We had travelled, more or less since Malawi, up along the Great Rift Valley, a geological scar that runs some 5,000kms up through Africa. It’s characterized by a wide valley and towering escarpments bordering it in the hazy distance. Our final stretch of challenging off-road travel took us up the western side of the Mara escarpment without incident over the rough tracks that were baked hard and dry in the red ground. Anyone who has travelled through Southern Africa knows of its red soil. From South Africa to Kenya it dyes the land. Many say that it’s red from all the blood that has spilled into it. The clay soil, which is rich in aluminum and iron, has literally “rusted red” by the intensity of rains and heat over time. In the dry it can be rock hard but under vehicle wheels it can become a fine choking red dust. It sheathes everything. We have fought a futile battle with that dust over much of our journey trying to keep it out of the cab of the 4×4, our hair, eyes and equipment but as our journey draws to a close we began to realize that we will miss it. Unknowingly it has come to symbolise something, and under that surface layer we have been able to get a little closer to the heart of Africa and feel a stronger pulse each day of being alive.

As we bridged the rim of the great escarpment and with no significantly demanding 4×4 tracks ahead of us before we reach Nairobi we stopped to salute our trusty Toyota Land Cruiser, the “Vervet Monkey” that got us all this way without any major issues. The fitting of the armor tech tires paid off despite the extra weight, as did Eric’s systematic and regular maintenance checks on the filters etc. It has to be said, however, that its 4.2 diesel (non-turbo) engine struggled on the steeper stuff with all the weight it was carrying, not helped by all the chapattis we started eating in East Africa. The Vervet Monkey got all our thanks on getting us so far and through so much, although it did not do it economically. It consumed diesel like the lions we saw devouring the Zebra in Zambia, voraciously.

Passing a broken down Land Rover Defender on a descent reminded us to comment on what is almost a “religious” debate between 4×4 over-landers and serious off-roaders who do this kind of journey and to fail to do so would be sacrilegious for this community we have now become a part of!

When Eric selected the vehicle he was torn. The British heritage of the iconic Land Rover Defender, with its classic design, born under the art deco influence and its long 4×4 heritage was the preferred choice, especially as after nearly 70 years this iconic vehicle ends production. It is undoubtedly more photogenic than the Toyota with a far more quixotic image. Certainly for our friends who are design aficionados and aestheticians there would be no choice in this debate. Design dogma would win out. However, it comes with a reputation for breaking down and that was one criteria of selection that carried great weight for us on this trip especially given Eric’s (and Monika’s) concern that he was “mechanically challenged” on this skills front. Also with its narrower cab it’s said to be more uncomfortable over the long days. The Toyota “bush taxi” can be fixed more easily and is certainly more prevalent in most areas of Africa. The heart said Land Rover but the head said Land Cruiser and practicality won out in that decision. Meeting a couple of over-landers on route with Land Rovers gave us a degree of “design envy”, but we feel we made the right choice, and we were glad how the Toyota “blended in” and made us a little more incognito. We are going to miss her.

Passing through a noticeably dryer Southern Kenya we made sure to spend some time with the pastoral Maasai, whose small kralls and regal herdsmen, walking tall and proud in their deep purple shukas, we had been passing since Northern Tanzania. A Maasai contact we had from a lodge helped us to visit a village on the Mara escarpment where we glimpsed an insight into this distinctive and proud culture. Again, all welcomed us warmly, except for the suspicious small children who cowered behind the baked earthen huts. Monika and her trusty instant Polaroid helped to breakdown barriers, as did their feeling that Eric’s longer golden hair resembled a lion’s mane, the sign of a warrior. Once nomadic people, now most communities in this region have become more settled and again it’s all too evident that their proud ancient culture is under relentless assault from a modern world. The tall slender young men with their handsome features, however, took time to talk with us about their traditions and life.

Formal schooling is challenging the foundation of its culture as the herding of livestock, once the children’s responsibility, is left to their parents so the children can attend school. This also contributes to the end of the nomadic ways, as have the constrictions of movement imposed upon them by wildlife conservations like the Maasai Mara National Reserve. As a result of global warming, droughts are becoming more severe in East Africa (something that became very obvious to us as we travelled north east) and this coupled with western education means that many of the younger Maasai are seeking out alternative livelihoods.

However the obvious intensity of pride in their identity, traditions and tribal culture is a strong counter balance to the press of modernity. The village life remains traditional in substance and rhythm, from the simple small round three roomed wood and mud/cow dung huts (built by the women, who also perform most of the village tasks) to the daily corralling of the cattle and goats by the men behind the tall thorn bush protective walls of the village. Most villages are based around an extended family and, as we learned, these could extend pretty far indeed. One young man we met was one of 39 sons and 3 sisters – that’s a staggering 42 children from one father across his three wives!

Ceremonies, rituals and rites of passage tightly bind the cultural fabric. Perhaps one of the most striking and vital traditions is the “Emuratare” or circumcision ceremony performed shortly after puberty (!). The tradition of female circumcision, now outlawed in Kenya, is thankfully ending but for the young men it remains an essential rite of passage and the ceremony takes place in front of the entire community, without any painkiller or analgesics. For a boy to cry out or shed a tear is an unimaginable disgrace and to run away from the knife will mean exile from the village so they go though several other rites of passage in tolerating pain throughout childhood, including burning of the skin and extracting teeth. We listened with ever-increasing awe at what these slim elegant people endure for sake of their traditions. It was not without some irony that as Eric was entertaining the young men later in the day with videos of heli-skiing in deep snow, they remarked with horror-struck faces, “But why would you do that”?

After a long bureaucratic delay getting the permit for us to wild camp alone out in the Maasai Mara National Reserve it was not without emotion that we sat for our last night by our campfire deciphering the sounds of the remarkable African wilderness. The Mara gave us what was undoubtedly a highlight of our safaris. In the heat of mid-day, through the tall grass, we spotted two rare and magnificent cheetahs on the hunt. Captivated we watched and followed in silence these elegant and beautiful cats for over an hour. In an uncommon act of cheetah behavior one leaped up a tree to gain a better view out onto the plains whilst the other lazed serenely in its shade. It was also not without some emotion that we awoke at dawn to a rustle very close to our camp/tent and looking out through the mosquito netting saw the silhouette of a huge bull elephant, its long white tusks illuminated by the fading moon light, nonchalantly grazing just meters away. A close encounter with a lioness soon after sunrise with our morning coffee, witnessing hundreds of beautiful yellow weaver birds busy preparing their nests as part of their elaborate mating ritual and the sighting of a rhino a little while later was a thrilling end to our self-safari across Southern and Eastern Africa. It has been humbling to be so close and deeply immersed in this great diversity of nature over the last few months. At many times the beauty has been so overwhelming that you can only sit in silence and consider the small space we occupy in the immensity of the universe and listen to your inner voice gently whisper, “I have witnessed this, I have to hold on to this, this matters to me”. It has helped shift our perspective on our role in the life of our planet. We could almost be lulled into thinking that the wildlife of Africa is safe as we have been lucky to experience so much of its unique diversity. However, it would be remiss of us not to warn of the continued and serious threat to it. The plight of the rhino and elephant is worse than we have ever imagined. The figures remain horrifying. There were over 200,000 rhino’s in Africa in the mid 1970s, by the mid-90s that was down to around 3,000. The situation improved for a short while but has once again become far worse with poaching soaring. In South Africa alone 14 rhinos were poached in 2003 but by 2014 the number was closer to 1,000. The rhino is once again facing extinction in the wild and demand for its horn in Asia and Middle East has driven the market prices per kg well above that of gold. The majestic elephant is sadly not faring much better. More than 1/3 of all African elephants were killed between 2007 and 2014. In the more politically stable countries of Southern Africa the situation is far better than elsewhere but it’s an increasingly desperate situation and the exploding population will only put more pressure on the natural habitats.

The long drive to Nairobi from the Maasai Mara edged us ever closer towards the end of our journey and the vast rolling grasslands gave way to villages and towns strewn with garbage, litter and clamour of urban Africa. An evening encounter with a couple of crooked policeman was a poignant reminder of the pervasive corruption that still infects Kenya and so much of Africa. As we mentioned in our initial post it was our first visit to Kenya and Tegla’s project that drew us to the continent. For almost half a century since its independence in 1963 Kenya was considered a bastion of relative peace and stability amongst the chaos that surrounded it. Sadly, in recent years a wave of violence has spread, fuelled by droughts, an exploding population, scarcity of resources, increasingly government corruption and Sudanese warlords who are flooding restive tribes with modern weapons. As we met and talked with friends in Nairobi there is a growing and palpable concern. It is distressing to see Kenya and South Africa, which is also facing similar self-destructive forces, being threatened with a descent into darkness. Through this journey we have come to appreciate just how precious and fragile the pillars of law and order are to a stable society and also to understand how loyalty to family and tribe persistently undermine African leaders’ commitment to the welfare of the broader community. That said, there is hope for a brighter future as mankind’s capacity to love and care for one another is also evident throughout the Africa in which we travelled.

