Day 5
Saturday 14th November 2009
Richard our guide was worried about me at 5,895 metres above sea level - legs all over the shop and face a strange shade of grey. My words were slurred and I decided to try and curl up to sleep on a nearby rock in the snow. Meanwhile Layla felt she needed some energy so took a bite out of a chocolate bar and promptly threw it up. It was at this point that Richard wanted us descending Kilimanjaro as quickly as possible.
Altitude can do strange things to you. As well as feeling completely light-headed our hands swelled, lips ballooned Jagger-esque, our bodies were itchy, pins and needles set in, very little feeling was in the legs, blurred vision, shallow breathing, hysteria, nausea and a banging headache. And we hadn't even set off yet ; )
Our day started yesterday actually waking up after 3 hours sleep at 11pm to get our stuff ready for the climb at midnight. Wearing pretty much everything we owned with trusty headtorch strapped to forehead we started our climb to the summit.
We'd packed loads of snacks and water as well as waterproofs so given the conditions my backpack felt like I was giving Barry Austin a piggyback. The idea was to scale the 1,295 metres we had remaining to reach the 5,895m Uhuru Peak summit for sunrise. And believe it or not it was looking extremely promising - a really clear night with Kilimanjaro in all it's glory on one side and views all the way down the valley to the nightlight of Moshi on the other side.
The first part of the summit climb was tricky scaling a bouldered cliff that required the use of all fours at times. We then started a gradual ascent until we reached the foothills. The climb then turned into a relentless zig zag path up the mountain continuing on for many hours in the dark taking the occasional break for water. A lady we'd met at Toubkal's words were ringing in my ears 'just don't look up.' Of course we did and the job in hand looked impossible - the slope steeper than anything I have seen covered in snow and disappearing into the distance. Slowly we'd scale it only to be met with a similar size slope where we'd start the process all over again. The one plus was the conditions. The night sky was full of stars and the lights of aeroplanes and the excitement of getting to the top for sunrise was a huge incentive.
With every step it got tougher, the air cooler, oxygen thinner, limbs more sore and we were still a long way from the summit.
The frozen ground would crack as though treading on snow even though there wasn't any on the ground. But this didn't last long as soon we were walking in the thick of it.
The mountain seemed an endless path upwards into the heavens and it was so steep. Steeper than any previous day by a country mile but still we trudged on in the dark focused on the path and each step, trying to maintain some kind of rhythm. One step at a time.
The further we got the steeper it became before being faced with the final 100 metres to Stella Point. Fortunately somebody had told me that once you reach Stella Point you're pretty much there. What they didn't tell me was how horrendous the final 100 metres was. If we were going to break, it was here and a couple of times it felt like we couldn't go on. The state of our legs, the quizziness, the difficulty of walking in the snow meant that our steps were miniscule. So small it felt like we were travelling backwards. However mid way up we turned around to see a thick orange line on the horizon signify what promised to be a sunrise from the Gods.
We made it to Stella Point but were a litle worried about our pace. At this rate we'd be lucky to reach the summit by a week on Tuesday let alone for this mornings sunrise. However the walk from Stella Point was worth all of the previous hard work. The sun was rising and we took the gentle ascent to the summit with glaciers reither side of us and Mount Meru peering up at us in the distance.
We made it to the summit albeit in a delirious state. We were all over the shop and absolutely exhausted. We got some photographs before Richard noticed we were both behaving quite worryingly (as explained earlier) so signalled we start our descent asap. We were so relieved but were worried our legs wouldn't carry us down.
The sun was out and so close you could smell it so we smacked on suncream like paint and started our descent. Once we got going it was fine using different leg muscles to the ones we had ascended with. Each step seemed to get that bit easier as well. And psychologically we knew we had done it. We had climbed Kilimanjaro.
We got back to camp at 9am where we had a short rest and some food before pushing on to the final camp at 3100 metres. We spoke to a few of the 7 day climbers who had it all to do that night and wished them well.
The final descent of the day seemed to take a lifetime but we got there and worked out that today we'd walked for approximately 12 hours, a distance of around 40km up 1295 metres to the 5895 metres summit and down 2795 metres to our nights accomodation.
We'd done it. We'd climbed the tallest mountain in Africa. And whilst our minds were buzzing our bodies were completely battered.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Why?
Day Four
Friday 13th November 2009
Why? was the question we were asking ourselves at around 2pm today as we were walking up what seemed like a vertical rock face in a cloud of hail falling on our heads, unable to see anything around us only a huge peak we had to climb followed by the shadows of further peaks that raised higher and higher and more faint into the distance.
As well as the big question Why? there were lots of little Whys? underneath that helped take my mind off the overwhelming task in hand. Why is it hailing? Why is it snowing? Why did we not add an extra day to the climb? Why is an iron man taking 7 days to climb and us 6? Why are we jinxed when it comes to mountain climbs? Why are my shoes leaking? Why don't I have gaters? Why do I have a banging headache? Why do I feel sick? Why cant I breathe? And why are we climbing this bloody mountain anyway? Why? Why? Why? Why?
We went to sleep last night at the embaraasingly early time of 7.30pm. After waking at 3 I didn't go back to sleep until getting out the tent around 6ish. It was another glorious morning with magic views and perfect conditions for our morning walk. This morning we would climb only 300 metres but the walk was up down some huge, near-vertical valleys hundreds of metres in size which made for some hairaising descents and stiff climbs where rock-climbing skills were needed in places. It was also picturesque with the ridges of the valleys stretching as far as the eye could see.
We walked some of the way with not only our guide but a couple of other chaps from our group talking about all sorts from Abramovich's failed attempt at climbing the mountain to our cooks munchies from the amount of dope he smoked 'It helps me fly up the mountain,' he explained.
On arrival at Karanga Valley where we were treated to a hot lunch our dilemma became apparent. The majority of the poeple in our group were doing the seven day climb meaning they were to crash here for the night whereas a few of us doing the six day climb pressed on straight up the mountain to 4600 metres where we would have little time to rest before setting off on our summit climb at midnight. To make matters worse the conditions had changed dramatically with rain pouring. As we walked slowly up the steep section of the mountain the rain turned to hail and the hail to snow.
Whilst being a miserable part of the climb you couldn't help but laugh at our state. We were tired, a little bit delirious with the inital stages of altitude sickness certainly taking a stranglehold. It was around 4 when we arrived at the camp leaving us a couple of hours relax before dinner. We would then get some shuteye before waking at 11pm for our summit climb.
Friday 13th November 2009
Why? was the question we were asking ourselves at around 2pm today as we were walking up what seemed like a vertical rock face in a cloud of hail falling on our heads, unable to see anything around us only a huge peak we had to climb followed by the shadows of further peaks that raised higher and higher and more faint into the distance.
