(CONTINUATION)

 

 

With one of our passenger stuffed in the back we set off early to Marsabit on one of the worst roads on offer in Africa. True to form the radiator gives trouble. Our spirits plummet to one of the lowest point of the whole journey. The landscape is desolate to the point of being intimidating. Every stop is agonising while we wait for the engine to cool. (Top TIP: It is best to leave you engine running when cooling down an overheated engine. It allows the engine to cool quicker and at an even temperature.)

The heat of the day is so intense that our crammed in passenger in the back opt on several occasions between stops to hang on to Williwaw by standing on the door footplate. We arrive after nine hours of driving looking like a group of people about to take part in some science fiction move. The only visible features through the layers of dust are our eyes.

Marsabit surrounded by a dust bowel has three hotels with a large extinct volcano on its outskirts that stick out like a sore thumb.   Covered in dense forest it is totally out of kilter with the surrounding landscape. The town itself without difficulty could pass as an out post. A Wild West frontier town except for that large extinct volcano covered in trees to its south.   All esquires as to the possibilities of a convoy up to the Ethiopian border fall on def ears. With quite a few shady blokes giving Williwaw the eye we have no option but to stay the night in the hotel. Not the most congenial joint.

I place Williwaw under guard for the night with the strict orders that if I find either of my guards asleep on the job there will be no pay in the morning. Visiting her at two am I deliver a kick to the arses of each guard ensure they both stay awake for the rest of the night.

Awaking to yet another a blistering hot day we discover that our two passengers have arranged a lift in a truck. After a miserable breakfast we fuel Williwaw ensuring that the fuel is put through a filter from a large drum. (Top TIP: Fueling in remote places can be a disaster. The last thing one wants it to have to bleed the system. So never let the last few inches of a fuelling drum be pumped into you tank or Jerry cans. It will have sediment and water. When topping up you fuel in hot dry climate always earth your Jerry can and the vehicle. Static electricity is one of major causes of fire especially if it’s a petrol vehicle.)

Eventually with a sigh of relief we get going. We are relieved to be leaving Marsabit convey or not.   Anywhere will do but we are not expecting paradise. Consulting our bible it describes a campsite in the Marsabit national park & Reserve, which apparently is the extinct volcano we saw on the way into Marsabit as the Kenyan camping site of camping site. Hidden on the floor of the volcano is a small lake named Lake Paradise. We decide to have a look.

An empty hotel at the entrance to the Paradise does not inspires much optimism. The bible states that to camp in the park one must be accompanied by a ranger so before lifting the barrier we have a look for Saint Peter. We find a cat that gives Florence a smack for imitating the call of a lion cub.

Eventually we unearth the cat owner the only living humanoid. He is just as surprised to see us, as we are to have found him. We discover that we are the first people to visit this year and it takes a large quantity of control when the park attendant demands a 100US$ a day. I am tempted to tell him to stuff his campsite up his dark hole. Over a drink I cool off haggling the outrageous fee down to a reasonable amount. Assured that we could look after ourselves the invisible ranger requirement is also dispensed with. The gate is unlocked.

We commence a slow tricky climb to the volcano summit.   Emerging out of the trees onto the core edge the bible for once has got it right.   Below us captured in the reflection waters of a small lake is the complete core duplicated in faultless detail. A further twenty minutes of bouncing and lurching from one side to the other we arrive on the lakes shore disturbing twenty odd Coots sending them dashing like scud missiles in every direction.

Pitch No111 is truly in seventh heaven. We park on a high bank in amongst trees with large dangling vines. Our choice of site commands a clear view of the whole lake. There is utter and absolute silence with an eerie feeling that some thing will either roar or crash out of the woods at any moment.   On the other hand if one of us were to break wind the spell of the place would be shattered.   The sun is dipping fast with it becomes surprisingly cool quickly. A hot puff of air ruffles the lake waters making the surrounding reeds and tall grasses whisper.   A bird call sounds the alarm announcing the arrival of our first thirsty visitors. Two elephants appear on the lakeshore opposites us. A blacksmith plover is going mental at the uninvited intrusion. We are riveted to our binoculars. It is as if our souls are in communication with the natural tempo of life. Devoid of any other human interference and cocooned from the surrounding desert the countless documentaries that we had watched over the years come to life in one of the most beautiful and strange places.   This is our very own private safari.

(OUR VIEW)

With the excitement over I get a larger than usual campfire going while Florence practices some Tarzan moves on one of the large hanging vines. Dinner, a few whiskeys and the sound of the girls snoring bring an out of this world day to a close.

I awake early to bird sounds as clear as an alarm.   The air is still and has a crisp chill to it so I poke the amber of our fire to life. . The lake removes it misty cover slowly and is in its full sky blue by the time the girl’s surface. A hearty breakfast is interrupted with a snatch for the glasses. The early morning bathers have arrived. A herd of Buffalo emerge from where we had spotted the elephants. In no time the lake is full of swimming buffalo. Their massive horns float like Viking ships each with yellow-billed Oxpecker’s manning the deck.

We spend the day sitting under our plate form in the shade sketching, reading, and sweeping the lakeshore with our glasses. The bird book takes another bashing. Fly time comes and goes. A troop of jumpy baboon entertains us with their sympathetic nervous systems on approach the water edge. A spooked gazelle gives us a scare.   Late in the afternoon with a ware eye on the now grazing buffalo I venture down on to the lakeshore. The tall grass makes visibility untrustworthy and it not long before I feel uncomfortable and exposed. Better to be safe than sorry so I give up any hope of walking around the lake.

As much as we want to stay it’s time to packed up and make ready to leave. I make on last visit to the lake with a bucket. Our campfire needs a dousing to ensure that it is well extinguished. (Top TIP: Campfires might look out, but in very dry area the ground its self-will catch fire. It is good practice to ensure that every last ember has no life.)

Climbing out of the core Williwaw engine booms like a roaring dragon emerging from its den.   On the way in we had not notices it due to the beauty of Paradise but now we could be heard in hell. Cresting the lip of the core the surrounding desert bellows out before us looking far from welcoming. Arriving back at the gate we stop for a drink “You know that our famous attraction Mohammed died some time ago.” “Mohammed was one of the best known elephants in Kenya.” “He had tusks that every poacher would have died for.”

“Over a 100 lbs each side.”  

Our destination is Lake Turkana 250 km long and 40 km wide to our west. Like Lake Nakuru, Lake Bogoda, Lake Baringo, Lake Turkana is a fast shrinking lake. Once connected to the White Nile when it was over a hundred meters higher it is still the largest permanent desert lake in the world.   When it was considerably larger and long before white man laid his exploration eyes on its waters it was known as Lake Zambura or by its local name Basso Narok (Great Water). Since then in time–honour practice Count Samuel Teleki von Szek renamed the Lake Rudolf in honour of the Crown prince of Austro- Hungarian. It remained so named for quite some time till acquiring other names such as the Jade Sea the cradle of mankind till in 1975 it reverted to Lake Turkana.

While we bump our way over rusty sun-baked rocks we also feel obliged to rename it.

Considering it is evaporating at a phenomenal rate each year and in honour Richard Eskine Fere Leakey we rename it. Lake Leakey. Quite appropriate in such a harsh part of the world where a cloud or a raindrop is a rare as any Turkana Boy skeleton a mere 1.6 million years old.

The lake very existence is an amazing glitch in its self. Back then it must have been quite a different place. Looking around now nothing appears to survive except the hardiest acacia and the odd tuff of wiregrass. Survival is very much the key anxiety of any day-to-day life. This is the land of the Turkana Kenyan’s third largest tribe related to the Maasai. With no towns or roads to speak of the Turkana are detached to this day from any modernisation. Described as one of Kenyan’s most confrontational and belligerent people we look forward to our first encounter.

In a country that is basically overrun with the need to cash in on the Tourist frantic search for time compressed experiences in the virtual reality of exotic locations we once more skirt Marsabit with a great feeling of privileged to have had Paradise all to ourselves.  

With the benefits of Paradise long forgotten in searing heat with a heartless hot wind that blows continuously we labour on over kilometre after kilometre of unrelentingly brutal landscape.   Eventually the windswept vastness of the lake appears. In the land of droughts an utterly new world spread itself out before our eyes. Reaping the rewards of deforestation, topsoil erosion the polished surface of the soda-dense water stretching away beyond what the eye can see. In this land of drought the lake is one of nature’s wicked tricks for there is not a drop to drink. We arrive at Lyangalai and settle into sunset strip campsite for the night Pitch No 112.

Although we are just north of the hottest region in Kenya the Suguta it is once more surprisingly fresh. With no wood to be had for miles a fire is out of the question.   It’s a night for the sleeping bags.

Morning divulge a land of violent volcanic upheaval. Black sand, rocky hinterland and extinct volcanic cores dot the shoreline. Our Camping host tells us that a mere two million or so year ago the lake used to stretch 160 kilometres further south beyond the Elephants Stomach (an Extinct Volcano).

Preferring to try my hand at catching a Nile perch, a Tiger fish, or for that matter anything we turn down an offer to visit south Island by boat. “Watch out for the crocs” gives me plenty of confidence. Several hours later having tried every lure in my box, and resisting the temptation of sticking my toe in the drink I return empty-handed.

 

That evening we listen to a story that encapsulates what can and does go wrong with an Aid programme. During the course of our travels, all the projects we saw that worked well were small and sustainable, built with the full participation of the locals, and combined local environmental and social knowledge.   More importantly they gave dignity, not aid for the sake of aid. .

You would think that the west would by now have coped on. After years of ploughing aid into projects that had no convincing overall concept other than they look good on paper, rely on expensive western expertise and costly hi-tech input it is obvious to us that such aid is futile. Africa black hole has received over the last decade $294 billion in loans. It’s good to see at long last that the donor interests are now being put on the back burner with more responsible Aid. However the IMF, the African Development Bank and World Bank still continue to judge countries by the scale to which they embrace privatisation and liberalisation when they would be better off to support loans on the basis of accountability policies of the participating countries and the bodies involved.

The west nevertheless continues to thinks that money is the solution to the entire African problem with plenty-abandoned projects bearing baring witness. > Groundnuts in Tanzania, Bottled Milk in Sudan, Canned Mangoes in Ghana, Grain Storage in Senegal, Wheat growing in Tanzanian, Lemons in Kenya, Eucalyptus trees in Uganda and Water in the Sahara.

Sausages and beans in cans to predominantly Muslim areas where there was and still is great famine.

But all of these don’t quite live up to the story we are now listening to. Back in 1980 Norway attempted to set up a fish processing plant at Kalokol on Lake Turkana.

IT IS NOW A SHRINE TO AID MONSTROSITIES a blot on the landscape and a gravestone of sheer folly.

We all know that the Norwegians love fish. But why grow them in Africa.

Without asking the locals, and with little or no prior study of the lake (that is subject to wild fluctuations depending on the rains in the Ethiopian highlands) or the environment it was decided to turn the nomadic cattle loving Turkanas into fishermen.   Millions were invested in setting up a plant in a scorching hot region where there were no roads; no fuel no fishing boats and where fishing was considered as an unworthy occupation.

Then apparently along came someone who dumped a few Nile perch from a helicopter into the lake. They promptly went about eating every other fish scale companion fish. (Nile Perch with the assistance of another well thought out programme had already cleaned out Lake Victoria to the extent that they are turning cannibalistic.)

