The Garden Route, South Africa

After nearly three years in South Africa, it seemed high time I do the Garden Route, a length of road stretching from Mossel Bay to Tsistsikama national park in the Eastern Cape. It’s South Africa’s answer to the California coastal highway or Australia’s Great Ocean Road – gorgeous ocean views on one side of the road, rainforests lining the other. The air feels much fresher down this way and it reminds me how the Vancouverite in me really misses forests.

Our first stop was Mossel Bay, which was… uh…pretty average. It’s on the map because back in the 1400s it was the first place Vasco de Gama, a name you might remember from high school history class, attempted to build a settlement.  There’s a museum complex with remodelled galleon, a few artefacts and a boot statue in the location of South Africa’s very first 15^th century post box which took the form of an old leather boot. The town itself is blue collar and industrial - all in all, not terribly exciting or nice. Half a day sufficing, we drove onwards to Knysna, stopping at little beach hamlets along the way to dip our toes in the very cold Indian Ocean.

Knysna is infinitely nicer and definitely has the feel of an upscale holiday town. The area is comprised of quaint wooden guest houses, many of which dot the forested hillside like little jewels. Here we ate fresh seafood, engaged in some W+ style shopping (me, not Johannes), and checked out the surrounding wildlife parks. There’s an incredible exotic bird sanctuary just outside town with some of the most spectacular - and bizarre - species I have ever seen. There’s also a monkey park, home to many furry, cheeky primates who reminded me of various people I know. My absolute stand out favourite however was the wild elephant sanctuary where orphaned elephants rescued from Chobe in Botswana and Kruger are cared for until old enough for re-release into the wild. Being fanatical about elephants, I decided to spend a small fortune on the opportunity to take one for a walk. Thus I was soon introduced to Miss Thandi, a friendly teenager with long eyelashes and a lot of attitude. Despite the pouring rain, she placed the tip of her trunk in my hand and off we went on a ramble through the woods. Not surprisingly she was a fast walker so I had to hustle to keep pace. She must have thought I was cold because about halfway along she sucked my hand right up inside her trunk. In case you have ever wondered, it’s hot and very steamy in there. At the end of the walk I was able to play with her a little (she tucked my head behind her giant ear), and feed her – once again, my hand was sucked up her trunk like a vacuum. Despite the horrible weather it was a pretty special experience - and yes, wearing a garbage bag as a raincoat was also special but in a different kind of way. Anyway, I really hope there is a particularly gruesome place in hell for the poachers who kill the parents of these elephants and the poor near-extinct rhinos. If there was ever a cause I would encourage people to get behind, it is the flight against illegal poaching.

We really enjoyed our seaside time around Knysna and Plettenburg Bay but decided to check out some alternate scenery for the drive home so we headed inland for the Karoo, South Africa’s desert, and the famous Route 62 drive. First stop was Oudtshoorn, an old Afrikaaner outpost and home to the Cango Caves. I have seen a lot of caves on my globe trekkings and didn`t expect to be impressed. The reality:  I was totally blown away! Imagine kilometres of underground caverns housing the most incredible rock formations. No words, or at least none that I possess, can express how truly mind blowing these caves are.

What other fun did I find traversing the Karoo? Oh, just a little ostrich riding! We stopped at a dusty old ostrich ranch so that I could tick off one more animal experience from my to-do list. Was it one of my prouder moments? No. Was it hysterically fun but kind of terrifying at the same time? Yes! Johannes, out of a mix of fear and pride declined to join me. There were some hazards - for instance apparently ostriches can kill you with their crazy clawed toes. Also, you look ridiculous while riding one. Undaunted by his warnings I, with the help of two assistants, climbed on the back of a very frisky bird with a burlap sack over its head. My legs were tucked under two large, fluffy wings, and my hands were placed at their base. To stay on you must lean back as far as you can and then hold on for dear life. Their back is domed and therefore not that conducive to riding, kind of like how on one humped camels you feel perpetually poised to topple off. Needless to say, once the sack comes off all hell breaks loose and the ostrich goes crazy. I clung on as best I could but lasted only a few minutes before not so gracefully flying off. How was it? Like an African bird rodeo. Would I do it again? Probably not, but it was hysterical while it lasted.

I love the Karoo so much. The rest of the drive wound hundreds of kilometres through lunaresque desert surroundings speckled by the occasional tiny dorpie and sprawling ranches. The landscape, especially the flat top mountains, is spectacular, and frankly the remote feeling of being so far from civilization is really satisfying.