As well as the big question Why? there were lots of little Whys? underneath that helped take my mind off the overwhelming task in hand. Why is it hailing? Why is it snowing? Why did we not add an extra day to the climb? Why is an iron man taking 7 days to climb and us 6? Why are we jinxed when it comes to mountain climbs? Why are my shoes leaking? Why don't I have gaters? Why do I have a banging headache? Why do I feel sick? Why cant I breathe? And why are we climbing this bloody mountain anyway? Why? Why? Why? Why?
We went to sleep last night at the embaraasingly early time of 7.30pm. After waking at 3 I didn't go back to sleep until getting out the tent around 6ish. It was another glorious morning with magic views and perfect conditions for our morning walk. This morning we would climb only 300 metres but the walk was up down some huge, near-vertical valleys hundreds of metres in size which made for some hairaising descents and stiff climbs where rock-climbing skills were needed in places. It was also picturesque with the ridges of the valleys stretching as far as the eye could see.
We walked some of the way with not only our guide but a couple of other chaps from our group talking about all sorts from Abramovich's failed attempt at climbing the mountain to our cooks munchies from the amount of dope he smoked 'It helps me fly up the mountain,' he explained.
On arrival at Karanga Valley where we were treated to a hot lunch our dilemma became apparent. The majority of the poeple in our group were doing the seven day climb meaning they were to crash here for the night whereas a few of us doing the six day climb pressed on straight up the mountain to 4600 metres where we would have little time to rest before setting off on our summit climb at midnight. To make matters worse the conditions had changed dramatically with rain pouring. As we walked slowly up the steep section of the mountain the rain turned to hail and the hail to snow.
Whilst being a miserable part of the climb you couldn't help but laugh at our state. We were tired, a little bit delirious with the inital stages of altitude sickness certainly taking a stranglehold. It was around 4 when we arrived at the camp leaving us a couple of hours relax before dinner. We would then get some shuteye before waking at 11pm for our summit climb.
Rollercoaster ride
Day Three
Thursday 12th November 2009
There's no worse feeling than waking up in a freezing cold tent, 3800 metres above sea level, wearing every item of clothing you possess, needing a pee. Fortunately I found a technique that could relieve the bladder without having to leave the tent. Unfortunately for Layla this was a male only sport and she had to witness it.
I didn't really get back to sleep mulling over how the weather would fair on this big day. Today we would climb up to a whopping 4690 metres for lunch ( the heighest either of us have ever been) before descending back down to 3,900 metres. The idea being to help with acclimatising but quite a difficult thing to comprehend psychologically as you're ending up where you started altitude wise. However, we would certainly be a lot closer to the mountain.
The sun came out for us in the morning giving great views over neighbouring Mount Meru on one side and Kili on the other. This made the morning climb so much more enjoyable as we climbed up and up until we reached snow for the first time. However the cloud rolled in and lunch was quick in the freezing cold before descending a further 700 metres in quick fashion getting to camp in the nick of time before the rain came down.
Legs were sore and a few niggles here and there but nothing that we were too concerned with.
Thursday 12th November 2009
There's no worse feeling than waking up in a freezing cold tent, 3800 metres above sea level, wearing every item of clothing you possess, needing a pee. Fortunately I found a technique that could relieve the bladder without having to leave the tent. Unfortunately for Layla this was a male only sport and she had to witness it.
I didn't really get back to sleep mulling over how the weather would fair on this big day. Today we would climb up to a whopping 4690 metres for lunch ( the heighest either of us have ever been) before descending back down to 3,900 metres. The idea being to help with acclimatising but quite a difficult thing to comprehend psychologically as you're ending up where you started altitude wise. However, we would certainly be a lot closer to the mountain.
The sun came out for us in the morning giving great views over neighbouring Mount Meru on one side and Kili on the other. This made the morning climb so much more enjoyable as we climbed up and up until we reached snow for the first time. However the cloud rolled in and lunch was quick in the freezing cold before descending a further 700 metres in quick fashion getting to camp in the nick of time before the rain came down.
Legs were sore and a few niggles here and there but nothing that we were too concerned with.
A game of two halves
Day Two
Wednesday 11th November 2009
Shortly after 7.45am we set off. Today we would climb 800 metres at quite a steep gradient with cloud cover overhead indicating rain was on its way. The question was when it would catch up with us or us with it.
The morning was beautiful walking at a slow steady pace by our guide who ticked us off for going too quick yesterday. This was partdown to adrenalin and the other part to stupidity as it is widely acknowledged that ascending too quick will screw you in the long run. If the fatigue doesn't get you, altitude sickness sure will.
This moorland section of the route was beautiful with what seemed a million shades of green. Richard's favourite section on this his favourite route in fact. We were loving the walk and banter with fellow climbers when the inevitable occured. The rain came and it came hard.
Because of Layla's jacket seepage problem she had mine and I got our guides camoflauged poncho. This combined with my MC Hammer hired waterproof trousers made me look pretty idiotic but they were doing their job well.
Today's climb was steep and involved a lot of clambering made all the harder in the wet conditions. After some edge of rockface manouveing, pulling ourselves up jagged bits of stone and walking upstream of rivers trickling down the mountain, we eventually made it to the stunning Shira camp overlooking the Shira mountains at 3850 metres.
After a lovely morning the afternoon had been miserable so it was nice to get out of our ringing wet clothes, drink some hot sweet tea, warm up and get our energy levels back up.
Wednesday 11th November 2009
Shortly after 7.45am we set off. Today we would climb 800 metres at quite a steep gradient with cloud cover overhead indicating rain was on its way. The question was when it would catch up with us or us with it.
The morning was beautiful walking at a slow steady pace by our guide who ticked us off for going too quick yesterday. This was partdown to adrenalin and the other part to stupidity as it is widely acknowledged that ascending too quick will screw you in the long run. If the fatigue doesn't get you, altitude sickness sure will.
This moorland section of the route was beautiful with what seemed a million shades of green. Richard's favourite section on this his favourite route in fact. We were loving the walk and banter with fellow climbers when the inevitable occured. The rain came and it came hard.
Because of Layla's jacket seepage problem she had mine and I got our guides camoflauged poncho. This combined with my MC Hammer hired waterproof trousers made me look pretty idiotic but they were doing their job well.
Today's climb was steep and involved a lot of clambering made all the harder in the wet conditions. After some edge of rockface manouveing, pulling ourselves up jagged bits of stone and walking upstream of rivers trickling down the mountain, we eventually made it to the stunning Shira camp overlooking the Shira mountains at 3850 metres.
