South Africa

I'm spending my last couple days in Pretoria, South Africa. I can't be bothered to venture to Jozy (Johannesburg). The primary attraction there would be the Apartheid Museum, which is closed today. Otherwise I have heard nothing but very bad things about Joburg, "It's just so dangerous" I'd been told by locals.

Instead, I'm slowly acclimating to the "civilized" world of comfort and consumption in South Africa's capital; where traffic signals are obeyed, merchants don't haggle and showers have hot water. And though beer is always served cold, the people smile less, the babies whine and cry, and suddenly many people are overweight.

Ironically, this is the first country where I've struggled to communicate with people. While English is one of South Africa's national languages, I have said "Sorry, I'm not from here. Please say that again, slowly" several times today! It's just a strong accent and I have to get used to it.

It's winter here, a mild winter at that. But serious enough that I walk around with knit gloves, a stocking cap and a fleece coat. The University of Pretoria is nearby, so I had a wander through its campus. What a contrast to the other places I've been: maintained modern buildings, manicured grounds, a mix of people--black and white, male and female.

Pretoria is a bustling town with a feel and layout that compares to many cities back home: four-lane expressways, indoor malls, suburbs and car dealerships. Walking around, I am just another person here, indistinguishable until I talk. I feel safe until my eyes catch the newspaper headlines describing some violent crimes. South Africa has an extremely high violent-crime rate, "highest in the world" some say, yet it's considered to be the most developed of all the Sub-Saharan countries.

I begin to think about that Joseph Conrad novel again, imagining my journey into "civilization" as my journey into the "Heart of Darkness." The newspapers support this fantasy, as I read about how not far from here are sprawling shanty towns where there is no law. And just a couple weeks ago, poor South Africans began killing the even poorer immigrants from neighboring countries. Talk about terror! The tension is almost palpable when I ask an ambulant craft vendor where he's from ... he wouldn't tell me.

And just up the street resides a man expected to be South Africa's next president, Jacob Zuma -- head of the ruling political party, African National Congress. True to African form, he's a politician with a controversial past--accused of rape, fraud and, of course, corruption, it baffles me that he's still in power. (Click here to See BBC article)

Ah yes ... Africa, how fortunate I am to have had a glimpse. I have enjoyed it very much. Thoroughly. Once called "The Darkest Continent," more recently labeled "The Greenest Continent," to me--considering all the inspirational landscapes, beautiful people and brutal social struggles--Africa is an amazing mess.

Botswana and Namibia

 It wasn't quite an epiphany--more like an unexpected revelation--the morning I left Zambia. Had I known it would be my last stroll through a "third-world" market, I might have paused to savor more than just the traditional meal served from fire-burnt pans onto cracked plates, still dripping after being rinsed in a bucket of murky water.  

But I do recall enjoying the sounds of a cheerful conversation spoken in a language whose name I can't pronounce. And I wasn't surprised to see a group young boys laughing as they kicked a ball made of tightly wound rags over the muddy trench of an open sewer. By now I was used to the sight of gossiping young mothers nursing their babies -- breast exposed while they carried on with whatever task, indifferent to their  babies and potential spectators. 

My nose was still easily confused as I tried to enjoy the scent of boiling coffee, but wince at the acrid smell of smoldering plastic and other trash burning in a tidy pile on the ground.  I didn't know it was my last chance to wave the flies off my heaping plate of Zambian "nshima," the stiff corn porridge that I'd finally acquired a taste for, which is the dietary foundation of southern Africa (A.K.A. "ugali" in Tanzania, "wusa" in Mozambique, "nsima" in Malawi, "sadza" in Zimbabwe and "pap" in South Africa). Belly full, I paid the equivalent of a $1.50 and set off to continue my roundabout journey to South Africa.  Because the next bus to Namibia wouldn't leave for three days, I found myself hitch-hiking, again. 

Being Sunday morning, traffic was infrequent. I sat on my bag, reading, peeking up every so often to see the road empty in both directions. For a while the only traffic was three unusually healthy-looking stray dogs moseying towards Livingstone; a mom and two grown pups; reddish-tan, with a dark stripe down their backs.  "Of course!" I thought, "I'm in Rhodesia!" (Actually, it was Northern Rhodesia before gaining independence from Britain in the mid '60s -- Zimbabwe was the "Southern" counterpart.) But that really made my day: to pet a Rhodesian Ridgeback (a mix, presumably) while in Rhodesia (That was the unexpected revelation).  

Twelve hours later -- after cramming into an overcrowded car, exchanging money at a significant loss at the Namibian border and pestering people for a ride at a gas station -- I descended out of the musty cabin of a American-made semi-truck that had been crawling at 80 kilometers-per-hour across what must be the most boring 300 kilometers of highway in Africa -- the Caprivi Strip.  Before midnight I would arrive at Ngepi Camp -- an ecologically-minded travelers' retreat settled along the shores of the Okavango River in Namibia. I'd read about this camp in a travel magazine, famous for it's picturesque setting and creative, open-air ablutions ("loo with a view" one toilet greeted, "5-billion-Star Retreat" read another. Note: "ablution", "loo" are the South African and British words, respectively, for "toilet").  

For a couple chilly nights I slept in a rented tent, pitching it on a raised platform, which was good place to be because each night hippos would crawl out of the river and spend much of the night grunting and munching on the grass under and around the platform. I would wake up to see Water Buffalo grazing on the opposite side of the river, and pass the morning chatting over breakfast with a family of South African Boer's on holiday ("Ya, Bootswana, et is viry goot. Ya, ve saw meeny donkeys thea." "Boers" are people, generally from South Africa, who primarily speak Africaans -- the Dutch-based language dating back at least a hundred years). This would be my only Namibian home because time running out on my trip, I had to choose between Botswana and Namibia.  

I chose Botswana because of "The Delta". Vanessa, my girlfriend (my beautiful, patient, supportive and trusting girlfriend), had described it as a highlight of her own globe-trotting adventure several years prior. Not to be outdone, I had to see it for myself. I was not disappointed.  