Addis Ababa: Capital of Ethiopia

Addis Ababa is a sprawling African metropolis much more affluent then what you generally find on this continent. It’s still dangerous enough – armed guards are stationed by ATMs and people live behind huge fences. I stayed at a backpackers in Bole, a very international and therefore moderately safe neighbourhood. I also managed to befriend a taxi driver, owner of a seriously pimped out Lada, through his fierce feminist of a sister on my ride in from the airport. He agreed to be my driver for a few days and thanks to her many threats, took good care of me.

Being in a big city I decided to engage in some shopping and checked out a few of the massive street markets, though avoided the famous Mercato because it sounded terrifying. Ethiopia is famous for its woven cotton so I splurged on fabrics for our house, as well as some black baby Jesus paintings (after all, where else in the world do you see that?). It is also known for its music industry and so cds featuring exotic, almost Arabic music make for a good buy. Despite the urban setting I was still passed by flocks of sheep in the cbd, which mystified me – where on earth do they sleep at night? How do you herd your sheep in one of Africa's biggest cities? Everywhere we stopped in traffic – and boy are there some crazy traffic jams – we were besieged by beggars squashing their babies against the car windows.

Plastered everywhere, and I mean everywhere, are giant posters of the recently deceased President with tearful epithets. Apparently he was a hero to Ethiopians. Anyway, it is quite a political city, full of government buildings, the AU headquarters, a massive US embassy, and a beautiful university. It is also home to a couple of famous churches, including the massive Holy Trinity Cathedral where the priest tried to rip me off by demanding money to take photos (this was not for any charity, this was for his pocket). I said no and took photos anyway as next to leering, trying to scam money from tourists appears to be the second biggest male pastime, holy figures included. The other church is the cathedral built by Emperor Haile Selassie, icon to Rastafarians the world over.

Selassie’s church is surrounded (maybe besieged is more appropriate) by deformed, aggressive beggars, similar to what one finds in the old city of Jerusalem. One must constantly and vigilantly watch over belongings here. I decided I wanted to see the inside of the church, but alas my driver was not allowed to come with and it was required that I go inside with a special guide – another deacon. Oh boy I though, here we go again. Despite being a massive church, it was deserted inside except for a lone priest. Although I had to pay for my ticket and the guide, the priest also held out his hand demanding money. I gave him a little to get him off my case, and in return he gave me a leer. My guide proceeded to take me through the church, showing me Selassie’s various belongings and paintings depicting his ‘heroic’ deeds, especially again the Italians. We eventually reached the back where his marble sarcophagus lies. I had just started taking photos when all of a sudden my holy deacon-guide shoved me up against the sarcophagus and pinned my arms down by my sides, trying to force himself on me. I started yelling, not that the old priest cared, and shoving him as hard as I could. Luckily, I was able to fight him off but was terrified and so, so shaken by the incident. I ran for the exit and he chased after me saying “Oh, I can tell now you are a good woman” (let me guess – all white women are assumed bad!?). I grabbed my shoes and hurried back outside to find my driver. When he arrived I told him what happened and he immediately went to the administration and told them. A group of men went out hunting for the pervert, I mean deacon – he had obviously disappeared as well as he could but they found him and dragged him back. A giant circle formed around us and much accusatory yelling in Ahmeric ensued. He denied everything, calling me a liar while the crowd insisted he apologize. He kept refusing, saying “I’m sorry for the thing you think I did but I didn’t really do’- it was absolutely killing him to have to eat it from a white woman. I called him a liar (and many bad other things) and loudly pointed out that I certainly wouldn’t make up a lie like that about the likes of his scrawny ass. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, he said sorry.  I found the whole experience doubly terrifying because there was talk of calling the police and I did not want to get involved in a police incident in a country like this. Plus I was detained while they hunted for him and then had to watch while accusations flew in a language I can`t even begin to understand. Basically I just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

I was so glad it was the second last day of my trip. I was also doubly glad that I made friends with a friendly American from San Francisco at the backpackers and so had someone to spend evenings chatting with, and who already know the good local restaurants – as well as to provide male company to walk the streets with at night so I could feel safe. He also introduced me to the local beer, Saint George`s. You know you’re in a religious country when ever the beer is named after a saint. I was also lucky enough to make it to the last day of my trip before having my stomach beset by the famous Ethiopian tummy troubles, ironically caught from food at the local Korean restaurant.

One more piece of luck - I flew back to Cape Town on the new Boeing Dreamliner, which was a treat. I am excited for the future of planes if they will all be modelled on this. I did later hear that Dreamliners developed a tendency to burst into fire mid-air, so am glad my flight was uneventful. When I arrived home, flea bitten and filthy, I was immediately thrown into the shower by my relieved yet vaguely disgusted boyfriend (was it the baby dreads, the flea bites or the lack of bathing I wonder?). The paranoid bugger also immediately loaded my entire suitcase contents directly into the washing machine. I am happy to announce that no fleas made it back to Cape Town, and our house remains a flea free zone.