It is no wonder that we are becoming more and more sceptical of government aid when it is disappearing down dark holes in the creation of show case projects that have little relevance to everyday living.   We all know that there is no easy fix for a continent where over 300 million people survive on less than a dollar a day > Where sickness in the form of a wave floods over it every day > Where corruption, greed, and illogical use of power is widespread > Where over 600 million people live in rural isolation > Where as a whole they are unaware of the IMF, World Bank, Television, and Electricity> Where all over the place lies donor aid rusting in the noonday sun, bearing witness to the lost cause of technology.

There is great talk these days of the developed world removing its protective subsidies on food and trade barriers in order to help the third world, make poverty history. Africa countries however must be still sheltered by trade barriers to allow them build up their industries before entering the free market otherwise fair trade will destroy them.

In the mean time it is not the job of the IMF, the World Bank, to place countries in hock for the sake of a few dollars rather it’s their job to maintain the diversity of African cultures and to let Africa have space to borrow from the western influences so they can adapt them to their own beliefs.

Most people on the continent lived in societies that define both self and others by ties of blood or power. The cruellest gift of colonialist days is the persistent inferiority complex, a befuddled sense of identity. Considering all that the continent has endured from slavery to colonialism most Africans display a racial tolerance, which is short of miraculous. We all know that in the final shout that it is only the people’s of Africa that will resolve their tragic dilemma but one way or the other.   We all belong ultimately to Africa.

The days of thinking that Africa cultures and the societies of Sub Sahara Africa form a single continuum, reflecting an underlying racial unity, which articulate itself in the “savage rhythms” of African music, the “sensuality” of African dance, the “primitive vigour” of sculpture and masks, from which was once called the “Dark Continent” are not yet totally over.

Just walk into any AFRICAN ART EXPOSITION and you will see.

Objects are still labelled with not the name of the maker but with the name of a “tribe” or some ethnic group. The legacy of the old European way of thinking what unites Africa is that it is the home of the Negro.

There can be little doubt that resolving the problem of trading barriers will do a lot to balance the haves and have-nots but one of the great dangers is that developing countries are fast becoming the information deserts of the underclass’s. There is a need too to prevent technology from encroaching on a nation’s people freedom of opportunities or intelligence. The United Nations should be addressing this problem as urgent perhaps by insisting that all microchips should be able to talk to each other.

Today’s Africa’s life (as it did long before it was subject to Colonisation, to slavery, to aid programmes that painted it with the one colour) remains in its diversity. It is still far too simple when speaking of a continent of hundreds of millions of people to lob the whole continent into a singular, coherent, African nature. Just look at the recent European Union problems.

All aspirations and diversity of cultures must be at the core of any assistance to gain any respect. Unfortunately to today’s technologies have a life of their own no longer subordinate to larger social goals. Globally Mobil capital of the world has only profit as it goal. Our journey bear’s out that most the developing trajectories that most African countries are on have little to do with the real needs of their people.

The G8th pontificating can’t pacify the vested interests of large multinational corporations bottom line.

As I have already said the only hope for a fairer world, for fairer trade, for an end to poverty is to harness the might of the world’s Stock Markets.

By morning we are having second thoughts about running parallel with the lake up to the Ethiopian border. Considering the condition of the dirt road and potholes it is a daunting journey of 250 kilometres. Prudence triumphs so we give the petrified forest of Sibiloi a UNESCO world heritage site a miss and double back to North Horr crossing into Ethiopia at Moyale.

   (To be continued)

Donation News. Zilch/

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting Code; 98-50-10.                    

 

 

(Continuation)

Locked in central differential for the next four hours we battle our way forward. Fortunately there is little wind otherwise vision would be non-existence. In the infernal growing days heat our frustrations grow. Williwaws suspension coil springs are working overtime. Fanny’s back, our backsides, our nerves, Florence tolerance of her parents.   Every bit of my driving skills is tested to the limit. “Why the Fuck did you have to come this way”

From under a cloud of following dust a vehicle appears approaching us in the opposite direction. Its driver is just as shocked as we are to meet another. To the question as to how much more of this dust we must put up with we are informed that there are is no problem from bandits in the area as the police were about.   How comforting.

Apparently unknown to us some Italians came a cropper a few weeks ago. They were held up by an AK47 and given their marching orders as their 4×4 disappeared into the shimmering shocking dust. “Another forty kilometres or so and you will come to a dry riverbed”. “After that its hunky dory”.   On we press over one dry riverbed after another. Up rock cuts covered in thick layers of dust, which at times consumes Williwaw, blocking out all daylight. Remote is not the word. As we bounce over the millionth bump a glimmer of blue confirms water in the distance.

The dust changes to hard basil ash with stones strewn all over the joint. Mount Ol Doinyo Lengai the holy mountain of the Masai comes into view. Standing at 3231 meter it has being squirting since 1966 the source of our dust. Photo No —cd

 Pitch No 105 is in a narrow canyon out of which clear fresh water flows. After such a day the water is a Champagne magnet. To the shirking protesting of the resident baboons its off with the gear and plunge in. Our campsite an enclosed wooden/ broken corral is run by a Maasai family. It consists of one of the few grassy patches in the area with a few trees.

To our surprise we are not the only visitors – Overlanders with their group leader. They have arrived from Mombasa in a hired jeep with the intention of climbing Mt Lengai but their jeep has run out of fuel (Petrol) and there is none to be had in them these parts.

The owner and driver of the Jeep is none pulsed by the problem, he is not in the least disturbed that they might have to wait a few days for fuel to arrive.   His attitude LIKE MOST AFRICANS is that it is resolved when it is resolved   so why not relax in the mean time. Isn’t the group leader white with a wallet of money?   What is there to worry about? Longitude : 35° 90 E
Latitude : 2° 75 S
Altitude : 2898 m

After such a trying day we sleep late. By the time we surface the governor of all movement in Africa – the sun – is well in charge. Our fellow campers have long departed to climb Lengai, The Mountain of God which has to be considered somewhat of a mind-boggling feat in the heat of the day. We on the other hand set forth to explore the gorge. The smooth river rocks promise a deep pool somewhere. Following the crystal clear water once more to the protest of large male baboons we work our way up river.   Progress is slow but at least it is in the shade. After twenty minutes a deep pool of exquisite beauty rewards us. Three vines of cascading water flow from a cave that leads finally to an impassable surge of water. If I ever had the money to build a swimming pool this would be it. Totally renewed in a cooling breeze that is funnelled up the gorge we return to camp.

A sorry sight awaits us the Mount Lengai task force is back in camp half dead.   Apparently according to the local Maasai sign language it is quite often that a helicopter arrives to take a pounding fluttering heart away. The bedraggled bunch bum a lift on a passing truck promising to send a can of fuel back to the driver who seems rather relieved that they have gone.

Later that evening I arrange with Danny Maasai, spear and all for a night assault on the home of Eng’ai, (GOD) Ol Doinyo Langai 2.751° S – 35.902°E (pronounced ol doyn-yo len- guy).

After another day in the glorious water of our magnificent pool I get a kick through the tent. Danny in his red checkered robe is standing in the moonlight with the top of his spear gleaming. I awake a bleary eyed Fanny; pack a few high-energy bars and water. Slip on my Cat walking boots, a hat and some high PH suntan oil. With the spear sticking out the window Danny points the direction. On emerging from the camping site the Volcano comes into view almost immediately. The moon’s reflective light holds it in relief against the surrounding bare foothills.   It looks tranquil enough not stirring, helpless and unmoving. All around is hushed into the depths of the night sky.   Its presence gazes down on a world in sliver light while its blackness invites death without terror.

One hour later looking up towards the summit I realise that one of the greatest objects of life is sensation. I feel exceptionally alive. While Danny stands beside me shoeless I check with Fanny that she can make it back to pick us up in one-piece. There were a few dry riverbed crossings on the way that required some skilled driving. “No bother”

The Break lights of Williwaw disappear and reappear several times before I give up looking over my shoulder. Danny up ahead is setting that long endurance pace and rhythm of walking where he glides along without any bending of the knees effortlessly. It not long before we are climbing.

Langai does not require crampons or roping together. From a distance it might look like a toy volcano because of its candy white sugar-coating. In fact it is a demanding climb of some eight hours. (Top TIP: Not be tackled in blazing sunshine like mad dogs land English men.)  A volcanologist dream it has being described as the perfect laboratory volcano. The only volcano too squirts natrocarbonatite lava in the world > highly fluid lava, far less hot than ordinary lava. Newly solidified lava is black with crystals that sparkle in the sun, while the moving lava looks like black olive oil or brown foaming mud that turns white on contact with moisture.

I soon find out that the solidified stuff that has been lying about for some time is so soft that my boots sink into it with great ease. There is no way I am going to make it too the top if I try to keep with Danny’s dangling balls that come in view every time I take a look upwards.

He doesn’t mind if I make it or not for him the summit is a place of pilgrimage where his people request their God for rain, more cattle, or for a barren wife to be blessed with a child > For me it all about pace.

After three hours he calls a halt. All communication is by sign language. An offer of a bit of high-energy bar gets a distant look of disdain. Water is also refused. A jab of the spear indicates the route up. We jump a dry lava channel some meters deep but less than a few feet wide. The going gets steeper and I get blacker. Apparently Langai lava breaks down so quickly you can tell its age by its colour. Black just out of the oven, muddy browns and greys a few hours old, frosty white a few days.

Seven hours later we arrive at the rim. It’s still dark. Frozen in silver escaping fizz ejects from one of the many active vents onto the caped floor.

In the airless gleam of a waning moon the stuff jingles like breaking glass. I have the energy of a semi-invalid. Even Danny is sweating heavily as we look down onto a land from outer space. My legs need to rest. We sit and rest and cool off. Danny sits crossed legged; slowly blinking with his unfathomable eyes he smiles.   It’s a place for angels. They say that travel broadens the mind; this place blows your mind asunder.

The first peep of day scatters light over the weirdest place I have ever stood on dry land. Hypnotised by so much beauty and by the presence of the earth’s heart throbbing less than sixty meters away the erupting hornitos (Vent/steep hollow pinnacle) shoot orange lava skywards.

The whole scene amplified in the dark is immensely moving. It makes ones head spin. On each and every explosion, waves of illumination sweep out over the dust coloured floor of the crater. It’s like creating a Hubble penetrating vision of an alien planet.

The Japanese have a word Aware, for the feelings that arise from the beauty of an Ephemeral thing. Up here one can’t help but to be aware. It is one of those places where deep thoughts penetrate the mind.

Looking at Danny with his spear I wonder is the technological industrial collective machine trying to enchain the whole of nature – put the whole lot to work for the sake of human self-indulgence and human supremacy is not the decisive evil of our modern age.

The first rays of the new day drew back the curtain of surrounding darkness. A hot descent is promised.

Without or with shoes nothing would entice Danny down onto caped floor for a photo session. So my first step on to the crust is a faltering one. A meandering flow eight inches wide invites a dipping of the finger to see if it is hot. It might look cool but the sole of my boots feel sticky so I resist getting my first lava burn.

What a sensation walking towards a rumbling vent with activity all around formations change before your very eyes. Photo no -cd

Returning to Danny on the rim the view of the surrounding landscape is breath-taking. Not a building, road, to be seen as far as the horizon only barren ground parched of water. To our left a range of mountains bearing their geological birth marks run in the direction of where we should see Williwaw appearing from. Sure enough a distant dust trail marks Fanny progress. Danny spear jabs in her direction it time to descend. Within minutes Danny has disappeared. Like a skier he criss-cross his way down at speeds away beyond my capabilities. My technique is more to do with on the bum than standing.