Slithering slowly along the arid flatlands of Angola and Namibia into Botswana, the Okavango River fans out into the reverse tributaries of the "delta," a swamp, before it is swallowed up by the insatiable thirst of the Kalahari Desert, never having a chance to reach the ocean. What an awesome thought: a massive river, full of life and potential, disappearing into a sea of sand.  I made my way to the delta's innermost village: Seronga. There, I hired a "mokoro" (traditionally a dugout canoe, now typically made of fiberglass) and a "poler" (a guide, who pushes the mokoro along using a long pole). With some basic food supplies and another rented tent, we set out to camp somewhere deep in the delta.  Having recently read (en-route) a few autobiographies that made similar allusions, I could not help but also imagine myself a creation of the novelist Joseph Conrad -- a Marlow type, navigating the serpentine waters into the unknown, searching for Col. Kurtz (Or, for the visual allusion, Martin Sheen's character looking for Marlon Brando's in Coppolla's "Apocalypse Now").  

But there was no Kurtz, no brutal savagery nor dark soul to expose; just calm in the day and peace at night. And stars! Never did the Southern Cross show the way so clearly. And elephants! Walking along one of the "islands" we came within striking distance of several bulls chewing at tree trunks; catching our scent, they loped away suddenly, and miraculously (because of their size) disappeared.  In the delta, I truly felt far away from everything. No cars, no people, and for the first time while in Africa, my cellphone had no signal (such is the true measure of isolation!). I had finally escaped. I savored the moment and made note of it in my journal. 

But I soon realized I had nothing to escape. I was just passing through. Searching for and escaping nothing in particular, I had no need to push the limits. I was just traveling. Yes, this would be the climax of my story in Africa. It was time to make my way home.  

Having embedded myself deep in the delta, it took some patience and luck getting out, as rides back to the main road were extremely rare. When I did get moving again, I was only entertained by donkey sightings (the Boer family was right! ... "meeny donkeys") and sterilization checkpoints until I arrived in Botswana's tourism hub: Maun. (Botswana is paranoid about foot-and-mouth disease, requiring the undersides of vehicles to be sprayed and shoe soles to be soaked at roadside checkpoints every 100 kilometers)  With strip malls and fast-food chains (the first McDonald's I'd seen in weeks!), I didn't give Maun much more than a passing glance. I continued east to Francistown where I arrived in time to catch the southbound overnight train to Gabs (Gaberone), Botswana's capital and gateway to South Africa.

Zambia and Zimbabwe

Africa - June, July 2008

"LEVY DEAD" read the bold letters of the newspaper headlines on the newsstand I passed while strolling the busy streets Lusaka, Zambia's capital. "Levy" was referring to Zambia's current president, Levy Mwanawasa.

"Dead president? Uh-oh," I thought to myself. "This may not the best time for me to be here."

Perhaps it was good fortune I was already walking towards the U.S. Embassy (I needed more pages inserted into my passport). I might have to take refuge. While this was a serious thought, the assistants at the embassy weren't concerned in the least. So I wandered the streets of downtown Lusaka until I could get my passport back a few hours later. No problems, business as usual. But I was still a bit uneasy about being in Zambia's largest city the day the president died.

Passport in hand, and having seen enough of Lusaka to know I needn't stay longer, I took a gamble and hopped on an overnight bus headed south; "a gamble" because most Central African countries had banned commercial driving at night: too many accidents. But the incoming road was smooth, straight and uneventful, so I felt the odds were in my favor.

The next morning I found myself in Livingstone, a small tourist town named after that intrepid Scottish missionary, David Livingstone, who gave the famous cataracts nearby their western name: Victoria Falls.

Passing a newsstand, I was confused by the headlines, "Levy Recovering In Paris". The story read that the Zambian president was not dead, but had suffered a stroke while in Egypt before attending an African Union summit. The South African President, Thabo Mbeki, had prematurely announced the death and held a moment of silence, but soon retracted the announcement (and, I suppose, the moment of silence?) after he received a "clarification". What an embarrassment! All this amidst the controversial results to the controversial presidential runoff election in Zimbabwe, where "Uncle Bob" (the controversial Zimbabwean President Robert Mugabe) had all but killed his opponent. Levy (Zambian President) had spoken out against Mugabe and his goons. Mbeki (South African President) had implied his support by remaining silent on the entire matter (For the record, almost every other country in the world has denounced the election as a sham). Though Levy was hospitalized because of natural causes, the whole situation tightens the already very tense relations among the countries (Of course one might wonder, "Why a hospital in Paris? Are the hospitals in Zambia not good enough for a president?" Of course not!)

"Politics here are very complicated," was the second most popular conclusion Africans would offer after trying to explain things to me. The first was, "The problem is corruption!"

Though politics was certainly on my mind the whole trip, I had yet to draw any serious conclusions of my own. Instead of preoccupying myself, I spent a day admiring the vast, powerful falls spilling into a gaping gorge that resembles a giant crack in the otherwise flat surrounding landscape. I even ventured to the Zimbabwean side, to admire another perspective of the falls and check out their gateway city, also named Victoria Falls.

There wasn't much to see, just a modern-day ghost town with almost everything closed because there were no tourists, just a small makeshift market for the locals who were bartering, lots of beggars too. I exchanged some money: 1 US dollar for a 5 billion Zambian dollar note (I think I got ripped off!).

Even the national park was empty. I had an unobstructed view of the falls for an hour, which could have been longer had I not been soaked by the cold mist. I didn't dare go deeper into Zimbabwe, as Mugabe's racist rhetoric continued to inspire the thoughtless murdering of white Zimbabweans (actually, this has largely been the case for the past 28 years he's been "president"). Besides, I had done enough gambling for the day.

The next evening, after a long day bounding down the mighty Zambezi River in a raft like a madman (guided of course), I found myself chatting with some locals, white Zambians, born and bred in Zambia. Naturally, the subject soon turned to politics with all the usual reasoning, "it's complicated", "the corruption", blah-blah. But soon the fingers were being pointed at me.

"And YOUR government is making matters worse."

"I'm sure it is," I conceded.

Unaffected by my concession, the conversation continued in my direction. It was explained to me that foreign aid money was keeping the poor poor and the criminals wealthy and in power. This was not the first time I'd heard this explanation either, so I nodded in agreement.