Ethiopia Stop #2: Gondar

My next destination was Gondar, a 17^th century city littered with ruins of Italian castles. I hopped aboard another Ethiopian Airlines turbo prop for the 300 km flight and was seated beside a white robed shaman who swatted at me with what looked like a short broom covered with long animal hair for the duration of the flight. Luckily it was a short hop and the view from the window of Lake Tana and the mud brown Blue Nile provided distraction. From the air it almost looked like a greener Grand Canyon lay below.

Gondar itself is a pretty, peaceful little city built around the ruins of a huge royal enclosure. It almost looks European, except for the tuktuks and donkey carts that dominate city traffic. In the mornings kids walk along the roads wearing brightly coloured school uniforms alongside elderly priests who generally stared at me with great suspicion. Even in the middle of the city herders cruise along with their flocks of sheep or cows in tow. Apart from the historic castles, I certainly wouldn’t come for the other Italian architecture that is so praised on travel sites – unless you like mid 20^th century concrete blocks. Gondar is located in a very lush region that for some reason reminded me of Taipa in Macau, with the same twittering rainbow songbirds and rolling golden hills. The people dress very colourfully – it’s a blend between traditional peasant garb, priestly attire and tattered western wear. The women are quite beautiful, slim with light skin and stunning bone structure. In fact everyone is slim because as it turns out, running marathons up mountain sides is a national pastime that starts in childhood. That would explain all the Olympic gold medals in distance running.

I again hired a guide – luckily this time apart from staring he was quite polite. He drove me to a famous church called Debre Birhan Selassie, in such a gorgeous location that I had to spend hours exploring the surroundings. Inside the ceiling was painted with the heads of people burning in hell’s fires and this time the priest was interesting and chatty. I also explored the various Italian palace ruins including Fasilides Castle and baths, Mentaub’s Palace and Iyasu Palace.

I also spent a lot of time people watching as my hotel was located in a lively old part of town and I was able to talk to many locals and even make some friends. This hotel didn’t have fleas (a miracle!), but the bathroom managed to outdo even rural Chinese standards of nastiness. Suffice to say, I didn’t bathe much on this trip. I figured it was cleaner to avoid what passes for a shower. Besides, like an obediant household pet, at no point did I want to accidentally rinse off my thick layer of flea repellent.

One general thing that fascinated me in Ethiopia was that although people’s homes were in shambles they all featured giant plasma screen televisions. I found this particularly interesting because I have been pleading with Johannes to buy one for ages. If Ethiopian mountain peasants can have one I don’t see why we can’t.

After three days it was time for the final stop, Ethiopia’s capital city Addis Ababa. En route to the airport I saw a sign for the road to the Sudan border. Turns out we were right by it. There are actually some pyramids I want to see in Sudan at some point but my driver assured me that the second you cross the border you are beset by hustlers and criminals. So…not a good idea just yet, then.

Misadventures in Ethiopia: First Stop, Lalibela

Like most children of the 1980s – courtesy of Band Aid Christmas videos – I envisioned Ethiopia as a drought ridden desert filled with flies, starving children and vultures. What I found was a green landscape of dramatic mountains and jagged valleys intersected by the winding Blue Nile River. Despite being impressed by the beauty of the place – it’s tough to beat watching a golden sunset from a remote, ancient mountain top village while orthodox chants echo through the hills – this was my hardest trip to date. It didn’t get off to the best start, and I’m not sure it ever really improved. The history was also impressive but overshadowed by the horrific behaviour of Ethiopia’s ‘men’, a term I use loosely since they behave more like rutting dogs in heat. I’ve hacked the Mediterranean, Asia, South America, even the Middle East. But none of these places, with the exception of Egypt, even comes close to the level of harassment I experienced here. Straight up – for travelling women, Ethiopia is horrifically bad.

 

There is nothing quite like travelling in deeply patriarchal Africa to turn you into a raging feminist. Why is it that the more religious a society (Ethiopia is orthodox Christian), the worse the women are treated and the more depraved the male behaviour? If there is one struggle I have faced above all others while living here it is learning to accept other cultures with which I so utterly disagree. The treatment of women in many African societies is heartbreaking. Not to generalize, but it is pretty standard that women on this continent work very hard all day, rush home to make the dinner, then clean the house until late in the night – oh, and they also raise the children. The men meanwhile are down at the local Shibeen drinking away whatever is left of the woman’s hard-earned money, all day and night long… that is when they’re not busy harassing (or straight up stalking) female passer bys on the streets. I have never been propositioned for sex so much in my life. It was revolting. Keep reading because it gets even better. 

