Living in a third world country has thrust poverty and disparity into my immediate line of vision on a daily basis. Malnutrition is rampant and Tanzanians emaciated bodies are evidence of it.Meanwhile, in stark contrast we mzungus, white men, fly by them in our $30,000 Land Cruisers on our way to the yacht club for sailing lessons or to Osaka Japanese restaurant for sushi. We go to Shoppers Plaza grocery store and hand the cashier more money for our weekend goodies than she makes in a month. Our house help cook succulent meals of abundance for the family (with decadent desserts, of course) while thinking of their own children who are at home digging through the mud in hopes that the recent rains have brought the underground moths closer to the surface for easy harvesting; it is after all, a great source of protein.
Living in this kind of chronic desperation and necessity whilst coming into contact with the comparatively opulent wealth and waste of the mzungu undoubtedly leaves many Tanzanians resentful and bitter towards us. I don’t blame them either; I can’t image needing so many things and seeing it around me knowing that ‘I can look, but I can’t touch.’
Some keep their feelings hidden, smiling and doing a wonderful job for their bosses. They know they are getting paid better than many of their counterparts who are not so lucky as to score employment with an mzungu.
Others deal with feelings of anger and envy, bred of desperation, by actions of outright hostility towards the mzungu. This kind of encounter most often occurs within the context of some sort of money exchange like refusing to give a short taxi ride for a reasonable rate or charging astronomical prices for local vegetables.
My classroom assistant, Mariam, is a wonderful Tanzanian woman with whom I have become quite close since my arrival. She and I are comfortable enough to be able to talk honestly and openly about our cultures and the misunderstandings between them.
She and I were talking about this topic one day and she said that many locals who work for or with expats (foreigners) are stuck in a precarious position because they truly do admire and enjoy their mzungu friends but face these feelings of envy and anger towards them because of the inequalities.
The mzungu version of the sentiment that Mariam expressed is occasionally voiced during conversations with my friends.I admit with shame and embarrassment that it’s surprisingly easy to slip into a mode of annoyance by those Tanzanians who resort to behavior that is rude, intrusive, forceful, or hostile.
The argument for and against foreign aid is another topic for a later post, but it does affect this situation. Without getting into the details, Tanzania has been the recipient of an astronomical amount of foreign aid over the years. However well-intended this aid is, its givers have mismanaged its structure and have inadvertently helped create a society who have become accustomed to a hand out not a hand up.
I have to consistently remind myself of the fact that desperation and an immediate survival instinct for themselves and their family are causes for many actions that are deemed ‘unpleasant’ and ‘inappropriate’ in my Western mind. When I instead picture the hungry son, sick spouse, or uneducated sister at home my heart breaks and I thank God for his unending blessings to me. My continued hope and prayer is that my heart always breaks with the things that break His.
As explained in my last post, my cousin Scotty came to East Africa to visit this past summer. The morning after arriving in Dar, the two of us drove up to the city of Moshi in the north of Tanzania. Scotty and I had planned a six day hike attempting to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro, which at 19,341 feet, is the highest point in Africa and the world’s tallest freestanding mountain (not within a range).
Guides are required on the mountain, so we met our guide Joseph that night and discussed all the logistics. We hired quite a staff to go up the mountain with us. Joseph was our main guide, and he brought with him one assistant guide (who would lead if one of us needed to come down), one cook, and three porters. This sounds extreme, I know, but is actually the norm for climbing a mountain of this height and difficulty.
Pole pole, meaning slowly slowly, was our mantra going up the mountain. Joseph did a superb job setting a snail’s pace as we ascended. This crawling speed allowed us to save energy and helped to offset the likelihood of altitude sickness, which is the number one reason people don’t make it to the summit.
There are four major routes up the mountain, and we took Marangu, which is the most traveled. The benefit of Marangu is that it is the shortest trail, able to be completed in six days. The route which we took does happen to have one nice advantage over the others: huts. Though I do enjoy camping, Kili has a very unreliable weather pattern and nothing sounds more miserable to me than being cold and wet, having my equipment wet, and having to continue the climb.
We hiked upwards with the excitement and anticipation that fills the stomach on the first day of any big adventure. This day was spent hiking through forest terrain. The path was one of dirt and clay under a canopy of trees and lush vegetation. After about five hours, we arrived at our first camp, which was at an elevation of 8,857 feet. Upon our arrival we entered the ‘clouds’. It was densely foggy, damp, and cold. I pulled out my base layer clothes and hat and pushed away fleeting thoughts about how much colder it would get.