I was told that USAID was working hard to fight malaria in Zambia, giving out free mosquito nets. People were so happy they were grabbing the nets by the dozen, but sewing them together and using them as fishing nets. With holes so small, no organism could escape such a trap and now Zambia's left with almost no fish, which used to eat the larvae that mature into the mosquitoes that transmit malaria!
Whether a hospital run by foreign aid, or a church-run orphanage, I have been given many anecdotal examples of where good intentions and lots of money are not enough, or too much rather. "Tough love" has been the most reasonable explanation I've come across so far: "Let them hash it out themselves" (of course intervening when human rights are abused and imposing economic sanctions when ... aah! ... so complicated!).

Mozambique

Africa - June, July 2008

The road and events had all passed remarkably smoothly the morning we pulled up to the remote border post of Milange, Mozambique. We (Scott, Tim and I) had rented a small 4x4 back in Blantyre and set off for Mozambique before sunrise. Despite the early hour, many people along the way were already hard at work, carting their produce and wares to local markets. By now I was used to seeing lines women carrying large bundles of whatever on their heads, babies strapped to their backs, heads bobbling indifferently.

The countryside in eastern Malawi is quite serene in the dawn light. Thin lines of white smoke highlighted the groomed valleys of green tea plantations that were slowly unveiled behind the receding shadows of Mount Mulanje, the country's tallest mountain.

Having been dependent on others' language skills, I was excited to be using my (now rusty) Portuguese skills, greeting the Mozambican immigration officer with a cheerful "Bom dia". He replied accordingly, but less enthusiastically, and asked where we were going and for how long. He then asked to see my passport.

"You do not have a visa?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"No. I need to get one here," I replied.

Sliding my passport back to me he said, "That is not possible.' (Actually, "Não é possível") 'You have to go back and obtain one in Malawi."

My heart sank. I sensed Scott's doing the same (he understands Portuguese as well as I do). While Tim already had a visa from previous visits to Mozambique, we were all stuck in the same boat, or car rather.

This problem would be costly. Being Sunday, we would lose at least two days in trying to get a visa from a consulate back in Malawi. The car rental would have been a waste. And with gas at roughly $8.00 a gallon, well ... costly.

I persisted: "Our friends got their visas here." (Actually, I lied)

"Não é possível."

I went into bribe talk: "Surely there must be some way we can pay for one here?"

"Não é possível."

Losing patience, I insisted: "We cannot go back, it is Sunday!"

A blank stare. (I wasn't even sure if I was using the correct word for "Sunday" remembering that weekdays are "Segunda", "Terca", "Cuarta", "Quinta", "Sexta". But Saturday and Sunday are just like Spanish: "Sabado" and "Domingo".)

Meanwhile, another man appeared behind the counter. Overhearing the discussion, he finally chimed in. "Vou perguntar o chefe" (I'll go ask the boss). Of course! Why hadn't it occurred to me to use the standard American line: "I want to speak with your manager"?

Several minutes later the second man returned. Evidently the "boss" said okay. We slid our passports back to the immigration officer. Visas were issued with no extra questions and, surprisingly, no extra money. After a commanding, decisive, ground-shaking, full-armed "whomp" from the Immigration officer's rubber stamp on our passports, we were on our way.

We rattled along the silty, wash-boarded road leaving trail of orange dust a mile long in the wake of our little Suzuki Jimny 4x4. We passed small villages of much huts with straw roofs out of which children would pour, waving at us until they were covered in dust. Some villages were built around the empty skeletons of formerly grand colonial structures; structures that were abandoned after a bitter
independence in the mid '70's and looted after many bloody years of civil war into the early '90's. Such struggles left Mozambique a hauntingly empty countryside, with only improvement in the future for things could not get much worse.

For me, driving on the opposite side of the road (as most Sub-Saharan countries do) was the real treat. This joy alone was perhaps worth the cost of quintupling our daily expenditures as renting a vehicle to cross an international boundary is not cheap! Taking turns driving, we would remind each other to keep on the left, though, to the amusement of local bystanders, several unchecked traffic violations were made along the way.

We briefly stopped in Mocuba and Nampula -- two dirty cities with many stoic, Soviet-esque and Art-Deco buildings built along formerly grand boulevards, now reduced to dusty paths.

Our destination was Ilha de Moçambique, place of that eludes most travelers being far too from most overland routes in Africa. Called just "Ilha" by locals ("Island" in Portuguese), its significance was related to its location along trade routes in the Indian Ocean. The island is also thought to be the origin of the country's name, derived from the name of an Arab sheik who controlled the it until the Portugese arrived: Musa Mbiki.

Ilha is now a small island-town that thrives on sporadic tourism and fishing, having been usurped as the trade center by the costal town of Nacala to the north. If not for the one-lane causeway connecting it to the mainland, Ilha would have been long forgotten by the rest of the world as a colonial relic. And despite a UNESCO "World Heritage" designation, only a few buildings have been restored to their original grandeur. The rest have decayed beyond recognition as Mozambicans do not seem to be terribly nostalgic about their colonial heritage (emphasized by the symbols on their new flag: a machine-gun crossing a hoe overshadowing a book all outlined by a single star--a fair summary of their recent history: war and agriculture trump education, all in isolation), which is understandable because much of that heritage involves slave trade and exploitation. "But the Portuguese
made such nice buildings..."

Walking along the crumbling streets and battered structures, one gets a sense of the sense of the strife Mozambique has gone through. A conversation with a local confirms such a sensation.

"I hate politics," stated Luis unsolicitedly before embarking on a lengthy political diatribe about the disparity of the Mozambican people, especially on Ilha, which he says is deliberately neglected by the more prosperous capital much further south, Maputo. He also had opinions about Reagan, the Bushes, the Clintons and Obama (though he thought Hillary was born in Mozambique, confusing her with John Kerry's wife ... an understandable mistake).

Luis, owner of the guest house we found, had seen and experienced a series of power struggles in his life. The result: Luis was only beginning to get ahead in his late forties despite his savvy entrepreneurial abilities (abilities we experience in negotiating a negligible discount in the cost for a guided sailboat ride to another
island).

