Well, I am in Harare, capital of Zimbabwe, and so far my impressions are limited. The first one went much like this: "Oh my god, there's no one here to meet me. Again."
Haven't we had enough of this shit? Really. I had thought my luck was finally looking upwards, but apparently it's a process. Baby steps. They had warned me that they wouldn't have email for a while, I just hadn't realized that they meant right away, as in "don't bother emailing us back". Me and my spur-of-the-moment plane tickets. And I hadn't thought to warn them that I don't have a phone, so contacting them outside of the internet would be a problem.
So once again, I spent the night in a hotel. I am coming to loathe hotels and continental breakfasts. But I'll join my friend Sydney in her attempts at positive thinking. I've got about six contact numbers written down now, so assuming I can find a willing phone, and the other line picks up, I should be more or less all right. Also, there's an information office in the city, so if all else fails, I could lay siege.
Right. I'll get to it, then.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Someday this will all be very funny...
I feel it's only fair to warn you- this is not going to be a peppy entry. This entry is coming from frustration, discouragement, and now a dollop of severe disillusionment coming from a blow to my faith in humankind and my trust in my own instincts that arrived yesterday.
I'm back in Lilongwe now, having found a clean place offering cheap dorm accomodation. The quest for a new plan is ongoing. A few options include a sanctuary in Lilongwe, a sanctuary and research place in Namibia, and what seems most likely, going to my Zimbabwe location a week or so early. The sanctuary in Lilongwe tells me that they do have space, and they have the benefit of being right here, but they are seriously expensive, so I'm not sure about that. We'll see what unfolds.
In going online yesterday, I learned that about half the people I knew in Capetown are not who I thought they were. I've always known my instincts about people were off, but in this case it seems as though my first impressions were actually the accurate ones for a change. It's amazing sometimes just how wrong I can be. About just about anything. So I'm struggling with myself. I'm in a hostel situation here, so there are people to meet, and I've more or less been on my own for two weeks, so I could use the company. But my bruised-up trust impulses want nothing to do with anyone new, I'm over people right now, and have no trust for male people in particular.
Someday this will be funny?
To pull my head out of my own mopey ass for a moment, I need to send a shout-out to my musher Karin, who started her second Iditarod run this past Saturday, and was let down by a sled. You can do everything right sometimes, and circumstances still find a way to stomp down. Karin, my heart is making a kennel visit, to give you and the dogs much-needed hugs (so if they start randomly yelling and squiggling out there, that's why). I'm sorry, I know all of you were in great shape and ready to go.
I'm back in Lilongwe now, having found a clean place offering cheap dorm accomodation. The quest for a new plan is ongoing. A few options include a sanctuary in Lilongwe, a sanctuary and research place in Namibia, and what seems most likely, going to my Zimbabwe location a week or so early. The sanctuary in Lilongwe tells me that they do have space, and they have the benefit of being right here, but they are seriously expensive, so I'm not sure about that. We'll see what unfolds.
In going online yesterday, I learned that about half the people I knew in Capetown are not who I thought they were. I've always known my instincts about people were off, but in this case it seems as though my first impressions were actually the accurate ones for a change. It's amazing sometimes just how wrong I can be. About just about anything. So I'm struggling with myself. I'm in a hostel situation here, so there are people to meet, and I've more or less been on my own for two weeks, so I could use the company. But my bruised-up trust impulses want nothing to do with anyone new, I'm over people right now, and have no trust for male people in particular.
Someday this will be funny?
To pull my head out of my own mopey ass for a moment, I need to send a shout-out to my musher Karin, who started her second Iditarod run this past Saturday, and was let down by a sled. You can do everything right sometimes, and circumstances still find a way to stomp down. Karin, my heart is making a kennel visit, to give you and the dogs much-needed hugs (so if they start randomly yelling and squiggling out there, that's why). I'm sorry, I know all of you were in great shape and ready to go.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
And After All That...
And here's the next chapter in the adventure, and I'll warn you that by no means is it the last, as you'll find out in the course of the entry. I waited in Lilongwe for almost two days, with no sign of life from the project manager at Thuma, although I sent him almost daily emails telling him about my hotel changes. Lilongwe is quite expensive, especially the modernized section I was in, so I was telling myself that if I spent a second night and didn't hear from my contact, then I would try to make it to Thuma on my own.
On the afternoon following my first night in Lilongwe, my hotel was entered by my friend Helen from the Dar es Salaam bus and her friend Kenneth, both of whom seemed to have adopted my problem as their own and had decided to check on me. Kenneth is a diplomat working in youth counselling, and seemed to have pull over all manner of things. He declared that my hotel was too expensive, and he brought me to a different place and negotiated my room. The next day, when the internet at the hotel wasn't functioning, his driver took me to his workplace, and after establishing that my contact was still MIA, we worked out a way of getting there.