Dinner consisted of similar things each night we were on the trail. We always had rice and fresh fruits accompanied by some cooked veggies, chapatti (which is like a tortilla but with much more oil), and a meaty dish with thick sauce, a bit heavier than stew.
The next morning we set off at daybreak. The first half of the day we hiked through the clouds. The terrain was beautiful, with flora that thrived in the wet, cold environment. Without warning, we finally broke through the top of the clouds and were met with a completely different scene. Gone was the moisture so thick it weighed you down; gone was the dark eeriness that conjured up images of scary movie scenes; gone was the feeling of emptiness and isolation. In its place the sun shone brightly and the blue sky spread open. Small desert-looking plants took the place of shrubs; orange and red colored rocks covered the ground in every direction.
FAR off in the distance the summit of the mountain was slightly visible. As we stopped for a lunch break I suddenly started to feel a bit ill. I had no appetite and the thought of eating made me nauseous. Seeing how far away the summit was and knowing that I was supposed to get there made the uneasiness all the more real.
We finally reached Horombo Huts which sit at 12,205 feet. I stumbled into our hut and collapsed onto the sleeping pad. My head was spinning, pulse was racing, stomach was nauseous, and all strength was gone. I hoped and prayed that this really wasn’t already altitude sickness setting in. I was only on day two of a six day excursion and still had over 7,000 feet to climb. I did NOT pay so much money just to be carried down the mountain this early. Plus, if my male cousin can do it then I can do it too!
I wanted desperately to nap but all of the information that I read about altitude sickness taught me that its effects are more potent during sleeping hours when breathing slows. Unsteadily I hoisted myself up and outside. As I walked around the camp it was impossible not to marvel at its splendor. The summit was now clearly visible, jutting majestically into the heavens. The camp sat just above the clouds, so looking out as far as I could see were the tops of puffy cotton ball clouds that reminded me of a bed just waiting to be jumped on. A short time later dinner was called. I sat at the table having a stare down with the food placed in front of me. After a long, drawn out, and unspoken battle I finally conceded and ate a bit of food, knowing that I needed to eat no matter how I felt. Of course, as soon as we walked outside I became vehemently sick, cursing the food I had just tried so hard to eat.
Day Three is meant to be a day of acclimating to the altitude in preparation for the next day’s summit. I woke up feeling horrible still but made up my mind that I’d continue. We hiked up 1,000 feet to a place called Zebra Rocks then hiked back down to our huts.
We got up on the morning of Day Four and set off. Since it was alpine desert we were hiking through, the scenery soon became dull and I struggled to refocus my thoughts. The surface was rocky and barren, windy and cold. The only thing that there was to look at was the massive mountain looming in front of me, intimidating and daring me to conquer her.
I was sick and not eating, but for the first half of the day the hike was relatively easy because the trail wasn’t at much of an incline. After lunch we started our assent up a rocky and dusty path. By this time I had expended most of my energy and I was not a happy camper. Grumpy and feeling horrible, I got in some sort of a zone where I blocked out everything around me and kept trudging up the mountain.
At 3:30 that afternoon we arrived at Kibo and were at an elevation of 15,430 feet. We were instructed to lie down and get some sleep from 4:00 p.m. until 9:30 p.m. when we would get up and begin to prepare for the summit climb. At this point Scotty started to have a headache, which is another sign of altitude sickness. We both laid down but neither of us could sleep. People were coming and going in and out of our room, talking, and making noise. I was also fearful to fall asleep because I didn’t want to become even sicker than I already was. Knowing that in just a few short hours I’d be attempting to push myself farther than I ever have before put a knot in my stomach and I do admit I was quite nervous.
After tossing and turning, growing more frustrated by the hour, 9:30 finally arrived.Scotty and I got up and they had dinner for us. This was the moment I was dreading. I knew that I had 16 straight hours of hiking ahead of me and that I would need all of the energy I could eat. I psyched myself up and ate as much as I could, hoping I wouldn’t get sick.
The plan was that we would leave our current location, Kibo, at 11:00 p.m. and make it to the summit around 6:30 a.m. We would then be back down at Kibo around 11:00 a.m. for lunch. We would eat and then descend all the way down to the huts we stayed at on the first night. This would end up being 7,135 feet up and 10,500 feet down before we got a proper night’s sleep. I can’t run a mile on flat land and think I’m going to die after just 30 minutes on the elliptical at the gym. I am a driven women when it comes to challenges of the mental realm, but when it involves physical exertion I tend to cave quite quickly. Why in the world did I think that this would be a good idea?