"The problem is corruption," he concluded. This statement I heard more than once in every country along the way. It all seemed to be the same story with different names, a formula for poverty: abusive colonial rule, bloody independence, unruly despot, cruel-socialist regime, rigged elections, foreign-aid...

Neglect and poverty aside, Ilha does maintain a lively atmosphere with the charm of something "undiscovered", all surrounded by the pristine pale blue-green waters of the Indian Ocean. Aside from the speeding scooters, the place was as safe as can be. We walked around day and night with minimal pestering, just the ogling of children who had seen few fair-skinned people. The Muezzin's regular blasting of the adhan (Muslim call to prayer) from speakers mounted on a Mosque's minarets
reinforce the distance we had come: a place somewhere between the West and the Middle East, yet still recovering from having gone so very far south. (ha!)

more africa

Malawi

It's a shame I had leave Tanzania on a sour note, having been scammed out of $20 ... then again, it was a small tuition to pay for a valuable lesson in "trust your gut" logic.

Here's how it went down:

Arriving at dusk in the quaint, hilly town of Mbeya in south-west Tanzania, I slipped passed the throng of taxi-hustlers into the almost-empty office of the bus company to gather my wits and get oriented. After sitting for 13 hours, I was hoping to walk to the hotel recommended to me by some other travelers. So I asked the man behind the counter where the hotel was and he pointed me in the right direction. Noticing it was getting dark, he offered to walk with me. His English was clear and he seemed harmless, so I accepted. Walking up the hill to the center of town he introduced himself as Patrick and told me he was from Malawi. It just so happened that I was trying to get to Malawi the next day, so I asked him how I might get to Malawi, which is when I let my guard down.

Long-story-short, he ended up selling me a bus ticket for a bus that didn't exist on the Malawian side of the border. All along I didn't feel right about the paying up front, but he said he was going as well, and the hotel manager at Hotel Sombrero (yes, like the Mexican hat) vouched for him: "This is your man," he said, when I told him Patrick was helping me get to Malawi. But half way to the border, Patrick slipped out of the mini-bus when I wasn't watching.

As I crossed the bridge over the Songwe River into Malawi, I was still hopeful. But learning that there hadn't been a bus in days pretty much confirmed my suspicion, so I decided not to wait or ask around for "my" bus. Again, it was an important refresher course for the over-confident traveler: never let your guard down, especially in port towns (Mbeya was the main junction for all rail and land transit coming to and from Zambia and Malawi, connecting both countries to the Indian Ocean).

If nothing else, the experience made arriving in Malawi all the more rewarding. Crossing the border, the difference was almost instantaneous: people were more relaxed, more friendly and everything was less expensive. Even the domesticated animals (goats, pigs, chickens, cows and dogs) were more at ease around people (often a little too much at ease near the highway, I later experienced). Making my way south, I admired the many farms among the green hills and fishing villages along the giant Lake Malawi. Sure there were the usual annoyances, like the smell of rotting fish juice dripping on my shoes in a minibus, or the horrid squeal of the goat shoved under the back seat. But Malawi was different. Besides, I had a new language to fail at learning: Chichewa.

After a little rest and recreation in the Caribbean-esque oasis of Nkhata Bay, I made my way towards Malawi's charmless capital. In Lilongwe I was to meet Tim and Scott, two brothers from Arizona, both good friends of mine since childhood. In fact, the impetus of this whole journey to Africa was to visit Tim, who is now in his third year of the Peace Corps.

Scott and I had been discussing a visit before Tim even departed in 2006, but we kept putting it off. Fortunately for us, Tim signed up for another year after completing the required two, but time was running out, again.

Now the three of us were converging in Lilongwe on a given day: Scott flying from South Africa, myself via Tanzania and Tim (probably hitch-hiking) from some remote village. After a brief but cordial reunion, we set off on our much-anticipated African adventure, which began in the least expected way: playing a friendly game of softball with a group of other Americans (mostly USAID workers) at a country club. It had been several years since I last swung a bat or put on a baseball glove, but the experience, however surreal, was good, reminding me to let go of my expectations and sense of reality.

The next day we sat on the edge of the main road to Blantyre on the outskirts of Lilongwe, waiting for a lift (AKA hitch-hiking). For over an hour we watched the vehicles passing us with no regard; semi-trucks and buses spewing diesel exhaust; cars and 4x4s racing down the road. Trying not to show my impatience, I sat. Scott asked how long he typically waits: "Sometimes five minutes. Sometimes five hours," Tim replied, gesturing inquisitively at the next vehicle to zip passed us.

As a volunteer living on a couple dollars a day, he was required to live like most Malawians do: simply and frugally. Hitch-hiking helped save money, which was limited, but not necessarily time, which was somewhat unlimited. The previous night I felt a bit guilty that a USAID worker bought us beer for the softball game, another ex-pat gave us a ride across town to another USAID worker's house where dinner was prepared for us; guest rooms and showers with hot water were also part of the deal. When I asked if all this was OK, Tim's nonchalant response was difficult to argue with: "Take what you can. Don't ask questions."

Back on the side of the road, we were soon picked up by a Malawian driving a new LandCruiser. Enjoying the luxury of seatbelts and air-conditioning, the driver cruised passed all the trucks, cars and buses that previously ignored us, arriving in Blantyre in what must have been record time. But upon disembarking I made a mistake, breaking the poor-man's vow of silence, and asked the driver if he'd like 500 Kwacha ($4.00) for gas. "So little?" he responded ... I'm a slow learner.

Two weeks later, sitting beside the same road, now hoping to find a ride in the opposite direction, we waited more than two hours before a semi-truck grunted to a halt, fitting 5 people in the cab and taking us only half way. The second half, we found ourselves tensely braced in the back of a pickup traveling 140km/hour. The pickup driver, from Portugal (not a good sign for those who know of their driving reputation in Europe), said he drove the road several times a month and assured us he knew it well. He also knew where to stop, made evident by insisting we stop for "a drink at a nice little place I know just outside of Lilongwe ... There are three sisters there ... They are very nice!" It was kind of awkward to be drinking lukewarm beers in a dingy whorehouse, but he was paying ("Take what you can...") We soon insisted we be on our way after the second round because a friend of Tim's was expecting us for dinner ("... Don't ask questions.").