It is obvious on catching up with him only because he has stopped to see me over the lava jump that he is highly pleased with himself. The jump back is not quite as easy as coming up. This time the jump platform is lower than the landing platform. It requires a two-stage leap. First onto a ridge, than follows a large step up on to a rock and lastly a leg over the top. The Lava below concentrates the mind.

Once over, Danny points with his spear in the direction of Williwaw. She is nowhere too be seen. We take a rest, still no sign. There could be on other dust trail approaching so where has she gone. Danny hits the deck some twenty minutes before I do. No Williwaw. No water left. Nothing for it Danny’s spear says walk. Seven kilometres from the base of the mountain we find Fanny with Williwaw stuck in the sand of a dry riverbed.   I look a sight covered from top to toe in black dust, tongue hanging out like a panting dog. Water, water is all I can utter. A few rocks under the wheels and we say adieu to the Mountain of God.(Footnote it erupted lucky some years later)

Next morning taking a guide in the form of a fellow that wants a ride up-country we break camp.   The way ahead is reported to be bandit land and therefore rumour has it that it is dangerous. Our route is Lake Natron and then up over the Gol mountains into the Serengeti. We arrive without much difficulty on the southern shore of Lake Natron one of East Africa largest breeding ground for Flamingos. During the breeding season one of the earth’s weirdest pompous looking birds converge here in their ten of thousands.

Daily they Hoover the whole lake for microscopic invertebrates and algae until they turn themselves and lake turn into a lighter shade of pink. Protected by Lake Natron’s unbearable heat, undrinkable water, and un-walkable mudflats they prance in flocks up to 100,000 thousand at a time eating tons with their upside down sieving bills. One of natures most photographed birds from the air; they form long queues to drink, enact mass takeoff when attacked and provide pictures of helpless isolation when an awaiting fish eagles swoops.

Our attempt to get a closer for a look by driving out on the baked mud fails when it starts shows signs of leakage. We settle for a distant sizzling view before climbing up from the lake floor on a rocky twisting track that put Williwaw tyres through the shredder. With our guide assuring us on several occasions that this is the way for the next three hours the anxieties of some of Williwaw efforts test us all. Many a section requires advance survey to avoid wheel spin, stones, tree stumps, and potholes > with some sections requiring a second and third attempt to make it up.   On reaching the top of the climb our guide smells like the mud on the lakeshore – rotten eggs. God only knows what we smelt like.

“From here on in to Loliondo is a piece of cake – Boss.” Not to mention the bandits. Following from a high the lake western shore we arrive late afternoon. Loliondo could be one of those Australian outback settlements in the middle of nowhere. A few houses surrounded by a few fields, a large man- made trench containing mossy infected water, and a campsite. Pitch No 106 is under the watchful eye of the Maasai guard.

Our guide eventually gets the message that it time to scram and go on about his own business. Our Maasai guard is a handsome bloke, gentle, shy inquisitive and obliging muscle with classical Maasai ear lobes. We bucket shower, while he rustles up a three stone fire to cook the evening meal.   Over the meal with a cold beer his smile is wonderful every time he finally understands what we are trying to explain.   Like so many Africans they have no concept of Africa. Their world is there world. He demonstrates the throwing on of his single piece of cloth, which fell from one shoulder over his tall body. Standing with his long blade spear we are assured that no intruders shall disturb our sleep. This is Maasai land land.   Tomorrow we cross into the land of cattle, wildebeest and the never-ending plains of the Serengeti and the Maasai Mara.

(To be continued)

Donation News; Awaiting the First.

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting Code; 98-50-10

You are lucky to see Kilimanjaro (Shining Mountain) as it spends a great deal of its time caped with a cloud but when you do it is a gob smacking sight. In mountaineering terms it is no Everest. However, raising from the surrounding flat plains without any competition its beauty passes like a dream that has dropped from its snow caped summit to dance on all below. On a clear day one can catch sight of it from over 300 kilometres away making it the highest mountain in the world that’s not part of a range. (Top Tip: If you most climb it remember drink a lot more water than you think you need. Bring high-energy bars against altitude appetite loss. When you stop for the night climb a couple of hundred meter further up to acclimatize then come back down to sleep.)

We arrive on the slops of Mount Meru in Arusha the administrative and processing shipping hub for the region. Refueled and stocked up with supplies from the market we turn off at Makuyuni one hundred and eighty clicks west of Arusha for Ngorongoro.   A massive souvenir shop marks the exact spot to turn to begin the climb up to the creator rim. One hundred and twenty thousand craters later on one of the worst tooth rattling roads we reach Mto, Wa, Mdu or Karatu for the night. Gibbs Farm for some reason is marked on our Mitch élan map as the place to kip. It turns out to be one bump too much cost wise. However the luxury of washing the road away, an excellent dinner with comfortable air-conditioned bedrooms and a wonderful breakfast takes some of the sting out of the bill.

From here the road winds its way up to the gates of the eight wonder of the world – Ngorongoro crater. After a few kilometres we begin to wonder if the road should not be given the title. Although being work upon it is atrocious. At the gates we are screwed once more for being white by the three-tier pricing structure practiced by the Tanzanians. So what. Who can blame them for cashing in one of the most  well-known Game Parks in the world? For all that we have heard it is an amphitheatre, one of the world’s biggest un-flooded and intact colander deserving of its reputation as the Garden of Eden.

On reaching the rim of the crater our first view is breathtaking. Trapped by the crater flippantly forested walls the floor shimmer’s in a kaleidoscope of colour. Nineteen kilometres wide and up to one thousand six hundred meters deep it is a mind imprinting sight.

We drive along the rim to the camping area where we find the only flat grass spot left at Simba Camping. Pitch no 103. Luckily for us we are well removed from the sanitary block that stinks. With no wild camping allowed in the area the site facilities can only be described as a national shame. We get the distinct feeling that campers are not welcome. It is stay in one of the very expensive lodges or don’t come in the first place.

Once settled in we walk through the bush out on to the sloping crater wall. Here in long grass for the rest of the afternoon we give the crater floor the once over with our binoculars. The floor for the most part is grassland dotted with Acacia trees.   Right in front of us a small forest of very large fever acacia trees providing shade for a few dust-flapping Elephants. Away to our right a glittering salt pan half full of water looks like a waiting steam train pending departure. The entire floor is zigzagged by dust trails and flecked by small black dots that turn out to be animals as big an elephants and as small as zebra. All framed by the craters walls the whole panoramic view can only be described as both dramatic and inspirational.

In the course of the afternoon we count over fifty cars roaming the creator. Trails of dust mark their progress. In another five to seven years if not limited they will turn this conservation now a world heritage site into a dust bowl. With the sun cooling, the small dots are on the move. Emerging from the Lerai Forest our elephants make for one of the natural spring fed watering holes, it being the main reason that Ngorongoro has such a large intensity of wildlife.

With permanent water there is no need to migrate. Hippo, Elephant, Spotted Hyena, Zebra, Buffalo, Wildebeest, Jackals, Lion, Cheetah, Leopard, Bat-eared fox, Baboons, Vervet monkeys, and the star of the show Black rhino. With a bird population of over 350 species the only worth mentioning missing punters are Giraffes.

 

The Big Five:

Lions:   Panrhera loa

Facts:

Originally a Desert Animal:

Became extinct in Europe 2000 years ago:

Male Weigh: Up to 225kg:

Life span in the wild; 10-15 years:

Only Cats to live in groups called a pride:

Only cat to have a tuff at the end of its tail In the middle of which is a curious horny appendage called a thorn.

Most prides consist of a dominant male with up to 37 related females:

Can roar till it is two-year old:

Roar can be heard up to five miles way:

Worst enemy – Porcupine:

Simba is Swahili for Lion:

Elephants:   Loxodonta Africana.

Facts:

Can’t Jump every other mammal can:

A tooth can weigh up to 12lbs:

Largest Land Animal:

Needs 50 gallons of water a day:

Life span 55-60 years

Two separate species In Africa:

Four toes on forefeet, five on hind feet:

Have no breeding season:

Males find Randy females by listing to their tummy-rumbles which they can hear up to four km distance.

Females stay fertile up to sixty years: Breed every four years and are only receptive between 3-4 days

Male Elephants enter an annual condition called Musth (Meaning madness, marked by secretions from a gland behind the eye. This is when they are at the most dangerous, aggressive and sexually aroused:

Only animal in Africa to dig holes in search of water:

Cheetah:   Acinonyx jubatus.

Facts:

Fastest animal on land: 70 miles per hour for 400-600 yards before it is exhausted:

Only big cat that purrs:

Over the ages being trained for hunting purposes:

Were pets of Louis X1, Charles V11, and Louis X 11:

Kills by more by suffocation than bit:

The name Cheetah comes from a Hindi word meaning “Spotted one” or from the Sanskrit word “Chitaka”:

Movers it young ever few days to new hiding places:

It has a “tear drop” black markings below its eyes:

Weigh 80 -140 pounds:

Leopard: Panthera pardus.

Facts:

 Tree climbers:

Each Animal has “rosette” – spots unique to its self:

Powerful neck and shoulders:

Cunning and Adaptable:

Nocturnal:

Solitary:

Feline in its hunting behaviour:

Can haul a carcass of at least its own body weight up the vertical trunk of a tree:

Distinctive call that sound like a wood plank being cut with a saw:

Rhino: Diceros bicornis (black)

Ceratotherium simum (white)

Facts:

 A group of Rhinos is called a crash:

White is not white and black is not black. The white Rhino get it name from the Afrikaans word “weit” meaning “ wide” misinterpreted by early English settler in South Africa to white:

Can run up to 40 miles per hour:

Pregnancy last 15-16 months:

Suffers from sun stroke:

Horns made of keratin, same material that makes up your hair and fingernails:

Largest land animal after an elephant – up to 6000 pound:

Symbiotic relationship with oxpeckers called “Tick birds”:

Use their dung to leave messages for other Rhino: This is my territory.

Each Rhino has its own unique smell:

Have existed on earth for 50 million years:

Once roamed throughout North America – Europe:

Poor eyesight: good hearing and smell;

The Word Rhinoceros comes from the Greek rhino (Nose) and ceros (horn):   Swahili name – Punda Milia:

Life spans 30- 50 years:

Two other Rhino species in the world Javan Rhino- Sumatran: All are on endangered Listing:

Horn is not used as an aphrodisiac in traditional Asian Medicine but to reduce pain and fever with on scientific evidence.

Williwaw crawls down a steep track coming out at the back of the Lerai Forest without the compulsory guide thank god. From our day of surveillance on high we turn left on a dirt road that travels clockwise around the crater floor in the direction of the steaming train Lake Magadi or Lake Makat depending on which map you have. It’s only nine a.m. and the temperature is already in the high c –twenties. Apart from a few elephants in the forest the only other moving animal is a hyena lopping along the shallows of the soda lakeshore.

Passing the Mandusi Swamp area a permanent water source, we have no additional luck > Sweet Fanny Adam. Arriving at what’s called the Round Table hill we are beginning to wonder where the estimated 30,000 large mammals are, perhaps they have buggered off over the rim.   Leaving the Layanai forest to our right we cross the Munge River arriving at the Ngoitokitoh Springs, three-quarters of the circuit completed.

Ngoitokitoh turns out to be the main watering hole for all the other tour operators. In the blink of an eye our view of the waterhole with its few hippo is obliterate by the rear of a fleet of Toyota’s that have lined up right in front of us. Fanny rightly so sees red. She asks one of the drivers to move his vehicle. The request is met with a torrent of abusive language simply translated from English into the two fingers, which originated in the one hundred year war when English longbow archers gave the French the two fingers in triumph. “We still got them”. It’s no wonder that the animals have buggered off.