As I said previously my trip here started oddly, a trend that was to continue throughout. Having done my research as I always do, I expected functioning ATMs to be few and far between and Visa facilities non existent. The advice was to bring foreign cash because Bir are unavailable outside Ethiopia. So I brought a stack of Rand, assuming that Africa’s major currency would be accepted in a city that was, you know, home to the African Union. Imagine my surprise when I learned in the airport at midnight that no banks or foreign exchanges accept Rand in Ethiopia. Not the national bank, not the airport exchange. Luckily I had $20 USD in my pocket which covered the cost of my entry visa. So the first crisis upon arrival was dealing with a stack of useless foreign currency as my only means of payment for a ten day stay. This was magnified by the fact that my flight to remote Lalibela, which has no bank, was leaving at 7 am. I couldn’t even try to find my way to a Canadian embassy. A feeling of cold dread washed over me – this was going to be a problem. I decided nonetheless to take my flight to Lalibela and see if there was some way to organize assistance from there. So I hopped on an Ethiopian airlines propeller plane and flew over many jagged mountain ranges to the small mountain village that houses the 3^rd century UNESCO rock hewn churches.  

 At the tiny Lalibela airport, touts from local hotels jockeyed to snare guests with promises of free rides into town. Seeing as I had no money, I decided to play along. As we bumped along the dirt road it dawned on me just how deep into Africa I was. We passed shepherds in traditional dress and livestock rather than cars ruled the road. We had to stop for mid road bull fights at least twice. I eventually arrived at my hotel, which featured a beautiful mountain view, a toothless old man who read hilarious phrases to me from his English book, and a concrete bathroom with a rusted metal door and a toilet that only flushed via a jug of water (this is the case pretty much everywhere in Ethiopia; amazing how fantastic flushing toilets become when they’re scarce). I decided to head into the village to find the one foreign exchange/phone booth/internet cafe and whatever else it doubled as. The village is pretty steep, everything is an uphill hike – Addis Ababa is the world’s highest capital, and Lalibela is 4000 metres above sea level. As I wound my way through the city streets the harassment started, many local men mistaking me for Asian…and here we go again. About 80% of people wore orthodox Christian robes and few wore anything resembling western wear. Apparently clothing was optional anyway as one man strolled past me wearing a cropped t-shirt and nothing on the bottom – not even underwear, just full junk on display. I’m not really sure why he bothered with a crop top? On the one hand I wanted to take a photo, on the other I didn’t want to get caught looking and I certainly didn’t want to have to try explain why I was taking a photo of his crotch. The latter sentiment won out.

 After a lengthy hike I found the multi purpose foreign exchange… which refused to exchange my Rand. As I stood debating whether to cry or have a tantrum a friendly British couple approached, seeing my obvious distress and offered assistance. They, angels that they were, exchanged a large sum of Bir with me – effectively saving my ass. I also managed to send on the world’s slowest internet connection an SOS email to my parents and boyfriend. Turns out it’s quite upsetting for parents when their remaining child is having problems in remote reaches of Africa. Later that day as the sun set over the mountains I listened to the religious chanting reverberate from the ancient churches carved into the hills around me. It felt quite surreal to be where I was – so foreign, so exotic. Despite all the trouble, I felt like an adventurer.

The next day I awoke to the sound of chanting at sunrise. I hadn’t slept all that well because as with most accommodation in Ethiopia my hotel turned out to be flea ridden. Anyway, I was excited to start my tour of the famous rock churches of Lalibela. I had seen photos and travel shows about the area for years and was thrilled to finally make the trek myself. Built in the 3^rd century by King Lalibela and inspired by his pilgrimages to the holy land, there are twelve churches as well as many monasteries and caves in the surrounding countryside. The most famous of the churches is Saint George which appears from the top as a giant cross. Nobody really knows how the churches were built since they were carved out of solid rock and the technology to do this shouldn’t have existed in 3 AD. Angels are credited but as for a more earthly cause, this remains under debate. As per recommendations I hired one of the official guides to show me the churches. A deacon, I assumed his religious standing would ensure me a harassment free day. No such luck. Instead he inundated me with constant offers of sexual services – he wanted to help me ‘relax’ (maybe he could tell I had just finished final exams??), and numerous pleas ensued that I cheat on my boyfriend with HIM, because after all my boyfriend would never know and besides, European girls ‘like sex with the black man and never go back to white men after they’ve tried it’. By the end of the day he was ‘in love with me’. I want to know if there really are European women who take up losers like this on their offers, inadvertently exposing all white female travellers to these sex pests.

The churches themselves are really spectacular – magnificent even. They are spread throughout Lalibela, into Northern, Southern and Eastern clusters, all with slightly different features. The closest thing I can think of is Petra, although they aren’t quite on Petra’s level. Inside, they are covered with old religious paintings and images of black Jesuses and Marys. Shoes must be removed before entering each building but the wet dog scented carpets within are, yet again, completely flea ridden. For protection I brought all of our mismatched single socks and wore three at a time, throwing them away as I went. Each church also had a dedicated priest who immediately wanted ‘donations’ to his personal pocket. Sadly for me some of the churches did not allow women to enter. I spent the whole day exploring and really enjoyed it, until my charming tour guide dumped me off in a township area surrounded by shacks, with some teenager who spoke no English and gave me seriously weird vibes. Everyone was staring and yelling because there was no way tourists show up in those parts. Of course they wanted to sell me things.

The next day I decided to explore on my own because I couldn’t handle another day of deacon sponsored creepiness. As I made my way up the hill I was again pestered endlessly. I decided I needed a break and so went for lunch at the one tourist friendly hotel and café at the very top of town. I must confess I was already mentally exhausted from the first two days which had left me feeling lonely, harassed and stressed. So, it really made my day when a group of American diplomats from the US embassy in Addis motioned for me to join them. They bought me lunch then made a concerted attempt to scare off some of the creeps who were loitering around the entrance awaiting my exit. To Matt and company, I remain eternally grateful. After lunch I retraced my route from the day before, stopping to take photos along the way. I had to walk through the countryside to reach the furthest churches – I was so enjoying the peace and quiet when I noticed a man in the bushes, following me. Naturally, this made me nervous. Every time I would stop, so too would he. I decided that I had better turn around as there was no one else around and even if there was, I doubted they would help me. Of course he kept following me – eventually he caught up. Turns out he just wanted to proposition me for sex in the bushes.  By this point, riddled in bites, it was tough to determine if the fleas or the men were the bigger pests.

 

I spent the rest of my time in Lalibela exploring the town, sampling the local food, and drinking Ethiopian coffee which they prepare for you in a coffee ceremony. Along with the churches, the coffee proved another highlight – it tastes incredible but really packs a punch. Needless to say, the local coffee houses were teeming with leering men, if there was a woman she was only there to make the coffee. I can’t say I was sorry to leave after four days of this.

Zambia

One thing I find amusing about South Africans is beyond Mauritius all-inclusives they don’t really travel in Africa. Whereas to a North American Africa is exotic personified and a destination that will (rightfully) impress everyone back home. Sadly this meant that I couldn’t find a sidekick to bring to Zambia – not even my boyfriend was willing to join me. I can’t decide if travelling in Africa alone as a female is brave...or just stupid; likely it is a mix of both. But I’m not going to let lack of travel buddies stop me from seeing the continent, so I packed my bags and flew to the city of Livingstone - home of Victoria Falls. As I have said before, travelling in Africa leads to lowered expectations with regard to food, accommodation, infrastructure and cities in general. Really, the cities are not the destination anyway – it’s the nature that takes your breath away, whereas the cities tend to make you hold your breath. Livingstone's streets are dusty and pothole ridden, the buildings old (or at least look that way) with peeling paint, the power supply sporadic. Vendors line the streets selling fruits, dried fish decaying under the hot sun (the holding of breath is a good idea here specifically), and thousands of counterfeit mobile phones and Nigerian ’adult’ entertainment. But it’s pretty clean and much more African than South Africa. Most surprising is how incredibly friendly, and actually lovely, the people are. As one taxi driver told me, compared to what happens in Zimbabwe to the south, Zambians just want to get along and be peaceful and happy. It shows. I decided to rough it for the first few days, making home a thatched roofed lodge with a cushion covered floor and mosquito screens in place of windows. Unfortunately half the student population of Ireland had the same idea and they made for extremely loud bedfellows. Apparently the Irish medical students descend on Zambia for work experience in the regional hospitals, which is an admirable program. But they also, in typical Irish style, get blitzed every single night.

As the name suggests, Livingstone is dedicated to famous Scottish explorer David Livingstone. The town lies near the Zambezi River, and just upstream from one of the wonders of the natural world, Victoria Falls. The Victoria Falls National Park covers much of the surrounding region, so there’s plenty of wildlife and scenery to see. Livingstone itself is quaint enough, with a museum that doubles as a shrine to the Scottish adventurer. It also hosts a pretty impressive carvers market and the absolute best weather: it is mid winter and a balmy 26 degrees outside. Livingstone lacks the corrugated tin shacks that dominate South Africa’s townships. Rather, outside town lie traditional thatched straw settlements and villages where maize farmers and their families grow their food crops. Sadly, some massive graveyards and orphanages also lie in the surrounding countryside, reminders of the toll HIV has taken on the country. I spent my first day wandering the town to get a feel for the place. As my cab driver from the airport pointed out (the only airport I have seen that was infested with cats) there are very few “naughty chaps” in these parts who steal from visitors; in other words it was safe to venture out alone in daylight. When crime does occur, they blame Zimbabweans - a common refrain throughout southern/central Africa. Anyway, I was really excited because: Victoria Falls! I have been dying to see them since arriving in Africa. Despite a dodgy operation at the park entrance, where even though every sign stipulated a $20 USD cash fee to enter the park, they suddenly only accepted Kwatcha (the worthless local currency, $1 is equal to 4,500 Kwatchas) and were making visitors exchange currency with a smelly man in the parking lot who kept a large wad of rolled Kwatchas in his armpit. I gave my best bitchitude but arguing got me nowhere. This is the part of travelling in Africa that I hate: you are often helpless in the face of total sheisters. And really, who ARE you going to call when someone is blatantly ripping you off? No one cares, and in fact I suspect that they often just see a large dollar sign where your head is.

The falls, which rim the Zimbabwe/Zambia border make Niagra look precious. A bridge crosses one arm of the Zambezi by the falls, marking both the border and the former bungee jumping area -‘former’ because an Australian jumper suffered a broken chord recently, plunging her into the crocodile infested waters below. While she survived, I’m not sure it was good for business. Victoria Falls seem to stretch for a few kilometres lengthwise, and so visitors can follow a hiking trail alongside them for some distance. The trail, while baboon infested, is picturesque and winds through a lush green rainforest with long vines swinging from exotic trees, in direct contrast to the scorched earth, brown vegetation and red dust that surround the park's perimeter. The closer you come, the wetter the air – and the walkway develops a slippery, slimy carpet of green algae. The pathway can be dangerous, and a friend of a friend died here recently when he slipped off the side. You actually need to rent two layers of full rain gear for the walk, though the gear is rendered somewhat useless by the fact that the rain points upwards. Imagine pouring rain hitting you from above, from below, and directly in the face. Nothing stays dry (not even my treasured Sony NEX camera which no longer works after getting drenched here *sob*). The water droplets look like sparkling diamonds in the sunlight, and rainbows formed by the mist appear around every corner. The power of the falls is indescribable, the roar of the water deafening. They thunder, bubble and seethe all around you. They are truly a sight to behold – yet a confusing one because the eastern cataracts on the Zambezi seem placid – there is absolutely no hint of what lies ahead when you walk along the river from above. At the head of the upper trails sits a monument to David Livingstone marking the spot where he burried visitors felled by malaria (it is still rife in the region). There were a lot of really large baboons wandering the trails at the park. They may look funny with their puffy pink posteriors, but these scavengers are actually dangerous. If you carry any plastic grocery bags with you, you will get jumped by these gangster monkeys. There were a couple of points where I was alone in the trees and they appeared up ahead, making me very nervous. Mostly I tried to stay as close as possible to any other groups of people. On the other side of the falls two baboons had stolen someone’s lunch and created a traffic jam while they dined in the middle of the path. On either side people waited for them to finish, not daring to pass. But two macho male tourists took the opportunity to show off and started menacing the pair, obviously unaware that a baboon can rip your face off with one slap…rookie mistake on their part. The baboons, unimpressed, looked like they were gearing up to attack but luckily park rangers came by just as things were about to get ugly (for the two men – my money was on the baboons). Finally free of baboons, I hiked upstream to the Royal Livingstone, a vestige of colonialism and Zambia’s swishest hotel for lunch (my boyfriend Johannes would call it ‘Africa for white people’). The thatched roofs, manicured lawns, staff uniforms and stunning vistas along the Zambezi made me feel like I had inadvertently time travelled to the early 1900s. Along the way I found three wild zebras grazing in the shade. Because I am obsessed with zebras, I decided to take advantage of proximity and snap some photos. Plus it’s amazing being so close to these wild animals. One took notice and came up not two feet from me, to watch what I was doing. We stood there staring at each other for a solid ten minutes. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch it, but you really can’t do that – Africa is not a petting zoo, and no matter how tempting it might be they are totally wild and known to kick humans in the ribs. The landscape in Zambia really impressed me, a total blend of Africa colours; khakis, deep greens, golds and oranges. Sunrises were spectacular, as was the vegetation. Great swathes of the country remain traditionally populated, and they take great pride in their sustainable way of life. And you are very likely to see random elephants by the side of the road as they roam freely in this part of the continent, crossing the borders of Zimbabwe, Botswana and Zambia indiscriminately. I also loved the colourfully patterned locally produced fabrics seen on women’s clothing and on furniture, as well as the general attitude of the friendly people – they are so proud of their country and of their democratic politics. What a warm, relaxing and hospitable place. What wasn’t relaxing – or enjoyable – was the turbulence on the flights home. Africa seems a particularly bumpy place to fly. I have never been on a plane that has actually dropped in the sky before. It was terrifying, I hated it, and I hope it never happens to me again.

A little more Johannesburg

I spent part of the June/July break in Johannesburg doing some mining communications work. Jozi as the locals call it has really grown on me. It’s not beautiful like the Cape…in fact you could say it’s pretty ugly. In winter, even though it is sunny every day, the city envelops you in brownness. The grass is brown, the trees are brown, the buildings are brown, and even the sky has a thick layer of brown smog upon which the blue rests. And the ridiculously dry air sucks all moisture out of your system leaving you thirsty, dry eyed, and leathery skinned. And yet, despite it all this the place really gets under your (leathery) skin. Beyond the massive shopping malls lie unique little neighbourhoods like Melville and Newtown, and awesome weekend farmers and arts markets. Spending a Sunday afternoon dancing salsa on a rooftop patio at Arts on Main was pretty amazing, especially because it was 25 degrees in the winter sunshine. But unfortunately, unless you are lucky enough to know locals you will never find these places as a tourist. Even the CBD, one of the more dangerous neighbourhoods has a certain kind of African flavour that you don’t see in Cape Town. Maybe it’s because it’s dangerous that it becomes kind of exhilarating to visit. My friend Charles (Howard) who many back home will know, took my friend Tsholo and I on a tour of the historic Anglo American offices which occupy almost a quarter of the CBD. Maybe they weren’t quite as impressive as their London outpost, but there’s something about the history and legacy that holds you in awe. Also, they aren’t shabby. I would never move to Johannesburg, but if I did, I know where I would be applying for work. The nightlife too is different to Cape Town. I think because it feels mixed – you don’t really find this in the Cape - it’s more fun, more African feeling and you end up in conversations with an interesting range of people on any given night out. I’m not sure I will be spending much time in Jozi from now on, but I have to admit that if I don’t come back again I will be disappointed.

Botswana

Following a masochistic five months dominated by a full time plus three-extra course study and exam schedule, I was desperate to hit the road. Besides a five week stint in Johannesburg to look forward to, I was ready to delve into some authentic Africana. I was intrigued by Zambia and wanted to see Victoria Falls…and even more so by Botswana. Since I was alone on this trip, I decided a small scale tour was the way to go. So I hooked up with a couple of Russians and a driver, and off we went. The overland border was little more than an hour’s drive from Livingstone, over relatively well paved roads (by African standards), running though national parks and traditional villages where maize farmers still live in thatched straw and mud huts. Village schools were basically four wooden poles held together by a thatched roof – almost like miniature pavilions. In the dry months I’m sure this is fine, but when the rainy season arrives I’m not clear how this set up can possibly work. At least they elevate the houses a little so that the floors don’t turn to mud. The border proved chaotic as expected, with rampant squawking chickens, hundreds of hawkers selling colourful blankets, fruit and wood carvings, and trucks trying not to run down the masses of humanity running wild. The tiny immigration office was also a seething mass of sweaty bodies, bearing no real semblance to a line. Please don’t judge me for being happy when I realized that there were two lines, the efficient one of which was for ‘vips’ aka tourists. After getting our stamps, we fought through the throngs down to water’s edge – turns out a little ferry needed to be taken across to reach Botswana. In fact, this little ferry corner sits on the edges of four countries - in one direction you see Namibia, the next, Zimbabwe, then of course Botswana and Zambia.

Besides the little metal speed boats, there is a truck barge that transports giant trucks one at a time across the waters – not the utmost in efficiency but quaint nonetheless. Waiting to hop on our ferry, we were descended upon by the most obnoxious, aggressive souvenir hawkers imaginable. The captain and our driver had to help us fight them off. Luckily the arrival of some new white faces provided adequate distraction. One four minute ride across the Zambesi later, we were picked up in a safari vehicle and subjected to a second round of Botswana entry border frenzy. Finally safely into the country, we headed for the northern town of Kasane on the Chobe River. En route we passed roadside herds of chickens, goats, scrawny cows and elephants. I had heard that tourism in Botswana was two things: very focused on sustainability (excellent!)and very expensive, so I was only a little surprised when we arrived at our beautiful waterfront thatched roof luxury lodge (I had earned this after roughing it in Zambia) to find an ocean of white faces. I haven’t seen this many Americans since I was last in America and it was actually a little disconcerting. Day one included a boat trip up the Chobe, such a beautiful and peaceful region, and the midwinter temperatures of 28 degrees were very much to my liking. We boarded a tiny safari boat with some friendly Australians and annoying Italians who made it their mission to try their damndest to tip the boat into the croc infected waters. Chobe is a massive 11,500 square kilometre national park, uninhabited and ruled by animals. And unlike game drives in South Africa – which don’t get me wrong, are great – it is a lot wilder, a lot more adventurous …and just a lot more ‘African’, except for all the Americans. Cruising up river we found exotic birds including African eagles, spoon bills, a giant humming bird, herons and really colourful fishers.