After 2.5 years of living in (in my view) extremely humble conditions as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was surprised to find that Tim hadn't changed much at all, physically. Granted, he could walk barefoot with ease on very rough surfaces, but I was expecting dreadlocks and a shaggy beard, maybe even some traditional native garb ... or even children! But Tim was still Tim. However, over the two weeks we meandered around Mozambique and Malawi, I noticed significant (admirable) changes in his person; changes which I assume to be the result of all the cold splash-baths and Black Momba encounters.

Though I didn't stick around long enough to see Tim's current project: managing food for the World Food Programme at a refuge camp north of Lilongwe. I did have a chance to see the village where Tim was based for two years, in the dusty, neglected, southern tip of Malawi called the Nsanje district. I'll limit my description, so as not to overly misrepresent his experience, but considering he had to walk 3km to get water and never had electricity, I think it's safe to say he had it tough. Adding to the challenge, Tim's original project, working with the local wildlife preserve, fell through early on (due to flaky local counterparts). So instead of insisting Peace Corps officials bail him out, he managed to get a lot done with very little. Among the accomplishments he mentioned were establishing a tree nursery, managing a village jam-jarring project, pig farming, bee farming, guinea-fowl farming, teaching, working with HIV/AIDS sufferers, constructing classroom benches and ultimately coordinating the construction of a couple sturdy new classrooms (doubling the size of the village's school).

The reactions of community members upon Tim's return to the village explained very clearly that he was a valued member of the community; perhaps a symbol of hope, or perhaps just an interesting "mzungu" (white man). We were received as special guests of the school's headmaster, enjoying a traditional meal. This was after a special encore dance and song was performed for us on the dirt "stage" of the mud-brick church. While the paint was still fresh on the recently completed classrooms, most of Tim's other accomplishments were slowly coming undone. But it was most sad to see Tim's frustration upon returning to the hut he called home: finding many of the trees he planted dead and repairs to the structure undone. But I suppose that's the point of the experience: not to change things, but to change minds (and I don't mean just the locals' "minds").

I've often heard people say that volunteering for the Peace Corps is a "cop out" for the "real world." In fact, notions like this have even discouraged me from pursuing such an experience. Exceptions there surely are, such nay-sayers couldn't be more wrong. From what I can tell, these volunteers believe the goodwill of humankind is greater than themselves, transcending borders. These volunteers are not out there to save the world; they're saving America, one village at a time. It's a shame our country cannot afford to recruit and fund more efforts such as these. Then again, "peace" is not as easy to sell as "terror."

Tanzania - Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar

The day-long journey in a second-class bus from Arusha was, except the view, rather uneventful. My entertainment was the endless stream of people walking and riding bicycles along the busy, pot-hole-laden, two-lane, trans-African highway. Carrying impressive bundles either on their heads or strapped to the frame, they would who casually veer off the narrow road, being cued only by the horn of our bus that often came within inches of taking their lives. Since there are no shoulders on the Tanzanian roads, this is a dance that is done throughout the country, and a misstep is not without consequence, as I would learn the following week while talking with some volunteer doctors.

My arrival to Dar Es Salaam wasn't as grand as I hoped it might be. Stepping off the bus, I was soon swallowed up by the chaos and deposited deep in the center of the city to rest at a dingy hotel ironically named the "Safari Inn." The sheer lack of charm and maintenance of the city was an impressive sight in itself. Dar would only served as a place of transit for me, as it does for many (if not all) travelers. I did, however, manage to take care of the usual business: bank and internet. I also miraculously found a US/Africa electrical-adapter to replace the one I left back in Arusha (What a disaster it would have been to not be able to charge my cellphone and camera!).

After three trips to the port, I finally got a straight answer as to the departure time and cost of the "fast" ferry to Zanzibar (of which there are many, but locals set up makeshift ticket booths to pawn off tickets fort the slower ferries).

I was relieved to escape the hustle-bustle of Dar as I boarded the ferry, which punctually glided out of the harbor, into the Indian Ocean. I found myself newly excited, to be venturing to a place with a name that, for reasons I cannot specifically recall, carries an air of fabled mystery: Zanzibar.

Approaching the island, I imagined myself being transported back in time as I embraced the timeless image of several sailing "dhows" and fishermen paddling dugout canoes. This romantic image was reinforce by the fact Zanzibar had no electricity (I learned this two weeks previously, as the damaged power line from the mainland cut off power to the entire island with the most optimistic saying "three months" before it might be restored). I was abruptly jarred back to the present as the ferry docked: I could see a new throng of touts, identical to the one I just left behind in Dar, awaiting me beyond the port gates.

"'ello-my-frien'! ... Mista-Mista! ... where-are-you-from! ... come-with-me" ... look at this ... look at that...

I couldn't be bothered, so I slipped through crowd into a taxi, telling the driver to take me to Stonetown. As we drove off – moving slower than a walking pace, horn wailing incessantly - another man jumped in the taxi, greeting me with the ever familiar "ello-my-frien'!" I rolled my eyes and ignored him. He made a few more unsuccessful attempts to pull me into conversation and, sensing my frustration, spoke more candidly in surprisingly clear English, "I go with you to hotel only to receive commission and I leave you alone."

"Poa", I told him with confidence (this means "cool" in Swahili).

"Hacuna matata," he replied contently ("no problem." Of course, this is the very extent of any conversation I could have in Swahili).

We had only gone couple of blocks, but I guessed we were already in Stonetown as the streets became narrower and narrower, most barely wide enough to even walk down. By now I realized that the taxi ride was unnecessary, so I paid him the equivalent of $3 and set off on foot. The other man, now my new "guide" named Ali ("but call me 'Spata' because everyone here is named 'Ali'"), took the lead and asked me where I was going. I showed him on the map - a place other travelers had recommended. He pointed the other direction and, after a minute of walking through a labyrinth of streets, I could tell I had no idea where I was. Now suspicious, I was about to turn back, but just then my guide pointed to the hotel I was looking for.