Joseph, our assistant guide, Scotty, and I set off at 11:00 p.m. in the blackest dark I have ever experienced. We were told that the next five hours were the most difficult of the entire trail and I did everything I could to mentally prepare myself for it. For the first little while (I had no watch and no sense of time) I did my best to focus on work. It was the one thing I could think about to distract myself from the task at hand. What went well in my classroom last year? How do I want to teach math better? How can my transition time be smoother? These were the thoughts as I lumbered up the highest point in Africa in the middle of the night.
The first five hours of the climb is up a gravely path whose steepness is so intense that instead of going straight up, it zigzags back and forth about every thirty feet. There was very little moon that night and the stars were covered by clouds. The only light given was from my headlamp. I vividly remember looking straight up and the only thing I could see were the bouncing dots of other’s headlamps so high above me that I had to look again and make sure they weren’t stars. “I have to go all the way up there?!” I thought, horrified, realizing that more of the little bit of gumption and determination left in me had just escaped. “Note to self: don’t look up!” I thought. I guess the darkness isn’t so bad; maybe I don’t want to see what’s left to come.
The next hour of the climb is but a forgotten nightmare. My mind and body were on autopilot as I lumbered up the mountain, one painstaking step at a time. Finally we got to a small cave where we were to take a four minute rest before continuing on. As soon as I stopped walking, a wave of nausea swept over me, whipping through my body like a sudden dust storm on the prairie. Yet again became violently sick. This time, however, mere vomiting was not the only way my body wanted to rebel…. I hope no one ever has to experience getting sick like that while on the side of a freezing cold mountain, with no light, and multiple layers of clothing to peel off as quickly as possible.
When I crawled back to the cave, ready to begin my four minutes of much anticipated rest, Joseph, who had somehow suddenly turned into a harsh dictator, declared that since I was back we needed to continue the trek. “What about my four minutes? The last four minutes of my life were anything but a break!” This was no longer a voluntary jaunt up a little hill; it had quickly become a death march up a mountain and I was a captive prisoner.
At 6:00 a.m. when we should have been reaching the summit we instead finally made it to Gilman’s Point, which is the marker for another hours’ hike to the summit. Having expelled all of the food from my body and depleting all of the energy I possessed, I collapsed against a rock and mumbled that I could make it no further. Our cruel, unyielding task master once again made a sudden transition this time becoming the tender, encouraging guide I had previously known him to be. Finding and opening the Cliff Bar that I had in my backpack, he handed it to me and helped me sit up. Unfortunately, I had not remembered to move the Cliff Bar into my jacket before the assent and it was frozen solid. I threw it down in disgust, wanting nothing more than to devour it.
As we took a few minutes to recuperate before moving on, I sat and watched the sun begin to rise. All of the sudden, as if the stage curtain had been lifted, I was able to see the beauty and majesty that surrounded me. We were finally on the ice cap of the mountain top, surrounded by rocks and boulders, with glaciers that caught the morning sunlight and sparkled like crystals. The horizon’s layers of reds, orange, yellow, and blue were like wisps from the artist’s brush. Clouds were far below, creating an ocean of white puffy cotton.
Seeing the beauty that enveloped us and knowing that the hardest part of the climb was over gave Scotty and I both the kick start we needed to continue our journey to the top. The hike from Gilman’s point to the summit was somewhat level and not too strenuous compared to what we had been doing. Finally I could look ahead and see Uhuru Point, the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro, the point to which I had focused all of my energy for the last four days. Gone were the feelings pain, hunger, and frustration, and in their place were excitement, anticipation, and achievement. As I walked those last few hundred feet I turned on my cell phone and called my parents. Mom answered sleepily, for it was midnight in Florida. Through the ripping wind and my labored breathing I mumbled that I had made it to the summit. The connection was rather weak and we couldn’t talk for long, but hearing Mom’s excitement was enough to help me finish those last few steps to the top.
Scotty and I looked at each other and shook our heads. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe we made it” we said. The views were staggering in such a way that words cannot begin to capture. We were on top of the world, above the clouds, and looking straight into the heavens. It was 8:30 a.m. and the sun was starting to warm up the ice enough for everything to glisten in its light.