It was with this in mind that we met with our inspirational friend, Tegla Loroupe, and the CEO of her foundation, Eunice Hasango, whom we have worked with to support the great work the small team does through the Tegla Loroupe Peace Academy and Foundation. As mentioned previously Tegla was a world champion marathon runner and record holder with wins which included London, New York and Berlin. Coming from a poor remote region of northern Kenya bordering South Sudan, plagued by conflict, Tegla committed her post athletic career to promoting peace through sports through the work of her Foundation. Her impact led to her being named a UN Ambassador of Peace and in 2016 she was nominated as the Chef de Mission organizing the first ever Refugee Team for the Rio Olympics. Through Eric’s work with the company On AG, who continues to support Tegla, we became close friends and have endeavored to help Tegla on her mission that also includes a school/peace academy and orphanage.

We met Tegla outside Nairobi at a repurposed old orphanage, which currently houses and acts as a training center for the refugee team. 36 young athletes, some of them orphans themselves, have been selected from the vast refugee camps of Kakuma and Dadaab (that house well over 500k refugees from the conflicts and famines of Dafur, Sudan, Somalia, Congo etc.) to train and compete as athletes under the Olympic flag and also engage in vocational training and education. It’s a program Tegla and the UNHCR encouraged the Olympic Committee to support, initially for Rio, as a way of providing a light of hope to the youth of the camps and as signal of a new beginning and as a way of ending isolation and instead, tapping into their potential.

Several of those we met were born in the endless tent cities of the barren and dusty camps and have known only a life taut with hopeless dependence. Many are stateless persons, having no citizenship, who without a program like this stand little chance of being able to escape the confines of the camp legally. The idea over time is to bring the model of the center into refugee camps themselves around the world and through sport development and vocational programs act as a tool for progress and empowerment. Despite the backing for Tegla’s Foundation and this refugee program by the UNHCR and Olympic Committee she, her team and the refugees are in desperate need of greater backing and support but in true African sprit they are making do with what little they have.

We went on the morning training run with the young athletes and through increasingly breathless gasps chatted about their lives and hopes. It was moving to feel, especially in these times, that through their efforts they are committed to send a message of peace and resilience and to demonstrate that despite war, conflict and division that the more noble values of the human spirit continue to shine.

So it was that we packed our bags and boarded our flight from Nairobi back to Europe. Adventure is all about letting the unexpected happen to you and confronting your own fears around that, about putting yourself off balance. Exploration is all about seeking out experiences in places you have never been before. You spend your days improvising, adapting and overcoming new challenges. But the real excitement comes in the changes you can make in yourself and how you interact with the world around you. Although it is always a little melancholic to draw an adventure like this to a close and return to the familiar walls of home there is a strong sense that the actual journey does not have to end. Marcel Proust put it well when he wrote, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes”. In many ways the journey can continue when you return to your home as you see the world and people around you with new eyes. That is the value of adventure travel, it feeds the appetite of curiosity we have for life itself. It reminds us most firmly that our measure of life will not be in the things we have but in the moments and memories we have created and finally as we return home, following the sudden death of a close family friend, that aside from good adventures the finest luxury we have is that of our greatest friends.

The travel weariness mentioned at the closing of the last post continued unabated during our first days in Tanzania. You can’t travel like this, through half the continent of Africa week after week and not expect a few times when the spirit is brought low. It’s an anticipated part of the fabric of every adventure, the expected experience of highs and lows that come from leaving “normality” behind. Paradoxically, adventure travellers looking back upon their journey once completed, will hold many of the “lows” above the “highs” in terms of richness of experience.   Maybe it is because it is during the “lows” that we get closer to the objective of adventure travel, to be prepared to change the “you” that is travelling.

Weariness can slowly materialise like a toxic fog enveloping your emotions. Although we think of “travelling” as the objective movement of ourselves through the physical world, in reality travel is as much something we do within our mind as with our physical bodies. It’s our mind that interprets the changing world around us and in turn provides our experience of it. It is through our own mind that we filter the experience of the environment and create the judgments and attitudes to it. It is our mind that creates our expectations or disillusionments and it’s within the mind that the heavy veil of fatigue can cloud our decisions and blunt our tolerances.

We could not escape the broken potholed tar road (in favor of our preferred rural tracks) that we needed to travel over as we headed north in Tanzania. Old trucks and buses belched out thick black noxious fumes as they weaved and struggled over the hilly, narrow and badly cracked roads. Progress was slow and seemingly dangerous as we passed fatal looking accidents. Where as earlier in our trip we sought out conversations with locals as we passed through their sporadic villages on rural tracks, roadside stops seemed to crush our spirits in a vice of bodies thrusting out hands wanting us to buy some product or give them food or money. The rains of the previous evening persisted, further dampening our spirits under heavy grey skies. Having our own tent and bedding, as an alternative to local guesthouses is always favorable. Camping out, alone in the wild with a campfire under star filled nights lifts every soul to new highs, but, being forced (through complete lack of options) to camp on the outskirts of another dirty noisy town and wash in a filthy public bathroom can still bring it to new “lows”. The light humorous banter with crooked policeman evaporated with short tempers (our own) and time. The world around us changed and so did our response to it. It was grinding. There was no easy escape, as we had several days of this “transition” phase of the journey ahead, so we resolved to try to change our own interpretation of it.

The remarkable thing about the interpretation of “lows”, in travel or life, is how quickly they can change with an altered perspective (and weather!).

We camped one night on the outskirts of a small town, Kolo, (not famous enough for hundreds of ancient rock paintings in the surrounding hills, some over 7000 years old) and awoke to the sound (and clear indication of how far east we have travelled) of the imams from its two mosques competing, over crackling loudspeakers, with the “Fajr adhan” or morning call to prayer. One verse that is melodically recited a few times in the Fajr is, “As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm”, which translates, as “Prayer is better than sleep”, and with that in mind we contemplated what the minority non-Muslims in the area think of the Fajr and its melodic, all be it crackling pre-dawn morning alarm.

We stayed near this town, as it was a gateway for us to visit some of the Barabaig tribe who still follow a semi-nomadic lifestyle and unlike many of the Maasai around the Mara or Arusha are not so used to or geared to tourism. Ashrof, the well-educated local guide for the rock paintings was happy to act as our guide/translator for this excursion and we set off into the bush along tracks dense with acacias trees and bushes bristling with their razor sharp 5cm long thick white thorns. Eventually the bush became too thick and concern too great that the fallen thorns that littered the ground posed too much of a risk even for our armoured tires, we alighted and set out on foot in search of some of the tribe.

The culture of Barabaig is very similar to the better-known Masai but they tend to live in smaller family groups and bomas (livestock enclosures) and remain more nomadic. Like the Masai they wear the shuka or toga blankets and elongate their ear lobes in the same way (although many now also wear western clothes underneath the shuka), keep cows and goats and subsist on a diet almost exclusively of milk, blood, meat and maize.

The small Barabaig family and boma we came upon was in an area dense with thorn bush, mud and thick with black flies which crawled over the young baby. They gave us a surprised but friendly welcome and the young man wisely and quickly spotted the opportunity to make some shillings from the mzungos (Swahili for white person) asking for some money (or cooking pots or fabric) for the interaction or any pictures. Our guide did not speak the tribal language but communicated with Swahili. We spoke of how they live and how many cows they own. We gave them our instant Polaroid pictures of their family and shared some laughs about Swiss cowbells as well as our food. Despite the friendly interaction we felt an imposition and after a while took our leave.

We were struck by how difficult this family’s live is in a harsh environment. In the rains the plains are flooded and in the dry season they struggle to feed the livestock. Their nomadic homes were simple wood frame shelters under plastic sheeting. The debris of their humble lives where scattered around the dwelling which shocked our Western eyes. The old man, with partial blindness, sat on the ground with twisted arthritic legs and in obvious pain yet a warm smile. This was not the scene of the noble Masai herders we had the romantic image of. It was raw, unforgiving and yet very real. The experience quickly shifted our perspective on our “low” and we drove into brightening skies with a gratitude for our lives, which lifted our spirits. What a luxury it is that we can travel like this, experience the world in this way and yet return at anytime to our privileged lives.