Without the burden of luggage and an unwanted guide, I was able to walk the streets with more ease. Within seconds I was lost, but not without hope: walking among young boys kicking soccer balls, women and girls covered head to toe in traditional Muslim garments, and mini-scooters zipping by with total disregard to the pedestrian.

Stonetown is a small area, but it must consist of a hundred miles of narrow, seemingly forgotten streets. I speculated that the streets meandered with no rhyme or reason, but the fact I kept passing by the same places made me think the pattern was just something I wasn't equipped to understand; but when I had to, I could get where I needed to go, not unlike a lab-rat.

I soon heard, as I had in Dar, the haunting melody of the afternoon prayer echoing down the pathways from the speakers of some mosque I could not see. At this time the streets would quiet, but not completely. At first, I wondered how they powered the speakers, but by dusk I soon learned that everyone who could afford it had electricity. By dusk, the buzz of generators drowned out any chance of savoring the calm and timelessness offered by the sunset.

The island of Zanzibar has several small beach towns with white-sanded beaches blending into turquoise waters. Not being much of a beach person, I did my obligatory half-hour in the water and the sun. Instead, I was much happier to board a minibus for a tour of the island's spice plantations, for which Zanzibar was famous - along with slave trade. We saw and tasted many spices and fruits, but I could tell that most the places were just for tourism. Zanzibar's main industry is tourism, so spices aren't produce en mass anymore, not even the beloved Zanzibari clove.

Though the lack of regular electricity made the beer warm, the fresh-fish was excellent! But island life in general was making me a bit stir-crazy. I was anxious to be on the move again, having only spent three days in Zanzibar.

Returning to Dar, I was prepared for and expected the worst, but, to my relief, received minimal attention. Perhaps they could read the confidence of experience on my face as I made my way back into the chaos. I did my best to show that knew what I was doing, that I was on a mission. Besides, in my mind I was already on my next leg of the journey: get to Malawi where two friends would be expecting me the following week.

Tanzania - Arusha and safari

It's difficult to do anything in northern Tanzania without spending a little time in Arusha. And it's difficult to get anything done in Arusha. So one must prepare for a bit of difficulty.

But there are some who have faith in Arusha, such as foreign nations as Arusha has become a hub of international activities for East Africa. For example, the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda is being held in Arusha. If anyone anted to follow up on justice as it applies to the real-life "Hotel Rwanda" story, check out www.ictr.org

I also learned why there were no hotels available in Arusha when I arrived: because a very large business and political summit was underway, called The Sullivan Summit. Though I was oblivious, this was big-time for Tanzania, mostly because it drew some big names from America. According to the Arusha Times the names included "Reverend Jesse Jackson, Kelenna Azubuike of the 'Golden State Warriors' basketball team, actor Lou Gossett Jr. (of the film credit 'A Good Man in Africa), a team from Black Entertainment Television (B.E.T.), Frank Ski of CBS Radio, TJ Holmes of CNN Television" and and I'm also told that Chris Rock made a surprise appearance.

The reason I heard about Chris Rock was from overhearing chatter that he broke the news of Obama's clinching the Democratic nomination. A few days later, back in Arusha, I was sitting at a restaurant while a crowd of Tanzanian (black) men were watching Hillary Clinton on an Al-Jezeera broadcast. Everyone, including myself, watched intently. The words coming out of her mouth were measured, and when she declared her support for Barack Obama, people broke out in cheers. It was amazing. I even got a bit of a lump in my throat. For reasons beyond the obvious, Africans like Obama. It also helps that his grandmother lives but a few hours north in Kenya.

As I was saying, Arusha for tourists is difficult. This is because there are so many tourists, which draw many hustlers, who flock to the incoming bus terminal for their chance to get a commission from a hotel or a safari company. Being the "slow" season, the odds weren't in my favor.

Having shaken several touts, I walked briskly towards a recommended hotel. When I found out that they were full I had to eat crow and ask the tout who'd followed me, despite my impatience with him, for help. He pointed across the street and there I found my bed for the night. Somehow in the time it took to walk from hotel A to hotel B I was suckered in to booking a safari. Well not entirely, but I was on my way and in one hour I will have followed the text-book wrong-way to book a safari. But much to my pleasant surprise, all worked out.

Though the vehicle that showed to pick me was on time, it had a different company's name. And the people who joined me were of different nationalities than I was told. And their itineraries were a little different than mine. But by 9am we were on our way: a Canadian couple, a Norwegian couple, a cook, a driver and myself, rambling down the road towards Lake Manyara in a noisy diesel Land Rover. Our trip was a three-day, two-night camping safari. We were all anxious to share our concern and relief as the trip materialized.

I'll spare you every detail as there are many books and movies that describe African wilderness much better than I, but I will say it's grand and impressive. Especially having now seen four of "the big five" in Ngorongo Crater, Tarangeri National Park and Lake Manyara National Park. So that's lions, elephants, rhinos, cheetahs but no leopards (I think that's "the big five"). Add giraffes, zebras, water buffaloes, wilderbeasts and a myriad of other animals we've all seen in National Geographic and that was our safari. It seemed so strange to be able to drive around and see these animals in their natural habitat. Then again, all the safari cruisers made it seem less natural, though the animals didn't seem to mind, and in the end I didn't either.

There wasn't enough time for the Serengeti, and for the price I was paying I didn't want to push my luck. In fact, the third national park took some arm-twisting to get. Even to the last day, when our driver and Land Rover where no where to be found, we had to keep reminding the safari operators that they had to fulfill their end of the bargain ... and a bargain it was! … Let me back up.

Having booked a too-cheap-to-be-true safari I knew I was in for a ride. But the two other couples (from two other companies) had similar situations. The driver and cook were from another company and the vehicle was from yet another. Being the slow season it took FIVE companies to get this safari underway. Granted, it was all last-minute, but FIVE companies? This worked to our advantage as we played each company off each other and got the full tour in the end. Thank goodness for cellphones (the Norwegian couple had just bought one for Tanzania), as we were able to call the agents back in Arusha, even from our "remote bush camp", and keep everything on track. So on that last day, they were going to have us take a local bus back to Arusha, but we made them send the guide back and show us Tarangeri. An African adventure indeed!