After a lovely morning the afternoon had been miserable so it was nice to get out of our ringing wet clothes, drink some hot sweet tea, warm up and get our energy levels back up.
It's Kili time
Tuesday 10th November 2009
Day One
A few nervous wees and we were frantically packing up ready to depart at 8.30am. We'd just spent a couple of relaxing days on a Zanzibar beach before flying to Arusha. The journey from Arusha airport to Moshi (the closest town to Kili) yesterday brought about our first glimpse of Mount Kilimanjaro. For a while we just thought it was darker that side of town but soon saw the outline of a colossal mountain that filled the sky.
In the shuttlebus there was nervous conversation between fellow climbers including a guy in an iron man Tshirt, a couple of female doctors and two London bankers. A real mix of personalities and age.
Once at Machame Gate ( the starting point of our 6 day climb nicknamed the Whiskey Route) it was chaos with building work going on, hoards of street sellers as well as the climbers and crew registering. This was low season as well with very few climbers, but still all was extremely chaotic.
After a bit of hanging around we were given our lunch for the day by guide Richard and started walking at a slow steady pace. After around 30 minutes the wide road turned into a narrow track surrounded by dense rainforest. It was lovely and green and the temperature perfect.
However, after praising the climate, the rainforest suddenly lived up to its name and dumped a heap of water onto us.
Unfortunately Layla's jacket had seemed to have lost it's wateproofness and my Gortex cross trainers had appeared to have sprung a leak. Not the best start but the canopy seemed to save us somewhat and the sun came out for the last hour drying us nicely
We arrived at camp after 12 km at an altitude of 2900 metres, the time around 3.30pm where we were able to witness the snowcapped mountain in all its glory as the sun came down and the sky cleared. The thing looked ridiculously high, stupidly cold and savagely daunting.
Day One
A few nervous wees and we were frantically packing up ready to depart at 8.30am. We'd just spent a couple of relaxing days on a Zanzibar beach before flying to Arusha. The journey from Arusha airport to Moshi (the closest town to Kili) yesterday brought about our first glimpse of Mount Kilimanjaro. For a while we just thought it was darker that side of town but soon saw the outline of a colossal mountain that filled the sky.
In the shuttlebus there was nervous conversation between fellow climbers including a guy in an iron man Tshirt, a couple of female doctors and two London bankers. A real mix of personalities and age.
Once at Machame Gate ( the starting point of our 6 day climb nicknamed the Whiskey Route) it was chaos with building work going on, hoards of street sellers as well as the climbers and crew registering. This was low season as well with very few climbers, but still all was extremely chaotic.
After a bit of hanging around we were given our lunch for the day by guide Richard and started walking at a slow steady pace. After around 30 minutes the wide road turned into a narrow track surrounded by dense rainforest. It was lovely and green and the temperature perfect.
However, after praising the climate, the rainforest suddenly lived up to its name and dumped a heap of water onto us.
Unfortunately Layla's jacket had seemed to have lost it's wateproofness and my Gortex cross trainers had appeared to have sprung a leak. Not the best start but the canopy seemed to save us somewhat and the sun came out for the last hour drying us nicely
We arrived at camp after 12 km at an altitude of 2900 metres, the time around 3.30pm where we were able to witness the snowcapped mountain in all its glory as the sun came down and the sky cleared. The thing looked ridiculously high, stupidly cold and savagely daunting.
All aboard the Tazara Express
Wednesday 4th November - Friday 6th November 2009
Days 129 - 131
We'd read about the problems associated with the Tazara Express the famous train that runs from Zambia to Dar Es Salaam on the east coast of Tanzania. Funnily enough in the book Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux, which Id incidently just finished, he had given up hope of the train restarting after a serious breakdown, so opted for an alternative mode of travel halfway through the trip. This and other warnings fell on deaf ears. We wanted to experience the Tazara even though we could have caught a luxuary coach to Dar Es Salaam from our current location in Mbeya (in south west Tanzania) which would have taken half the time. Approximately 12 hours.
We were in fact on a Dar Es Salaam bound coach from the Malawi-Tanzania border but opted to get off and spend a couple of nights on a coffee farm before leaving on the Wednesday departure.
As we rolled into Dar es Salaam a full 24 hours late, the train taking double the time to get to it's destination we were hot, sticky, tired but with an adventure we'd remember for some time to come.
The journey had started like a dream, stocking up on supplies in Mbeya, we got a lift to the Tazara train station from a Namimbian family we'd befriended on the coffee farm. The station was a huge Chinese-made block design station which was a whole lot busier than when we'd picked up our tickets two days ago. Once here we boarded first class which was a cabin made up of two sleeper bunk beds. Layla managed to wing our own cabin which we sat in watching the boarding with interest waiting for the train to depart.
The station was full of street-sellers. Bags lined the departures lounge in an orderly queue. People were everywhere. Luggage was everywhere. We then got the ok to enter the platform. The problem was we'd board the train from the other side of the rails. This meant everybody and their luggage clambering down the giant ledge onto the rails, over the rails and back up the ledge on the other side. This was a difficult enough task for the young and fit with little baggage. This category of person was certainly in the minority.
We then experienced our first of many delays with the train departing Mbeya three hours late due to a problem with the wheel bearings and a new carriage needing to be fitted.
Another battle then commenced with a ticket inspector that looked like a fat Forest Whitaker whose nipples were exposed either side of his wife beater as he tried to persuade us to move cabin. We were having none of it. Correction - Layla was having none of it.
Next door we befriended a two year old girl named Precious, a gorgeous girl with braided hair who greeted us both with a hug. A BBC film crew were also on board made up of Sean Langham - an ex front-line diary documentary maker who'd been captured by the Taliban during filming in Afganistan and won awards for his documentaries in areas of conflict and war. He was accompanied by cameraman Claudio who shot to fame in the series staring Ewen McGregor Long Way Around. They were filming for a BBC season on Africa to be aired early next year and had already done one unscathed return journey the entire length of the Tazara.
Once the train got going I'd put this up there with one of my favourite travel experiences. Train travel seemed to make sense to us on this first day. Despite the delay we were chugging along nicely on this vintage train, being overtaken by cars but that didn't matter. We were going where cars couldn't and exploring Africa's backgarden silently and subtely calving in a relaxed, comfortable and peaceful manner.
Through tunnels we passed and autumnul-coloured vegetation we continued passed mountains and tree-filled craters, waving to excited villagers as we passed delighted to get a return wave particulary from a Merzoungo.
We ordered soup followed by a beef and chicken meal accompanied by a Kilimanjaro beer brought to our cabin by friendly waitstaff as the sun set. To open the window, stick your head out, read, write, listen to the radio, chat to fellow passengers, enjoy the cabin. This really was too good to be true. The ultimate luxuary.