That “privilege” had no greater expression than the lodge we had booked to stay at a few days later to experience the absolutely unique natural wonder of the Ngorongoro Crater, the largest caldera in the world at 600m deep and 300sq kms and teaming with a vast diversity of wildlife.   The arrival at the luxurious Ngorongoro Crater Lodge, which at 2000m is perched on the crater rim with breath taking views, could not have been better timed. The utter contrast to some of our recent experiences made the experience surreal. Neither of us was quite prepared for the rather opulent yet rustic luxury nor warmth of welcome that we were given. Our few days with Yuri, the GM, and his team were some of the best we have ever spent at any place we have ever stayed at in the world. Undoubtedly the complete contrast with our time of late (we both spent hours in the cavernous hot bath and huge rain shower scrubbing away the dust that had engrained itself so deeply) had a significant effect on us but the lodge, the staff, the attention to detail, the personalized service, the food and the entire experience was so uniquely wonderful it ranks as one of our favorites. In the crater floor itself we enjoyed an amazing safari experience with the added luxury of not having to drive or guide ourselves (!) and as it was low season we had it almost all to ourselves. Contrast this to the high season when it’s crowded with hundreds of vehicles and thousands of tourists.

Leaving the lodge and going anywhere else would have been very hard had it not been for the beautiful simplicity of our next destination. After considerable planning we set off in our Land Cruiser through the Serengeti National Park heading north west to the border with Kenya, where the simple privilege of camping out alone in our roof top tent on its vast plains comes at considerable cost in USD. The Serengeti had always captured Eric’s imagination from a childhood watching the BBC’s renowned wildlife documentaries. A vast untamed expanse of wilderness that hosts one of world’s most spectacular natural events, the annual wildebeest migration. The permits to be able drive our own vehicle through the Crater Park and the Serengeti over three days and camp out alone in the wilderness does not come cheap – they seemingly don’t want independents doing this – but, the look on Eric’s face as we set out our little camp in the middle of the Serengeti as the most magical sunset bathed the plains in a deep golden light was utterly priceless. This simple pleasure of a campfire adventure, edged with the excitement of sharing the nighttime wilderness with the great herds and array of roaming nocturnal predators, as all our ancestors had once done was the pinnacle for Eric of this African adventure. As the wall of darkness enclosed around us came the chorus of calls from the African wild, Monika retreated nervously up to the tent and Eric sat stubbornly alone by the dancing flames of our fire appreciating the incredibly wonderfully fulfilling feeling of being unequivocally aware that he was living out a long held childhood dream. Not adding any comfort to Monika’s slight unease, he called out that if he’s eaten by the large pride of lions we had seen earlier he’s at peace with life. Ever practical, and considering his remark, Monika responded by suggesting thoughtfully that she should have the keys to the Land Cruiser in the tent with her and not in his pocket, should the lions eat those in the process as well.

A couple of days later we crossed into Kenya, over our last border crossing of the journey and headed into the Masai Mara National Park on route to our final destination and goal of reaching, Nairobi, safely.

As you drive eastward through this part of Africa the communities themselves provide the clues to the history that has unfolded in these lands. Close to the boarder with Malawi we started to see the occasional Muslim man wearing his taqiyah or kufi cap with a kanzu like long shirt. Then after a while small mosques began appearing in a few villages. Gradually the further east we went the less sporadic that became, with most villages possessing a small mosque and tight groups of women in traditional Islamic dress. This was the boundary of centuries of Arabic influence on East Africa and the cultural impact remains clear to this day. Churches (often just shacks or open sided brick buildings) of every denomination vie for attention with banners proclaiming salvation in God’s name. The number of English Anglican churches is yet another fingerprint of history, a tell tale sign of the British influence, and it’s incredible to think that only during the birth of our parents this vast land, that we have been travelling through for nearly two months, was almost entirely under the British Imperial administration. Many ex-British colonial countries still carry a bitterness for that hegemony but Malawi (then Nyasaland) does not, in fact in many ways it still celebrates it, in part because of the positive influence of one man, David Livingstone, whose affection for the people of the area brought real benefits including the abolition of slavery and in some areas 100% literacy (which has since declined significantly).

Soon after crossing the border at hot and dusty Mwani/Mchinji crossing , which in itself could have been a historical lesson in early bureaucratic processes, we had an amusing interaction with Malawi’s only crooked policeman and even he had a conscious. Unlike Zimbabwe’s police in rather disheveled blue uniforms, this young officer was smartly dressed in a light khaki uniform and gleaming white belt. Waving us down to a stop, with white gloved hands, he insisted we had to come to the station and pay 20,000 Malawian Kwacha for speeding (around 30 USD) and when we objected he quickly responded that without a receipt he could reduce the fine to 10,000 Kwacha on the spot. During an increasingly friendly but long dialogue about the cost of living in Malawi we insisted we did not want to pay any fine the policeman explained that he was living on a monthly wage of only 80 USD and needed the money to support his extended family. Now feeling a degree of empathy for the polite young man and anxious to continue on Eric agreed to pay 5,000 (as we were indeed above the speed limit) but could not resist to mention that he thought this transaction was a little dishonest (by all parties involved). At this the policeman thrust the money back into Eric’s hand insisting he did not want to be dishonest. Moved by this display of integrity Eric rewarded him with an unprompted offer of 2,000, hoping if the policeman accepted it we would finally be on our way. The policeman did gratefully accept the counter offer and then, suddenly, closed his eyes, grabbed Eric’s arm with both hands and burst into a long blessing and prayer for our onward journey. Monika meanwhile sat bemused looking on from the passenger seat. Relieved we now had God’s blessings upon us we continued unhindered and at every other police roadblock through out Malawi (which there are many) honest and smiling officers always warmly welcomed us and waved us through.

Close to the Lilongwe (the capital), where we stocked up on supplies and managed to finally get hold of more US dollars, we stayed at Kumbali Lodge and Farm (where ,Monika informed Eric, Madonna stayed when she was visiting the country for the adoption of her four Malawian children) and here Monika enjoyed the use of a hairdryer for the first time in weeks and feeling refreshed and renewed put on a rare application of make up for dinner. The pleasure we both derived from the strong hot shower, in a clean bathroom with fresh thick towels indicated that since leaving Victoria Falls Hotel we’d had to rough it in some pretty rough places! Guy Pickering, the “larger than life” proprietor of Kumbali was left open mouthed at Monika’s pre-dinner transformation from weary adventure traveler. Guy, who also owns a large dairy farm and coffee plantation, shared with us his sharp and insightful experience from a colorful life and career across Southern Africa. The only other guests were two executives and friends of Guy’s from the tobacco industry. Tobacco is a major source of export for Malawi and it is vital for many rural communities whose farmers rely on the crop as the only source of income. The two friendly South African executives both admitted to not smoking but Guy made up for that gap in consumption. Guy is one of those rare characters whose presence alone is enough to lift the spirits. His jovial nature is telegraphed by a deep gravelly baritone voice and booming laugh whose bass tones could rival the lions of South Luangwa. A warm energetic smile accompanies the delivery of his well-versed aphorisms and a generous physical frame carries his obviously generous nature. This is a man who has taken life head on, weathered the ups and downs, smiled and smoked through it all and you are left with an unmistakable sense that through it all he has won. His lovely home, set amongst beautiful gardens, would not look a miss if it were found on the banks of the River Thames at Henley, England. Building a successful life amongst the winds of change and chaos that has buffeted Southern Africa over the decades probably helps to breed the indomitable spirit that Guy seems to posses. He remarked that he is always ready to give it all up at a moment’s notice as he warned that those same winds could change direction at anytime. After an early morning run through the tracks of his farm and the villages that border it, to the chorus of “good mornings” from his farm workers, we found it hard to tear ourselves away.

Malawi’s surface is over 20% water as it hosts Lake Malawi, Africa’s third largest lake, almost as large as Switzerland. We headed to the lakeside town of Cape Maclear on its southern shores over the beautiful scenery of the Denza escarpment. We arrived late but excited to reach a place that we had been recommended for camping out on the sandy shores. Unfortunately, our bubble was soon popped as we found ourselves in our only heated argument of the trip, with a pair of over-landers from Belgium who stubbornly blocked our access to the beach. This triggered a cascading series of events that had us sleeping (or not sleeping as was the case) in an unpleasant and massively over priced beach shack. The redeeming event of the night was being taught to play the rather complicated traditional African board game of “Boa”, played on a wooden rectangular board with beans or stones, by Samuel, the patient local we had befriended. We had heard the fishing town of Cape Maclear was a good place to unwind and it had built up a reputation with a few beachside lodges popular with travelers from around the world, but as we explored the area we became rather disillusioned. The local community clearly relies almost exclusively on fishing and the trickle of white tourists or aid workers who pass through for income. The tourists, however, seem to be more of the backpacker variety which we find (with age…) invariably leads to a certain “lack of taste” in the establishments that cater for them. However that aside, local life in Cape Maclear is the same that takes place around or on the entire lakeshore, with families washing themselves, their dishes, their clothes and everything else in close proximity. Long rows of wooden trestle tables, used for drying or smoking the fish, stretch out endlessly along the sandy beach. Fishermen sit repairing their nets from the morning catch or mending their wooden canoes, made from a single hallowed out tree trunk. The grey blue waters of the lake extend out to the eastern horizon and the waves lap against the shore. However, this otherwise idyllic scene is shattered by the all too obvious poverty that grinds on endlessly in Malawi (one of the poorest countries in the world). Despite many government and non-governmental initiatives around hygiene education human excrement litters the beach, garbage piles up throughout the town with goats, chickens and children picking their way through it. Many scenes reminded us of the poorest areas of rural India where we had cycled through 15 years before. It was tough on the senses. Yet we had many warm interactions as we explored ever further around the area especially with the children, who were everywhere. Children carried children, girls as young as 14 are mothers. On average each woman will have five to six children now in Malawi. The population, as is the case across the rest of central Africa, is exploding. It’s a puzzle of poverty that we struggle to come to terms with. Guy had ominously warned that this is Africa’s ticking time bomb and as we travel through lands, which can suffer from scarce resources, we are coming to agree.