Okay, to be fair, HE worked out a way to get there, and I argued. The plan which to him seemed incredibly easy and simple, seemed much less so to me. He had me taking a mini-bus towards Salima (he hadn't told me yet that the driver would take me to the bus station, so this was my first concern, knowing where to go), then disembarking at the last police checkpoint before the city. The police, he said, had the most efficient phones and should be able to reach my contact, or at least would be able to tell me how to act next. Now, I was raised on the principle that police in South America and Africa are largely corrupt, and the last thing I wanted to do was place myself in their hands. Moreover, it seemed to me there was a great difference between HIM, as a diplomat, asking people to do favors for him, and ME, as an ignorant foreigner, asking them. But he assured me that at least during the day, Malawian police are friendly and helpful.
This turned out to be true. The policemen at the checkpoint took up my cause enthusiastically, but their phones had no better luck than anyone else's. In the end, they called over a bicycle taxi- yes, you read that correctly. You sit on the back of a bicycle, and pay the barefooted man with no brakes to pedal.
I stared at the bike and gulped. You need to understand, I haven't sat on a bike since I was thirteen, and crashed painfully in the woods. At the end of the day, I'd be much more willing to jump on the back of a strange horse, or stand on a dogsled's second set of runners, than to climb on a bike. Until that moment, I hadn't realized that the old dread had actually lingered. Silly me.
The thought that decided the point went like this "You've come all the way here, just to balk at riding a bike? You call yourself an adventurer?"
The police were all for strapping my big hiker's backpack onto the bike as well, but at this I put my burned and bug-bitten foot down. No bike-taxier deserved that fate, hauling both me and that bag on a hot day. I left the big bag with the police, making sure to get a name and number in case it disappeared, took the small bag with me, and zoomed off with my biker, Girlium George.
It was fun, once I relaxed. The trail was lovely, Girlium George was a truly charming person, and the villagers nearly swallowed their tongues at the sight of a mzungu on the back of a bike. We covered 8 kilometers, mostly of dirt trail through villages surrounded by corn and tobacco crops, with goats running amuck everywhere you looked. After two hours, we arrived at the Thuma gate, where two men live. Here we found yet more complications. No one could be spared that evening to guide me the extra 10km to the camp, which would need to be done on foot. With elephants and cape buffalo along the way, both cranky with visitors, I could not go alone. In addition, the manager, who was the only mzungu at the camp, had been gone since last Sunday (incidentally, the same day I left Arusha) and no one knew when he would be back. Come back tomorrow.
Back on the bike, back to the police, and we had to go VERY fast, because night was falling, and a mzungu wasn't safe, even with a Malawian escort. Somehow Girlium managed it, and the police brought me to a nearby resthouse. This was the sort of place where farmers and tradespeople would stay, so it wasn't fancy- a bed, a small table, and a mosquito net that wasn't quite large enough. As I entered, I saw a tiny lizard the length of a quarter squiggle across the wall. I'm not picky.
At six the next morning, Girlium picked me up and took me back to the gate. The men at the gate had by then gotten in touch with the base camp. They told me that no one there had known anything about my coming. They weren't prepared for me, had no food for me, and didn't know if they had work. They asked me to wait while everyone tried to figure out what was going on. I was starting to feel a lot of antipathy for the absent manager. As I sat by the gate, it occurred to me how strange it was that any manager should take the only car without telling anyone where he was going or when he would return, and for such a long time. Something fishy was going on, and the idea of marching out there was starting to feel very dubious.
Meanwhile, Girlium George brought me my bag to the gate, and upon hearing the situation, swore that he wouldn't leave me until the situation was sorted. On discussing it with the gatemen, he decided to call one of the trustees in Salima. What's more, he brought two fish, impaled on stakes and cooked whole, which he presented to me for my lunch.
Well, first of all, I confessed that I had no idea how to go about eating them (which inspired gales of laughter), and second, I refused flatly not to share with the others. Girlium warmed the fish up over the gatemen's fire, stripped the meat into a bowl, and then he, myself, and the two men all shared it. The gatemen contributed salt and a large bowl of sima, essentially maize mush, about the consistency of play-doh. Not half bad, as lunch goes.