However in any walk of life there are people like our Forest Whitaker friend. Our first night was interupted by Whitaker throwing his considerable weight around our carriage demanding we split into male female cabins. The only way around this was to purchase the entire cabin. It was midnight so many people would have paid up which could well have gone into his back pocket. He certainly seemed put out when we decided to go into seperate male female cabins for the night.
Layla slept alone in her female cabin so I just joined her in the morning where the train was at a standstill. It had stopped here in the early hours and got moving again around 9am. You could hear the strain of the old trains limbs as it was awoken into action.
Over breakfast Layla got chatting to the BBC crew and was filmed by Claudio. However as we spoke the train grinder to a halt. A theif had got on board and had climbed onto the roof when spotted. He was now being chased into the nearby village by security guards. As the train pulled off the theif was being bashed around by the villagers. We didn't fancy his chances much.
Around one hour later (12:30 approximately) the train stopped once again and here we stayed. Word filtered through that a cargo train had derailed in front of us which would mean a long delay. An African long delay was like comparing years with dog years.
It was piping hot so we pottered around the carriage a little playing with Precious, chatting tongue BBC boys and fellow passengers.
A little later we went for a walk to the front of this colossal train with us located at the backside. We walked through the markets of the local village and back onto the track to see the maintenance vehicle which looked, to be honest, a little inadequate for the job of moving the derailed cargo train.
Back at the cabin we were entertained by local children singing, dancing and making fart noises with their armpits. Kids will be kids. We left the train again and chatted to a local teacher who spoke about the education system here in the village. It wasn't long before BBC Sean tagged along and asked to film in the village. After getting the all clear from the chief the three of us went for a walk through the village chatting to other teachers and children bringing their English excercise books out for us to look at. However the light was fading which wasn't any good for the filming sonar said our goodbyes and got on the train.
Over dinner rumours spread that we'd get going again at 9pm. It was now 8 so we were obviously extremely sceptical. We would eventually get going at 5:30am.
The night' sleep was pretty dreadful. The air was so hot, stil and sticky. We were awoken by the Call of Prayer from the nearby mosque at first light followed by the sweet sweet sound ofnthe train's horn indicating it was about to get going. And much to our relief it did.
Despite the train running out of food, water to drink and shower in, the remaining journey was extremely pleasant. Outside as we drove through a national park we spotted giraffe and zebra which was nice to see from the window ofna slow moving train.
A number of station stops were relatively brief but extremely interesting as we witnessed a variety of different townships before entering the sandy slums of Dar es Salaam. We rolled into the station at around midday. Not quite 24 hours late but close enough.
This had been some journey. Our clothes were glued to our skin, we were knackered, we stank. thirsty, hungry and beat. Would I have got the 12 hour luxuary coach in retrospect? Not a chance in hell!
Days 129 - 131
We'd read about the problems associated with the Tazara Express the famous train that runs from Zambia to Dar Es Salaam on the east coast of Tanzania. Funnily enough in the book Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux, which Id incidently just finished, he had given up hope of the train restarting after a serious breakdown, so opted for an alternative mode of travel halfway through the trip. This and other warnings fell on deaf ears. We wanted to experience the Tazara even though we could have caught a luxuary coach to Dar Es Salaam from our current location in Mbeya (in south west Tanzania) which would have taken half the time. Approximately 12 hours.
We were in fact on a Dar Es Salaam bound coach from the Malawi-Tanzania border but opted to get off and spend a couple of nights on a coffee farm before leaving on the Wednesday departure.
As we rolled into Dar es Salaam a full 24 hours late, the train taking double the time to get to it's destination we were hot, sticky, tired but with an adventure we'd remember for some time to come.
The journey had started like a dream, stocking up on supplies in Mbeya, we got a lift to the Tazara train station from a Namimbian family we'd befriended on the coffee farm. The station was a huge Chinese-made block design station which was a whole lot busier than when we'd picked up our tickets two days ago. Once here we boarded first class which was a cabin made up of two sleeper bunk beds. Layla managed to wing our own cabin which we sat in watching the boarding with interest waiting for the train to depart.
The station was full of street-sellers. Bags lined the departures lounge in an orderly queue. People were everywhere. Luggage was everywhere. We then got the ok to enter the platform. The problem was we'd board the train from the other side of the rails. This meant everybody and their luggage clambering down the giant ledge onto the rails, over the rails and back up the ledge on the other side. This was a difficult enough task for the young and fit with little baggage. This category of person was certainly in the minority.
We then experienced our first of many delays with the train departing Mbeya three hours late due to a problem with the wheel bearings and a new carriage needing to be fitted.
Another battle then commenced with a ticket inspector that looked like a fat Forest Whitaker whose nipples were exposed either side of his wife beater as he tried to persuade us to move cabin. We were having none of it. Correction - Layla was having none of it.
Next door we befriended a two year old girl named Precious, a gorgeous girl with braided hair who greeted us both with a hug. A BBC film crew were also on board made up of Sean Langham - an ex front-line diary documentary maker who'd been captured by the Taliban during filming in Afganistan and won awards for his documentaries in areas of conflict and war. He was accompanied by cameraman Claudio who shot to fame in the series staring Ewen McGregor Long Way Around. They were filming for a BBC season on Africa to be aired early next year and had already done one unscathed return journey the entire length of the Tazara.
Once the train got going I'd put this up there with one of my favourite travel experiences. Train travel seemed to make sense to us on this first day. Despite the delay we were chugging along nicely on this vintage train, being overtaken by cars but that didn't matter. We were going where cars couldn't and exploring Africa's backgarden silently and subtely calving in a relaxed, comfortable and peaceful manner.
Through tunnels we passed and autumnul-coloured vegetation we continued passed mountains and tree-filled craters, waving to excited villagers as we passed delighted to get a return wave particulary from a Merzoungo.
We ordered soup followed by a beef and chicken meal accompanied by a Kilimanjaro beer brought to our cabin by friendly waitstaff as the sun set. To open the window, stick your head out, read, write, listen to the radio, chat to fellow passengers, enjoy the cabin. This really was too good to be true. The ultimate luxuary.
However in any walk of life there are people like our Forest Whitaker friend. Our first night was interupted by Whitaker throwing his considerable weight around our carriage demanding we split into male female cabins. The only way around this was to purchase the entire cabin. It was midnight so many people would have paid up which could well have gone into his back pocket. He certainly seemed put out when we decided to go into seperate male female cabins for the night.
Layla slept alone in her female cabin so I just joined her in the morning where the train was at a standstill. It had stopped here in the early hours and got moving again around 9am. You could hear the strain of the old trains limbs as it was awoken into action.