Samuel, our “Bao” game coach, joined us for a dinner with some local guys we had met during the day who gathered on the beach at sunset and around a fire drummed rhythmically and hypnotically into the night. They grilled fresh fish for us and we talked of Malawian life and the influence of the Rasta movement on youth culture. They also showed a genuine interest in our travels through the Himba communities in Namibia. Two were ex-convicts, one having been arrested with 30kg of “ganga” which they grow in the hills of this part of Malawi, calling it “Malawian Gold” but they both sang with the voices of angels and welcomed us as old friends.

That does genuinely seem to be the case with most Malawians; they are a people that have very little but they do possess warm and open hearts. However, as with every rule there is always an exception and as we left Cape Maclear we felt we had a few interactions that may have not been so authentic.

We did not have enough time to head down to the scenic mountains and tea country of southern Malawi, instead heading north to spend some time up on the remote Nyika Plateau. On route we wanted to see an ambitious community and orphanage project near Mzuzu. A remarkable Dutch couple, Tim and Ineke, have given ten years of their lives to the Matunkha project that helps provide support to a region with over 1,500 orphaned children who continue to live in their local communities with extended family. Joined by Alan, a Scottish accountant who is helping support a local agriculture project, we discussed the challenges and implications of foreign aid in Africa. Malawi, for example, remains stubbornly one of the poorest countries in the world despite receiving billions in aid. There is an argument that aid breed’s a cycle of ever-greater dependence and that corruption also pollutes the waters but it is not as simple as this. It’s a complex multi dimensional problem that has deep roots in history and culture, and these conversations helped us to understand with greater clarity the challenges we have encountered in our own personal experiences of directly supporting the projects that drew us to this remarkable continent.

Passing through the communities on rough tracks on our way up to the Nyika Plateau gave us a chance to see rural life away from the lake.  We gave a lift to the gentle looking Joseph, a farmer and church goer, who in broken English explained the challenge the area faced with the collapsing price of their only cash crop, tobacco. Maize is ubiquitous but is primarily grown for subsistence, for income many of these small farmers rely on their small tobacco harvest. The light green leaves of the tobacco plant cover the hillsides but the price has dropped more than 60% over the last five years hitting these already poor areas hard.

At an altitude of around 2,500m Nyika is a rolling grassland plateau broken with stunning granite mountain outcrops and stands of montane forest and some old pine plantations. Despite herds of eland, roan and zebra it’s not a destination for game, it’s more about soaking in the open wilderness of mountains, rolling hills, streams, small lakes and waterfalls. The cool air at this altitude was a refreshing haven from the hot low lands and nighttime temperatures ensured we finally made use of our as yet unpacked fleeces and down jackets. We managed to pick up a couple of old steel mountain bikes, that needed some tinkering to get going, which we used to explore the plateau. Apart from the startled zebra running alongside us as we biked, with the scenery and accompanying temperatures, one could easily be mistaken for being at the Scottish Glens or English Lake District. These days of exercise and solitude in the fresh clean air re-energized us for the next phase of our journey. Leaving northern Malawi via Livingstonia (a remote mission station established by David Livingstone in the 1870s) we took some tracks that crossed steep rocky terrain that had the Land Cruiser working hard again in low range 4×4. During one heavy down pour the track quickly turned into a river flowing with red mud and the precipitous drop down the mountainside ensured that Monika gripped the dashboard until her knuckles were white as snow.

On the day we were aiming to cross the border into Tanzania we found ourselves stuck behind a local pick-up whose wheel axel had broken but mercifully the heavy rain of the previous day had abated. Marooned behind the stranded pick-up for several hours on the single narrow track, with no chance to pass either side, we were at least able to loan some equipment from our truck to help improvise a “bush fix” which enabled the local guys to literally “tie” back on the wheel axel so we could roll the car a few meters downhill in order for us to squeeze by and continue to the border. With this delay we arrived later than planned at the chaotic Kasaumulu/Songwe border post. We wanted to get to guesthouse in a coffee plantation outside the Tanzanian town of Mbeye before dark but the customs authorities in Tanzania did not want to help us along with that goal. Our seventh border crossing of the trip threw up a host of new requests on the paperwork for the import of the car, a process not helped by one remarkably large, slothful and unfriendly female official who appeared to be totally unmotivated by life let alone her job. No amount of coaxing and attempted banter from us helped to accelerate a painfully long and hot process. Our patience was beginning to run thin and the constant barraging of money changers, con-men and insurance salesmen left us feeling pretty exhausted when we finally entered Tanzania as heavy dark clouds blacked out the setting sun.   You do not want to drive in these parts of Africa after dark. It’s been our golden rule all trip but in these even more densely populated areas it is critical. Firstly there is no lighting anywhere, often not even on the trucks that maybe coming towards you. People, who you cannot see suddenly, appear from the darkness illuminated in your headlights along with the apparently suicidal goats, donkeys and cattle. However, this night, with a torrential downpour thrown into the mix, we had no other option but to continue and it was with pretty shattered nerves that we arrived late into the night and  probably at our most travel weary at our destination and first night in Tanzania.

 

Paddling down the Zambezi River, which flows all the way to the Indian Ocean dividing Zambia on one side from Zimbabwe on the other, through the steeply sided black granite walls of Kariba gorge and into the wide flood planes with islands of towering reeds and grasses was yet another way to experience Africa from a different perspective. Thoughts of the early European explorers who pushed up through this same river were on the mind as we looked across at our little expedition of three canoes carrying our guides, provisions and equipment. With the close company of hundreds of hippos that lined our route and crocodiles that stared menacingly with cold black eyes from the banks we were given some excitement to the otherwise tranquil drift downstream. Indeed the pace picked up considerably when, to our surprise and momentary panic, we found ourselves being pursued with determination by a young bull hippo. Our guides revealed their wealth of knowledge about the vibrant ecosystem that the river gives lives to. Black and white fish eagles circled gracefully above and brightly coloured turquoise bee-eaters darted back and forth skimming across the surface of the dark brown river. With great resourcefulness our local guides also cooked us scrumptious meals in the evening as the sunset and unraveled the mysteries of the immense African starlit night sky. After a few enjoyable days and nights we were back on land close to Chirindu, which was once an inland outpost of the Arabic slavers that used the river for the despotic trade and from there we returned to collect our Land Cruiser and crossed the border into Zambia (which proved unexpectedly eventful, as to secure passage the day required some entertainingly tense negotiations with Interpol, customs officials, insurance agents and even a bank manager).

Passing through Lusaka, the capital of Zambia, our first major city of the trip since leaving Cape Town, was a shock to the senses and we did not linger too long. Despite the obvious poverty and hectic hustle and bustle expected of an African capital city the abundance of shopping malls and new cars were evidence that some were prospering from Zambia’s 4% growth rate. The juxtaposition of these “islands of wealth” surrounded by the poverty is an uncomfortable and yet all to real aspect of life out here but this glaring inequality is almost exclusive to the cities. As we travel into “East Africa” the population density increases noticeably especially along the road networks.   Long gone are the Namibian days when we could travel a full day and see no other soul. Cars and trucks are still relatively few but locals walking on foot between villages with teetering bundles of goods balanced on their heads or on bicycles laden with all sorts, including goats (dead or alive) are omnipresent. With the prospect of needing to be in Nairobi (still thousands of kms north east) by early May we decided that we’d travel through southern Zambia along the newly surfaced “Great East” trunk road (funded by the EU).   Interestingly, as was the case in the Congo, it’s no longer typically the US or EU influence you see in the funding of the infrastructure development projects but the Chinese.   Hydroelectric, road, rural development projects all being built and funded so as to get access and influence over the mineral and mining rights. Indeed later in Lilongwe the capital of Malawi, the direct influence is physically apparent with the huge new Chinese Embassy being built directly next to the Presidential Palace and government compound on the outskirts of the city. You definitely have a feeling that in the domain of strategic geo-politics the Chinese in South/Central Africa are out manoeuvring the West.