We wasted time by teaching me some chichewa words (chule=frog). Girlium had been trying to teach me greetings. In the afternoon, the gatemen called again, and informed me that the scouts were on their way to collect me. As it happened, the scouts and the trustee in Salima, an englishman, arrived at the same time, the scouts on foot and the trustee in a land rover. Tony lost no time in telling me that the manager had stolen not only the project's car, but both laptops, and that nobody could find him. He apologized profusely for the situation I was in. He drove me and the scouts up to the camp, where they showed me around, and the jist of what he had to tell me was that I couldn't stay.
In rainy season, Thuma forest is covered in deep, high grass. It hides all manner of beasties that shouldn't be surprised, including elephants and cape buffalo, both of which can and have willingly killed people there. In addition, the tall grass makes it essentially impossible to work on the most prevalent volunteer project, the mammal survey. And without a manager to find alternative work for me, there wasn't much I could do. The scouts were also dubious that they could protect me in the tall grass while doing my work.
I have handled myself with dangerous situations before, but if a scout got hurt because I didn't climb a tree fast enough, I would never forgive myself...
I was sad. I was already half in love with the forest- it's beautiful, it's dangerous, I looked over a cliff and saw a troupe of baboons.... I wanted so much to get to know it. Also, I liked the scouts. They laughed easily, they were competent, they seemed easy-going. It didn't hurt that they were also truly beautiful examples of Malawian men- I wouldn't have lacked for eye candy at Thuma. And they were going to teach me to play bau. But with no work, and the possibility of putting others in danger?
Tony took me back to his house, and I'm trying to reverse engines and find a new plan, and not trespass on his hospitality too long. Right now, everything's looking a bit hopeless, and I've had my share of despairing moments. Remember when the first job in Skagway didn't work out? This isn't as bad as that, because there's no way to blame it on myself. I just hope I bounce back as thoroughly this time.
I should close with a happy thought: I've had bad luck these past two weeks, no one can deny it. But I've been consistently and extremely lucky in the people I've met along the way who have given me help. David and Helen, Kenneth, Girlium George (whom I've promised to write) and now Tony and his wife and friends. Where would we be without kind people?
On the afternoon following my first night in Lilongwe, my hotel was entered by my friend Helen from the Dar es Salaam bus and her friend Kenneth, both of whom seemed to have adopted my problem as their own and had decided to check on me. Kenneth is a diplomat working in youth counselling, and seemed to have pull over all manner of things. He declared that my hotel was too expensive, and he brought me to a different place and negotiated my room. The next day, when the internet at the hotel wasn't functioning, his driver took me to his workplace, and after establishing that my contact was still MIA, we worked out a way of getting there.
Okay, to be fair, HE worked out a way to get there, and I argued. The plan which to him seemed incredibly easy and simple, seemed much less so to me. He had me taking a mini-bus towards Salima (he hadn't told me yet that the driver would take me to the bus station, so this was my first concern, knowing where to go), then disembarking at the last police checkpoint before the city. The police, he said, had the most efficient phones and should be able to reach my contact, or at least would be able to tell me how to act next. Now, I was raised on the principle that police in South America and Africa are largely corrupt, and the last thing I wanted to do was place myself in their hands. Moreover, it seemed to me there was a great difference between HIM, as a diplomat, asking people to do favors for him, and ME, as an ignorant foreigner, asking them. But he assured me that at least during the day, Malawian police are friendly and helpful.
This turned out to be true. The policemen at the checkpoint took up my cause enthusiastically, but their phones had no better luck than anyone else's. In the end, they called over a bicycle taxi- yes, you read that correctly. You sit on the back of a bicycle, and pay the barefooted man with no brakes to pedal.
I stared at the bike and gulped. You need to understand, I haven't sat on a bike since I was thirteen, and crashed painfully in the woods. At the end of the day, I'd be much more willing to jump on the back of a strange horse, or stand on a dogsled's second set of runners, than to climb on a bike. Until that moment, I hadn't realized that the old dread had actually lingered. Silly me.
The thought that decided the point went like this "You've come all the way here, just to balk at riding a bike? You call yourself an adventurer?"
The police were all for strapping my big hiker's backpack onto the bike as well, but at this I put my burned and bug-bitten foot down. No bike-taxier deserved that fate, hauling both me and that bag on a hot day. I left the big bag with the police, making sure to get a name and number in case it disappeared, took the small bag with me, and zoomed off with my biker, Girlium George.
It was fun, once I relaxed. The trail was lovely, Girlium George was a truly charming person, and the villagers nearly swallowed their tongues at the sight of a mzungu on the back of a bike. We covered 8 kilometers, mostly of dirt trail through villages surrounded by corn and tobacco crops, with goats running amuck everywhere you looked. After two hours, we arrived at the Thuma gate, where two men live. Here we found yet more complications. No one could be spared that evening to guide me the extra 10km to the camp, which would need to be done on foot. With elephants and cape buffalo along the way, both cranky with visitors, I could not go alone. In addition, the manager, who was the only mzungu at the camp, had been gone since last Sunday (incidentally, the same day I left Arusha) and no one knew when he would be back. Come back tomorrow.