Over breakfast Layla got chatting to the BBC crew and was filmed by Claudio. However as we spoke the train grinder to a halt. A theif had got on board and had climbed onto the roof when spotted. He was now being chased into the nearby village by security guards. As the train pulled off the theif was being bashed around by the villagers. We didn't fancy his chances much.
Around one hour later (12:30 approximately) the train stopped once again and here we stayed. Word filtered through that a cargo train had derailed in front of us which would mean a long delay. An African long delay was like comparing years with dog years.
It was piping hot so we pottered around the carriage a little playing with Precious, chatting tongue BBC boys and fellow passengers.
A little later we went for a walk to the front of this colossal train with us located at the backside. We walked through the markets of the local village and back onto the track to see the maintenance vehicle which looked, to be honest, a little inadequate for the job of moving the derailed cargo train.
Back at the cabin we were entertained by local children singing, dancing and making fart noises with their armpits. Kids will be kids. We left the train again and chatted to a local teacher who spoke about the education system here in the village. It wasn't long before BBC Sean tagged along and asked to film in the village. After getting the all clear from the chief the three of us went for a walk through the village chatting to other teachers and children bringing their English excercise books out for us to look at. However the light was fading which wasn't any good for the filming sonar said our goodbyes and got on the train.
Over dinner rumours spread that we'd get going again at 9pm. It was now 8 so we were obviously extremely sceptical. We would eventually get going at 5:30am.
The night' sleep was pretty dreadful. The air was so hot, stil and sticky. We were awoken by the Call of Prayer from the nearby mosque at first light followed by the sweet sweet sound ofnthe train's horn indicating it was about to get going. And much to our relief it did.
Despite the train running out of food, water to drink and shower in, the remaining journey was extremely pleasant. Outside as we drove through a national park we spotted giraffe and zebra which was nice to see from the window ofna slow moving train.
A number of station stops were relatively brief but extremely interesting as we witnessed a variety of different townships before entering the sandy slums of Dar es Salaam. We rolled into the station at around midday. Not quite 24 hours late but close enough.
This had been some journey. Our clothes were glued to our skin, we were knackered, we stank. thirsty, hungry and beat. Would I have got the 12 hour luxuary coach in retrospect? Not a chance in hell!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The many faces of the Ilala Ferry
Friday 30th October-Sunday 1st November 2009
Days 124-126
As the sun set on the first day on board the Ilala all was well and peaceful as we toasted the red ball in the sky with a Carlsberg sundowner. This was, however, quite literally the calm before the storm. No sooner had the final rays of light disappeared the wind picked up an almighty force knocking a German chap's cap clean off his head and forcing us all into the shelter of the bar area on the top deck of the boat.
The wind continued to grow stronger and didn't let up as we descended below deck to the restaurant. Here over some gristle and fries the storm outside was symbolized by a map of Malawi swaying frantically in tune to the colossal waves outside.
Sleeping on a matress on deck would certainly be interesting tonight as rain kicked in to add insult to injury.
The Ilala Ferry is a 60 year old beast of a boat originally built to transport cargo up and down Lake Malawi. These days it takes passengers up the majority of the 300 km long 50 km wide 600 metre deep lake stopping at 12 ports over the course of its three day journey which it takes once a week northbound and southbound.
The boat is considered by the sentimental to be an engineering marvel, a talisman of Malawi, an African icon, a gift from the Gods. By others it's considered an illfated, unsafe, unreliable dinasaur roaming the lake if stars and guzzling a ridiculous amount of fuel in the process.
What is safe to say is it's a great way to experience the lake and is, rightly so, becoming an integral part of the well trodden traveller's trail up or down southern Africa. But word has it you better be quick as younger, fitter, economic ferries are being lined up to take the place of this Lake Malawi legend.
On board the first day was Layla and I, a group of three Germans, an eccentric 62 year old French lady called Jocelyn and Till, a Swiss freelance journalist on board to cover the Ilala in a pre-commissioned newspaper article whose proceeds would help fund a friend's aid project to build schools in Malawi. We certainly were an unlikely bunch thrown together.
As the Ilala pulled into each port the excitment was tangible for those locals who had come out especially to see the boat. As though the boat were here once a year rather than twice a week. As soon as the boat stopped absolute chaos commenced with people scrambling to get off the boat, people scrambling to get on, tradesman selling goods on port, visitors coming to tour the ferry while it was docked, those on board hanging over the edge to observe what was going on, those off the boat peering from the dock, off the edge of dugout canoes or by simply swimming out towards the boat to see what was going on. Utter chaos but somewhat organised chaos with the boat sounding its piercing horn before pulling off with everything seemingly sorted.
A pleasant day followed by the storm meant waking up on day two with not too many winks and a bit of a sore head from a Danish friend called Carlsberg. The waves were still choppy which caused a quizziness Id never experienced before. However, nothing a tea and a shower couldn't fix.
Things started to quiten down and all sorts of goods started being loaded onto the boat at its first stop of the day. A choir boarded the ferry along with some other interesting people , mostly locals, who we had s good chat to before the choir started belting out tunes.
The majority of passengers got off at the popular Limkome Island where a new contingent got on board pacing the boat to the rafters. Travellers, locals and drunk army guys filled the top deck drinking, chatting whilst we tried to find a spot to sleep.
We awoke the next day to the sounds of everybody leaving and hustlers on board trying to entice travellers to their lodge through their means of transport. When we finally awoke the deck was back to normal with Layla, me and Till the only originals left. We set off with a set of new passengers including some US students who were on a University excursion. They were all on the African Studies course.
It was a beautiful day and the students were hitting the beer pretty hard. What a course! They ended up departing at a tiny bay which had apparently been voted in the top 10 most remote places to get a beer. Tempted as we were we stayed on board and made do with a cheeky Carlsberg before the night drew in and the waves became not too unlike the first nights.
We managed to get a small bit of shut eye before being awoken to the lights of the final port Chilumba.
It was 1am on Sunday when we got off the Ilala ferry where we were greeted by Harold, the port security warden who amused us no end in our delirious state whilst also showing us a lump of concrete where we could lie until the first minibuses arrived at 4.30am.
We said our goodbyes to Ilala as Harold claimed to be my long lost son. 'My father was named Matthew. Maybe you are my father. I have met my father off the Ilala today. I have found my father. Hello Matthew I am your son Harold.' Harold was 60 years old. Harold was completely bonkers.
We'll never forget our time on the Ilala and we certainly will never forget Harold.
Days 124-126
As the sun set on the first day on board the Ilala all was well and peaceful as we toasted the red ball in the sky with a Carlsberg sundowner. This was, however, quite literally the calm before the storm. No sooner had the final rays of light disappeared the wind picked up an almighty force knocking a German chap's cap clean off his head and forcing us all into the shelter of the bar area on the top deck of the boat.