After thousands of kms of rough tracks it was with a sense of relaxed relief that we took the Great East Road across to South East Zambia and turned off up to the wildlife rich South Laungwe National Park where we camped for a few nights on the banks of the river at the edge of this wilderness that stretches for hundreds of kilometres. Having failed to find the big cats, with the exception of the ghostly leopard in Botswana, on any of our other self-drive safari expeditions we thought we’d give it one last chance here, having heard the bush was not so thick and terrain more varied, raising both our chances and hopes.

Even for the best guides it’s still a game of luck with what wildlife you get to see and experience in these vast areas especially when the animals are so spread out after the end of the rains. You can certainly increase your chances by knowing what to look or listen out for, the frenzied squawking of the Franklin birds for example is the early warning alarm for many animals that danger is close by and present.   So armed with our ever increasing. yet still limited knowledge of the bush, as the sun rose, we went in search of the elusive big cats and this time luck also accompanied us.

After just an hour of exploring a few tracks on the edge of the park a few small nervous herds of antelope and zebra looked anxiously over the tall grass and amongst the umbrella thorn trees. Slowing the Land Cruiser to a rumbling crawl our eyes scanned anxiously into the bush and just as we came to a stop at a small stream a lioness sauntered out and across the track, looking directly at us with apparent indifference.   With excitement we watched as she lazily drank from the stream and with the windows open, so not to be surprised, kept an eye watchful eye out for others in the pride that maybe around and indeed spotted another lioness lying motionless except for her twitching tail in the grass a little way off. After sometime watching these majestic animals laze around and having been joined in our find by another safari vehicle we moved on.   Several hours later we retuned close to the spot in the hope of seeing our lionesses again and Eric spotted the circling of several vultures a short distance away, a tell tale sign of a carcass nearby and the reason for the lions continued presence in the area. We edged the truck deeper into the thickening bush with the long thorns of the acacias screeching loudly against its metal sides and the dense undergrowth crunched and snapped under our tires. As we drew up within meters of where the huge scavenger birds greedily were eyeing we saw the two lionesses under a thick bush gnawing the carcass of a large zebra that they must have just killed earlier that night. They looked up at us through the shadows, seemingly unconcerned by our presence, with mouths stained a deep blood red and the belly of the zebra hollowed out. Despite the drama the scene was quiet and serene, it seemed like the ladies had had their fill. Returning later in the evening, as the sunset, to the same spot the quite of the morning was shattered by the deep guttural growl of a male lion, which reverberated through the air all around. Before our eyes, in the failing light, two massive male lions tore possessively into the carcass, powerful jaws crushing bone, with six smaller male and females trying to get their share, ripping at what remained of the flesh in the hind quarters and neck. It was mesmerising to watch and feel this raw, savage and dramatic display of nature unfold.

More than we could have asked for we also came across an increasingly rare pack of African wild dogs and from a distance watched as a huge congregation of elephants gather at the river and in remarkable display of communal affection bath and play together before each family broke off on their separate ways to return to the bush as the sun set. South Luangwa gave us the African wildlife experience we had been in search of on our self-safaris and also allowed us a sense of self-accomplishment and reward for our perseverance! With that we set off to cross the border into Malawi.

Plans changed. Despite being warned off independent overland travel in Zimbabwe mostly because of police “harassment” at the ubiquitous roadblocks that line the roads like teeth in a mouth we felt an increasing desire to see more of the country. Learning that there was a far more adventurous off road alternative to getting to the eastern end of Lake Kariba and the Lower Zambezi River through Zimbabwe rather than the tarmacked route through Zambia mentioned at the closing of the last post had our minds spinning (mainly Eric’s!). In addition, tourism has turned the relatively isolated Victoria Falls into a very un-Zimbabwe-like place and we wanted to get a better feel for a country that has experienced so many troubles including a precipitous drop in tourism over the last decades, so we delayed our departure from Vic Falls in order to get more information on this 400km track that runs just south of Lake Kariba through the central hills. The lake itself, one of the largest manmade expanses of water in the world is a critical part of Zimbabwe’s, all be it failing, economy. It provides not only irrigation but also hydro electricity and now hosts a bustling fishing industry. The lake is over 280km long and at its widest point measures 40km (more than 50 times the size of Lake Zurich). It was formed after the realization of an ambitious project to dam the mighty Zambezi River was completed in 1960 (when both Zambia and Zimbabwe, then known as Rhodesia, were still under British rule) at a narrow granite gorge. The huge area that was flooded to create the lake meant that ten of thousands of the local Batonga tribe who lived in the valley were forced out from their ancestral fertile lands and were relocated to the higher barren hills of the south. Today these people still consider themselves forcibly impoverished refuges and it was through their remote communities that this track would take us, from Binga in the West to Karoi in the East. However, as with every remote long off road track in Africa, especially after the rains, before venturing out you have to get local advice and try and gather intel on conditions. We spoke to local police, lakeside lodge owners (whose only access is by boat or sea-plane), a hunter and other contacts and most advised against taking it, warning that the heavy rains of the past months will have washed away many sections and also noting that the settlement of Binga had not received fuel in two weeks which posed refuelling issues. However, with the exception of the hunter, it turned out none had ever actually driven it. We also had to take into account a reoccurring and familiar theme that when attaining this type of info the locals tend to dramatize the roughness of their surrounding environment. Before taking the road far less travelled you are always warned against it and, as noted previously, that starts to become the very attraction of taking it!

On the terrace of the Victoria Falls hotel at sunset, sipping on our beer and Gin & Tonic, with the thundering background noise of the waterfall, we had the now familiar evening debate before taking these routes; “is it worth it”, “it’s probably not that bad”, “as long as we don’t get stuck we can always back track and we just loose a few days”, “we will see so much more of the local people”, “if we break down it will be weeks before we can be pulled out”.

We think Mr. Shuma, the GM of the old colonial hotel, had come to see us, his independent overland travellers, as a welcome diversion from his more typical clientele of well heeled American, British and Japanese tourist groups. With our unexpected arrival days before, Eric had engaged him in friendly negotiation over rates and room upgrades. As we extended our stay he extended the re-negotiation by insisting we had it over a morning tea. He seemed genuinely sad to see us depart and as we were saying our goodbyes he posed the pivotal question regarding the route decision (which we had still not taken!), ”You are here in Africa on a great adventure, so which is the route you will regret most not taking”? That was enough to put us on the track as soon as we found a station in Victoria Falls that also still had some diesel.

Within 10kms of leaving Vic Falls along the main road to Harare, which we would travel on for 100km before turning off towards Binga, we ran into our first infamous police check point, which consisted of a few shabby looking police officials standing around a some battered barrels of a makeshift barricade. We had been warned that the premise of these checkpoints was to find some fault in the vehicle or travel papers from which they could extort a few dollars in “fines”. Having failed to find anything wrong with our car the sergeant in charge soon declared that we had failed to stop at the “stop sign”, which we had let the front of the car pass by a wheel length, and that this infringement of the Road Traffic Law 61 would mean an on the spot fine of 20 USD. A debate ensued with us delicately balancing firmness with deference and humour. The threat of us refusing to obey the law raised the gambit at which Eric retorted that he would have to call his friend Mr. Mzembi, the Minister of Tourism in Harare, who would not be happy with how we are being treated. With this a look of increasing consternation passed the sergeant’s face and with prospect of sufficient hassle he through reluctantly waved us through. Within the next 90km we ran into four more check points and at each we had to go through a similar procedure with the reason for the fine becoming ever more inventive; “sticker for the vehicle weight incorrectly displayed” and “luggage on the back passenger seat”. Our fictitious relationship with the Minister of Tourism allowed us to pass without paying any fines and the game soon ended when we turned off to the track roads. What was an annoying game to us however is actually a serious concern for many Zimbabweans. Locals we spoke to explained that the police are authorized to do this as a way for them to supplement the low salaries that the government invariably fails to pay and that the threats and punishments can be harsh with children even being removed from the parents’ cars until fines are paid. It also shines a glaring light on the surface of the depth of corruption and gaping void in law and order that blights the country.