Back in Arusha, I booked the next bus to make my long-awaited arrival to the Dar Es Salaam, followed by a time-traveling excursion to Zanzibar. But that'll have to be the next chapter as I need to get moving again.

Tanzania - Lang'ata

A lot has happened in the past couple weeks since I left you hanging in Moshi. I am well and continue to enjoy my travels, though I've returned to my old habit of moving at a fast pace. I now have a couple spare hours to catch up on emails, so I'll send a couple "chapters" your way.

When I last wrote, I had just accepted an invitation to visit the small village of Lang'ata, a place that is not on any map, and I only learned of an hour before. But I was guided by an American Peace Corps volunteer named Ethan who I had just recently befriended.

We soon hopped in a "dala dala" (the minibuses that zip around like flies and pack people in like sardines - notoriously dangerous). Quickly I was reminded of my language deficiency as the toddler next to/on me kept grabbing the hair on my arm, repeating something like "wei-wei paka, wei-wei paka." Fortunately Ethan, sitting behind me and fluent in Swahili, understood and when I asked him what this child wants he smiled, "he's calling you a cat". I guess the child hadn't seen too many blond people so closely. So I jokingly told Ethan to tell the child I'm actually a lion and eat small children with no manners. He repeated this and the adults nearby laughed.

The child let me alone for a while until he announced he had to go to the bathroom. Evidently they'd been traveling a while and the child, who often wanted to get out of the minibus, had used the bathroom excuse before.

His mother, calling his bluff, told him to go ahead. I was oblivious to all this and would have moved the child off my knee had I understood, but I soon understood as my pant leg was getting wet and the child turned to me and grinned - I could not tell if he was embarrassed or proud. I assumed the latter. And so began the adventure into rural Tanzania.

My pant leg as dry by the time we pried ourselves out of the dala dala, and we were now covered head to toe in orange dust as the other passengers opted for dusty air instead of suffocation. I was amazed by how quickly we had transitioned from the lush Sub-Equatorial forests to a low, dry desert. I felt somewhat comforted as many of the thorny trees resembled the Mesquites and Acacias of Arizona. But I was soon reminded how far away from home I was as we had moved from the foothills of Kilimanjaro to a distance where I could now see an unobstructed view of its massiveness directly to the north.

Lang'ata is a small fishing town along the shores of the Nyumba na Mungu resivoir south of Moshi. Most houses are made of mud bricks, while some are concrete. Nothing elaborate, nothing wasted. With occasional water and sporadic electricity, the residents fill tanks when there's water and plug in refrigerators when there's electricity. Ethan's house was newly constructed for the purpose of housing teachers should the volunteer program continue. Again, a basic construction, with a basic furniture collection, but lacking any furnishings (like a kitchen). The bathroom consisted of a small sink, a tank of water, the floor of a shower basin and a long-drop toilet (in other words, a hole in the floor).

After unloading my pack, Ethan said we'd have a walk through the town, which would be a great introduction to a minimally adulterated, authentic Tanzanian culture.

With several tribes forming the community, the people of Lang'ata were cheerful and welcoming. Women wear traditional clothing and have traded the colorful baskets they were known for carrying on their heads for colorful plastic buckets. Men wear a mix of traditional and western clothing. Many men/boys wore T-shirts from the States (for some reason many T-shirts had prints of the rappers Eminem and 50cent - I guessed that they're either popular in Tanzania, or so unpopular in the US that leftovers got sent abroad). And it seemed everyone over the age of 10 wears sandals.

As we walked through the meandering trails along the houses that make up the dusty village, friends of Ethan would greet us and invite us in to their houses. Ethan explained that he'd been teased for being rude when he first arrived because he'd would not stop and greet people, so we stopped often. However, greeting people is more than a cordial exchange of words. I soon learned that the custom was for guests remove their shoes, enter the home, exchange a script of pleasantries and sit in the living room while the host (most often hostess) brought us a drink - a Pepsi or tea. My Swahili hadn't improved much beyond four or five words, but many of the people had studied English in school, remembering enough to make a basic conversation - I'd just resolved to tell everyone that I'm from California because everyone knows California ("California? Yes. Yes. Arnold Swarch-negar. Ha! ha!", is far more pleasant than anything they might know of current/former political icons from Texas or Arizona!).

Even the Maasai family (traditionally the nomadic, cattle herding tribe famous for their walking sticks, colorful robes and jumping) on the outskirts of town, brought out some piping hot milk and some stools for us to sit on while we joked about the English they knew and the Swahili and Maasai I didn't. They also got a pretty big kick out of the view-finder on my digital camera.

Ethan's situation was pretty good. He was well respected as a teacher and as a community member. I asked him a lot of questions about his life there and as he explained the in's and out's of the community, I learned that things are much more complicated than can be understood in a couple days.

But I did gather a few impressions and ideas: This town was not only home to a fishing village, but also home to a primary and secondary school, which were rather large (but not large enough) for the size of the community. As part of the Tanzanian public school system, children came from all corners of the country to study there. Many boarded, and some stayed with distant relatives or friends of family, which is a customary way of raising children: passing them on to someone who can better provide. The school in Lang'ata was not an especially renowned school. In fact, it was just above dirt poor, requiring children to buy their own desks (some brought buckets, while most sat on the floor), providing only a dozen text books for a hundred students and feeding them the most basic of basic foods.

It was explained that the Tanzanian Ministry of Education explicitly wanted quantity over quality in education. That said, only a few students, no matter how bright, actually had a chance for a good education and most end up trying to finish the equivalent of high school into their late teens and early twenties. Making things even more challenging, all materials are in English. This is meant to help the students, as English is also a compulsory course, but not all can understand English well enough. So classes end up being taught in Swahili and the exams are in English. A successful class is one with 25% passing. Ethan, who teaches math and physics, had high hopes of reversing that number, but has come to realize that he may not make much (statistical) change at all. Without a doubt, he his helping the community, especially the students because he teaches well. Other (Tanzanian) teachers teach through fear, as corporal punishment is common in classrooms. That is, teachers are still permitted to beat students with sticks.

