushered into a small classroom, and each of the kids had to stand up and tell us his or her name. They did this in an unbearably cute sing-song fashion, ending each introduction with “Welcome, welcome!”. We introduced ourselves too, and then some of the kids sang for us, and we sang for them (They did “If You’re Happy and You Know it” and we did “Eensy Weensy Spider” – with actions – though for reasons passing understanding the Australians know this as “Ipsy Wipsy Spider”.) Soon enough it was time to go, and we left. I felt like we’d done very little for this gang of kids who clearly need so much – their building was sad and grey and hard, and is scheduled for demolition. The bit of dormitory I glimpsed was similar. And the excitement they got from a short visit and a bag of colouring books was heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time. It was unsatisfying.

The orphanage visit was followed by a tour of a spice plantation north of Stone Town. It was interesting trooping around in the forest looking at the different spices in their natural habitat. (Hands up anyone who knew that vanilla beans grow on vines that have to be supported by another tree…. yeah, I thought so.) We had a “Spice Boy” who came with our guide and dug up chunks of turmeric and ginger, and carved off bits of cinnamon bark, and even climbed a terrifyingly tall coconut tree so we could sample dafu – the juice of the green coconut. Our Spice Boy had even made some lovely handicrafts of woven leaves – a sort of origami frog necklace and shopping basket for the ladies, and a lovely hat and tie for the gents.

Bill, modeling his New Year’s Eve finery.

Best of all, the spice tour ended with a sampling of a load of different local fruit – star fruit, passion fruit, bananas, custard apple, jack fruit, pineapple, mango. The fruit here really is brilliant – tiny ladyfinger bananas (I think of them as “two-bite” bananas), warm, fresh pineapple, and the best mangos I’ve ever had. It’s brilliant.

For New Year’s Eve we booked a big table at an Indian restaurant in Stone Town – one that had a nice big generator and reasonably cold drinks. And as midnight approached we made our way to Freddie Mercury’s bar (he was born on Zanzibar!) and sat on their beach and chatted and had some drinks and waited for midnight. It came and went with relatively little fanfare (though the DJ at the bar started counting down from thirty), and at 12:02 we all headed back to the hotel. We had a big day planned for January 1st.

Bright and early the next morning we all got on a blessedly air conditioned bus and rode for an hour up to the famous beaches of northern Zanzibar for a bit of snorkeling. For a mere 15 USD we each got a mask and fins and a trip out to a reef for half a day of snorkeling. It was a lot more fun than the snorkeling in Spain. The water in Spain was clearer, but there was a lot more to see in Zanzibar. There were clown fish (like “Finding Nemo”!) and lots of sea urchins, and, er… shiny blue fish, and larger grey fish, and… well there were fish. (What do you want from me? I grew up on the prairies for God’s Sake! Ask an Australian if you want to know the stupid names of the fish). In any case it was fun, and I even managed to avoid getting a sunburn, unlike Laurie, who baked the baked of her legs until they were the colour of a cherry tootsie pop. Ouch.

The bow of our boat, with anchor rope, and an errant knee, bottom left.

After the snorkeling we spent the rest of the day lounging on the beach and trying to stay in the shade. When was the last time I mentioned that it’s hot here? Not recently enough, that’s for sure. Let me just say it again – it’s really hot. I keep remembering a tiny bit from the movie “Biloxi Blues” when Matthew Broderick goes off to basic training in some steamy southern state and complains to one of his mates about the temperature. “This is, like, AFRICA HOT.” he says. Standing with your back to the sun in mid-afternoon feels like someone is playing a blowtorch across your neck. There have been times when I think I was sweating from my eyeballs. So all I can say is, it’s AFRICA HOT

And that was about it for Zanzibar. Before we got the ferry on the last morning I finally managed to locate a working internet café and blast through my email, and a blog post and a Pic of Pics, and that made me feel much better. My distress at being cut off from the internet has become a source of bafflement and amusement for the group, but I am unapologetic. It’s what I do. Well, that, plus I sweat.

Pick of Pics - Zanzibar

The fish market, Stonetown, Zanzibar

Life on the truck (or: It's too darn hot!)

First things first. It is a TRUCK. God forbid anyone should refer to it as a bus. For some reason, it’s a grave sin to refer to it as a bus. (My patience for this little quirk has worn tissue-thin at this point, which usually results in me referring to it like this: “Bus. TRUCK. FUCK! Whatever!”)

Here’s what it’s like on the TRUCK, on a long long drive day between Lushoto and Dar Es Salaam:

Breakfast is at 5:00 am, and it’s a relatively easy morning unless you’re on Cook Group, who have to report for duty at 4:45. We’re all divided into different groups and the duties rotate daily. Cook Group, Fire and Water, Security, Tent Locker, Back Locker, Binology (garbage), and Truck Clean. Of these, Security is the most slack (checking that the windows on the truck are rolled up, and all the lockers are secure), and Cook Group is the most work (getting up early, helping Charles with prep, and a lot of washing up). I’ve been lucky with duties so far but none of the jobs is really horrible, and most people pitch in wherever.