We overnighted close to Binga with “KP” who lived on the shores of Lake Kariba and whom we had been introduced to from a friend in Vic Falls. The thickly set, yet gently spoken KP is a second generation white Zimbabwean and his story is reflected across the country. His father emigrated there in the late 1930s from Europe when, then Southern Rhodesia, was experiencing an economic boom driven by agriculture, mining and forestry. Soon to be known as the “bread basket” of Africa thousands of white owned farms exported huge quantities of maize, sugar, vegetables, beef and tobacco from its fertile lands. After the war foreign investment continued to pour in. However, like most of Southern Africa it was a white owned and white led boom. The rightful fight for greater black political participation and cutting the chains of a colonial past led to independence but also conflict in the 70/80s. With the background of the Cold War being fought out by proxy during these years in Africa the increasing turmoil led to the defacto dictatorship of Robert Mugabe who still remains in power at the age of 92. His image (of a younger man) hangs in every office and building (with government officials even checking compliance of this). And it was Mugabe who received the vitriol and bottled anger of this kind man as he spoke to us of his life over dinner. His parents lost everything they had built up in the “Land Reforms” of the 1990s and what little savings they had left were destroyed with the hyperinflation of the 2000s when prices of goods were doubling every two days. The Zimbabwean currency within a year was obliterated (after bank notes were being reprinted with denomination in the billions) and was replaced entirely by the USD. His parents eventually emigrated back to Europe, broken hearted, and died soon after. KPs siblings emigrated to Australia, or as with many Zimbabwean whites left for the relative stability of Zambia, but KP stubbornly remained declaring that this land is his home. As we traveled through the country and spoke to others, black and white, it is clear that Mugabe and his cronies have hung on to power with the classic mix of terror, fear and the timely elimination of any emerging opposition and whilst they have stolen billions from the people, with criminal incompetence, they have wrecked the economy. Outside of Victoria Falls there is no cash in the economy (and no credit cards either). With the USD being the defacto currency, the inability to bring in foreign capital and hard currency is crippling basic services. There is no liquidity. Few banks have any cash and the ones that do limit a daily withdrawal to 40 USD per person. A situation that later eventually led to us being stranded in no-mans-land at the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe unable to pay the customs fees required in hard currency. The utter mismanagement of the economy has now even led to members of Mugabe’s regime to call for change and so KP and everyone else we spoke to look anxiously and with hope into 2018 when new elections are expected and to the failing health of Mugabe and to the emergence of credible opposition.

We left KP after a coffee at sunrise over Lake Kariba and immediately set off on the long off-road route which KP had confidently reassured us would not be a challenge for our V8 Land Cruiser (fitted with military grade extra rugged off road tires). It was a long slog over rocky, sandy and gravelled tracks, with steep sections that had been washed through by the rains, passing through or by the occasional Batonga settlement, which consisted mostly of a tight grouping of single roomed round mud walled dwellings with coned thatch wood/grass roofs. The dry roofs, sticking up just above the thick green bush or fields of maize that surrounded the settlements gleamed with almost metallic silver under the midday sun. The children who lived close to the track and who heard the throaty rumble of our engine came running out to stare with curiosity at the obvious novelty of our passing. The outstretched hand, open mouth and distended stomach of many is evidence of the hard life they have to endure. We gave one young couple, who were walking in the middle of nowhere, a lift 60km down the track we travelled to a district health clinic of sort. Communication was difficult as they spoke no English and our Batonga was non-existent but our help was gratefully accepted although the young girl looked at Eric with fear in her eyes when he put on Simon & Garfunkel and tried repeatedly to get us all to sing “Under African Skies” together! Monika’s usually impressive linguistic skills could not bridge the divide as our guide book only consisted of the dominant tribal language in Zimbabwe, Shona, also indicating how marginalized these people have become.

After 12 hours of bone rattling slow going and crossing the intact bridge across the Sanyanti River that feeds into Lake Kariba we decided to put up camp at a remote little community “rest stop”. Here we met Merrick, the caretaker of this plot of land on the banks of the river that offers nothing other than a well with a pump, a rather dilapidated building to sleep in if required and a fire pit. Since 1992 Merrick has lived here taking – for the community – a couple of dollars off anyone who wants to camp there. He welcomed us warmly with a big smile that displayed decaying broken teeth and clear bright eyes that signaled his excitement at having us pull over. He proudly displayed his visitors’ book, which showed the trickle of European over-landers who use the route in the dry season and the Zimbabwean and South African hunters who use it on way to the hunting concessions that lie south of Kariba. Merrick, who spoke good English, was so full of warmth and humility that over the evening and following morning we became friends. He lives, as with most of the Batonga, on a diet which consists almost exclusively of maize or a derivative of it. His eyes shone like stars when we gave him the fresh plums and tomatoes we bought in Vic Falls. When he does not have guests (often for weeks at a time) he handcrafts wooden goods under the shade of his simple shelter. His wife and four children, whom he spoke of with love and affection, live in his village, which was over 30kms away. He sees them mostly when they come to visit him, as he does not want to leave the rest camp in case of visitors. He saved enough money to own a few goats (each one costs around $25) and cows, whose milk help to feed his family. With almost a haunting unease we thought of his life over the past 25 years and his daily routine. The enormity of the contrast of his life experience with ours was disturbing and unsettling in many ways. It raised a stream of metaphysical/spiritual questions on how the hands of fate are dealt out by the gods. The following morning we detoured off our intended route to drive Merrick to a small village to buy some provisions (otherwise he would have had to walk the 14km) and there we had another warm interaction with the locals. We carry a small instant Polaroid camera for these specific occasions and interactions. The novelty of being able to take a picture together and print it out and leave it with those we meet transcends the language barrier and always results in laughter and thanks. The children invariably prefer the Ginger biscuits that we have stockpiled in the truck for them.

So it was that we returned Merrick back to his rest camp and with a long warm departing embrace tears welled in all our eyes. It’s difficult to describe with words an emotion so rich and as complex as this, it takes of hold you so unawares. When you can look into the eyes of another human being, whom you’ve only met for a short while and suddenly feel a deep sense of something almost sacred in your shared humanity, when all the noble emotions of compassion, honesty, love, gratitude and friendship look back at you from the eyes of the other.

Hours later we pulled off the track at Karoi, a route that despite the warning presented no great challenge, and found ourselves on the heavy truck filled main trunk road to Kariba where we would meet our guides the following day and set off for a few days and nights canoeing down a section of the mighty African Zambezi River (update on this to come later…)

In glaring contrast to our interaction with Merrick, in Kariba we met a white Zimbabwean local family. They also warmly welcomed us and quickly shared the sentiments expressed by KP and others about Mugabe, but their bitterness carried an infective full of distaste not only for Mugabe but also for a far broader community and lamenting the time white rule ended. The blame and fear they felt was palpable. The elderly father and mother (grandparents to thirteen children) expressed sentiments, shared by their grown children, that quickly made us feel uncomfortable. Almost bizarrely and with a good deal surrealism, as we sat in this humid corner of Africa, they expressed hope in a future with Donald Trump at the helm of the USA. Somehow they feel Trump will bring positive change for them in Zimbabwe, “a return to the past”. Looking at and listening to this disgruntled family, simmering with bitterness, it struck us that this could be eerily similar to the voices and emotions expressed by some families of the Southern USA who also voted for Trump. With an increasingly awkwardness we politely took our leave, cheered up our spirits by talking of our friend Merrick and prepared to leave for our canoeing adventure down the Zambezi River.

 

One of the classic Southern African off road routes is the 400kms through the northern bush of Botswana from the gateway town of Maun across the wildlife-rich Moremi and Chobe National Parks and into the small riverside town of Kasane. It traverses the eastern edge of the largest inland delta in the world, the Okovango Delta, where lion, cheetah, leopard and African wild dog share the floodplains with herds of elephant, impala and buffalo. Hippos and crocodiles inhabit the deeper channels and lagoons. Tall termite mounds are homes for families of dwarf mongoose and the mighty African Boabab trees stand guardian over the thick forests that rise up in Chobe. This is Africa at its most primordial.

Although dotted with luxury safari lodges it’s possible, with the right permits, to make this trip alone as an independent overlander in a well-equipped 4×4, camping out in a few areas without the sanctuary offered by the lodges. The sandy tracks made by the 4×4 safari vehicles from the lodges allow a huge area to be self-explored. In the dry winter months of June to October, the high season, these few permits are booked up months and sometimes years in advance. In the wetter summer months the going is tougher, tracks become impassable as the marshlands swell with the floodwaters from the rains as far off as Angola, and fewer independent travelers venture into the interior. Campfire stories of vehicles being swallowed up by mud and stranded overlanders disappearing as they abandon their vehicles and set off on foot in a vain search of help add to the mystical allure.

This route was firmly on our plans, regardless of the season, but it looked very unlikely ever to happen for us as Botswana and much of Southern Central Africa have received more annual rainfall than anytime in the last 10 years during Jan and Feb. In Namibia, as we headed towards Botswana, we crossed some overlanders who where leaving Botswana behind having been warned off from making the trip in Maun. Much of Moremi has been closed off, however, after spending plenty of time in Maun talking with locals about possible routes through the drying conditions, things sounded increasingly more favorable. So after getting the permits from a remarkably confusing official at the Department of Wildlife, filling up the reserve jerry cans with diesel, restocking supplies, double checking the sat phone worked and Eric practicing in a car park how to use a high lift jack in case we needed to change wheels in the middle of the bush with prowling predators around, we set off with a healthy degree of excitement but also nervous apprehension.