Back on the bike, back to the police, and we had to go VERY fast, because night was falling, and a mzungu wasn't safe, even with a Malawian escort. Somehow Girlium managed it, and the police brought me to a nearby resthouse. This was the sort of place where farmers and tradespeople would stay, so it wasn't fancy- a bed, a small table, and a mosquito net that wasn't quite large enough. As I entered, I saw a tiny lizard the length of a quarter squiggle across the wall. I'm not picky.
At six the next morning, Girlium picked me up and took me back to the gate. The men at the gate had by then gotten in touch with the base camp. They told me that no one there had known anything about my coming. They weren't prepared for me, had no food for me, and didn't know if they had work. They asked me to wait while everyone tried to figure out what was going on. I was starting to feel a lot of antipathy for the absent manager. As I sat by the gate, it occurred to me how strange it was that any manager should take the only car without telling anyone where he was going or when he would return, and for such a long time. Something fishy was going on, and the idea of marching out there was starting to feel very dubious.
Meanwhile, Girlium George brought me my bag to the gate, and upon hearing the situation, swore that he wouldn't leave me until the situation was sorted. On discussing it with the gatemen, he decided to call one of the trustees in Salima. What's more, he brought two fish, impaled on stakes and cooked whole, which he presented to me for my lunch.
Well, first of all, I confessed that I had no idea how to go about eating them (which inspired gales of laughter), and second, I refused flatly not to share with the others. Girlium warmed the fish up over the gatemen's fire, stripped the meat into a bowl, and then he, myself, and the two men all shared it. The gatemen contributed salt and a large bowl of sima, essentially maize mush, about the consistency of play-doh. Not half bad, as lunch goes.
We wasted time by teaching me some chichewa words (chule=frog). Girlium had been trying to teach me greetings. In the afternoon, the gatemen called again, and informed me that the scouts were on their way to collect me. As it happened, the scouts and the trustee in Salima, an englishman, arrived at the same time, the scouts on foot and the trustee in a land rover. Tony lost no time in telling me that the manager had stolen not only the project's car, but both laptops, and that nobody could find him. He apologized profusely for the situation I was in. He drove me and the scouts up to the camp, where they showed me around, and the jist of what he had to tell me was that I couldn't stay.
In rainy season, Thuma forest is covered in deep, high grass. It hides all manner of beasties that shouldn't be surprised, including elephants and cape buffalo, both of which can and have willingly killed people there. In addition, the tall grass makes it essentially impossible to work on the most prevalent volunteer project, the mammal survey. And without a manager to find alternative work for me, there wasn't much I could do. The scouts were also dubious that they could protect me in the tall grass while doing my work.
I have handled myself with dangerous situations before, but if a scout got hurt because I didn't climb a tree fast enough, I would never forgive myself...
I was sad. I was already half in love with the forest- it's beautiful, it's dangerous, I looked over a cliff and saw a troupe of baboons.... I wanted so much to get to know it. Also, I liked the scouts. They laughed easily, they were competent, they seemed easy-going. It didn't hurt that they were also truly beautiful examples of Malawian men- I wouldn't have lacked for eye candy at Thuma. And they were going to teach me to play bau. But with no work, and the possibility of putting others in danger?
Tony took me back to his house, and I'm trying to reverse engines and find a new plan, and not trespass on his hospitality too long. Right now, everything's looking a bit hopeless, and I've had my share of despairing moments. Remember when the first job in Skagway didn't work out? This isn't as bad as that, because there's no way to blame it on myself. I just hope I bounce back as thoroughly this time.
I should close with a happy thought: I've had bad luck these past two weeks, no one can deny it. But I've been consistently and extremely lucky in the people I've met along the way who have given me help. David and Helen, Kenneth, Girlium George (whom I've promised to write) and now Tony and his wife and friends. Where would we be without kind people?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
In Which I Waste a Week of My Life
Well, I did it. I am successfully writing from Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, self-labeled "the warm heart of Africa". Luckily for you guys (or unluckily? I dunno- depends on how much you like my writing style) my journey was frought with blog material.
Thursday morning- for the third day in a row, I rose at 4am, repacked my things, and ventured into the heavy, chicken-scented air, down to the bus station. I more than half-expected that they would once again announce no bus. Another corner of me expected Shabbani to jump out of the shadows and start rubbing my neck again. Much to my relief, they told me the bus was on its way- a bit late, but it would leave this morning, myself aboard.