Next to arrive is another fleet with a group of South Koreans. They have no more stopped when the little buggers are on their mobile phones. “Two Hippos, two hippos,” one of them is reporting to his mother somewhere in Korea and to all within hearing distance of his high-excited voice.

Next we have a fully equipped ten zips, dozen pockets, green jacket, white socks, safari hat American holding up a dried sandwich to an incoming swooping kite.   His wife is on the video camera to capture the pending red vapour trail as his fingers disappear into the sky.

All of a sudden and just a suddenly as they all appeared, they are all mount up and roar off in search of that one photo of whatever to prove they know Africa.

Somewhat uglified we make our way back on to the race circuit. The feeling does not last long for almost straight away we come across our first rhino sighting. Ears twitching, they take a vague interest in us. Looking down the lens of my binoculars I would much prefer a charging lion coming at Williwaw than a charging rhino. At least the lion would bounce off but the Rhino impact would be like getting run over by a tank. They impart a powerful sense of resistance. While complimenting their natural environment they are a symbol of evolution staying power.

One hour later at our own speed we climb out of the crater to the annoyance of Mr Fuck at the water hole who is stuck behind Williwaw getting a large dose of nostril filling dust. Well pleased with our repayment to Mr Fuck we stop at crater village, which has a small general store run by a few Masai.

It is hard to believe that not far from here at Laetoli Mr Fuck and all of us originated as modern man. The dawn of the human race walked out of this region some millions of years ago to colonise the world as we know it. Maybe a few went into outer space.

Having decided that one lap of the Ngorongoro is enough; we pass back through the gates feeling somewhat sorry for its true inhabitants, the animals that will have to install Zebra crossings in the near future for their young ones.   Avoiding Gibbs Farm we arrive back at Karatu or Mto-Wa –Mdu known as Safari Junction. Pitch No 104. In residence are our Jewish friends from Pangani.   They are also saddened by their Ngorongoro experience not by its natural beauty like us it’s over exploitation.

We spend the next, day clearing up Williwaw and preparing for our crossing into Kenya by way of Lake Natron.   With fuel and water tanks full we set off to skirt behind the Ngorongoro crater.   A long track leads off into the distance promising some superb off-road pistes driving. Its early morning the time most things move in Africa > all movement is dictated by the sun and then never in a rush. There is not a soul to be seen in any direction. An inclusive sense of freedom, space, purity, and adventure has us all in high spirits. With the crater on our left the horizon looks flat an inviting. Our track soon peters out turning to dust, then slowly turns to what is known as bull dust right up to the footsteps of Williwaw.

Donations News: Still Zero.

 

 

 

ZANZIBAR.

What we know:

An Island in the Indian Ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

Armed with our walking backpacks we bum a lift into the docks. The land of Muggers (Top TIP: It is well worth the money spent on good quality walking backpacks.) We’ve barely arrived when behind a grilled window we spy their latest victims > All whimpering in time three young lassies awaiting the arrival of the police. The hustlers and the general chaotic pushing and jostle at the ferry ticket windows make it an ideal place for pickpockets and the like.   A bloke offering his assistance approaches us. I give him the bum’s rush, but he lingers on. We learn that the fast ferry has slipped harbour some hours ago so we move on down the line to the next window. The slow ferry does not leave for another few hours. The next window Express Ferries has a Hydrofoil just about to rev up.

Our self-appointed assistant makes another bid to have him self-employed. This time in perfect Swahili I tell him to get lost “You might not believe it buddy but I am perfectly capable of purchasing a ferry ticket”.   He is still unwilling to let go. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other showing the palms of his hand as if to say I have not got your wallet yet.

 The ticket clerk asks if he is with us. Why, I don’t know but I get the feeling its code for to be on your guard. With no time to waste we start to walk down the gangway. Some second sense tells me this is the most dangerous time. Our man’s harassment and pestering is all part of a well-drilled plan to disorient the potential target. Sure enough two finger happy blokes are sauntering up through the boarding passengers.   They stick out like sore thumbs.   It’s the old knock on the side from one to the other trick. I shift my backpack to my right side. On receiving the bump I stick my elbow into his partner with some force along with a large smile of apology.   I point to his co-worker. ‘Not my fault old buddy blame your man, he I am sorry to say pushed me’.

We board intact. Ten minutes on a rattle of well-worn rivets the Russian Hydrofoil comes to life. We don’t quite glide out of harbour passing the moored Dows but resort to a better-known old Royal Navy tactic of slipping out to sea unnoticed.   A large diesel smoke screen wafts its way from the stern as a film of oil calm turbulent flat blue seas begins to slide by. The spurting engines labour to bring her up to foil speed. Scarcely are we in the clear when she not surprisingly digs her port foil into the oncoming swell.   The resulting lurch sends all those on the upper deck staggering from one side to the other. If it’s going to be like this the whole way to Zanzibar there will be many aboard that will see their breakfast for the second time long before they see the Spice Islands.

Florence is definitely a daughter of a seafaring man. She soon finds her sea legs and is mobile around the decks.   She returns after a mooch around the vessel to report that Nick is aboard. Definitely a leading contender for one of the sick bags he is sitting alongside the engine compartment looking a rather vanilla colour. Zanzibar cannot come into view too soon for him.

One hour later we arrive not to the smell of Spices but to the stench of over flowing sick bags. Our first view on approaching the landing wharf is a large fort overlooking the harbour. Typically Arab in style it was the last sight for many a slave in the middle of the eighteenth-century.   Over 50,000 slaves were auctioned in the slave market ever year.   It was one of the last places in Africa to give up human trafficking. To the right of the fort the people palace and further to the right a tree covered gardens overlooked by the House of Wonders, or Beit-el-Ajaib, as it is better known. Everything is evoking expectations exceptionally exuberantly, but not until one gets ashore.

First, it’s a stand in front of the table job, Passport, Yellow card, ten US dollar bills. With the wail of Allah announcing noonday prayer followed closely by Taxi, Taxi, we take our first steps ashore.

With Nick once more in tow ignoring the cluster of Taxi drivers who are in a state of confusion as whether to face Mecca or the incoming passengers we walk towards the Old Town known as Stone Town.  

Pungent mouth-watering smells pour out of the Jamituri Gardens. (The garden we saw on our way into the landing jetty).   Stalls shaded from the tropical sun under lampposts of trees are selling spiced curries; fried octopus, roasted sugar cane, cassava, meat, and ice cream are in full swing. We walk through licking wonderful mango ice creams clearly the place to visit later. The heat is oppressive so we hop into a taxi and head for the African House Hotel which had been the ‘British Club’ in days long gone, when the Island was a British protectorate.

The hotel stuffed with arcane memorabilia, a packed bar, and a restaurant over the bar overlooking the sea, it is the place for us. Nick on the other hand cannot free himself from the anxieties of security.   He finds the standard of the rooms not to his liking. Following a few beers he departs to find a more modern set up. Crashing out for an afternoon siesta we install ourselves in room five under two hefty ceiling fans. Our room is charming, large and spacious with old world beds and a rough iron balcony that looks out onto one of the many narrow pedestrian street of Stone Town.

We awake to the evening shriek to get the prayer mats out. The maze called Stone Town has comes to life, with every turn and bend bringing a surprise. Heavy decorative doors pepper the narrow whitewashed lined streets with their brass-studded facades indicating the occupant’s wealth while hiding family lives from public view.   Well-trodden flagstones lead from one street into another. Tree-studded squares full of hole in the wall shops selling local crafts, art, and fruit.   Thanks to the tourists revenue, restoration is going on everywhere in a rush to save the remains of this unique old town. Overhanging balconies, verandas, decaying bath houses and the Sultans palaces are all getting a makeover.   It is one of those places where the hours fly by without you noticing.   Daily life is right in your face. School children chant the Koran through open classroom windows while upstairs a family row can be heard coming to boiling point.

It is a massive puzzle you’re looking around, waiting for each other to reappear from a doorway or around a corner.

Luckily all alleyways eventually lead either down to the sea or out onto the wrong side of town. We emerge alongside a restaurant named Sinbad the Sailor. According to the bible this is where Mitu an Indian Spice guide hangs out who gives the best Spice tour on the island. Natural Chewing gum tree, natural lipstick tree, hair gel tree, cinnamon, cloves, vanilla, and between the lines some natural grass. We have no trouble finding him and signing up for tomorrow’s tour, which includes a big-hearted lunch. That arranged we wander over to kitchens under the trees where we had passed by on the way from the docks. A large helping of fried prawns has us truly stuffed we return to our lodgings to find the bar heaving. We sleep like logs.

Breakfast with Mitu blowing his taxi horn is a gobble and go job. Still munching we are greeted not by Mitu but Mohammad. Our tour group consists of a large US marine type plus girlfriend, a Dutch family and one or two of those ‘don’t say a word unless spoken to’. Mohammad enjoys his work and it shows in the response he gets from all except of course our two ‘avoid speaking to strangers’. He is well versed in his subject and by the time he has introduced us to turmeric, soap ball tree and every other spice you wish to name. All are obliged over a very spicy lunch to buy the visitors pack that will remain on a kitchen shelf well passed its best before date.

On the way back we make a pit stop for fresh coconut milk.

It takes little persuasion to convince Mohammed that we also need a cooling off in the Indian Ocean. A short bumpy ride brings us to the end of a rough track and we fall out of the truck and walk out of the dense vegetation onto a very small beach. The swim is wonderful. All those too shy to strip bake.

Just up from the beach are the remains of a slave holding hole, the function of which Mohammed explains to the discomfort of our American. Apparently after or before the sale of the merchandise they were held in these holes.   One could almost hear their cries of fear echo from the grey walls. It’s not a pretty sight.

This is not the first time Mohammed has been here and I get the distinct feeling it is one of his little extra earners. Out of nowhere two youths appear. What follows is a demonstration of how to get one of those coconuts from the top of one of those bending trunks called a palm tree. All that is required is a length of rope or raw hemp. Wrap it around the trunk and twist to form a second loop. Step into the loop. Crouch and with hands extended leap onto the nearest trunk. It is however advisable to check that no other has scaled the tree while you were not looking and replaced all the nuts on high with empty ones. Before you could hear the Awa our climber is dropping nuts.

He has scaled the trunk baboon technique. Grabbing the trunk with his feet he whips the loop that is around the tree upwards while pushing with his feet. Then leaning back into the loop around his back he repeats the procedure till with lighting speed he reaches the canopy some sixty-meters up.   He is back down as quick as a fireman’s greasy pole decent.   Mohammed invites any of us punters to have a go. I put my money on the hefty marine. With some good Corps rhetoric he makes it up just about as far as his own nuts. The hat is passed around to show our appreciation even the gob smacks are hooked. Following a prolonged pee the hat contents has being dive out! Mohammed takes the driver seat. (Top TIP: Do the tour it’s an excellent day out.)

We are dropped off at the Jamituri Gardens much to Florence’s delight. for the evening meal > Pressed sugar cane, fried prawns, fresh lemon drinks, and Pizza.  Returning to the African Rest House the bar is heaving. There is not a corner of the Island that some one or other has not been to. 

We learn of a small Island where a German woman has set up the most incredible Eco friendly huts. The island is total made from living coral and has a reef of superb diving quality. The snag is that the accommodation is not quite finished and the only way of getting out to it is by local boat. Furthermore, one has to book back in Dar es Salaam.