The next few days and nights (and we write this with a sense of relieved disappointment) went by without the challenges we had expected. The routes were more navigable and the going far better than expected (although the detailed detours that we got from the few locals we met on route certainly kept us from getting stuck on a number of occasions). Well practiced now at first wading into a murky water crossing to check the depth of the water and soil conditions before driving through, or more precisely Eric wading in as Monika kept a watchful eye out from the safety of the cab for any predators, the powerful torque of the high wheel base Land Cruiser cut through the water, mud and sand with confidence.

After so much rain the bush and forest of Chobe was thick and dense and the grasses of the plains and marsh so tall that wildlife viewing was expectedly but unfortunately limited at best. That was the downside; the upside was we felt all alone in this vast wilderness. We did not catch a sighting of the famed prides of lions that inhabit the area, although one night camping by ourselves the roar of an adult male lion only meters from our tent reverberated through the humid night air and the huge paw prints on the track let us know they were watching us even if we could not see them!   We often crossed paths with the mighty elephants as we tried to keep a wary distance of each other and the giraffes peered over the tree tops to gaze lazily at while we trundled by. As we were being tormented by insects one night the laughing of the Hyenas reminded us that we were the visitors in their land.

Having heard reports of a leopard with cubs close by we set out one evening at sunset to find her but despite Eric’s confidence in his newly honed track finding skills all we came across was the ubiquitous impala. We may have to wait until Tanzania and some more experienced rangers for us to see our big cats!

So without the wildlife viewing to detain us and having no significant obstacles on the off road route to delay us we crossed the border earlier than expected into Zimbabwe. We’d heard plenty of reports of difficulties trying to get a vehicle through these borders and of the requirement to “help the process” along by greasing the wheels of bureaucracy with “incentives”. To our welcome surprise the Zimbabwean custom officials were overwhelmingly helpful and friendly. With a characteristic laid-back ease they welcomed us in as if we were long departed friends. Having spent so many years enduring the aggressive interrogation of the US Customs and Homeland Security officials at JFK or SFO airports we thought perhaps there is an opportunity here for some cross-cultural exchange initiatives.

And so it is that we arrived into Victoria Falls and took up residence for a few days at the delightful old colonial hotel of the same name that overlooks the mighty falls. Given the rains mentioned above, the Zambezi river with it’s huge catchment area, is thundering over this remarkable geological fault. Walking along the opposite edge of the Falls earlier, through a micro-rain forest created by the spray that forms towering clouds in it’s own ecosystem, was simply breath-taking. The commercialism that has sprung up around this natural wonder dissolves into the background as your attention is utterly captivated by the sheer immensity and raw power of nature on display. When David Livingstone first came upon these falls on his epic African exploration in 1855 he lyrically remarked “Scenes so lovely must have been gazed upon by angles in their flight” and with this in mind, we joined the brigades of tourists we so desperately do our best to avoid and hired a helicopter to give us the very view of the angels.

In addition, it was with some embarrassment that Eric joined Monika on her attempt to overcome her vertigo by bungee jumping from the famous Victoria Falls Bridge that spams the chasm of the gorge.

There is a danger for a traveller to be rather cocooned from understanding the reality of life for most Africans. Be it from traveling through the corridors of relative prosperity created by the tourism industry or camping out in the remote areas of wilderness one can easily miss the contact and conversation with the locals that reveal the daily struggles of African life. To overcome this we try to bridge that by engaging in as many conversations with the locals as possible as we park up or 4×4 in their villages. One small example and striking aspect of life that we are so fortunate and often take for granted is access to and relative affordability of medical care. A simple story that reflects this of “Monty” a 28 year mother of three who is also working to support her parents and her four sisters. Only after many hours of chatting and with us asking about her health did she reveal that she is often unable to eat or drink and is tormented by bouts of unbearable pain due to the condition of tonsillitis that she cannot get treated. She simply cannot afford to travel to see a specialist let alone an operation or the medication required to heal a condition that for many of us was a simple visit to our local hospital as children. She is only given two sick days off from work a year and if she exceeds that she risks to loose the job and income that is so vital to her family. It’s a story shared by many.

After almost 4000kms of continuous off road behind us we now are considering taking a far easier potholed but tarmacked route across southern Zambia as we transition around Lake Kariba to the more remote lower Zambezi River where we will set off for a few days and nights canoeing downstream and camping out on it’s shores. Hippo and crocodile are in abundance so we are prudently organizing a local guide. From there we will move into Malawi and start heading north up through Tanzania.

It’s proving tougher to keep this blog updated that we originally thought! After well over another week off the grid, overcoming new challenges, seeking out new experiences and tentatively trying to take routes off the well beaten path there never seems to be much down time to write let alone get an internet connection to send an update.

We are now in Maun, Botswana and soon to set off on what may prove to be our biggest 4×4 challenge yet as we will try to take the off road route across the flooded pans of Moremi and Chobe National Parks to arrive in Kasane in a few days time. Warnings abound with the risks of overland travel right now in this region due to the conditions following the rains and floods but we’ve spoken with enough people to feel confident we can make this classic route. The ease with us getting the permit however shows that few independents are currently doing this leg. So it’s with nervous excitement and a good sense of trepidation that we restock supplies, fill the reserve jerry cans with diesel and set off for the 400km of off road that will prove to be slow going through mud and sand. The confidence comes from what we’ve seen this Land Cruiser plough through in Northern Namibia and also that the going is never quite as tough as we’ve been warned!

A prudent flexibility to alter ones plans, based on changing conditions, is undoubtedly a requirement for successful independent overland travel through the heart of Africa but you need to balance that in equal measure with a gritted determination to go where you want to go and then buttress that with a self-confidence that you can push through the barriers (real or imagined) that develop along the way. Without tilting this balance the temptation is to take the path with least resistance and that will put you on the “well-trodden” one that we usually and intentionally want to avoid.

Once you are off the beaten path you’ve already made an “irrational decision” by most people’s standards and gauging the relative “rationality” of choices after this can be a rather nebulous affair.   This also makes accessing the information you gather on route about conditions from locals or the few similar travellers you may meet an inexact science. People, including ourselves, provide information through the filter of our own judgment and experience which means “reality” is always refactored through that changing lens. Simply put, things are never quite as bad or as good as you are told.

We could write so much about the experiences we have been fortunate enough to share on the last leg of our journey since the last update as the landscapes which defined our first stretch gave way to the peoples that defined our second. We pushed through the flooded rivers of the Damaraland, seeing the remarkable thousands of year old rock engravings and paintings that were left as an record of early man, as we headed up to the far North of Namibia and to the Angolan border where we spent some time with traditional Himba pastoral communities who stubbornly defy modernity across this rugged and remote land. The women, naked except for a goat skinned skirt, caked from head to toe in a deep-red ochre clay (red stone ground to a powder mixed with fat) look like spectral figures. Elaborate headdresses and jewellery further enhance their striking appearance. Entering their small villages, typically made up of a dozen or so mud and thatch huts, is like stepping back into a time warp so medieval is the assault on the senses. The cattle are closely guarded within the wooden fence of the village and the peoples’ lives revolve around them. Through a cascading series of connections we found ourselves invited to the funeral of a Chief’s young son who had died recently of an illness. It was an uncomfortable honour to be able to attend this somber affair but provided a powerful insight into their culture. We could write an entire update on the impressions of this one day, the universal human emotions of grief, the powerful grip the belief in witch craft still has over large parts of Africa, the stunning aesthetics of the young Himba warriors and their mohawk hair style, the tight bounds of community and family, the incredibly deep cultural contrast of our Western morality with a community whose men openly share wives and the fathering of children etc.

In Opuwo, a dusty cross roads frontier town in Kaokoaland the the Himba come to trade what little they have for whatever modernity has to offer them and here they mix with the Herero women in

brightly coloured long flowing Victorian gowns and head dresses, a legacy of the early missionaries who were appalled by the semi-nakedness and convinced them to where more the European style of clothing.

Alas it is the factor of “time” that proves to be our accompanying guest and it hangs over us most days reminding us that we have to always move on if we are to make progress across this vast continent. So it was that we headed back away from the Angolan border South East passing through Etosha National Park were we slept with the trumpeting of Elephants and avoided the many small herds of giraffes, zebra, wildebeest and antelope that we came across.   Leaving Namibia, we choose to take a remote track through the western Kalahari, much more green than it’s desert name would suggest, across sandy roads as our gateway to Botswana because this route would allow us to experience the indigenous San community who are the last of the hunter-gatherers of Western Africa. A brief stay with one community was a fascinating experience and the warmth with which they opened up their life to us, taking us on a walk into the bush where they showed us the plants that provide their medicine, the roots for their food or even poison for their arrows they use when hunting etc. Once again you could feel an ancient connection to our past slipping away under the relentless tide of modernity. It was tempting to take up their elder’s offer of living with them in their village for a few weeks and we seriously debated this as an alternative to our end goal of arriving in Nairobi, but, we decided to push on and crossed the remote border post of Dobe (only two or three vehicles a day pass through) into Botswana. Arriving into Maun we had a hectic afternoon organizing the Land Cruiser to be taken in for repairs (rear suspension needed work) and booking ourselves into a private lodge in the Okovanga Delta for a few days well deserved slice of luxury. A small private plane flew us in to the water logged delta and recharged we arrived yesterday back into Maun and prepare now to set out off road to Kasane.