A quick thought that came to me while I waited- it's been the same everywhere I've gone in Africa, except for South Africa, which has its share of caucasians. But I think I now know what it feels like to be a cute puppy in a country of dog-fanciers. That's what it's like being a young white female in Africa. As I sat at the station, I was snapped at, whistled at, clucked at, "Hello, Madam"-ed, "How are you"-ed, and "You are beautiful"-ed, all delivered as though they expected that they could lure me forward to get my ears scratched.
The bus arrived. Rickety, but real. Soon after I got on and found a seat, I knew that the trip was not going to be fun. Tradespeople had stuffed the bottom compartments with their wares, so all the real luggage was piled in the back seats, stuffed above, under and around the seats, and in cluttering the center aisle. The bus itself was moving at no impressive speed- every other vehicle on the road passed us, and my neighbor was a large woman who took up more than her fair share of the seat. Our first rest stop was on a nondescript roadside, no toilets in view.
The highlight of the trip happened early- we saw a herd of elephants chilling in the shade and in a stream right next to the road! A little farther down, giraffe and zebra were clustered under a stand of trees, and yet a little farther, a few antelopes. That was truly amazing.
It started going downhill when, just around sunset, the truck stopped. For two hours, the drivers tinkered with the innards of the bus, while the passengers grew increasingly restless. Dripping sweat, hungry, and dehydrated, I was jumping out of my skin with silent irritation, but there was no one to vent to, because everyone around me was speaking Swahili or Chechewa(sp?). Finally, we got moving again- but only for a few hours. As the engine stopped yet again, in total darkness, and no repair sounds resumed, I gave up hope of knowing what was up, and fell asleep.
Woke around dawn, and could finally see the closed gate in front of the bus. We'd reached the border, which didn't open until seven. It was there that I learned about illegal money changers. I didn't know it was illegal when he approached me- I thought it was the accepted way of changing money, especially since he came onto the bus itself to do business. But when he handed me the Malawian money (Kwacha), the large woman next to me snatched it from my hand, counted it, and demanded that he give me more. It started a long argument that came to involve all the women surrounding us. The man became very angry, and went as though to strike one woman- at which we all rose up and started yelling- a guard came and made the man leave. At that point, everyone told me the money changers were illegal crooks. Lesson learned. I thanked them for defending me.
As I went through customs, I wound up joining forces with David and Helen, two separately traveling Ugandans. The official language in Uganda is English, so finally I had someone to talk to- Helen was quite an empowered woman for Africa, and I had a fascinating day listening to her debate different issues with David, such as the King of Swaziland's multiple wives. Davis had taken this bus route many times before, where Helen was a first-timer, like myself. Also like me, she had been told the journey would last 24 hours. David informed us, and indeed all the veteran tradespeople who regularly went this way seemed to accept, that it would take at least fifty. He told us that even if they customs people started going through all the luggage and merchandise first thing in the morning (which they wouldn't), there was nothing anyone could say to make the bus leave the border before 5pm. "But... what do we do all day?" Helen and I asked, astounded. David shrugged.
And he was right. We sat around all day, chatting, sighing, and watching while the merchandise inspectors were completely unproductive. Helen and I were wondering exactly who all this wasted time benefited. Like me, Helen had been stranded in Dar es Salaam for three days before they let her on a bus. We were both ready to demand four days of our lives back. 5:30 came, and no one had even started re-loading the bus, which was reported to take at least two hours. 7:00. Sun was down, still nothing. Everyone was complaining now- even the veterans said it had never taken this long. Rumors were flying about as to why it should be, but who knew what to believe? Around 9 or so, they got moving. Then the rain started, accompanied by lightning and thunder. The lights went out, and they were packing with the help of flashlights, which took even longer. Really, if someone had planned for everything to go wrong at once, they couldn't have done better. Wrapped in my huge sweater, I fell asleep until David told me it was time to put my bags back on board. We got moving after 1am- that means we were at the border around 24 hours. Multiple police roadblocks and several more engine breakdowns slowed us up, but finally at 1:30 in the afternoon we reached Lilongwe.
The friend that Helen was visiting took me to a place where I could go online and call my contact at the forest reserve. I was exhausted, greasy, I had a dehydration headache with accompanying skull-relocation residual pain, and all I'd eaten that day besides some mini-bananas at dawn was a hanfdul of raw peanuts. So when the contact numbers didn't work, you'll pardon me for some panic. What the hell now?