The wind continued to grow stronger and didn't let up as we descended below deck to the restaurant. Here over some gristle and fries the storm outside was symbolized by a map of Malawi swaying frantically in tune to the colossal waves outside.
Sleeping on a matress on deck would certainly be interesting tonight as rain kicked in to add insult to injury.
The Ilala Ferry is a 60 year old beast of a boat originally built to transport cargo up and down Lake Malawi. These days it takes passengers up the majority of the 300 km long 50 km wide 600 metre deep lake stopping at 12 ports over the course of its three day journey which it takes once a week northbound and southbound.
The boat is considered by the sentimental to be an engineering marvel, a talisman of Malawi, an African icon, a gift from the Gods. By others it's considered an illfated, unsafe, unreliable dinasaur roaming the lake if stars and guzzling a ridiculous amount of fuel in the process.
What is safe to say is it's a great way to experience the lake and is, rightly so, becoming an integral part of the well trodden traveller's trail up or down southern Africa. But word has it you better be quick as younger, fitter, economic ferries are being lined up to take the place of this Lake Malawi legend.
On board the first day was Layla and I, a group of three Germans, an eccentric 62 year old French lady called Jocelyn and Till, a Swiss freelance journalist on board to cover the Ilala in a pre-commissioned newspaper article whose proceeds would help fund a friend's aid project to build schools in Malawi. We certainly were an unlikely bunch thrown together.
As the Ilala pulled into each port the excitment was tangible for those locals who had come out especially to see the boat. As though the boat were here once a year rather than twice a week. As soon as the boat stopped absolute chaos commenced with people scrambling to get off the boat, people scrambling to get on, tradesman selling goods on port, visitors coming to tour the ferry while it was docked, those on board hanging over the edge to observe what was going on, those off the boat peering from the dock, off the edge of dugout canoes or by simply swimming out towards the boat to see what was going on. Utter chaos but somewhat organised chaos with the boat sounding its piercing horn before pulling off with everything seemingly sorted.
A pleasant day followed by the storm meant waking up on day two with not too many winks and a bit of a sore head from a Danish friend called Carlsberg. The waves were still choppy which caused a quizziness Id never experienced before. However, nothing a tea and a shower couldn't fix.
Things started to quiten down and all sorts of goods started being loaded onto the boat at its first stop of the day. A choir boarded the ferry along with some other interesting people , mostly locals, who we had s good chat to before the choir started belting out tunes.
The majority of passengers got off at the popular Limkome Island where a new contingent got on board pacing the boat to the rafters. Travellers, locals and drunk army guys filled the top deck drinking, chatting whilst we tried to find a spot to sleep.
We awoke the next day to the sounds of everybody leaving and hustlers on board trying to entice travellers to their lodge through their means of transport. When we finally awoke the deck was back to normal with Layla, me and Till the only originals left. We set off with a set of new passengers including some US students who were on a University excursion. They were all on the African Studies course.
It was a beautiful day and the students were hitting the beer pretty hard. What a course! They ended up departing at a tiny bay which had apparently been voted in the top 10 most remote places to get a beer. Tempted as we were we stayed on board and made do with a cheeky Carlsberg before the night drew in and the waves became not too unlike the first nights.
We managed to get a small bit of shut eye before being awoken to the lights of the final port Chilumba.
It was 1am on Sunday when we got off the Ilala ferry where we were greeted by Harold, the port security warden who amused us no end in our delirious state whilst also showing us a lump of concrete where we could lie until the first minibuses arrived at 4.30am.
We said our goodbyes to Ilala as Harold claimed to be my long lost son. 'My father was named Matthew. Maybe you are my father. I have met my father off the Ilala today. I have found my father. Hello Matthew I am your son Harold.' Harold was 60 years old. Harold was completely bonkers.
We'll never forget our time on the Ilala and we certainly will never forget Harold.
The race for the boat
Wednesday 28th October - Thursday 29th October 2009
Days 122 - 123
The Ilala Ferry is legendary in Malawi. This colossal cargo ship travels northbound once a week up Lake Malawi taking three days. We wanted a piece of Ilala action but the problem was it left on Friday and today was Wednesday. We were a long way from the Malawi border let alone Monkey Bay at the southern tip of the lake where the boat departed.
The plan was to travel by chapas to Beira 450km north of Vilankulo. From here we would take an afternoon internal flight to Tete, the closest city to the Malawian border where we'd somehow get to the border, hopefully get through ok and travel the remaining 400km north to Monkey Bay. This was a big ask.
We woke at 3.30am and took the 4.30am chapas to Beira. We actually set off in daylight with ridiculously early sunrises the norm in Mozambique at this time of year. Whilst we had the leg room thanks to the luxuary of a trailer on this chapas we were sat directly above the engine so were utterly sweltering in the heat. Our mind was taken off this thankfully by the buzz of activity in all the villages with today election day. There was also the other distraction of the chickens making an appearance shortly into the trip.
The roads were appalling with chapas-sized potholes causing the driver to via off the road at times. On one occasion he hit a pot hole with an almighty bang. He stopped the vehicle with our hearts pounding as we'd left very little room to manouvre between arriving in Beira and catching our flight. We then heard a hammer clinking and feared the worst. However, on getting out of the vehicle we were relieved to see it was actually the vehicle behind us that had the problem. Our driver had just kindly stopped to help.
Onwards we pressed with bum in the numb stage of travel and sleep simply not possible on this bumpy ride.
We arrived in Beira, retreived our bags and got a taxi to the derelict airport. Here we boarded our plane with the four other passengers from Beira to Tete.
On arrival in Tete we haggled down a cab driver to take us to some accomodation. He offered us a good price to get us to the border the next day. With the sun setting over the Zambesi river en route to our hotel we felt we were on track but were still unsure of transport in Malawi.
Our hotel was frankly disgusting. It was the hotel equivalent of Trainspotting's toilet scene. We longed for our tent. Tete itself was full of drunk locals maybe celebrating or drowning their sorrows over the election result. We found a bar where we humoured some hammered blokes called Mario and Moses. 'The question iz diz....The question iz diz.......What iz the question?' Moses slurred. This was about the most sense we got from them. Nice chaps though.
The next morning we were picked up by Ibrihim who picked up his dolled up wife for the trip. We crawled back over the bridge crossing the Zambesi which opened at 7am having been closed overnight. We then pushed on through secluded villages on sparse roads potholed in places but mainly tidily tarmaced which pleased our all too anxious driver careful not to damage his modified Mitsibushi.