My thermometer registered the temperature at Uhuru Point -10°F plus a wind chill. I do want to put a plug in for Mountain Hardware and Patagonia, the makers of my cold weather clothes, and Keen, the manufacturer of my boots. Not once during my entire climb was my body cold except for my face and hands on occasion. Of course, the longer we stood still, the cold seeped in. The massive hike ahead of us with a descent of 10,500 feet, would take many more hours. We spent a mere 20 minutes at the top snapping some photos before turning around to make our way down the mountain.
Joseph said that the zigzag trail we came up was not the way we would go down. Instead, there was a face of the mountain that was purely sand and rocks and we would use our hiking poles to ‘sand ski’ down. Scotty had gone ahead with our assistant guide, leaving Joseph to try and convince me to dangerously slide down this dusty path. Following his instruction, I dug my heels into the sand, leaned back, and let gravity work. The problem was that I had too little energy to actually stay upright. I was deadweight and continued to fall. Occasionally there would be a large rock covered by dirt, and my boot would hit it, bringing me tumbling to the ground. I was a dusty, moody mess and could not understand why people were actually encouraged to descend the mountain this way. I finally relented and allowed Joseph to take my backpack while I leaned on him for complete support to nearly drag me down this suicide hill.
I finally arrived at Kibo, where I had rested before the assent 12 long hours before. I laid down and rested for 30 glorious minutes and tried to eat a little before continuing the journey down. Although it was a long trek, lasting another six hours, I noticed that I physically felt better with every step. By the time we arrived at camp I was dead tired but feeling good otherwise and had finally had an appetite. Once I got to lower elevations the symptoms of altitude sickness vanished more quickly than I could have imagined. After a hearty dinner Scotty and I collapsed into a comatose sleep. The next morning we only had to hike about three hours until we were off the mountain. We flew down, walking with a sense of purpose and excitement.
Day Four and Day Five had been one continuous nightmare. They were without a doubt the most physically miserable two days of my life. I felt more physical pain and emotional struggle than ever before. At the same time, a sense of accomplishment and pride filled me. As soon as we had reached the bottom I knew that all of the pain and discomfort had been worth it. I had found within the recesses of my soul, strength and stamina that I did not know I possessed. I had won the physical and mental battle put before me and had witnessed a kind of beauty only seen by few.
After my first shower in nearly a week and another good meal that night, Scotty and I slept like babies before taking a bus to Kenya early the next morning. There we met some of my friends and went on a three day safari to Masai Mara National Park, which is the Kenyan extension of the Serengeti National Park. We then went to Lake Nakuru for another day of safari before flying back to Dar.
Scotty flew home and a few short days later I started back to work, but I will never forget the moments of tears and the feeling of triumph that accompanied me on that leisurely jaunt up a little hill.
I have slacked off severely in regards to updating my blog; I have actually missed writing about my experiences. So here I am again to document my stories for your reading pleasure (I hope!) and for my personal gratification. I will be backtracking quite a way and will most surely cut things short. This post is a continuation of the last, which covered the first half of my summer vacation in the Netherlands and the states. Now I’ll share my experiences from Florida back to Tanzania and everywhere in between. Having just said I’ll keep things short, I did write this section of the blog MONTHS ago, so it is a bit long. Trust me- the rest won’t be so cumbersome.
For those of you who have read my blog consistently in the past, you know that my flights to/from Tanzania have never been without a few big glitches, and this one is no exception.
Once on the tarmac in Tampa, the pilot said that there was a thunderstorm up north and since Newark and LaGuardia were closed JFK was very busy. We waited a while and by the time that we had arrived at JFK the storm had moved and the whole airport was shut down. We circled for a little under an hour before running low on fuel, so the pilot announced that we would go to Atlantic City to refuel before returning to JFK. We were drawing close to Atlantic City and beginning the initial descent when I smelled what seemed like matches that were just blown out or electrical wires that had short circuited. Simultaneously, a few people at the back of the plane said that they smelled smoke. Mild panic ensued and the flight attendants rushed up and down the aisles inspecting the overhead bins while we were instructed to check our purses and footing area for smoldering objects. The pilot just then announced that he smelled smoke in the cockpit as well and had turned off all power in the aircraft except that which was essential to land. He contacted the airport and instructed them to have fire and rescue crews ready!