All I could think of was email. I know their system doesn't always work, depending on weather, and I'm also not sure how long the drive is. I figured I'd be in Lilongwe at least one night. So That's where I am, at a hotel in Lilongwe, waiting for Thuma's email to function so they can come and find me. I'm back to wasting time. On the bright side, it's a nice hotel and all the stories I've heard about friendly people in Malawi seem to be true so far. For the sake of my wallet and my drive for company, I hope they come for me soon.
Traveling alone has a lot of perks- you do what you want when you want, being alone forces you to overcome your shyness, and it opens up more opportunities to meet new and interesting people you wouldn't normally spend time with. But until this trip I've spent four months or more in one place, and had time to develop friendships. The next time I try this one-month-per-location thing, I want a friend along.
Thursday morning- for the third day in a row, I rose at 4am, repacked my things, and ventured into the heavy, chicken-scented air, down to the bus station. I more than half-expected that they would once again announce no bus. Another corner of me expected Shabbani to jump out of the shadows and start rubbing my neck again. Much to my relief, they told me the bus was on its way- a bit late, but it would leave this morning, myself aboard.
A quick thought that came to me while I waited- it's been the same everywhere I've gone in Africa, except for South Africa, which has its share of caucasians. But I think I now know what it feels like to be a cute puppy in a country of dog-fanciers. That's what it's like being a young white female in Africa. As I sat at the station, I was snapped at, whistled at, clucked at, "Hello, Madam"-ed, "How are you"-ed, and "You are beautiful"-ed, all delivered as though they expected that they could lure me forward to get my ears scratched.
The bus arrived. Rickety, but real. Soon after I got on and found a seat, I knew that the trip was not going to be fun. Tradespeople had stuffed the bottom compartments with their wares, so all the real luggage was piled in the back seats, stuffed above, under and around the seats, and in cluttering the center aisle. The bus itself was moving at no impressive speed- every other vehicle on the road passed us, and my neighbor was a large woman who took up more than her fair share of the seat. Our first rest stop was on a nondescript roadside, no toilets in view.
The highlight of the trip happened early- we saw a herd of elephants chilling in the shade and in a stream right next to the road! A little farther down, giraffe and zebra were clustered under a stand of trees, and yet a little farther, a few antelopes. That was truly amazing.
It started going downhill when, just around sunset, the truck stopped. For two hours, the drivers tinkered with the innards of the bus, while the passengers grew increasingly restless. Dripping sweat, hungry, and dehydrated, I was jumping out of my skin with silent irritation, but there was no one to vent to, because everyone around me was speaking Swahili or Chechewa(sp?). Finally, we got moving again- but only for a few hours. As the engine stopped yet again, in total darkness, and no repair sounds resumed, I gave up hope of knowing what was up, and fell asleep.
Woke around dawn, and could finally see the closed gate in front of the bus. We'd reached the border, which didn't open until seven. It was there that I learned about illegal money changers. I didn't know it was illegal when he approached me- I thought it was the accepted way of changing money, especially since he came onto the bus itself to do business. But when he handed me the Malawian money (Kwacha), the large woman next to me snatched it from my hand, counted it, and demanded that he give me more. It started a long argument that came to involve all the women surrounding us. The man became very angry, and went as though to strike one woman- at which we all rose up and started yelling- a guard came and made the man leave. At that point, everyone told me the money changers were illegal crooks. Lesson learned. I thanked them for defending me.
As I went through customs, I wound up joining forces with David and Helen, two separately traveling Ugandans. The official language in Uganda is English, so finally I had someone to talk to- Helen was quite an empowered woman for Africa, and I had a fascinating day listening to her debate different issues with David, such as the King of Swaziland's multiple wives. Davis had taken this bus route many times before, where Helen was a first-timer, like myself. Also like me, she had been told the journey would last 24 hours. David informed us, and indeed all the veteran tradespeople who regularly went this way seemed to accept, that it would take at least fifty. He told us that even if they customs people started going through all the luggage and merchandise first thing in the morning (which they wouldn't), there was nothing anyone could say to make the bus leave the border before 5pm. "But... what do we do all day?" Helen and I asked, astounded. David shrugged.
And he was right. We sat around all day, chatting, sighing, and watching while the merchandise inspectors were completely unproductive. Helen and I were wondering exactly who all this wasted time benefited. Like me, Helen had been stranded in Dar es Salaam for three days before they let her on a bus. We were both ready to demand four days of our lives back. 5:30 came, and no one had even started re-loading the bus, which was reported to take at least two hours. 7:00. Sun was down, still nothing. Everyone was complaining now- even the veterans said it had never taken this long. Rumors were flying about as to why it should be, but who knew what to believe? Around 9 or so, they got moving. Then the rain started, accompanied by lightning and thunder. The lights went out, and they were packing with the help of flashlights, which took even longer. Really, if someone had planned for everything to go wrong at once, they couldn't have done better. Wrapped in my huge sweater, I fell asleep until David told me it was time to put my bags back on board. We got moving after 1am- that means we were at the border around 24 hours. Multiple police roadblocks and several more engine breakdowns slowed us up, but finally at 1:30 in the afternoon we reached Lilongwe.