On border arrival we battled through the swarm of black market money exchangers and got stamped out of the country into no mans land which covered 5km between Mozambique and Malawi. We picked up a reduced rate cab with passenger door loosely hanging by its hinges and were dropped at Malawian immigration.
Once through we were put into the sticky paws of two young drivers Oscar and Godfrey. Over the course of the journey our relationship with these lads turned into a rollercoaster ride. It started well before spiralling as they became all too greedy en route attempting to scam more money out of us. We weren't best pleased but over the course of this ride managed to compromise and get them to drive us further than the closest town to a major junction town two hours away which benefitted their pockets and our travel comfort to Lake Malawi.
They felt we'd haggled them down too much but couldn't refuse the extra cash so were a little moody. However a coke apiece and long football conversation got them back onside allowing an insight into their real personalities and not just the opportunistic taxi drivers. We left them with smiles, shakes off the hand and a tip as we clambered on board a 30 seater bus which would take us the remainder of the journey. We had timed it perfectly arriving at the junction just as the bus was setting off. The boys had done us proud.
After many stops we arrived in Monkey Bay around 4pm where we enquired about the ferry the next day (all ok) and found a quaint half finished accomodation in an idyllic setting offering camping at a cheap rate. We spent the night in this quaint little cove releived to be back in the tent and a beautiful setting. A far cry from last night. Here we listened to the owner talk about his big plans for the site. Next door was the presidents holiday home which gives you some idea of the goldmine he was sitting on. A lot of work and red tape involved though.
We'd made it and tomorrow would set off on the Ilala ferry up Lake Malawi at 10.30am.
Days 122 - 123
The Ilala Ferry is legendary in Malawi. This colossal cargo ship travels northbound once a week up Lake Malawi taking three days. We wanted a piece of Ilala action but the problem was it left on Friday and today was Wednesday. We were a long way from the Malawi border let alone Monkey Bay at the southern tip of the lake where the boat departed.
The plan was to travel by chapas to Beira 450km north of Vilankulo. From here we would take an afternoon internal flight to Tete, the closest city to the Malawian border where we'd somehow get to the border, hopefully get through ok and travel the remaining 400km north to Monkey Bay. This was a big ask.
We woke at 3.30am and took the 4.30am chapas to Beira. We actually set off in daylight with ridiculously early sunrises the norm in Mozambique at this time of year. Whilst we had the leg room thanks to the luxuary of a trailer on this chapas we were sat directly above the engine so were utterly sweltering in the heat. Our mind was taken off this thankfully by the buzz of activity in all the villages with today election day. There was also the other distraction of the chickens making an appearance shortly into the trip.
The roads were appalling with chapas-sized potholes causing the driver to via off the road at times. On one occasion he hit a pot hole with an almighty bang. He stopped the vehicle with our hearts pounding as we'd left very little room to manouvre between arriving in Beira and catching our flight. We then heard a hammer clinking and feared the worst. However, on getting out of the vehicle we were relieved to see it was actually the vehicle behind us that had the problem. Our driver had just kindly stopped to help.
Onwards we pressed with bum in the numb stage of travel and sleep simply not possible on this bumpy ride.
We arrived in Beira, retreived our bags and got a taxi to the derelict airport. Here we boarded our plane with the four other passengers from Beira to Tete.
On arrival in Tete we haggled down a cab driver to take us to some accomodation. He offered us a good price to get us to the border the next day. With the sun setting over the Zambesi river en route to our hotel we felt we were on track but were still unsure of transport in Malawi.
Our hotel was frankly disgusting. It was the hotel equivalent of Trainspotting's toilet scene. We longed for our tent. Tete itself was full of drunk locals maybe celebrating or drowning their sorrows over the election result. We found a bar where we humoured some hammered blokes called Mario and Moses. 'The question iz diz....The question iz diz.......What iz the question?' Moses slurred. This was about the most sense we got from them. Nice chaps though.
The next morning we were picked up by Ibrihim who picked up his dolled up wife for the trip. We crawled back over the bridge crossing the Zambesi which opened at 7am having been closed overnight. We then pushed on through secluded villages on sparse roads potholed in places but mainly tidily tarmaced which pleased our all too anxious driver careful not to damage his modified Mitsibushi.
On border arrival we battled through the swarm of black market money exchangers and got stamped out of the country into no mans land which covered 5km between Mozambique and Malawi. We picked up a reduced rate cab with passenger door loosely hanging by its hinges and were dropped at Malawian immigration.
Once through we were put into the sticky paws of two young drivers Oscar and Godfrey. Over the course of the journey our relationship with these lads turned into a rollercoaster ride. It started well before spiralling as they became all too greedy en route attempting to scam more money out of us. We weren't best pleased but over the course of this ride managed to compromise and get them to drive us further than the closest town to a major junction town two hours away which benefitted their pockets and our travel comfort to Lake Malawi.
They felt we'd haggled them down too much but couldn't refuse the extra cash so were a little moody. However a coke apiece and long football conversation got them back onside allowing an insight into their real personalities and not just the opportunistic taxi drivers. We left them with smiles, shakes off the hand and a tip as we clambered on board a 30 seater bus which would take us the remainder of the journey. We had timed it perfectly arriving at the junction just as the bus was setting off. The boys had done us proud.
After many stops we arrived in Monkey Bay around 4pm where we enquired about the ferry the next day (all ok) and found a quaint half finished accomodation in an idyllic setting offering camping at a cheap rate. We spent the night in this quaint little cove releived to be back in the tent and a beautiful setting. A far cry from last night. Here we listened to the owner talk about his big plans for the site. Next door was the presidents holiday home which gives you some idea of the goldmine he was sitting on. A lot of work and red tape involved though.
We'd made it and tomorrow would set off on the Ilala ferry up Lake Malawi at 10.30am.
A mozy around Mozambique
Friday 23rd October 2009 - Tuesday 27th October 2009
Days 117 - 121
Mozambique was over all too quickly as we sped up the coast in a tin can public chapas - or minibus to you and I. The luxuary coach from Johannesburg to Mozambique's capital Maputo was the last bit of comfortable transport we would experience for quite a while. Unlike the coach you don't get ample leg room in a chapas. In fact the only way of achieving comfort is to have your kneecaps surgically removed. You don't get cute kids playing peekyboo from the seat in front of you like we did on the coach. The only interaction is with the live chickens being dangled by their feet by the large Mozambiquan ladies squished either side of you as a beak brushes your foot. And you certainly don't get a Hollywood blockbuster like Bulletproof Monk being shown on TV as we did on the coach. Try UB40 on dodgy cassette.
But in saying all this the chapas were good fun and it felt somewhat liberating to be back on public transport with our belongings firmly strapped to our backs meeting fellow travellers and locals alike.