We’re told the drive will take twelve hours though the trip notes say we only have to cover 380 kms. This gives you an idea of how slowly things move in Africa. And that’s before we stop because the road is blocked by a cargo truck that tipped over on its side and ended up perfectly perpendicular to the road, spanning it completely. It’s cleared away in about half an hour, but it’s impossible to predict how many other of these kind of events will slow the glacial progress towards Dar. (That’s what the cool kids call it – Dar. Not Dar es Salaam.)

We’re heading for a campsite on the beach in Dar. The campgrounds have all been much better appointed than I was expecting. The documentation for this Dragoman trip seemed to indicate that there would be times we’d simply be pulling off the road and bouncing out to some random bit of wilderness to set up camp entirely on our own. Instead, we’ve been at serviced campsites with toilets and showers (often even with HOT showers). There are normally permanent cooking shelters and often there’s a bar and a dining room and sometimes even internet access and the chance to upgrade to a real room with walls and a ceiling.

The cook’s shelter / cage at our Serengeti campsite. In this case provided not to keep the cooks in, but to keep the wildlife out.

Luckily, upgrades were available at a recent stop in Lushuto, a small town in the Usambaru Mountains. We arrived after an awfully long drive up a very steep and winding road, with nine of the 23 souls on board in various stages of some kind of gastro-plague that swept through the truck with alarming speed and ferocity. Everyone on board wanted an upgrade, and if it had turned out that there weren’t enough rooms available, I suspect there would have been tears, or bloodshed, or both (likely both from me).

But back to the truck. We bounce down the not-too-bumpy-for-Africa roads. The farther we travel the hotter it gets. Not surprisingly, the truck does not have air conditioning so it gets stuffy, especially when we’re stopped and there’s no breeze through the windows. Lots of people sleep, but some read, or listen to iPods, or chat. Most of the seats are in pairs that face forward, but there are two sets of four seats that face each other and share a table between them. We’re supposed to shuffle around each day, and on this day I’m at a table, which I like. The worst seats are at the very back behind the wheels, where it’s smartest to keep your seatbelt on when going over the frequent and lofty speed bumps. I work on putting darts into the new short-sleeved shirt I picked up in Istanbul, though the quality of the roads in Africa and the suspension on the truck make it tricky work. Still, the results are good and it’s exactly the kind of tedious but useful work that makes time pass.

Here’s the inside of the truck, with Dave giving us a little speech on our first morning, pulling out of the hotel in Nairobi.

After about five hours we stop for a quick lunch. Most of us made sandwiches at breakfast and packed them away for later, but then we ran out of bread so we had to stop for more bread and pull out a table and sandwich fixings in the parking lot of a gas station. I extract my lovingly-made sandwich from underneath someone’s 15 lb daypack and munch around the squished corner. And I unearth a can of beer from the cooler in the truck. The beer is a temperature that may once have had a passing acquaintance with coldness but could now best be described as Not Boiling.

The lunch set-up

It’s hot. Really hot. And humid. Even the Aussies admit it. We pile back onto the stuffy bus and continue on the way to Dar, though progress gets slower and slower as we get into the outskirts of the city. The traffic get heavier, the truck creeps along, the temperature gets hotter and we’re all wilted and tired and dreaming of the beach at the campsite just outside of Dar. But first there’s a stop for people to change money and buy cold drinks, and for our tour leader to get our tickets for the short ferry ride. Finally we’re all rounded up again and sit in line for the ferry and continue to quietly melt into a large puddle of multi-national goo. Eventually we pull into the campsite and start to set up. Did I mention it’s hot? Really, I can’t stress this enough. It just saps your will to do anything. However, we get the tents up and change into swimsuits (swimming costumes for the Brits, swimmers for the Aussies).

Some of the tents, with the Indian Ocean in the background

And then, finally, we’re in the water. Except the water is warm. Really warm. Like almost bathtub warm. Don’t get me wrong, it’s better than the hot, sticky mess we’ve been dealing with but it’s not exactly refreshing. Still, it’s nice, and it’s even nicer to get out and stand under the cool shower. What’s not nice is that there’s actually no period of dryness in between getting out of the shower and starting to sweat again. It really gets to you after a while.

Me, after the ocean, and the shower.

We’re lucky enough to have dinner made for us at the campsite so there is no cooking to do, and, most importantly, no clean-up. This is a real treat because it mean no flapping. We overlanders don’t use towels to dry our dishes, because towels get damp and gross quickly. Our dishes are washed in soapy water, then rinsed in water with Dettol, then rinsed in clear water. Then every plate, bowl, mug, frying pan, cook pot, spatula and spoon is vigorously flapped around until dry. And when I say “dry” what I really mean is “not sopping” because more often than not when you pull out a cereal bowl the next morning there’s a skim of water at the bottom, to help in pre-moistening your Weatabix. (Dave thinks we’re just not flapping hard enough, though I’m pretty sure I saw Nicky get airborne for a few seconds one morning.)

Silya, demonstrating the Norwegian Double Pan Flap maneuver. Not recommended for beginners.

But as I said, there iss no flapping this night. Just a swim in the ocean, a cool shower, and a nice Krest Bitter Lemon soda in the bar. Krest Bitter Lemon is my new second-favourite thing, right after Krest Bitter Lemon with gin. Though on this night I go for a mojito, which is very nice indeed. Not nice enough to erase the heat a drift me off to a comfortable sleep, but nice enough for Africa.

My arty shot of Krest Bitter Lemon