The friend that Helen was visiting took me to a place where I could go online and call my contact at the forest reserve. I was exhausted, greasy, I had a dehydration headache with accompanying skull-relocation residual pain, and all I'd eaten that day besides some mini-bananas at dawn was a hanfdul of raw peanuts. So when the contact numbers didn't work, you'll pardon me for some panic. What the hell now?
All I could think of was email. I know their system doesn't always work, depending on weather, and I'm also not sure how long the drive is. I figured I'd be in Lilongwe at least one night. So That's where I am, at a hotel in Lilongwe, waiting for Thuma's email to function so they can come and find me. I'm back to wasting time. On the bright side, it's a nice hotel and all the stories I've heard about friendly people in Malawi seem to be true so far. For the sake of my wallet and my drive for company, I hope they come for me soon.
Traveling alone has a lot of perks- you do what you want when you want, being alone forces you to overcome your shyness, and it opens up more opportunities to meet new and interesting people you wouldn't normally spend time with. But until this trip I've spent four months or more in one place, and had time to develop friendships. The next time I try this one-month-per-location thing, I want a friend along.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Misadventures in Dar es Salaam
The plan was to spend one night in Dar es Salaam, then take the long ride down to Malawi. Heh. Misfire. First of all, once I'd waded through the throngs of "helpful" folk looking to lead you to the office (for a tip) I was told that no buses were leaving on Monday. Fine. Two nights in Dar. Well, not fine, but workable. I asked a taxi driver to take me to an affordable hotel.
Dar es Salaam is like a furnace, but my room had air conditioning, so the obvious first step was to strip down and stand under it, then get down to some serious time wasting. Unfortunately, the hotel was in such a bad neighborhood that I couldn't leave without a driver. Also, the hotel was having some problems with basic stuff working- like toilets, or water in general. They moved me four times- and this is without me putting up a fuss! I'm not a complainer, but they were such basic issues each time that they had to move me. Although my fifth room was a marvel of functional appliances, by the time it came to my second night, I was more than ready to leave. I ordered a greek salad for dinner, and went to bed early. Briefly woken up by the mosque next door which bellows its chants five times a day on a megaphone, then back to sleep.
Only I didn't sleep. Nausea set in early on, and by morning I had to accept that I was going nowhere that day. The driver who had taken me to the hotel, Shabbani, was waiting for me outside, and I managed to explain the problem to him. He started patting my stomach and rubbing my neck and telling me he was sorry, and would help. We drove to the station- very slowly, despite the clear roads. He was telling me something about how he likes me, and he will give me god. Meanwhile rubbing my neck. I was getting nervous, and told him I don't like being touched. Which only stopped him for a minute or two, so I repeated it.
By the time we got to the station, the nausea was worse, and I was having trouble standing, so Shabbani explained to them what was wrong. I might have been grateful, except that every time I tried to stand he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let me go anywhere. They gave me an "open date" ticket, meaning supposedly that I could come any day and get on the bus to Lilongwe. "Fine," I said, "But you don't go on Mondays. Are there other days with no bus?" "Yes, yes, open date," they beamed, nodding. I tried this several times, varying the words, with no success. Stomach churning, I gave up. We stopped at an ATM on the way back to the hotel, but first I had to throw up in a small park, with Shabbani pounding my back- for future reference, don't do this to anyone. It's unpleasant. He offered to take me to a hospital but (a) I knew he was overcharging me and (b) I was making it a priority to get away from him, at this point. When we got to the hotel, he dropped the best line: "I will come to the room to help you sleep." Seemed surprised when I said no and fled.
After resting a while, I asked the hotel front desk to call me any cab but Shabbani. My new driver was lovely- content to let me sit in the back, while he ran the AC and radio, and he charged less than half what Shabbani did. At the hospital, the doctor told me that I most likely had a bacterial infection, and never to eat salads in Africa. Lesson learned, with a big red check-mark. Bring on the Cippro- and since Cippro has the reputation of killing everything in your digestive tract, I also invested in some active-culture yogurt.