While Ethan said it took him a while to accept that this is the way things are done, he has never thought of using corporal punishment, and has stopped other teachers in extreme situations. Being the first foreigner to work in Lang'ata , Ethan has certainly set a precedent, and hopefully the school will continue to draw talented help.

After a few days I decided to resume my journey. Departing the village as much smoother than my arrival as a Tanzanian Peace Corps official and her driver stopped by one morning to give Ethan a bicycle. They offered to take me back to the main road at Mwanga, but from there were headed the opposite direction to Dar Es Salaam. Zipping down the dusty road in an air-conditioned Land Cruiser, I also experienced a small example of the opposite extreme in lifestyles found Tanzania.

http://wikitravel.org/en/Swahili_phrasebook

Tanzania - Moshi

I was still undecided even when the plane landed--whether to get off the plane to start my trip in the north of Tanzania, or to continue to my official destination. I was a little concerned that if I didn't stay on the plane that the flight attendants might notice, and report this to the airline, and maybe cancel my return flight home. But at the the last minute, I decided to take a chance and get off at Kilimanjaro Int'l Airport in Tanzania instead of continue through to Dar Es Salaam. I'm glad I did because it was already 8pm, which would have meant I would have arrived in the large city of Dar later than 10pm, with no place to stay yet.

Then I had to make another decision: which town to go to, Arusha or Moshi (the airport is between the two). Fortunately, I found myself chatting with this American lady who works in Tanzania part of the year. As we got off the plane and walked across the tarmac in the dark she recommended Moshi because she heard Arusha was completely booked due to some conference.

I paid the required $100 for a 1 year visa and wandered into lobby of the small airport to be greeted by a wall of people holding signs with names of hotels and safari companies greeting their clients. It seemed I was the only one without a pre-arranged ride, so I had to settle for an overpriced taxi to the quiet town of Moshi, a half-hour away.

After a bit of a wander, I found a nice clean single room in a modest hotel and made myself go to sleep, though my body was very much awake, especially after the cold shower!

Nothing too crazy happening yet, though I still have to get used to looking right to cross the street, as they drive on the other side of the road.

Looking back, the roughly 24 hours in transit went surprisingly well, with minimal wait time (In fact, I had to run across the Atlanta airport, catch the train to another terminal and have them open the doors to plane as I was the last one to board). In the Amsterdam airport I had enough time to spend $5.00 on a cup of coffee and $8.00 on a small juice-smoothie (the devalued dollar makes Euro prices quite expensive!). News that Obama clinched the Democratic nomination was already on the headlines in Europe and is news here and Kenya (My little radio picked up a Nairobi station in English).

From the air I could see Germany, Venice, the coast of Italy and some snow-capped mountains, the Mediterranean, the vastness of the Sahara in Lybia and Sudan, the Nile, lush land in Kenya, then it got dark so I couldn't see Kilimanjaro as we arrived. It's cloudy to day, but I'm told that Mount Kilimanjaro is just over there, in the backdrop of Moshi.

After a walk around town, I find Moshi to be a pleasant place, but nothing spectacular. The buildings are all a rather stoic, modern masonry construction with equally dull color. But the people seem lively and friendly, smiling at me and saying something like "mambo" I just smile back in give a thumbs-up. It's quite a humbling position to be in, without language, though I'm picking up the essentials: "asante" is "thank you" and "see-a-ta-gee" seems to work for "no" (I can't believe the stupid Lonely Plantet phrase book I bought doesn't have those three essential words, "no" and "thank you" - but I could book a safari if I needed. !)

I checked out the local open-air market as it was opening. A familiar scene: bags of grains and legumes, piles of fruits and vegetables, squawking chickens, the smell of spices and meat lingering in the air. There are a lot of vehicles passing through town, as it looks like this is one of the main routes from Tanzania towards Kenya. I'm told that this is one of the launching points for treks up Kilimanjaro, but I haven't seen many tourists. I've ruled out the hike as being way out of my price range (at least $1200 for permits and guides, not including the burden of getting all the gear here). So I'm resolved to being more of a traveler and less of a tourist, but not either exclusively.

I just met a Peace Corps volunteer while eating breakfast at at cafe. I picked his brain about the Swahili language and places to see. He, Ethan from California/Oregon, later invited me to check out his village a few hours away. Since I don't have any plans, I think I'll take him up on it instead of paying $700 to safari the Serengeti. But that also cancels out the possibility of Kenya. Strangely, the prospect of no running water and sporadic electricity actually appeals to me. Then again, this is just Day 1.

Mexico - Real de Catorce I

Real de Catorce - 2008

A former bustling silver-mining town in the colonial days, Real's distance from everything has kept it out of reach of most forms of exploitation (besides all the ores being sucked out of its mountains). Vanessa and I took an overnight bus from Austin, deep into Mexico and up 9,000 feet into the Catorce mountains to wander the reviving streets of Real de Catorce, in the state of San Luis Potosi.

Though the adventure was but 5 days, it was worth the effort, which was rewarded with beautiful landscapes, charming people and a rich history.

We went during one of the busiest weekends of the year, Semana Santa, and were lucky to have a hotel reservation as the normally sleepy town of several hundred swelled into several thousand.

Since the mines were abandoned in the early 1900's, the town has depended much on the fame of the St. Francis statue in the church to draw pilgrims to pray and give thanks, which many do around Easter. Also, the Huichol Indians make a pilgrimage from a couple-weeks-hike southwest and to make their offerings and talk with Don Juan while hallucinating on peyote, a sacred ceremonial tradition. More recently, this as become a destination for many "hip" youths who think they need eat the peyote and run around the desert chasing jackelopes. This has frustrated the Huichol community, as the fear their sacred cactus will be consumed faster than it can grow.

Rituals aside, Real definitely has a unique aesthetic charm. Trapped in time and suspended in air, it is very accommodating to the tourist, so long as you withdraw money and make phone calls before you get here! Much of this "welcome" is due to several foreign residents (mostly Swiss and Austrian) who have established solid businesses, and a relatively conscious township that appears to be curbing development in the name of preservation. Or maybe it's just difficult to get water there. Either way, I highly recommend it.