In fact we ended up travelling up the south east coast of Mozambique with the travellers equivelent of a supergroup. This was made up of Belgian Franek (prennounced Frank) a seasoned traveller who had been there and done it in some of the most crazy no-go destinations and was now cycling up Africa alone; and a New York couple who had every gizmo and gadget under the sun. Nicky an English girl with Polish heritage and Mike from DC but with Equadorian ancestory. In fact the last Equadorian I met was Villa's Ulisses De La Cruz in a white muscle vest on Birmingham's Broad Street.
Mozambique truly was a different kettle of fish. The women curvacious and the blokes stacked with ear to ear grins. The country itself 20 million in population stretching thinly up the south east corner of southern Africa had strong Portugese influence speaking the lingo as their first language, loving their footy and most importantly piri piri being their condament of choice. What's more the country oozes natural talent in the beach department.
Not sticking around the capital Maputo we set off at 5.30am the following morning to Tofo, eight hours north in a chapas to a huge beach home to surfers, divers and anybody else that enjoys a bloody good beach. We camped on grounds located literally on the beach, we swam in the sea, ate seafood, we watched Wolves Villa (ok not as glamarous as the previous) but our time here was pathetically short as we reluctantly continued up north.
This next leg pretty much summed up travel in Africa.
We started our journey at 7am where we waited for a chapas to be loaded before getting to the nearest big town Inhambane 15km away where we walked 500 metres to the port to wait an hour or two for a ferry to take us across a 2km stretch of water to Maxixe. Here after lunch we boarded chapas number two which slowly filled up with people to breaking point before travelling at a painstakingly slow speed north, bones chattering over the corrugated roads from plugged potholes, chickens crying with pain largegly down to the awful 80s music blarring through the stereo until five hours later with 250km covered we arrived in Vilankulo.
Vilankulo itself was a bit rough especially with lots of boozed up blokes around celebrating some kind of election party gathering. However, the next day we arranged an overnight trip to the Bazaruto Archepolagio. A series of islands where the fish-filled turquoise sea was asking to be snorkelled and fished in. We travelled around in a dhow camping out not altogether legitimately on a tiny island with one lonely tree.
The next day we were back in Vilankulo where we had a lot of the day to organize our onward travel which involved a journey up Lake Malawi on the Ilala ferry which was primarily a cargo boat which took passengers too. The problem was we'd left ourselves little time to get to the ferry which left weekly. It would prove to be an interesting and adventurous race for the boat.
Not suitable for parents
Unfortunately a sour taste was left in the mouth that evening as two lads hassled the girls for money as they walked out of a materials shop close to the beach. Fortunately Mike had advised we stick around so were able to use the five of us to outnumber the two crims. Still they persisted following us with lines like 'I am a gangster,' 'Don't make me shoot you' and my favourite 'I will show you what we can do.' Fortunately for us they were all mouth and didn't show us what they could do which I sense was not all that much.
Days 117 - 121
Mozambique was over all too quickly as we sped up the coast in a tin can public chapas - or minibus to you and I. The luxuary coach from Johannesburg to Mozambique's capital Maputo was the last bit of comfortable transport we would experience for quite a while. Unlike the coach you don't get ample leg room in a chapas. In fact the only way of achieving comfort is to have your kneecaps surgically removed. You don't get cute kids playing peekyboo from the seat in front of you like we did on the coach. The only interaction is with the live chickens being dangled by their feet by the large Mozambiquan ladies squished either side of you as a beak brushes your foot. And you certainly don't get a Hollywood blockbuster like Bulletproof Monk being shown on TV as we did on the coach. Try UB40 on dodgy cassette.
But in saying all this the chapas were good fun and it felt somewhat liberating to be back on public transport with our belongings firmly strapped to our backs meeting fellow travellers and locals alike.
In fact we ended up travelling up the south east coast of Mozambique with the travellers equivelent of a supergroup. This was made up of Belgian Franek (prennounced Frank) a seasoned traveller who had been there and done it in some of the most crazy no-go destinations and was now cycling up Africa alone; and a New York couple who had every gizmo and gadget under the sun. Nicky an English girl with Polish heritage and Mike from DC but with Equadorian ancestory. In fact the last Equadorian I met was Villa's Ulisses De La Cruz in a white muscle vest on Birmingham's Broad Street.
Mozambique truly was a different kettle of fish. The women curvacious and the blokes stacked with ear to ear grins. The country itself 20 million in population stretching thinly up the south east corner of southern Africa had strong Portugese influence speaking the lingo as their first language, loving their footy and most importantly piri piri being their condament of choice. What's more the country oozes natural talent in the beach department.
Not sticking around the capital Maputo we set off at 5.30am the following morning to Tofo, eight hours north in a chapas to a huge beach home to surfers, divers and anybody else that enjoys a bloody good beach. We camped on grounds located literally on the beach, we swam in the sea, ate seafood, we watched Wolves Villa (ok not as glamarous as the previous) but our time here was pathetically short as we reluctantly continued up north.
This next leg pretty much summed up travel in Africa.
We started our journey at 7am where we waited for a chapas to be loaded before getting to the nearest big town Inhambane 15km away where we walked 500 metres to the port to wait an hour or two for a ferry to take us across a 2km stretch of water to Maxixe. Here after lunch we boarded chapas number two which slowly filled up with people to breaking point before travelling at a painstakingly slow speed north, bones chattering over the corrugated roads from plugged potholes, chickens crying with pain largegly down to the awful 80s music blarring through the stereo until five hours later with 250km covered we arrived in Vilankulo.
Vilankulo itself was a bit rough especially with lots of boozed up blokes around celebrating some kind of election party gathering. However, the next day we arranged an overnight trip to the Bazaruto Archepolagio. A series of islands where the fish-filled turquoise sea was asking to be snorkelled and fished in. We travelled around in a dhow camping out not altogether legitimately on a tiny island with one lonely tree.
The next day we were back in Vilankulo where we had a lot of the day to organize our onward travel which involved a journey up Lake Malawi on the Ilala ferry which was primarily a cargo boat which took passengers too. The problem was we'd left ourselves little time to get to the ferry which left weekly. It would prove to be an interesting and adventurous race for the boat.
Not suitable for parents
Unfortunately a sour taste was left in the mouth that evening as two lads hassled the girls for money as they walked out of a materials shop close to the beach. Fortunately Mike had advised we stick around so were able to use the five of us to outnumber the two crims. Still they persisted following us with lines like 'I am a gangster,' 'Don't make me shoot you' and my favourite 'I will show you what we can do.' Fortunately for us they were all mouth and didn't show us what they could do which I sense was not all that much.
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