With coconuts tree climbing hermit crabs the whole description over a few beers is far to mouth-watering not to give it a try. I place a radio phone call to the mainland see if it possible. We sleep with dreams of slaves, spices, blue water, Man Friday and Robinson Crusoe.

Morning and I get a call from the Silver Sands to say that we can indeed visit Chumbe for 80$ US each for two nights Florence free.   The accommodation is not quite up to scratch yet, but if we are interested there is a boat departing later in the afternoon from Mbweni Ruins Hotel.

Bragging one of the most spectacular marine coral gardens to be found in the world I book without hesitation.

Eddy the taxi drives us out to Mbweni Ruins hotel where we lunch and partake of the hotels swimming pool while awaiting the return of the Chumba ferry. Eventually a small boat makes its way ashore through the Mangroves. All too soon after lunch the blue, blue water is slopping over the gunnels.   Florence takes refuge in the bow while Fanny and I get soaked. 

The Island to the south of Stone City appears in the channel between Zanzibar and the mainland. A white lighthouse looms larger as we approach a deep shelving rocky beach. Set in a small cove in a semi-circular arc are seven simple decorated Banda’s that look like a line of fifteenth-century Spanish Conquest helmets standing on their peaks look towards the turquoise Indian ocean. We come ashore beside a small pier to be greeted by the brilliant smile of a large German woman. She is somewhat taken aback that we have arrived in the first place.   She is also obviously leaving stepping on to the boat.

Ya, Ya, you booked by phone, Ya no problem we make a plan Ya. While the boat is loaded for the return journey we are issued with curtains for blankets and eventually given a friendly wave from the Fräulein as the boat reverses out into deeper waters. With a parting assurance that there is an abundance of cold beers the boat disappears. A young man dressed in ranger shorts leads the way up to our Castaway hut. I have an uneasy feel about the Fräulein (which was indeed to prove right a few days later).

Our home for the next two nights is state of the art eco architecture. Wooden stairs lead up to a latted floor to reveal a wonderful airy room with a bamboo shutter that open upwards making public the whole room to the Ocean. There is no ground water on the island so each hut unit collects its own water from the roof which is then stored below to be heated by solar panels for hot showers or kept cool for drinking water by passing through a sophisticated, filtering system. Any surplus water is drained down to the veggie plot.   Photovoltaic panels provide light, and composting toilets provide fertilizer for the garden.

Without another soul around apart from Man Friday the cook and his wife I forget my flatline trepidation. Two days of pure adventure lie ahead. Enjoy, enjoy perhaps my early feelings are a little over the top.

Settled in we venture forth into the islands home-grown forest, home-grown being the operative word. (All trees have arrived either by birds dropping seeds or by the ocean coughing up the odd coconut.)   The battle of roots is a beauty all on its own. Every root twisting and fighting for what little freshwater there is. Some hang in the air while others; disappear in a tangle of large communication cables into the very coral itself. Florence finds it all a bit creepy and we have to agree in the fading light that it imparts a feeling of death and rebirth all at once. The trail itself also feels weird underfoot > A mix of composting vegetation on top of the hard and uneven dying or dead coral that is changing slowly to stone. After a few minutes the thud of the breaking waves marks the end of the trail. We come out on what side of the Island we don’t know. Large coral blowholes give us our earliest hint of just how high the island is standing above the sea.

An incoming wave reminds me that Neptune has not done with me as yet. During the high of the weather bomb in the Fastnet in 1979 individual waves had your name written on them. This one, which has my name, only explodes out of the coral puffing hole to soak me to the laugher of the girls.

Resisting venturing down any other tracks with the light fading we return in time for dinner a rather dismal effort but the sundowners on top of the lighthouse one hundred and twenty-three steps up make up for the culinary disaster. The day ends with a canvas framed in our open window hard to surpass. The emerald-green of the island is surrounded by vivid shade of translucent hues of blue. Like the blues one sees when flying over coral reefs. All is ablaze in the setting sucking horizon sunset. The whole painting is a canvas of tranquil peace with an enormous sun reminding us of our fragile vulnerability. Sleep is to the whisper of lapping waves than caress the shore and tantalising whiff of tropical breeze.

With the heat of the early morning rays creeping up along our toes we awake at the crack of dawn. Breakfast lives up to dinner. The tide is on the ebb and the Island is emerging from its watery surrounds. We set off on a foot on a circumnavigation exploration of Chumbe, which now stands like a mushroom on its exposed bed of coral and rock foundations.

Crystal clear pools containing bishop hat starfish guard pools containing money – cowries’ shells. There is nothing like rock combing pools and crevices to pass the time away. We just complete the walk around the Island with the incoming tide up around our knees. A batty artist and his nephew have materialized along with a Norwegian red-headed babe off the afternoon visits by the boat.   Over lunch with the added visitors our ranger has an urge to explain the whole Chumbe project.   He gets as far as explaining that the reefs around the Island were designated as off-limits to the local fisherman before any further explanations are nipped in the bud by incoming tide.

With some coaxing we prevail on him to swim out and get the smaller boat that is moored on the opposite side of the pier. It’s time for a dive on the reef. Splash! Four hours later with fingers crumpled we swim ashore. (Top TIP: If you go snorkelling wear a tee-shirt and get someone to coat your back with anti Lobster juice.) There is little point in describing this dive other than Fire coral, Leather coral, Brain coral, Fan coral, Table coral, Whip coral, Parrotfish, Butterfly fish, Triggerfish, Sweet lips fish, Bat fish, Hawksbill fish, Blue spotted fish, Groupers, Unicorn fish, Trumpet fish, Lionfish, Stingrays, Moorish idols, Black spotted puffer fish, Skunk, Anemone fish, Cray fish all in full colour. If only the food had complimented the day we would have spent a day in Paradise.

A warm beer and more of last nights dish is a far cry from what we were demanded to pay with the full force of the Zanzibar Police lead by Rommel herself on our return to Stone town. For now all we want to do is dive again in the morning.

This time Florence is taken under the wing of a ranger who has joined us. It is wonderful to see her swimming below me pointing. I try to find some Turtles feeding on a large boulder coral with no luck. Time slips by so quickly we are surprised to see our man approaching to take us off the Island. We pack and say our good-bye to the Roseate Terns and arriving back at the Mbweni Ruins Hotel. There is no sign of Rommel to be had anywhere but our loyal taxi driver Eddy has turned up. We can’t wait around all day for her so I leave a note stating that I presume that we will settle our bill on my return to the Silver beach hotel through whom we had made the booking in the first place. A Bad Move.

We stay the night in the Haven hotel disturbed by a phone call from Rommel demanding 400$US > somewhat of a jump from the 160 bucks quoted by the Silver Beach.   I explain that we are only on Zanzibar for a few days and I was not carrying that amount of hard cash on me.   She would have to wait until I returned to the Silver beach on the mainland to be paid.   There was no fear that we would do a runner as my Jeep was in their compound. She could ring and verify the fact if she wished to put her mind at rest.

Furthermore they had in their safe a wad of dollars belonging to me for safekeeping. The old cow seems happy enough with this arrangement, while I felt more than pissed off with the rip off.

We have another few days so we set off to visit Nungwi at the northernmost tip of Zanzibar. It is not in the Bible but we heard that it had a wonderful beach. Here we stay for two days soaking up the silver beach and warm Indian Ocean. Photo no – cd In the meantime Rommel unknown to us has called up reinforcements.   An undercover cop approaches us flashing his secret service anti terrorist badge. I am requested to report to the northern Island District Police barracks. I explained that we are without wheels to be informed that a jeep is on its way with more enforcement. On its arrival it becomes clear that Fanny, Flo and I are not a security risk so we all settle down for a spot of lunch.

We arrive at the police station where the Commissioner advised me that Rommel is on her way. What arrived was a woman in a state of high paranoia due to lack of funds. She claims that she was relying on the 400$ to pay her staff. I am somewhat sceptical of this remark, as in the first instant she had no idea that we were arriving on Chumbe to be ripped off. Not speaking the local lingo I am at some disadvantage when she speaks to Commissioner. The whole affair is becoming ugly and extremely distasteful. Eventually it is decided that the matter would be resolved back in Stone Town.

With all of us back on the jeep I calm Fanny and Florence. Rommel sitting in fronts of us with the commissioner produces a portfolio containing photos of Chumbe and the overall plan for its development. He is suitably impressed. More so than the President of Zanzibar who according to Rommel when presented with the project retorted that …“So you here to prove that the rocks are alive…” Yet in his ignorance of the nature of coral he granted a lease to Rommel by placing a conservation order on the reef and the Island with the undertaking that its prime function should be education. I think if he only knew that education has long been put on the long finger and replaced by extortions on unsuspecting tourists. the Nincompoop now sitting in front of me would long be chucked off the Island.

We arrive at the police station in Stone Town this most unpleasant woman has the effrontery to threaten my wife and child with the possibility of prison. Nice one Rommel just the attitude Zanzibar could do with. It takes all my Gaelic blood not to clock her one. The District Commissioner has thank God enough cop-on to call Silver Sands. They confirm that Williwaw is in their compound and funds in their safe. The Bitch had never bothered to ring. The commissioner apologies for the hassle and requests a lift home with his bag of rice. Herr Rommel leaves with a display befitting the swine she is.

Boarding the Ferry in the morning, the old bags’ long shadow touches us once more with the port officials enquiring had the matter being settled. Once more while the Commissioners sleep is disturbed with a phone call we are made to wait. (On my return to Ireland I wrote to the Minister of Tourism making him aware of the whole event. A letter of deep apology was received. I can only hope the cow got an earful as Chumbe deserves better. Irrelevant of all the hassle it was superb.)

Aboard is Nick he had escaped to Pemba Island for the duration of his visit.   With Florence on the bridge the ferry pull away from the dock. Rommel no doubt is instigating a full Island search for us once more. A taxi to the Silver Sands and a fax to the Mbweni Ruins Hotel confirming payment of 160$ ends our Zanzibar Adventure.

Fanny’s Nikon gave up the ghost on Zanzibar so before we move on it is a trip into Dar es Salaam in the hope of getting it fixed.

I give a mature lady of Nicks vintage and nationality a lift into town. She is another South African full of bullshit with the same problem as Nick, wanting to get from one dot on the map to the next without mixing with the great unwashed or stopping.   She turns out however to be of gentile stock. Her eyes speak of a tender and hurt person.   Revealing that she is travelling with a good friend or lover she has verbal diarrhoea the whole way into town.   Her trip has turned turtle and she is thinking of jumping ship and taking a job back in the Old Farm House.   It’s a small world – maybe Nick can drop her off on his way back.

With the camera in sick bay we head off to get our small gas bottle refilled.   After several bum steers we eventually arrive at Agrip Fuel Depot. Parking outside the gates “I’ll just be just a jiffy, back in a few minutes” – boy was I wrong.   Black African bureaucracy brings its full might to bear. To fill my 2.9-kilo bottle takes twelve bits of paper, six miles of walking from one office to the next and two hours of queuing time before I escape back out the gates without official clearance to do so. We just make it back to the camera shop in time. The news is good the Nikon is Oxo.

That night around the bush TV we meet up with Paulo a Sicilian he has just arrived from the Masai Mara on the Serengeti Plains.   He is living in Ethiopia where he administrates the Vatican Aid program. A wild weedy bloke full of energy and extremely partial to the weed he invites us to visit him in the only country of Africa that has not changed since King Solomon’s times. “It is full of unknown cultures, tribes, and beauty that will take your breath away.” Paulo is so passionate about us making the effort to visit Ethiopia we promise to look him up if we venture in that direction.

By the time he has described how he fixed the engine mounting out on the Serengeti in the middle of nowhere (carving a temporary mounting out of wood with his penknife) it is the early hours of the morning when I retire. We awake to booming music coming from an orange Russian Man truck. Paulo with the crack of his ass showing has been at it covered in oil since first light. The news is not good and major surgery is required. We depart later in the morning wondering if he will ever make it back to Ethiopia in one piece.

For some stupid reason we go up the coast to Tanga by way of an unmarked road. Four hours of mud and a ferry crossing convinces us that the better option in the main drag. We eventually find our way inland onto a main looking route arriving in Tanga to dine in an Indian restaurant and kip for the night in an old world majestic colonial building called the Bandorini Hotel. Owned by an Indian/English who is still lamenting the bygone days of colonial panache living. Our room echoes of opulent living is overlooking the harbour over a tiled archway much in need of repair.

Tanga, Tanzania’s deuxième port is a lethargic backwater somewhat off the beaten track for Overlanders.   In the morning we take a short trip out to Pangani recommended by the Bible as being fantastic. Pitch No 101 is in a friendly Aussies new compound. He has a fetish for boats, trucks, and any other junk.   There is sweet f a in Pangani except the river estuary and a mediocre beach, which is hardly worth the long walk down to. Whoever checked the place out for the Bible must have got laid when they were here.

Apart from us the only two other people around are an Israeli and his brothers who have difficulty proving that they are Tanzanian with their American Twang. “You know buddy that Jerusalem is the only three-dimensional city in the world – you can walk across it on the rooftops, on the ground, and under the ground.” WOW!

Hugging the Kenyan border we head inland skirting the Usambara Mountains up to Moshi the gateway to Kilimanjora, Kilima Njaro in Swahili, or Oldoinyo Oibor in Masai.

After a long drive we arrive. Pitch no 102 is in behind a bar and disco so it’s not surprising that we take off early in the morning. Our destination is not Kilimanjaro 5895m first climbed in 1889 by Hans Meyer/ Ludwig Putscheller nor its summit craters Kibo and Mawensi both of which are connected by a broad saddle of 4660m across. The thought of lugging a backpack for three to four days uphill even if the views are out of this world has zero appeal in the stifling heat.   Ngorongoro is for us.

 

 

 

 

Donation News:

 

 

 

TANZANIA:

What we know:

LAKE VICTORIA: LAKE TANGANYIKA: MT KILIMANJARO: SERENGETI:
NGORONGORO CREATOR: DAR ES SALAAM: TEA: THE LEAKEY’S NYERERE.

This frontier crossing is into one of the best-known countries of the African continent. Humans’ first upright specimen happened to walked out of here on two legs instead of four to take possession of the world.

Lying between Africa’s highest mountain and largest lake with the second deepest lake in the world Tanzania is about the same size as France. Volcanic highlands in the north descend to the Serengeti to give way to semi desert in the middle and climb once again to the highlands of the south. With lakes shaped by the Rift valley and a coastline shaped by Arabs, Egyptians, Indians, Chinese, and Slavery it is no wonder we are excited to have arrived.

The road up to the border tests every nut and bolt that holds Williwaw together.

We, that is modern humans, may or may not have walked out of this part of the world, however a mere handful of Evolution millineu on, we are not going to walk back in with such ease. “Sorry you need a visa.” Fanny’s passport is being handed back. “All British subjects require a Visa”.   “You will have to go back to Harare or Lusaka and pay the $50” A round trip of over 2000 kilometres. (Top TIP: Border crossings are always stressful > Guns, Uniforms, Dingy Buildings, Customs, Foreign Tongues, and not forgetting Invisibility.   It’s good to remember that God must love stupid people he made so many. So don’t get agitated.)

I plead ignorance of the fact that British subjects needed a visa. Quoting from the Bible where it clearly states the contra.  This is not a good move as my passport like Fanny’s has the dreaded South Africa stamp – taboo!   It’s not looking good especially now that two who have done the round trip back to Harare to get their visas join us.

We are all still standing in the blazing sun with no sign of making it into the grey concrete building. I decide it’s time for the might of the dollar.  Handing over my passport with a fifty-buck note inside the back cover clearly visible to our Army uniformed stumbling block.

Twenty long minutes go by before he re emerges with his chief boss. They approach Williwaw. “Your passport Mr Dillon.” It is both stamped and relieved of its additional weight. A quick replenishment of its weight with Fanny’s passport and ten minutes later after a vehicle and baggage search we are on our way. God also loves the dollar.

A good tar road snakes through luxurious country up from the lake floor. Bubbling with the sense of relief from officialdom, the lake slowly disappears.   Progress is slow as we climb up into the Kipengere Range. Cresting the range the road changes from tar back to National Geographical red baked earth with the odd splash of orange. The surrounding trees and lush vegetation suddenly give way to the manicured bushes of tea plantations > Row after row bear witness to the invention of the tea bag.Passing a plantation named the Old Farm House offering camping we stop. Driving in we meet Nick from Mana pools he is a white-haired bearded, mumbling South African of sixty years with a Mercedes Jeep and a new lady friend.   He is on a trip – his first out of South Africa with the intention of driving up to Egypt. Unfortunately for him he has an inbuilt fear of blacks. This is the maximum north of Cape Town he has ever been. When we ran into him in Mana Pools we had written off his chances of ever reaching his chosen destination. We are rather surprised that he had made it this far.

The Old farm turns out to be owned by Ray and his wife Nicola > Inherited by both of them some years before it is a beautiful old world home covered in Fuchsia and Frangipani. “You can swim in the dam, order fat steaks, cold beers, fresh eggs, have a shower, camp where you like, you are most welcome. We stay for three days. Pitch No 100.

Over a few fat barbeque steaks South African style we are introduced to Nick’s travelling partner and treated to his life story.   His Merc is equipped to the teeth everything apart from the Doberman for security. Williwaw looks pitiable tired in comparison. His lady friend a soft butterfly character is obviously fed up with Old Nick’s trepidations of lack of razor wire. We can’t see them lasting much longer together. After few a few balls of Irish whiskey Nick bolts himself in for the night.   We retire well pleased with our day.

Ray arrives over next morning with an invitation to go up to the golf club in the afternoon to watch the All Blacks playing S.A. We spend the morning exploring the farms small dam and its consequential mirror lake. Set in amongst large trees it is one of those dreamlike places in a much as one is both in the lake and on the bank at the same time.

Returning to the house we set off for the club. The drive into the clubhouse a modern building built by tea profits is from beginning to its end through rows and rows of tea bushes. Not a leaf out-of-place. Every minute a new leaf appears it is plucked. Parking we are at once approached by prospective caddie’s. Horror of horrors, some ‘old boys’ are there from the gin and tonic brigade for the rugby match.

Florence meets a new friend during the match. She is a daughter of a farmer turned wildlife artist named Michael who according to Ray, has some world eminence when it comes to his wildlife paintings. “He uses a game park called Ruaha Game Park not far from Iringa which you will pass on your way north for his inspiration.”   Michael spends the next hour trying to put us off visiting Ruaha. “Bad Road, difficult to get to, not the right time to visit.” When pointed out by Ray that we had already driven over half of Africa he became even more protective of what he obviously considered to be his domain. He was afraid that we will fall in love with Ruaha and spoil his muse for future work of art. Ruaha by the way is almost as big as the Serengeti National Park a mere 13,000 km² so we don’t know what he is worried about.

We take our leave and visit a nearby restaurant.   It’s closed, so Ray suggests we visit a friend of his. A quick ring on the radiophone and we are all invited over for a spot of late lunch.   Surrounded on all sides by manicured tea plantations as far as the eye could see, we arrive to be greeted at the door by an English housewife. Surprise, surprise, there is no invitation to enter the house. Her husband turns up and we give him a hand to lower the roof tent on to his Land Rover.

He explains that he is going to explore the Dark Continent outside the tea plantation for a day. The couple have just arrived in Tanzania a few months previously and are still like goldfish out of water. Every thing black is taboo. Ray is obviously embarrassed. After five or ten minutes of waffle talk we leave. Ray suggests a game of golf. Ten minutes later I am standing on the first tee, with my caddie, my drink, my porter, my ball cleaner, my temple wiper. Fanny and Flo follow play for a few holes before returning to the coolness of the clubhouse. Ray and I march on with our contingent of assistances.

The course is unlike any other I have played on. Set in the middle of the plantations, the fairways are encased by the tea bushes. Any wayward shot disappears never to be found again. There is no shade except on the tees and greens, which are surrounded by large eucalyptus trees.   By the time we have played the Typhoo, the Lyons bag, the Strainer, the Tea leaf and the Cup and Saucer, we have consumed ten golf balls each, two gin and tonics and had our brows wiped a hundred times. Ray has also eventually stopped apologising for his friends late lunch invitation and concentrates on his golf.

The day is topped off with a large barbecue with several bottles of Serengeti Classic.  We stay another day.

Florence departs with Michael the Artist and his daughter for the day.   Fanny, Nick and I go fishing at the dam. We spot in the first ten minutes without moving, twenty species of bird. The lake is surrounded by weeping willows and eucalyptus is full of birdsong and reflections, with the odd bullfrog croak.   Overall there is a sense of silence only broken by hiss of the fishing line and the plop of the float. In the tranquillity of a wonderful lazy day no matter what bait we try there is not a bite to be had.

Returning to our campsite Nicks lady friend has fled the coop. That evening over a large bush TV fire, cold beers and Ray’s juicy stakes with a visit from some South African road builders Nick requests our company as far as Dar es Salaam – the ‘Haven of Peace. I am not too keen to have a paranoid South African in tow, however I am reminded by the girls of my Roadies Mantra “If it’s wet drink it, if it’s dry, smoke it, if it moves screw it, if it doesn’t move sling it in the back of the van.” “It’s easier to be kind than cruel.”

With Nick in tow we leave the Poroto Mountains us behind moving into the fertile foothills of Mbeya. Tea turns to cocoa, coffee, and banana plantations. The road turns from hard backed to clay to our first tar corrugations. I’ve long stopped looking in my mirror for Nick. He is attached like a limpet mine.   Michael – the artist’s game park Ruaha passes on our right. We decide not to visit. As I said, in this part of the world it is difficult not to end up in a lake, this also applies to Game Parks.   Skirting the Usangu Flats we leave behind miles and miles of pine forest before arriving at Iringa.

Only a few countries on earth can blow your own trumpet to have dedicated more land to Game Reserves than Tanzania. We stop in The Mikumi National Park, which happens to be on the main drag. Our port of call is a small hospital that supplements its running cost by renting out a few rooms. We secure the last room available for the night. Nick sleeps in his roof top tent. Mikumi Park has a funny sort of set up. It’s positioned on the main drag to Dar es Sala. If you want to get there it is a compulsory visit to the park.   However if you say you are only going into the parks lodge to dine there is no entry fee. It’s a sort of animal toll gate. On the way up for lunch we spot elephant, giraffe and baboon. The lodge is a modern building with a Carte de jour, way beyond any backpacker’s pocket. Nick treats us to lunch. By the time we are finished we decide to spend the night back at the hospital.

On the way back Fanny takes a ride with Nick. Flo and I saunter back stopping to take a close up look at an elephant traffic road sign that warns unexpected drivers to “Beware of Elephants crossing.”  We stop further along the road at a snake farm, which is closed, but for a few hundred Tanzanian shillings we are given a private tour.

Black Mamba, Green Mamba tree dwellers Africa fastest moving snakes both with deadly venom. Adders: Vipers: Asp: Cobra: Egg Eaters: Boomslangers.   Flo leaves with her very own snake-skin and I get to appreciate that there are more than politicians that slither around in the long tall grass.

Early morning we once more are passing through the park. We have not gone far when we pull over to let a lion and his lioness cross the road. On the opposite side a local bus has also pulls over.   Not to admire the king of the jungle, but to let its passengers out to pump ship. Oblivious to any danger down come the knickers at the back of the bus and out pop the watering hoses at the front. Our two wild beasts are not tempted by any of the black asses on show or are they interested in any of the black puddings as they continue on their way into the bush. It is a hilarious sight something one expects to see in a Monty Python show. On the beast being spotted there is a verity of outside bus reactions. Frozen on the spot, knickers half up dash to the bus zips ripping pubic hair, pointing of fingers while trouser legs get sprayed. Inside whopping and hollering rapping on the windows, opening the door and closing till calm settles. Nick in my wing mirror is white knuckled stuck to his steering wheel as if the cats are going to appear in this passenger seat.

We arrive at Morogoro. Reported to have a wonderful vegetable market Nick takes the lead into town in search of the market place.   Bustling with people Morogoro has a pleasant feel to it. We stop to refuel purchasing a new type of raspberry from a street vendor. While waiting to exit the fuel station Nick disappears around a corner. On rounding the bend after him here he is coming down the opposite side of the road. White faced with fear, he announces that he couldn’t find the market place.   I follow him out-of-town until we arrive at a roundabout.   His deep-rooted fears of black Africa have him by the short and hairiest. Damned if I am going to be his nursemaid. It’s time we split. I tell him to stay put until we return.

The town square is a glorious market of wonderful African caricature. We spend an exquisite hour purchasing some fresh vegetables, peanuts, fruit, and a few African kangas or sarongs.  A short cut out-of-town over some bomb crater potholes gets us back to Nick before he has a nervous breakdown. Being left in the big black world all alone is too much for his apartheid mind.

We push on to Dar es Salaam.   The road changes from broken up tar with potholes to corrugations and back again.   Apparently the only place one can leave a vehicle safely while visiting the Spice Islands of Zanzibar is the Silver Beach Hotel up the coast from the Haven of Peace.

Pitch no 101 is to Nick’s liking behind razor wire, patrolled by shillelagh cudgel bearing guards in amongst a dozen Overland Trucks and numerous tents.   We find a spot in this white man’s Belsen.

The only thing that can say favourably about it is that it is cheap. Owned by some Germans who acquired the place from the University of Des es Salaam for a song it has a utility building, a restaurant, bar, and toilets that are only, one-step up from a long drop, and of course a silver beach, which has long turned grey.

In the bar that night over a few beers I secure us a lift into town in the morning on one of the many Passion Trucks (Africa Overland trucks from the UK) parked in the campsite. The excursion into town is to provision the Truck and allow some of its passengers to exchange some money and visit the docks to book a ferry ticket to the Zanzibar.

Boarding the truck I notice that one of the pillars at the back has a bell marked with a code. “One to stop, two rings go, three toilet, continuous ring emergency, I can’t resist added four rings – sex.

The provision stop is at a small supermarket where I help load bags of rice, pasta, tins of various tomato based meals, bottled water, sweets, and all the rest to make for a healthy diet in the wilderness. By the time we are finished with the money exchange it is time to return to Belsen Zanzibar will have to wait.

A swim well away from the campsite washes away the concentration camp blues. With a meal that evening down the road in an Italian restaurant we ready for a trip into town in the morning with Williwaw to properly explore.

Haven of Peace 6° 00 S-35° 00 E is anything but peaceful.   A city and tropical port of over two million souls it has spread itself and its pollution far and wide over its hinterland and coastal position.   A mixture of German, Asian, British and Swahili buildings it is somewhat like a little Bombay.   Known as Jamhuri ya Muungano wa (Tanzania in Swahili) it houses the skull of the Nutcracker Man.

The first problem is getting a safe place to leave Williwaw. There is no way one could leave Williwaw unattended. We tour the dock area and out along the ocean road where the manicured gardens and high walls announce diplomatic land.

We stop at the Palm Beach hotel for a very expensive bit to eat with a Safari lager the cost of which deserved swallowing twice. Across from the hotel the girls find a small shopping centre – not a run of the mill shopping centre – NO, NO. This one is for chauffeur driven cars – you know the type. Yes.   Those immune from parking ticket number plate’s type. The parking attendant looks startled when Williwaw pulls into the enclosed car park.   One hour later we leave with all those things one misses when on the road for almost a year and half.   Marmite, Marmalade, Cheddar plus water biscuits, you name it and it’s in the basket on the way to checkout.

Returning to a suburb we spot a large wood carving market, another meander for an hour or two. How the hell the tourist gets some of this stuff back is a marvel in itself.   Full sized Massai, with wooden balls and spear, tables that weigh a ton, giraffes fifteen feet tall, hippos, some super chess sets, ebony statues many of which need a scratch to see if they are real ebony or black boot polish.   Masks, bracelets, woven baskets – every item is a bargain.

We arrive back late afternoon to brave the muggers of the beach. There is a warning sign saying do not walk down the beach for fear of being mugged. We ignore it and walk down the beach some distance from the campsite to watch local fishermen casting their evening nets. In the wonderful warm clear water we help pull the nets ashore. There is a fantastic feeling of camaraderie when hauling a net and this pull is no exception. The net is paid out by a boat in a large circle and then hauled ashore hand over hand. Their catch to our surprise is quite plentiful with many a scaled friend we do not recognise. We paddle back along the beach without spotting one mugger. Perhaps our swimming togs advertise to anyone watching from the jungle that we had little of value except some tanned white flesh. Sleep came early.

 

     

 

 

MALAWI

What We Know:
LAKE NYASA. (LAKE MALAWI) POOR. AIDS.

Sixty clicks from the border we arrive in Blantyre. Named after a village in Scotland where Dr David Livingstone was born. To us, it does not matter if it had been named after Joe Soap. After a long boring day of dust; heat, mixed with the anxieties of the ‘Gun Run’ our only interest is in getting our heads down. According to Fanny, the bible says that every hotel in the place is a rip-off. “Guess what?” Horror of horrors the very book itself was once banned for making nit-picking remarks by Malawi dictator Bandaw. He taking umbrage with its printed words

After nine hours driving it is this far and no further for us. We book into the nearest hotel. It turns out to be one of those hotels where one feels safer sleeping in one’s own sleeping bag than between the sheets. A Dump, Don’t let the fleas bite’ joint. Every time I venture out of our room I get propositioned by one of the many lurking house guests.

Taking into account a three-session visit to the bank to get some Kwacha we eventually leave Blantyre with a great deal of relief.   (Top TIP: If you can avoid Banks do so. Asian owned shops are a good bet for a better deal. ) Knowing sweet Fanny Adams about Malawi we set off in the direction of Africa’s third largest lake. All we have to do is to find the right road out-of-town. According to the Bible, everyone heads for the lake. Cape McLear eighteen kilometres north of Monkey Bay is the recommended spot for some R and R.

Passing shed after roadside shed selling beautifully carved chairs which thanks to be god are all too big to post or carry we make that fatal African error. Stop for directions. It’s a known fact in Africa if you point in a direction everyone will agree that you are pointing in the right direction.

You wont be surprised when I say that vast parts of Africa have escaped the pollution of traffic and the need for signposts. (Top TIP: GPS takes the fun out of it. Bring a compass.)

Malawi is one of the poorest countries on the continent. Around 835 kilometres long it is only 80 to 160 kilometres wide with over a quarter of its land mass under water thanks to Lake Malawi 500 kilometres long and up to 48 kilometres wide the lake marks most of Malawi eastern border with Tanzanian and Mozambique. We never the less end up going up-country on the wrong road.

Malawi Lake is also the point where the Great Rift Valley (formed 200 million years ago the rift is 4830 kilometres long) splits in two.   Depending on which way you look at the Rift it starts at Beira on the Mozambique Indian Ocean coast and ends all the way up in the Danakil Depression north of Ethiopia.   Danakil or dalanki?

The Eastern part of the Rift makes its way through Tanzania to Lake Turkana in Kenya.   While the Western Rift passes under Lake Tanganyika (Congo- Tanzania – Buruni- Zambia) Lake Kivu (Congo- Rwanda) Lake Edward (Congo-Uganda) Lake Albert (Congo-Uganda)

Anyway, after a whole day’s driving with no sign of a lake, it is kind of hard to explain how we managed to miss it. But miss it we do.  Instead of heading north up the middle of the country we somehow veer to the west ending up outside Dedza. The lake is hidden some sixty kilometres to our right over a very rough and difficult track.

Wild Pitch No 95 attracts as usual out of nowhere a bunch of kids all with wood carving skills.   Before our very eyes one of them sculpted a model of Williwaw with every addition I made to her is included in detail.

The next day with firm directions as to how to get to the lake and an assurance that “With a strong vehicle like yours, there is no problem,” we end up buying the model. The allure of a swim has us on the road early. We’ve not gone far when we meet another carved land rover. This one being held up by a small youth. Not quite as good as last nights model but on the narrow track there is no getting past. A brisk trade session secures our second model.   We continue on up the mountain track to be eventually rewarded with our first spectacular view of the shimmering water of Lake Malawi.

For the next half hour, we gingerly crawl down our eroded track, every bend has a traffic jam of Land Rover models. Word of our presence must have got out last night resulting in half the mountainside staying up all night to assemble them. The disappointment of no sale on some of the faces as we pass by is hard to bear.

One hour later we down at Lakeside level and are soon turning off for Cape McLear. Right on the turn, we find a small shop, some last-minute supplies. In the time it takes us to do our shopping two backpackers have materialised on the other side of the road. “Any chance of a lift? “   We indicate the roof. “Great.” Out pop two more from the nearest tin hut.   For the next two hours, we lumber in and out of potholes across a small river following a track that sometimes disappears completely.

Eventually, upon spotting a hut with a beer sign, we get to meet our roof passengers: Two English chicks with land Rover features. Two Aussies obviously attracted by the girl’s large shock absorbers, rather than any other finer features. They all down their beers in the firm belief that backpackers are not required to pick up the tab.

By my reckoning, the ride rather than having to hump oversized life support units and backpacks in the blazing sun for sixty kilometres to Cape McLear is worth the cost of a dozen beers.

We arrive too late to set up camp so we decided to rest up for the night in one of the many rondavels in Matabwo’s place – a rip-off but clean. Next morning we pitch near beach. Pitch No 96. It is rather strange to be on a beach after months in the bush. Luckily it’s not high traveller season. Cape McLear is a magnet for backpackers. We soon discover that we have the place almost to ourselves.   There is not much to explore other than the rows and rows of fish drying benches that stretch along the beach shore. It does not stop us from lapping up the tranquillity of the place.

Fanny takes the opportunity to bring Florence up to speed on some missed schooling.   A few extra classes on painting are thrown in by one of our only other visitors. Long evening lakeshore walks punctuated by the arrival of a pirogue back from fishing or a few woman busy with laundry gives the camera some classical African challenges for the photo album.

As you can imagine the lake has a hefty impact on where one goes in Malawi.

David Livingstone who spent fifteen years in Africa rediscovered Lake Malawi in 1858. Thereafter he went from one lake to the next. It was on his second outing in Africa that he came up the Shire River from Mozambique into the Lake Malawi. Lake Nyasa as it was called then. On he went to Lake Mwerv in the Congo and Lake Bangweulu in Zambia.

Not satisfied with those he then had a look at Lake Tanganyika. Richard Burton the explorer with an ideal young army guy named John Speke whom Burton took along for the trip had seen it first in 1858.   Livingston then disappeared until an American newspaper flushed him out in 1871.   At Ujiji on the Tanganyika lakeshore Henry Morton Stanley re discovered Livingstone. Both of them teamed up and popped over to Lake Victoria. Once again John Hanning Speke piped them to the post. He had left Richard suffering from maladies at Lake Tanganyika. He wandered over to the second largest lake in the world, where he rightly guessed that it was the source of the White Nile. For the next six years, until he shot himself in 1864, Burton and Speke brawled openly over whether he was right or not.

Sir Samuel White Baker had sighted Lake Albert in 1864; he bumped into Speke and Grant while going up the Nile from Cairo looking for its source. They told him of a Lake named Luta Ngize, which the Nile crossed. On he went for another three years until he arrived at Lake Luta Ngize which he renamed Lake Albert.

Our man Livingstone was still wandering around discovering Lake Chilwa in 1861, Lake Mweru in 1869 and Lake Bangweulu 1869.   He ended up in Chitambo in Zambia where he snuffed it in 1873 from haemorrhoids infections.   As to how he ended up there is somewhat of a mystery.  His body was carried back to Zanzibar to be finally transported and buried in Westminster Abbey – London.

You would think that all the lakes had been discovered, but Lake Rukwa was discovered by Joseph Thomson another Scot in 1879 and Lake Edward was formerly known as Lake Edward Nyanda by Sir Henry Morton Stanley in 1889.

Lake George or Lake Dweru and Lake Kyoga on and on it goes – it is therefore beyond doubt that in this part of the world one cannot help but to end up in a lake.

A late evening downpour gets sand in every place you can think of. It kick-starts our departure. We retrace our steps back to the main drag. Heading north on an excellent smooth road we follow the lakeshore up to Sanga Bay.   Pitch No 97 is in the grounds or if you like on the beach section allocated by a Dutch-run hotel. After a windy night in the grounds, we pack up and move on.   Sanga has little to offer in the way of any interest.

Along came our trusty newspaper reporter Henry Morton Stanley in 1875. He circumnavigated Lake Victoria confirming that Speke had guessed correctly.

Sir Samuel White Baker had sighted Lake Albert in 1864; he bumped into Speke and Grant while going up the Nile from Cairo looking for its source. They told him of a Lake named Luta Ngize, which the Nile crossed. On he went for another three years until he arrived at Lake Luta Ngize which he renamed Lake Albert.

Our man Livingstone was still wandering around discovering Lake Chilwa in 1861, Lake Mweru in 1869 and Lake Bangweulu 1869.   He ended up in Chitambo in Zambia where he snuffed it in 1873 from haemorrhoids infections.   As to how he ended up there is somewhat of a mystery.   His body was carried back to Zanzibar to be finally transported and buried in Westminster Abbey – London.

You would think that all the lakes had been discovered, but Lake Rukwa was discovered by Joseph Thomson another Scot in 1879 and Lake Edward was formerly known as Lake Edward Nyanda by Sir Henry Morton Stanley in 1889.

Lake George or Lake Dweru and Lake Kyoga on and on it goes – it is therefore beyond doubt that in this part of the world one cannot help but to end up in a lake.

A late evening downpour gets sand in every place you can think of. It kick-starts our departure. We retrace our steps back to the main drag. Heading north on an excellent smooth road we follow the lakeshore up to Sanga Bay.   Pitch No 97 is in the grounds or if you like on the beach section allocated by a Dutch-run hotel. After a windy night in the grounds, we pack up and move on.   Sanga has little to offer in the way of any interest.

Our day passes over too many streams and rivers to mention. Transport us half way up the lake to Nkhala Bay. It is beyond belief that this country once suffered an appalling drought causing thousands of deaths.

We stay in a backpacker’s hostel or in one of their chattel houses, classified as luxury.   Fanny orders some food, which takes forever to arrive. Waiting for a beer we hear two familiar voices. We’ve seen it all. The Germans from Mana Pools are engrossed in conversation “Did you see?” “Did you see?” We saw Mobi Dick and the Loch Ness Monster. They did not see us. That’s what we call luxury.

Morning glistens on the lake. We hear of a little beach over the back of the bay. The hostel owner advises against walking over to it. “You could be mugged.” The thought of being mugged by our ‘Jah’ friends is more terrifying. We set forth armed with a picnic. The track is narrow and steep but well trodden. Dense vegetation on both sides makes each encounter with approaching traffic a startling experience. Ladies on their way to market descend sure-footed balancing their produce on rolled up scarves on their heads. They are all dressed in splashes of vivid colours that would give a painter’s pallet a full work out.

We pass through one village after another > our arrival in each announced by the ever-present dogs. After two hours we emerge onto a beach of some considerable Robinson Crusoe beauty.   A small stream struggling to reach the lake waters cuts the beach in half. Another stream cuts a deep pool against one of rocky headlands that forms the little-sheltered bay. The sand is soft, golden and footprint-free – deserted.

A wonderful day is spent snorkelling. Florence is becoming more and more confident with every kick of the flipper.   A small boat arrives at noon to sell what it has caught. I do a deal with the boat owner to call back later and save us the long hike home.   Florence is joined by a group of village kids. They spend their time playing a game that involves planting a stick in the sand. Then, in turn, each child scoops some sand away from the stick.   The one to make it fall suffers a splashing, accompanied by yelping that could be heard on the other side of the lake.   As promised the boat returns we arrive back not mugged not robbed but embraced by a day of African gentleness.

Next morning the skies open, turning the trackback from the hostel to the main road into a treacherous torrent. We wait until after lunch but there is no let-up. It’s not all that far to the main road. We set off before it gets to the point of being trapped for the night.   Williwaw slips and slides her ways down the track inch-by-inch with mud up to her axles.   Arriving at a small wooden bridge, brown gun grey water hides the bridge from view. The girls bail out and wade across, whilst I take a long look. The bridge is narrow and not in great repair. It’s risky. Although the water is only a half wheel deep it is the unknown state of the bridge that worries me. On the other hand, the water is visibly rising. Wait any longer and there will be no hope of crossing. With a steady hand on the helm, I commit Williwaw slowly. Steady as she goes. She crosses with little bother with me feeling a little nerve racked.

After the negotiated bridge we stop at Salima for a spot of bargain hunting.   The morning downpour has added a keenness on the part of the stall owners to make a sale. Fanny wrangles a deal on a small wooden table that has one of the most enchanting smiles one would see carved into the wood.

Livingstonia is a mere four hundred kilometres up the lake. Set high on an escarpment it commands fantastic views over the lake. The Free Church of Scotland founded here it in 1894. Somehow or other we miss the turn-off and end up in the mountains of the Nyika National park. Pitch No 97 is down a track in amongst eucalyptus trees. It’s cold and damp and as is the case more often than not, when you camp in the wild you have company. This time it is a forester’s family. They watch from a distance afraid to approach.   We pay a morning visit to our neighbours. They are obviously very poor. A pair of shoes for the young one brings a moment of unadulterated gratitude. We break camp and backtrack in the direction of Mzuzu. Descending we pass many men making their way up with long saws over their shoulders. The plank makers cut felled trees by hand and then sawing them into planks, back-breaking work for a pittance.

This time we take the correct turn and start our ascendance up into the clouds. The track has a right angle bend every few hundred meters. The pedestrian backpackers path takes the shortcut straight up from one bend to the next. To hoofing a rucksack up we reckon would take most of a day. With Williwaw it takes us all of two hours to reach the top. Pitch No 98 is on the lawn right in front of the youth hostel called the Stone House. Our tent door opens out on to panoramic views across the lake to Mozambique on the far shore with the border running down the middle of the lake with the odd disputed Island.

We have just settled in when out of the grasses exterior the German binoculars materialize.  They are in such a sweat that their sunglasses are fogged up. They don’t recognise us. Looking totally wrecked they enquire, “Have you seen the Stone House?” We point in the direction of the other youth hostel.   Happily on they plod.

Opening our tent we are greeted by one of those rare overcast mornings. Eating hot bread for breakfast the lutetium grey lake waters peppered with shafts of sunlight present a show of illumination that is spellbinding.

Lake Malawi is home to the world’s largest collection of a diminutive freshwater fish called Ciclids.(cyclids?)   Apparently the females are so impressed with colour that they have driven the males to change colour if they are to have any chance of sex. Some females like green some like yellow and so on. It is a rare ambiguity in natural selection not known in other animals.   Its human drawback is that they are a prized aquarium fish.

Two volunteer guides from the night before re-appear. A short tour of Livingstonia includes its famous hospital, school and its coffee plantations. All of which gives us a feeling of its past glory colonial days. Our guides lead us down the escarpment by way of a narrow track for about four or five kilometres. We emerge eventually at a wooden hut called the Lower Nest. It is a small bar set on the side of a deep densely vegetated narrow valley. Teaming with bird life the bar is well named. Its nesting spot, however, represents the first ominous signs that cuckoo man is about to give our feathered friends the bums rush.

After a few cold beers that go down a treat, we continue our stunning walk along the valley’s side to the Manchewe Falls.

Small yellow butterflies flutter in front of our every step.   They colour the track with vivid patches of yellow that give the impression of being pour out of our glimmering green surroundings.   All of a sudden in a breathtaking jungle setting the falls come into view. Nestled in amongst the dense canopy of vines and trees a pillar of water sixty meters high surges onwards from the very trees tops themselves.   It’s a perfect wedding of nature with a cacophony of sound.

With some pride, our guides informed us that the caves behind the falls were once used as a hiding place. The Phoka tribe’s people, when hunted by Nogoni slavers, took refuge in them. It is no wonder. The falls are spellbinding casting a web of spray with each droplet of water reflecting its surroundings in the sunlight. There is no doubt that it is difficult to enhance the beauty of light. Our camera struggles to capture this gem of natural sculpture.

Our return journey back up the hill is by way of many a house backyard. The odd sweet brings toddlers of all sizes and ages running. Back at the Rest House over a few puffs of Malawi gold, the day draws to a close with one of those African Sunsets that needs no help from a joint.

Over breakfast and our pending departure, we make an offer to buy the place, it is flatly turned down. Williwaw winds her way back down to the lakeshore. (Top Tip One of the benefits of Lake Malawi is that one can acquire a driving licence very much cheaper than in other parts of the world.)  

We spend the day on yet another little beach near Chilumba; an old-world hotel long abandoned overlooking the beach. As always it not long before we are spotted by a passing boat. It’s young skipper offering his services to bring us around to a rock outcrop where he assures us that we will see the famous Ciclids in massive shoals.   Florence with her new-found snorkelling skills and I have a swim around the rocks without much success. Fanny convinced that she is ripe for a dose of Bilharzia (even though Lake Malawi is for the most part free compared to the other large lakes of the beastly little snails) ops for the suntan bottle.

Late afternoon finds us we pushing on up the last of the Malawi lakeshore to Karonga our last port of call before leaving and crossing over into Tanzania.

Here we camp pitch No 99 in the car park of the Government Rest House.

 

 

 

(To be Continued)

Donation News: Its look like I am going to have to put the last chapter into Quarantine till one of my lovely readers makes a donation

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259180. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2

Sorting Code: 98-50-10.