Finally, after a week, a wifi connection that allows an update. You may want to grab a coffee before starting!

Tough thing in this post is to capture and condense so many of the impressions we’ve experienced in just the last week. Namibia is a vast land; its deserts are seemingly endless. With a population of only 2.4m, in a country that is twice the size as Germany, these impressions have been almost exclusively limited to its unique natural environment, as we’ve hardly seen any of its population. The few we have encountered have been warm and welcoming and displayed a lively wit and humour.

It is very unique part of our planet. Almost the entire west of Namibia is the Namib, the oldest desert on earth, with immense sand dunes (towering like Alpine peaks) as it buttresses against the ethereal Kalahari that stretches eastward relentlessly with its’ gravel and rocky plains. At first glance this is an unforgiving place and it took a day with a native Bushman to help us see it with new eyes. It is home to a complex ecosystem that supports an immense array of wildlife. “Alfred”, our Bushman guide, lifted a veil, which gave us a glimpse of this hidden world. Beatles, spiders, scorpions, moles, raptors, foxes, jackals are all instrumental in giving life to these deserts. Only a fine mist that lightly settles at night across the desert brings the minuscule amount of water needed to support life and rains that come every five years. It’s miraculous. However, in a sad twist of irony it is not the existence of these creatures that is threatened in the harsh place, but that of Alfred and his people. The Bushman were the natives of these lands, rock paintings dating back 20,000 years attest to that, and a part of this ecosytem. Yet, like the natives of North America or Aborigines of Australia they were “resettled” by the arrogance of the white man. Alfred spoke with tears about the passing of his people’s connection to this mystical place.

It’s not all flat endless plains or sand dunes however; the Fish River Canyon is almost equal in wonder to the Grand Canyon in the US. The Namib Nakluft mountains gave us the welcome opportunity to get in a long trail run amongst it’s acacia wooded and rocky flanks. Camping alone over night in these mountains with their refreshingly cooler air, under a canopy of bright African stars, with the flames of our camp fire dancing off the red rocked ravine walls gave us that deeply satisfying feeling that swells within you at moments like this, “ah, this is what it is all about”.

We’ve found our rhythm setting up our camp, sleeping in our tent which folds out from the roof of our truck, giving us a sense of unmatched independence and freedom but it was a welcome relief to spend two nights at the “luxuriously” unique Wolwedans Dune Camp (thanks for the recommendation Raphael Curiger), which resembled that classic “Out of Africa” experience. If you ever come through Namibia it’s a must. As one Africa’s largest private concessions it is fascinating to see how they are taking a leading role in developing conservational thinking in Africa. It’s also inspiring to see how the vision of one man can have such a positive impact on an areas of our planet’s delicate environment within one generation.

In truth, like all adventures those highlights are born from challenges overcome. It’s not been all plain sailing.   2000kms over rough dirt tracks has meant many hours sitting in the cab of a hot, dusty and rough Land Cruiser. That’s tough for two normally very active people. It’s tougher when the GPS broke and Monika was forced to navigate (she’s learning to read maps and the points of a compass) as her off road driving skills were limited by the unusual but frequent habit of confusing third gear with reverse! Or when Eric does not listen and reverses into the only tree for miles around and then blames it on Monika for not shouting a warning louder. Frustration often gives way to roaring laughter however, like when Eric adamantly dismissed the advice of a local to let pressure out of the tires in order to cross a deep sandy stretch, and under the amused gaze of the local got stuck within 25m. It’s humbling, under these circumstances, to ask for help from the very person (the only person around for 100km) who’s advice you have just dismissed!

Humbling. It’s a good word. If we had to summarize this first week the external experiences were met in equal weighting with the richness of the internal experience. Each day, if you are prepared to observe yourself, you have the platform to learn as much about oneself as the world that is unfolding around us.

Now leaving Swakopmund, a vibey little town, where a German community has hung on stubbornly to its colonial heritage (Namibia was once a German colony until it lost its’ empire after WW1). After five generations, and nearly one hundred years of British and South African administrations, perfect “Hoch Deutsch” is still widely spoken and the main buildings of the town, built during 1900 to 1914 would look more at home in Heidelberg. Swakopmund feels on the edge of the earth and you can’t but be impressed by the colorful characters who built this place and who still come here drawn by a sense of free spirit (it has a growing population – including Namibians, South African and Germans). It sits on the Namibian coast, surrounded by the great Namib desert on one side and the rough seas of Atlantic on the other. The cooling and upwelling of the powerful Benguela current that flows from Antarctica up the coast of Southern Africa bringing moisture laden winds up the west cast which, together with atmospheric factors, prevent rain from falling on the Namib and acts as an air conditioning for the town. This powerful current us give the coastline its infamous name – The Skeleton Coast. Before modern navigation techniques were developed this coast was a death trap to the sailors and whalers who ventured through its waters and wrecks still rust away on its shores.

We are heading up the Skeleton Coast before turning north east and inland into Northern Namibia and across to Botswana into another changing landscape. We’ve used Swakomund as a base for a couple of days to plan our next section and replenish supplies. Reports of heavy flash flooding and impassable rivers are causing us to adapt our route (we had hoped to go up towards Angola). Our timing for this trip was always hostage to the end of the rainy season as we enter South/Central Africa. It’s also allowed us to get the Land Cruiser welded up (that damn tree!) – and a huge thank you for that goes to Stefan Bauer, an adventurous local and talented auto mechanic, who sacrificed his Saturday morning to repair our “Vervet (not Velvet) Monkey” Land Cruiser. We also used the time to stretch our legs with some fun “Fat Bike” biking over the desert sand dunes and early morning runs along the beach. So freshly recuperated, we head off on our trek Northerly trek onwards towards Nairobi, which despite over 2500km already travelled seems a long way off right now!

A quick update to finally get this blog off the ground as we soon cross the border into Namibia!  In the early morning of arriving into Cape Town on Wednesday 1st March we were collected by Carel Pienaar, who’s been our contact man in SA for this trip, as he handed over the 4×4 Toyota Land Cruiser (named Velvet Monkey) that’s going to (hopefully) carry us through borders and “bush” onto Nairobi.  We spent the day on a rough 4×4 off road course outside Cape Town. Getting the feel for what this work horse of a truck can handle and going through a briefing on the vehicle mechanics and maintenance that will be needed to get it through the beating it will take on some of the more gnarly routes we have planned. After an equipment check for all the camping gear, tools, GPS, Sat phone, papers required for border crossings etc. we were in our hotel in Cape Town for the evening.  After some last minute gear purchases (including the much needed “camping coffee press”!) we spent the following day with our inspirational friend from Ibiza, Valentino Barrioseta.  Valentino, a veteran of Ibiza’s music scene and experienced  marketeer, came on a visit to South Africa in 2010 and was so moved by the challenges that the youth faced in the tough townships that he resolved to make a difference.  Combining his experience and passion for the transforming power for music with an ambitious vision he created the non-profit org “Bridges for Music”, aimed at responsible development of electronic music in developing countries, leaving a positive impact in disadvantaged communities and raising awareness about local issues through music.

https://www.youtube.com/user/bridgesformusic  In the Langa Township in Cape Town, which we visited with Valentino, this vision is transforming the community with Bridges for Music building a school for entrepreneurship and music production, providing educational scholarships for kids who graduate high school and a centre to give the kids a tight bond of community outside of the streets and gangs of the township.  On Friday the 3rd we left Cape Town via the beautiful vineyards of Somerset West/Stellenbosch where we enjoyed a lovely lunch with our family friends, Russ and Anja, who have lived out here under the SA sun for 15 years. Russ gave us some appropriate reading for this trip, the autobiography by the famous contemporary explorer Ranulph Fiennes “Fear: Our Ultimate Challenge” – as thoughts of our 4×4 breaking down in the middle of the Kalahari with Eric staring blankly at the engine has crossed our minds!  Our first night stop off was in the cute coastal town of Paternoster, followed by a long drive up to the frontier mining town of Springbok as we eagerly want to get into Namibia and expect to cross today……

BTW – if you go to the contact page I think you can sign up for an email update every time we post…

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’ asked Alice
‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.
‘I don’t much care where -‘ said Alice.
‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.
‘- so long as I get SOMEWHERE,’ Alice added as an explanation.
‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only go long enough.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland