Doha, Qatar: Back to the Middle East

The trip from Cape Town to Vancouver is a long one – maybe the longest one. As a favour to both my back and sanity, and never one to turn down an opportunity to explore, I decided to break it up with a stopover in Doha. It’s not as if one heads to Qatar for vacation, you know?

Qatar is in the Middle-East, beside Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. Of course it’s mostly desert – but the ugly brown kind, not photogenic rolling dunes. As with Dubai, Doha, the capital, suddenly appears mirage like in an endless sea of brown and industry (oil, I assume). It’s quite a sterile city – the downtown core is one big construction zone. Very few pedestrians are found, just uniformed construction workers. Even more interesting, 80% of the population is immigrant labour from the Philippines, India, Pakistan…so you don’t actually see all that many Qataris. Which is a shame because I love (*blush*) seeing Arab men in their white robes and headdress. Like Rio, Doha has both a World Cup and Olympics looming in its near future. As such they appear to be constructing an entirely new city. From scratch. There are a few ‘older’ neighbourhoods, slowly being demolished to make way for a vast maze of space age skyscrapers, 90% of which are under construction and therefore empty. There are, no surprise, lots of shopping malls – though they lack that certain ‘extra’ of their Dubai counterparts, ie no indoor ski slopes…how lame.

While it lacks the exotic je ne said quoi that makes much of the Middle East so alluring (at least to me) – no matter how you feel about their politics…and their politics of gender – it is still a perfectly pleasant city. Like a smaller, more provincial Dubai, albeit with the traffic jams of its bigger counterpart. There’s no doubt of the ridiculous wealth in this country, but it lacks the utter ostentation that makes Dubai such a guilty pleasure. Anyway, the climate is perfect and it sits on the azure waters of the Gulf. In fact, they really tempt you to jump in…until you see the beach. While having to pay a cover charge to go to the sand is annoying, more so is the dress code. Mandatory black burqas really detract from the beach going experience.

The gulf is lined by a multi kilometre seawall known as the Corniche and, as I said, there are a couple of nice but completely deserted beaches along the route. The harbor, which dominates the city, is filled with old dhows; one side offers a panorama of the futuristic core, the other of the older city and the IM Pei designed Islamic Museum of Art. But mostly what you see is various construction workers and work zones. Among the few noteworthy tourist sites is the Katara Cultural Centre looks like a Disney-fied, squeaky clean interpretation of Middle Eastern life, complete with trendy cupcake bakeries - though I won’t knock the red velvet ice cream sandwich I ate there! The food was very, very good. There’s also the Souq Waqif, a bustling market place from which the Qatar Mosque, which resembles a snail, rises. The Pearl is a man-made island covered in semi constructed luxury condo towers and a few designer boutiques. There appears to be an underlying pearl theme running throughout the city, ie pearl statues, street art and this island. My favourite, besides wandering the streets, was the IM Pei designed Museum of Islamic Art. It’s a nice building, definitely, but what really impresses is their vast collection of ancient artefacts spanning from Turkey eastwards. The jewels of the sultans, old books, paintings, pottery, paintings, weapons. Well worth a visit, and it doesn’t cost a thing. And, because I love Middle Eastern food, I of course sampled at the restaurant. Really, really good! Oh how I’ve missed pistachio flavor.

All in all, the city feels a bit soulless, a bit sterile – though I imagine it isn’t a bad place to live. There is chaos. but it takes the form of construction, not the melee of hawkers and hustlers that make the Middle East what it is – what either makes you fall in love or despise it. Don’t worry, there’s still scammers, especially the taxi drivers – know your stuff before you go and don’t let them push you around.  I would consider Doha a day or two well spent, but beyond that…maybe check back in ten years. 

Swaziland

After the chaotic disorder of Mozambique, Swaziland provided a welcome respite. Dare I say it felt…civilized?

We decided to cross at the Goba border post, located high in the mountains. Rumour had it this outpost was quieter than the others and after traversing Maputo for a second time we were in no mood for further chaos. No matter that Goba wasn’t really signposted, by this time our navigational instincts had kicked in. Sure, there was one wrong turn down into the loading docks of Maputo’s harbour...but we managed. The one rusty sign we did pass had nothing legible but the letter ‘G’ – and since Goba happens to start with a G, we went for it.

Past Maputo the route wound ever higher into the mountains. The pot holes grew worse while the surroundings transitioned from steamy marshlands into greener, lusher vegetation. Just when we thought it impossible that a border post could be located so in the middle of nowhere, Goba appeared. An armed soldier approached the car, yelling in Portuguese. We looked at him blankly. “Passports!” he demanded. We obliged. He returned the South African one right away, but seized mine and demanded we pull over. A Canadian passport is a thing of fascination at any African border, though I’m not sure if this owes to rarity or suspicion. Our hearts fell after successfully having avoided armed soldiers and police for the entire nine hour drive. I hissed at Hannes for driving away while this man still had my passport. But when we looked over, he was bent over laughing. Haha.ha..ha…..ha…African soldier humour. What better way to alleviate boredom than joke terrorizing already traumatized tourists?

Crossing the border we were transported into another world. Velvety green mountains swelled around us and sugar cane plantations stretched for as far as the eye could see. Even the omnipresent potholes were reduced in severity and number. It was down right pastoral – what a welcome sight. The kingdom of Swaziland is tiny, like a little jewel. Size wise it’s somewhere along the lines of 80 by 120 km. It is also one of the last political kingdoms in the world, with King Mswati often accused of various forms of mismanagement. It also has a reputation as one of the more traditional African countries, as in custom still pervades much of daily life. I’m not sure I was entirely left with this perception, except when it comes to dress. Despite being mid summer I saw a man on the street in a full length leopard fur cloak, and also ate breakfast beside a man in traditional loin cloth and sash, smartly accessorized with Teva sandals and furiously texting on his mobile throughout. Yes, in the rural areas housing is generally thatched rondavels – but you see this some variation of this almost everywhere in Africa. In general it was actually far cleaner than the countries I have seen so far – substantially less garbage and broken glass by the sides of the roads and less potholes. Also very few corrugated shacks – for the most part houses are either modern and clean or quaint British colonial throwbacks with ivy covered walls. In fact, you still very much feel the Britishness – Swaziland’s general effect is genteel meets the romanticized aspects of African life. Even more surprising was the quality of the cars on the road. Every second car was a new BMW or Mercedes – this does not feel like a country on the brink of financial ruin, nor a regressive one. I think perhaps people mistake Swazi pride in heritage for a backward way of life.

The people are proud yet warm and friendly, and amazingly we encountered no beggars. Even the threat of crime feels greatly diminished. Often during conversations with locals, emphasis was placed on their ‘niceness’ in comparison to their South African counterparts. The standard of living comes across as quite high, which is what makes it all the more surprising that this is statistically the most HIV ridden country in the world. This fact is really quite difficult to reconcile with what one sees.

 While grateful to see less potholes, driving in Swaziland presents a new set of challenges. First, Swazis have a reputation as some of the worst drivers in the world. Traffic accidents are the number one cause of death and the legal blood alcohol limit is twice that of other countries. From warnings, it sounded like it’s every man for himself on the roads, an African wild west. Yet besides omnipresent traffic police who, shockingly, were just doing their job and monitoring traffic (how refreshing!) there were speed bumps installed everywhere, even on busy streets and on the highway. And it wasn’t just one at a time. In an 80-km per hour stretch, you will suddenly come across a series of four speed bumps placed just metres apart. The entire country is absolutely covered in speed bumps. I guess that’s one way to fix the driving problem.

We based ourselves in the Ezulwini Valley, known in these parts as ‘heaven’s valley’. It was indeed very pretty and perfectly situated between the two main cities, Manzini and Mbabane. Still filthy following Mozambique’s plumbing mishaps, Hannes demanded that we spend the first night in a luxury hotel. At first I was opposed. After all, who comes to such a place to shack up in a casino? But…it was the right choice. Soap, a hot shower, a quality restaurant, a stunning swimming pool – it made for a nice respite following five days of filth. I started to feel human again. For our second night we shacked up in a lodge on the side of a mountain known as ‘Sheba’s Breast’ which played a prominent role in the famous novel- which I now feel obliged to read – King Solomon’s Mines. Waking up to the twittering birds and cool green woods was a very nice experience.

Swaziland’s size means everything is within easy distance, making it ideal to explore – which is exactly what we did. Despite its smallness, there are at least five massive national park/game reserves, of which we visited two. The most commonly spotted wildlife was monkeys with bright blue balls. What an unfortunate looking species. We also visited a cultural village that featured traditional life and dance demonstrations. It seems most aspects are explored through song and dance. For instance, looking for a wife? Then show off your high kicks and whistling steeze. Time to go hunting? There’s a song and dance for that as well. And so it continues. In Ezulwini we also decided to check out local hot springs known as the ‘Cuddle Puddle’.Who doesn’t enjoy a good soak in a natural hot spring? Beside the public pool lies a special, mens’ only area from which loud giggling and high pitched girlish shrieks emanated. Almost as if the bathers were engaging in pillow fight type hijinks. A few tribally clad men wandered in while we waited to pay the tourist only cover charge. Hannes threatened to abandon me for the testosterone pool, and it really did sound like fun was being had in that general direction. I just smiled sweetly because thanks to Fabian, I had some veeery interesting inside intel on what exactly happens in the mens’ area: enemas, administered with gas cans as part of ceremonial ritual cleansing ceremonies. My first thought, was ‘gross’ (obviously). But as I paddled around the spring, I began to wonder about the direction of the water flow – what if it didn’t enter the public pool first? The alternative was too nasty to even consider.

Other activities included a badly timed visit to the former royal hunting grounds at Hlane. To cope with my continued whale shark disappointment, I decided an on foot safari that included walking with rhinos would cheer me up. Except that we arrived half an hour after the guide decided to leave for the day. That was a waste of a 140 km drive. More successful were visits to various arts and crafts centres. Swazis live and breathe the arts, and I was blown away by what we saw. First, there is a famous candle factory where they make the most amazing, elaborate pieces. Needless to say, I bought some. They are also famous for their fabric weaving and batiks. Again, gorgeous. And the woven baskets and vases, and wooden carvings…sigh. This is not the tacky tourist kitsch you so often see in Africa. You could make a killing opening a home wares store in London or New York selling these items.

While there are a number of royal compounds and burial sites throughout the country, these are not open to the public. Disappointing, because I was admittedly curious about the king’s digs. Swaziland is also known as one of the adventures capitals of southern Africa. White water rafting is popular, as is caving and extreme hiking, ie slogging up steep granite rock faces. Speaking of which, it is home to the world’s second biggest rock after Uluru in Australia: Sibebe. There’s also some very pretty waterfalls and forests. It feels just wild enough to be ‘in nature’ without being intimidating. The two main cities, Mbabane and Manzini are, at least by African standards, quite clean and organized. Put simply, driving through them does not inspire terror.

All in all, we loved Swaziland. It is a common trip for South Africans, driving up through Mozambique and returning through Swaziland. After the chaos of our first destination, Swaziland felt very soothing. Not to sound new age, but it is one of those places that is good for the soul. It is so pretty, so friendly, so relaxed. Everything is good value here, which is not something you can often say about travelling in Africa. It may house some of the world’s poorest countries, but I promise you, it is one of the most expensive places to travel especially if you desire certain levels of comfort. I really hope to make it back to Swaziland again – I was utterly charmed by this little place.

Mozambican Madness

It was with a mix of excitement and a heavy heart that I planned my last Africa trip to Mozambique and Swaziland. I’m sure I’ll be back to see the places I missed (Zimbabwe, Kenya, Mauritius, Senegal), but I did manage to explore 11 countries in my time here. Seeing as I am now obsessed with beach holidays on the Indian Ocean, to which nothing else quite compares, Mozambique seemed the natural choice. Also factoring was that since moving to Africa I have walked with lions and elephants, ridden an ostrich and camels, and cage dived with great white sharks. In my mind the crowning glory would be snorkelling with a whale shark and Praia de Tofo, a small beach village about 700 km up the Mozambican coast is the place to do just this.

 There currently exists the pesky problem of political violence and war zones in Mozambique but those lie further north. Still, my long suffering mother was less than thrilled when I announced my plan to drive 5200 km through southern Africa. Apparently I’m responsible for the whitening state of her hair. Even less thrilled was my reluctant travel buddy Hannes. As a self confessed ‘risk averse’ individual whose idea of a good time is a luxury golf course, trekking that distance over pot hole ridden, glass covered 'roads' in a Hyundai Getz, especially after our misadventures scaling the Lesotho Drakkensburg mountain range in a Volkswagen Polo Vivo, was less than enticing. But I prevailed and so we set off from Cape Town at 2 am for the first leg: the 19 hour drive to Kruger National Park and Nelspruit. Everything was fine until we hit Johannesburg, city of horrific sign posting. Thanks to Google Maps we ended up circling the airport four times before finally going in to get the non obvious directions. This set us back a few hours, meaning we had to drive pitch black side roads for a few hundred kilometres to get to our final destination. The light-free route, which traversed Kruger’s main hippo area, was lined with warning signs because the thing with hippos is that while they look fat and cute, they are actually shockingly speedy and responsible for the most human deaths (animal-wise) on this continent. When pitting a small car against a hippo it’s easy to predict the winner: the car never stood a chance. Even better, they only wander out of their murky pools at night. So while Hannes drove I scoured the roadside for charging beasts. The utter darkness meant a million stars and galaxies twinkled above us. The African sky is always spectacular - it just somehow feels…bigger and grander in scale then anywhere else. It is one component of this continent’s magic, one which enters your blood and I am convinced never quite leaves you. Kind of like malaria only it must be treated with expensive future plane tickets. I haven’t even left yet and I already miss Africa.

The next morning we headed for the Mozambique border. I had no visa which made me apprehensive. In true TIA style, I had paid a visit to the visa consulate in Cape Town the week previous only to find it closed indefinitely for the holidays (peak travel season), with no set return date for staff… who,  I also learned, were notorious for menacing and terrorizing workers sharing that same office block. Thankfully this problem was easily surmounted when an enterprising crew descended on us the moment we parked, completing all my Portuguese paperwork, exchanging our money and navigating the various border crossing ‘fees’ all in exchange for a hefty tip. We didn’t mind, we were glad to let someone else handle the stressful aspects for a few rand, and suspected that things would have been more difficult had we not found our way into the border kickback system so quickly. My relief was short lived however as things only grew harder from this point forward.

The first hour was fine. The flora changed to steamy, palm covered marsh lands and the only radio station played African music – we were getting into the zone. But once we hit Maputo our excitement waned. African cities are rarely a pleasure – they are almost always a disorganized, dirty, chaotic, seething mess. Besides trying to navigate horrific drivers there was the added bonus of armed police stationed on every second street corner. They can and do pull you over for absolutely no reason - especially if you are white. And so we found ourselves pulled off the road a number of times within the city. The blue traffic cops want to check your speed, your license, your papers. The grey cops want to search you trunk for various ‘required items’, threatening to arrest you if you don’t have, say, a glow in the dark yellow vest or not one but two emergency triangles in your trunk. Of course they have no intention of actually going through with it. They just brazenly ask how much money you have in your wallet, demand it all, and then send you on your merry way. Travel tip: hide your money in various places because they really will go through your wallet and take whatever they find. It took hours to escape that city, and when we finally did our cash situation was much lighter than when we entered.

 

After navigating that mess and further forking out to pay various tolls we made it onto the EN1, the country’s main highway. The Mozambican highway system (if you can call it that) is characterized by constantly shifting speed limits. Within a 500 metre stretch of road, the number will switch from 100 to 40 to 80 to 60. One suspects traffic safety is secondary with the primary purpose being milking motorists for as many ‘speeding’ bribes as possible. It was only 2 lanes, had no lights, often no dividing lines, madly vacillating speed limits, and piles of glass often on the middle and sides of the road…oh, and potholes galore, as well as scattered people and livestock. It was made for SUVs, not pint sized Hyundais. Every couple of kilometres a new village appeared and the speed limit dropped, and so a drive that should take 7 hours took 12. We had read many warnings about carjackings and general road conditions with particular emphasis on how you should never drive at night. We raced, or rather meandered at fluctuating speeds of 40, 60, 80 and 100 to beat the sunset, but it proved futile. The dearth of signage made it difficult to even track distances. Once darkness falls, the locals often drive with no lights and humans and animals flood the roads. This is enhanced further by the local propensity for overtaking into oncoming traffic or over hills with zero visibility. It’s no wonder the side of the highway is littered with car wrecks. It was also littered with our by-now old friends, the traffic police who grew more aggressive as daylight waned, eager to hit their looting quota before heading home for dinner.

Once darkness descended we decided to take a gamble and turned off onto a side road sign posted for Inhambane, a Portuguese colonial city near Tofo, which despite being a major tourist destination has zero signage. This road was filled with dips and next level potholes (craters?) as well as being sand covered in places. At speeds of maybe 30 km we bumped along squinting into the darkness and narrowly avoiding goats, chickens and people who sprang up like apparitions (how on earth can they see where they are going??). It felt like a miracle when three hours later we finally pulled up to our hotel. Of course there were also problems at the hotel, ie the water wasn’t working, but we weren’t going to let a little thing like that get to us – we were finally here! And when I settled onto a patio over the ocean to eat a dinner of fresh grilled barracuda, all was forgotten.

Praia de Tofo is a little fishing village built on the rolling golden sand dunes that feed into the Indian Ocean. Its streets are sand, not paved, and it’s dominated by thatched buildings, dive centres and local fishermen. This is the premier place to see whale sharks which love the turquoise, bath temperature water. While it is by no means cheap – prices are double those in South Africa – the fresh seafood is a fantastic deal. I have never had tuna that even comes close in freshness or flavour. I ate fish for nearly every meal - I could not get enough. No matter that the side was always greasy chips – who cares when you have fish that fresh and that tasty on your plate? On the beach you can buy fresh baked coconut bread from children as well – which makes for a nice breakfast. By the side of the highway pineapples are strung up along wooden racks, and on trees bags filled with locally picked cashew nuts hang like Christmas ornaments.

Besides lazing on the beach and stuffing myself with seafood, I was determined to swim with a whale shark. To my massive and yet-to-end disappointment, this was not destined to happen. I forked out a large sum to join an ocean safari first thing the next morning even though the sea looked stormy and the wind was gusting – nothing was going to deter me. Hannes on the other hand decided to go be risk averse somewhere in the village. So, with a group of 11 others, I suited up and headed out on a high powered zodiac. The water was so rough most of us were sorely bruised and/or mildly bleeding just from boarding the boat once we pushed it out to sea. For more than two hours we rode that ocean like a roller coaster, clinging to the straps with rope burned fingers, searching for signs of sharkiness. We did find some dolphins, which are always sweet, but when you want whale shark nothing else will do. The one time we jumped off to snorkel the water was so rough that we immediately had to throw ourselves back over the sides like beached whales in flippers. Despite the increasing storminess, another group went out that afternoon and of course found three sharks to swim with. No matter, I would go again the next day, even if it would mean paying double. But, no thanks to nature, it grew even rougher and all boats for the next few days were cancelled due to unsafe conditions. Of course, the morning we were leaving it finally calmed down, but we had to drive out early in an attempt to dodge the police when possible. So whale sharks still remain on my to-do list. As other travellers told me about their exciting encounters, I began to feel like I was the only person in all of Tofo to miss out. All I had to show for my efforts was a seriously sunburned nose and skinned knees.

 Our beach hut, which we shared with geckos, mosquitoes and a large spider who met an unfortunate end via the bottom of my shoe, was perched directly on top of a dune. I loved falling asleep and waking up to the sound of the ocean just a few metres away. I less loved getting entangled in mosquito netting each night and their general aggressiveness. No amount of repellent and citronella seemed to quite keep them at bay. Even more annoying was the fact that our plumbing didn’t work much of the time. But such is Africa – the scenery is unbeatable, but more often then not, things won’t work.

The locals, who lived in tiny thatched huts (which must be a nightmare during the frequent tropical downpours) perched on the outside of the dunes were not what I would call friendly and frequently attempted (sometimes with great success) to rip us off. I am not so quick to judge, as I can imagine that when one lives in such a poor place that is descended upon by tourists in pricey SUVs with expensive cameras and holiday toys, it could lead to resentment and tensions. In general, Mozambique is a colourful country – the little tin shacks that house local stores are brightly painted as are the crumbling remnants of Portuguese colonial occupation. It actually seems like Vodacom sponsors the entire country judging by the overwhelming number of red painted buildings that feature their logo. The women dress in bright, batiked African fabrics and walk along the road balancing tremendous loads on their heads – one even carried an entire tree trunk. The men too dress in acid brights. As is generally the case, decay is omnipresent and garbage is littered everywhere thanks to a government seemingly unconcerned with basic sanitation. I was sad to see so many stray dogs, often lying strewn by the sides of the road, victims of sloppy drivers. I was also sad to hear, by way of a French park ranger that the game parks in Mozambique are completely bereft of animal life – all have either been poached or eaten.

We also explored the city of Inhambane, provincial capital and former Portuguese administrative centre. With streets lined by brightly painted colonial buildings, this was my kind of place. I could have spent days wandering and taking photos, though admittedly it didn’t always feel quite safe. The Portuguese influence is still alive and well here – it is still the official language, the food is generally Portuguese influenced (think prego rolls) as is the music, a highly listenable blend of African rhythms and salsa.

 After a few days with sporadic plumbing we were feeling filthy and it was time to head to the next stop: Swaziland. Our expectations were low, having heard stories about the egomaniacal King and how primitive the country was. We dreaded the return drive through Maputo and any further encounters with the traffic police and so departed at 4 am in an attempt to get as far as possible in the early morning, pre corruption hours. By some miracle we made it through without any stops! The highway traffic was psychotic (think extended double busses overtaking into oncoming traffic for instance), the traffic in Maputo once again hellish and many wrong turns were taken. And don’t even get me started on our decision to have KFC for lunch in the city – you don’t want to know what kind of mania exists for fried chicken in these parts. But in a mere 9.5 hours we managed to make the Swazi border, shaving two hours off our previous attempt. We missed the beautiful beach, but were relieved to escape the clutches of what must be one of the most corrupt places I have ever been.

Cuba - Caliente!

After a three year absence from Vancouver, my amazing friends surprised me with a plane ticket home for the month of July. Apart from being wonderful to catch up with everyone, I couldn’t believe how much the city has grown and changed. I barely recognized certain neighbourhoods! I will be spending six months there in between graduating here and starting my Masters in Geneva next September, and I’m now actually looking forward to it. Admittedly Cape Town feels more like ‘home’ these days and I will miss it desperately but I need to earn some hard currency, which the Rand decidedly is NOT, before relocating to Switzerland. Naturally with my acute travel addiction far from in check I felt the need to take a side trip somewhere new. I’ve been in a Cuba state of mind lately, hoping to reach its shores before the death of Castro and the opening of borders to America. Plus, despite the distance from Vancouver, charter airline tickets to Varadero are cheap!

I fell madly and deeply in love with Cuba. Not the ‘tourist’ Cuba of Varadero five star all-inclusives – to stay at one of those is to completely miss the essence of this little island nation. Rather, I lost my heart to the real Cuba, the one that seethes with life, with colour, with culture and with music. It may be imperfect, crumbling, sometimes a little smelly and oppressively humid – but somehow every mundane little scene manages to look like a postcard. Brightly painted American cars from the 1950s and communist issue Ladas bomb around the pockmarked streets along side bicycle rickshaws, coconut taxis, scooters and horse drawn carts. Old men huddle around makeshift tables on street corners engrossed in dominoes or chess. The roads are cobble stone, the buildings perfectly dilapidated and mismatched, as if styled just so. Even the stray dogs are impossibly cute– although I found it strange to find a purebred German dachshund posing on every second stoop. The people were wonderfully warm. In South Africa, as a foreigner I often perceive a vague undercurrent of something slightly dark permeating every day life. While Cuba has faced some pretty significant struggles of its own there is a lightness, a friendliness to it that really embraces you.

First, it is a very safe place to travel. With a regime that threatens thirty year prison sentences for killing your cow (the government owns 50% of every animal) you can only imagine the penalties against anyone caught violating a tourist, tourism being the bread and butter of the Cuban economy. This means that apart from pickpockets there isn’t much to worry about. What is a scary proposition however is taking a long distance taxi. Think no seat belts, no suspension and no breaks. Oh, and no sticking to one side of the road. Luckily there isn’t much traffic since few outside the cities have cars, but it’s not an experience for the constitutionally weak.

What they say about the food is true. Cuba is not a culinary destination unless you enjoy a good bout of food poisoning. Most travellers I encountered were having adventures of the upset stomach variety. Yes the lobster is cheap, but as a general rule the food is pretty inedible – think greasy pork and bland beans. This does not apply to the cocktails however. The fresh piňa coladas are divine as are the mojitos and mango daquiris. These are people who know how to mix a drink.

A cursory scan of Varadero left me under whelmed so my trip began in Trinidad, a 500 year old UNESCO site situated on the south coast. Think cobble stone streets and rainbow row houses with ornate trims. The streets are the domain of horse drawn carts, bicycle taxis and the occasional 1950s American car. It seems like much of the population doesn’t work, instead spending their days on the doorstep. Life is lived publicly – all street facing windows open wide onto private living rooms and much takes place on the sidewalks out front. Grocery stores are almost empty save a few eggs and random products. No snacks, no supermarkets. It’s a little confusing when you are used to having access to so much how little is actually for sale here.

 Following the advice of friends, I booked myself into a casa particulare, which is the best and often only way to stay while travelling outside Cuba’s big cities. Casas are private homes where local families open their guest rooms to travellers, cooking and caring for you. It’s a fantastic way to meet locals and other travellers casually trekking around the island. I adored our host family, especially the mama who cooked the most massive meals. She must have thought despite being two we were eating for six.

Unfortunately the weather was iffy in Trinidad; apparently it was the start of hurricane season so every afternoon brought a serious thunderstorm and cascading streets. One eventful day we narrowly missed being incinerated by lightening while lining up at a horse drawn beer cart; I was left feeling electrically charged. Another time it rained so hard that a friendly local had to shelter us in her house until it abated. Our lack of Spanish meant we weren’t able to muster much conversation beyond hand drawn air pictures but after an hour our arms were tiring from all the gesturing and it was time to move along. As a parting gift they presented us with fresh mangos. This is how friendly the local Cubans are – where else in the world do they invite you in for shelter and then give you presents? We decided it would be funny to hire a bicycle taxi back to our casa because by this time the streets had transformed into gushing white water rapids – it’s a miracle we didn’t get washed away and it made for the most interesting bike ride of my life so far. That night, I joined a group of Germans on an outing to the local night club, located in a giant underground cave and reachable only by traversing unlit, dirt paths through a large-scale construction zone. The setting was spectacular, though the scene left a little to be desired and the cave ceiling dripping into our drinks was a bit on the icky side. Possibly the most exciting aspect was narrowly missing a giant scorpion in the middle of the dirt path.

The next day, craving some beach, we hopped on a moped and drove through the lush greenery down to Ancon, a white sand beach with clear turquoise water the temperature of a warm bath –ah, the Caribbean. From there we hired a catamaran and sailed out to a coral reef about a kilometre off shore for some snorkelling. It wasn’t quite up to Hawaiian standards but still made for some fun. The rest of the time in Trinidad was dominated by serious cigar smoking (are cigars addictive? Because damn did I crave them for weeks following my return); black market, back room cigar dealings and cigar factory touring; and lots of cocktails and music – live, glorious salsa and dancing in the streets late into the night. It was magical. While the government may be strict, life is lived with joie de vivre. This is not what I expected to find in one of the last strict communist regimes.

Other stops included Cienfuego, with its French colonial buildings and Santa Clara, home to all things Che Guevara – mind you, the entire country is peppered with Che and Castro tributes. But my other highlight was Cuba’s frenetic capital, Havana. It is quite different from the rest of the country – gone is the relaxed nature of the locals, and here you must fastidiously watch for muggers, pick pockets, beggars and hustlers. Actually, the constant inundation of aggressive beggars, thieving wait staff and Latino lovers does grow exhausting very quickly. But, despite this, Havana is a sparkling, historic jewel. Seventeenth century forts and cathedrals intermingle with Che and Ernest Hemingway’s old haunts, and crumbling remnants of impossibly glamorous early 20^th century Havana – the playground of  America’s rich and famous in a bygone era are interspersed with ‘Viva la Revolucion’ murals and missiles from the Cuban Missile Crisis. El Capitilio, the parliament building, is an almost exact replica of Washington Capitol building except built exactly one foot taller – to show communist dominance. Havana is a city in a state of beautiful decay – paint is chipped just so and faded to the colour of a water painting. If you love photography as I do, it is impossible to walk down a street without stopping multiple times to capture scenes. What I wouldn’t give to have seen Havana in its 1930s heyday.

Havana is a sprawling, bustling metropolis, but this doesn’t detract from its charm. It’s not a walkable city – while certain neighbourhoods like Viejo and the seaside Malecon are fine to explore on foot, to visit sights like the massive cemetery (the size of a small city) and the colossal Jesus statue, you’ll need to hail one of the 1950s vintage taxis – which is also part of the fun. Here too music is everywhere – live in every restaurant, every bar and on every street. This is a place where people break spontaneously into song. It’s funny watching the ubiquitous salsa dancers because you will immediately notice that locals move with an innate smooth precision, while tourists jerk around mechanically – there is no comparison. Don’t ever participate in a dance off against a Cuban – you will lose. And my god the younger men are gorgeous – deeply tanned skin and dark hair paired with the most crystal blue eyes. On the flip side, the older generation walk around sporting cropped tank tops that fully expose large, protruding bellies (the legacy, I assume, of a life time of greasy pork dinners). They are also ardent admirers of women. Every male, from a ten year old boy to a 90 year old grandpa will shower you with compliments. Over dinner we discussed how if you are having an ‘ugly’ day, a walk down the streets of Havana will very quickly lift your ego.

Politics is inescapable in Cuba. I was amazed how many locals wanted to engage with me on the subject, though this might be because I am a political science major. Propaganda is wide spread and done very artfully – Castro, obviously an aesthete, must have employed talented graphic designers to imbue his nation with his Revolucion chic. ‘Todo por la Revolucion’ is a refrain seen everywhere, even in the countryside. The country’s military might, for instance tanks, fighter jet and missiles, is also widely displayed. Soldiers are a frequent sight and high ranking military dignitaries cruise around town in Lada limousines.

If you’re a literature fan, Havana again has a lot to offer. As former home to Victor Hugo and Ernest Hemingway among so many others, there are many pilgrimages to make. We visited Hemingway’s hotel room (which incidentally has the best view in town) where he wrote ‘For whom the Bell Tolls’, still perfectly preserved since his last days there. In the closet still hang his clothes and Louis Vuitton suitcases. And boy, are there a lot of half-emptied rum bottles. Personally, I find the more I’ve had to drink the harder it is to write, but Hemingway obviously had no such problem. Of course it was also necessary to have cocktails at the Floridita and his other old town haunts. Of course they are now kitschy tourist traps, but when in Rome…

Havana is brimming with so many grand old buildings, museums and boulevards. The university radiates intellectual pomp, the Hotel Nacional successfully preserves its early 20^th century splendour, and the Grand Teatro is still spectacular. La Rambla, the main street through Havana Vieja, teems with activity and the Prado is lined with old mansions and marble statues of guardian lions. Old city squares are crammed with antiques dealers selling old leather bound books and revolutionary relics. Grandiose monuments dedicated to political figures are scattered throughout the city especially along the Malecon, Havana’s answer to the seawall. At sunset, fishermen line the route, hoping to secure a better dinner option to greasy pork. As with the rest of Cuba, Havana is a graveyard of sorts for old American cars in various states of disrepair. Their rainbow colours provide the perfect complement to the candy coloured buildings.

I think I can safely say that I have now seen quite a lot of the world – this is country #40. I started this blog too late in my travels hence missing covering a lot of really interesting places I have already been. But Cuba – this is one of the absolute best so far. It’s such a shame that most people come here on all-inclusives. Really, do yourself a favour - get out there and see this country for what it really is. Unless you hate culture, you will not be disappointed!

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.