My stomach felt better by the evening, and I told the new driver, Allan, to come for me in the morning to take me to the bus station. When I got downstairs, a bit early, Shabbani's car was there. Uncalled. But I remembered from the first morning that he's a heavy sleeper while he waits, so I lay low in the dark office until Allan came, then crept around him. But we hit another snag. "No bus today" they told me at the station, after I'd waited in a sweaty office almost an hour. I was ready to scream. Not trusting this "open date ticket" rubbish, I made them write me a new one for tomorrow, and promise that there would be a bus. Then I had a cab take me to a new hotel, where Shabbani won't be able to find me.
So now I'm waiting until they're allowed to check me in. My opinion of Dar es Salaam, and the bus station in particular, is somewhere below mayonnaise on the dislike scale, and if you've eaten with me, you know what that means. This whole city smells like dead chickens, and is about as efficient. Say TIA ("This is Africa") all you want, but come on! I feel sorry for my contact in Malawi, who has gotten daily messages explaining that I've been detained yet another day.
If they're true to their word, however (big If), and if I avoid salads today, I should be able to get out tomorrow and head Malawi-wards, where they'll have something useful for me to do.
Stay Tuned!
Dar es Salaam is like a furnace, but my room had air conditioning, so the obvious first step was to strip down and stand under it, then get down to some serious time wasting. Unfortunately, the hotel was in such a bad neighborhood that I couldn't leave without a driver. Also, the hotel was having some problems with basic stuff working- like toilets, or water in general. They moved me four times- and this is without me putting up a fuss! I'm not a complainer, but they were such basic issues each time that they had to move me. Although my fifth room was a marvel of functional appliances, by the time it came to my second night, I was more than ready to leave. I ordered a greek salad for dinner, and went to bed early. Briefly woken up by the mosque next door which bellows its chants five times a day on a megaphone, then back to sleep.
Only I didn't sleep. Nausea set in early on, and by morning I had to accept that I was going nowhere that day. The driver who had taken me to the hotel, Shabbani, was waiting for me outside, and I managed to explain the problem to him. He started patting my stomach and rubbing my neck and telling me he was sorry, and would help. We drove to the station- very slowly, despite the clear roads. He was telling me something about how he likes me, and he will give me god. Meanwhile rubbing my neck. I was getting nervous, and told him I don't like being touched. Which only stopped him for a minute or two, so I repeated it.
By the time we got to the station, the nausea was worse, and I was having trouble standing, so Shabbani explained to them what was wrong. I might have been grateful, except that every time I tried to stand he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let me go anywhere. They gave me an "open date" ticket, meaning supposedly that I could come any day and get on the bus to Lilongwe. "Fine," I said, "But you don't go on Mondays. Are there other days with no bus?" "Yes, yes, open date," they beamed, nodding. I tried this several times, varying the words, with no success. Stomach churning, I gave up. We stopped at an ATM on the way back to the hotel, but first I had to throw up in a small park, with Shabbani pounding my back- for future reference, don't do this to anyone. It's unpleasant. He offered to take me to a hospital but (a) I knew he was overcharging me and (b) I was making it a priority to get away from him, at this point. When we got to the hotel, he dropped the best line: "I will come to the room to help you sleep." Seemed surprised when I said no and fled.
After resting a while, I asked the hotel front desk to call me any cab but Shabbani. My new driver was lovely- content to let me sit in the back, while he ran the AC and radio, and he charged less than half what Shabbani did. At the hospital, the doctor told me that I most likely had a bacterial infection, and never to eat salads in Africa. Lesson learned, with a big red check-mark. Bring on the Cippro- and since Cippro has the reputation of killing everything in your digestive tract, I also invested in some active-culture yogurt.
My stomach felt better by the evening, and I told the new driver, Allan, to come for me in the morning to take me to the bus station. When I got downstairs, a bit early, Shabbani's car was there. Uncalled. But I remembered from the first morning that he's a heavy sleeper while he waits, so I lay low in the dark office until Allan came, then crept around him. But we hit another snag. "No bus today" they told me at the station, after I'd waited in a sweaty office almost an hour. I was ready to scream. Not trusting this "open date ticket" rubbish, I made them write me a new one for tomorrow, and promise that there would be a bus. Then I had a cab take me to a new hotel, where Shabbani won't be able to find me.
So now I'm waiting until they're allowed to check me in. My opinion of Dar es Salaam, and the bus station in particular, is somewhere below mayonnaise on the dislike scale, and if you've eaten with me, you know what that means. This whole city smells like dead chickens, and is about as efficient. Say TIA ("This is Africa") all you want, but come on! I feel sorry for my contact in Malawi, who has gotten daily messages explaining that I've been detained yet another day.
If they're true to their word, however (big If), and if I avoid salads today, I should be able to get out tomorrow and head Malawi-wards, where they'll have something useful for me to do.
Stay Tuned!
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