It didn’t take long before we found our first hippo, soon to be followed by literally hundreds more, the females lying along the shore in squishy piles of ten to twenty resembling a pile of rocks from a distance, while singular large males stood guard over their harems twitching their tiny little ears, exposing their pink mouths through lazy yawns…and fanning their poop everywhere with their little tails. I have never seen so many hippos, or been so close to them in their natural habitat. By day they are usually pretty reclusive – I think Chobe is one of the few places in the world you can get so close and actually see such a large quantity hippos in the wild. Along the edges of the water lurked giant water monitor lizards, lazing in the sun or crawling through the high grass in search of bird eggs. On a swampy island in the middle of the estuary giant Cape buffalo grazed. Massive, prehistoric crocodiles lay in the sun, seeking camouflage for their scaly bodies in the reeds, fast asleep with their mouths hanging open to display jagged teeth all the better to eat you with, and baby crocs lay along the sandy beaches.

Herds of sable antelopes ran along the shore, as well as springboks and other small antelopes. We also passed families of wart hogs come to drink at river’s edge. The absolute highlight was encountering a giant bull elephant having play time in the water. He was almost fully submerged, and would roll over occasionally so that only his huge feet showed, then a trunk would appear and spray…then ears would flap. One giant eye watched us at a distance of about five metres, the other observed his elephant friend waiting patiently at the shore line, pacing back and forth. Apparently the elephants and really big hippos are the only animals that can safely cross to the island free from threat of croc attack.

The opportunity to get so close to these animals in the water in a tiny boat is such a special experience. What wasn’t so special was the Italian tourists’ inability to heed the guide’s warning that we must keep our weight balanced at all times to avoid tipping over into utterly croc and hippo infested waters – there were some close calls. The next morning we jumped into an open safari vehicle and headed to the Chobe National Park entrance for a game drive. As we drove through Kasane, we saw co-inhabitants giant baboons playing at the national bank, and had to make stops along the way to let rogue elephants cross the street. In Botswana, the national parks have no fences, meaning that animals are free to wander across parks, streets, cities and national borders – and they do. I do wonder what the result of this policy is where lions and leopards are concerned. Luckily unlike in neighbouring Namibia poaching is not a problem, but this is partly because they have shipped out the last of their rhinos to sanctuaries for protection. The threat against rhinos in Africa is so dire and so heartbreaking. Despite their endangered status, their horns are still in huge demand for traditional Chinese virility ‘medicines’ – and poachers are only too eager to comply by killing these beautiful creatures. This situation is nothing less than sickening and disgusting. The massive park is exquisite, featuring very different scenery to Namibia or South Africa. The trails are red sand (making for very bumpy rides and sore tailbones), and everything is golden in colour…it’s just so…African! The trees drip with birds’ nests, and there are paths that lead from the main trail made specifically by elephants – they like to make and maintain their own walkways. A family of giant baboons greeted us at the entrance and it didn’t take long before we came across a flock of Kudu grazing. We also saw many giraffes and were able to watch antelopes run at full speed from a perceived predator. From a hilltop we observed what looked like giant boulders in the water below, but were actually a cluster of more than forty hippos. Our best find was a herd of hundreds of elephants – stretching as far as the eye could see. We stopped just a few metres from two matriarchs with a young male and a tiny baby who our guide reckoned was less than four months old. Baby elephants are almost unbearably cute. We sat quietly and watched them as they watched us back with only minimal interest, ripping up grass with their trunks. The baby ran from elephant to elephant, adorably getting underfoot and trying to emulate the grownups but only able to rip one stem of grass up at a time. Eventually he gave up and ran to his mother to breast feed.

Unfortunately for me, this is the point where my camera decided to run out of batteries. We didn’t encounter any of the predators, namely lions or leopards, but I wasn’t disappointed because I have seen them before and because Chobe is one of the most beautiful, magical places I have seen in my life – it could never disappoint. If you ever get the chance to go, I would recommend this over Kruger any day. Botswana is so much wilder, so much more authentic…leaving here was so incredibly difficult to do!