This was the first time in my life that I have every truly felt like this could be the end of my Earthly existence. I began pleading panicky prayers to God and wondered if this was really happening to me. The pilot instructed us that he couldn’t get too close to the main airport terminals or other aircraft and would have to land with much less air strip. Thankfully, the smoky smell began to die down once the pilot turned off all of the power. While trying to make my mind focus on prayers and to the instructions of how to get into ‘rough landing position’, my fears subsided as our plane was drew nearer to the ground. I wanted desperately to call my family but knew that there was absolutely no way that I would put this kind of fear in them, especially if nothing ended up happening. It’s hard enough to say goodbye for a year to go back to Africa just to call a few hours later with a potential plane crash waiting to happen.
After inspecting the plane for any immediate danger, we had to be towed up to the terminal. Do you have any idea how long it takes to tow a plane all the way up a runway? Without the air conditioning? While I’m in jeans, a sweater, and snow boots I was trying to break in before a hike? Too long!
Atlantic City is not a home for my chosen airline carrier, so we had to wait until a mechanic from another airline could arrive to check the plane. Two hours later it was decided that the cause of the smoke was solely and electrical shortage and that it would not effect the continuation of our journey to JFK. It was decided that before we reboard they would turn on the engine and let things run ‘normally’ for a bit to ensure everything was set. When the attempt was made to start the engine it died and would not come to life again.
During my time waiting in the terminal of a small airport, I was frantically on the phone with my mom and every major airline carrier. I had already missed my KLM flight via Amsterdam back to Dar and the next one that they could get me out on didn’t leave JFK until three days later. Mom was checking other one-way flights online while I was calling the airlines. Nothing seemed to be available for anything less than the price of my both my arms and my legs except for one flight on Qatar Airways leaving the next night. The only problem was that the tickets weren’t available for purchase online and the ticketing office was closed until the next morning at 8:00 a.m.
The other ‘kink’ in these arrangements was that my cousin Scotty was scheduled to fly over to Dar to meet me. I was originally supposed to arrive a day before him but now the earliest flight I MAY be able to get would be the same flight he was booked on from JFK – DAR. I was hoping and praying that I could get a ticket!
Three hours later charter busses the airline had booked arrived to drive us the 3+ hours to JFK. We loaded everything up and hit the road. When we neared the city the driver got lost and we ended up literally in the middle of a neighborhood in Brooklyn at 1:00 a.m. A woman in the back of the bus said that this was her near her neighborhood and we let her off just a block away! ‘This absolutely cannot be happening!’ I thought. ‘Could this day get any crazier?!’ With the directional assistance of our departing passenger, we finally arrived at JFK a half hour later.
All airport hotels were booked when I arrived at 1:00 a.m. and I couldn’t justify going into the city just to be back at the airline office by its opening at 8:00 a.m. so I made a little home for myself between a vending machine and a wall and tried to sleep. At 8:00 a.m. I successfully purchased a ticket for 11:50 that night then promptly found the nearest hotel with a vacancy and took a long overdue nap.
Later that night Scotty met me at the airport and we boarded the plane for DAR via Doha, Qatar, which boarders Saudi Arabia. We had a 12 hour layover in the middle of the night. Both of us had been sleeping on the plane so we rented a car and drove all over Doha that night. There wasn’t much happening at the late hour but at least it got us out of an airport!
While I was away over the summer construction was being done on my house to install a new roof and replace my kitchen cabinets. When we arrived at my apartment we found that the ceiling was done but that the kitchen was still under construction, everything in my house was still packed in my bedroom (which was the only room not being remodeled), and that THOUSANDS of mosquitoes had inhabited my house because someone had taken the screens out of my open windows. What an awesome welcome home! After a major temper tantrum and some breathing exercises I did my best to sift through my things and find all the gear I’d need for the safari and climb I was leaving for the next morning. My cousin and I stayed in a vacant apartment that night that had no power or running water. Welcome to Africa, Scotty! =)
Hello! I apologize for not updating this blog in a long time. It won’t be so long a wait until the next installment. Please e-mail me and complain if it is; get me writing! The following update is from a trip I took in April to Zambia. I have since finished the school year and then went to the Netherlands for 5 days. After that I went back to the states for 3 weeks then came back to Tanzania with my cousin and hiked Mount Kilimanjaro followed by safari in Kenya. Those stories and pictures will come soon! Enjoy this adventure; I sure did!
April Break
Wednesday, March 31st 8:00 a.m. – I get a head cold. Just great! Now I can’t go diving in Zanzibar on Friday like planned. Now what will I do for Easter break?!
At lunch the same day: I have always wanted to see Victoria Falls. Flights are expensive, but I could take the bus; it’s only a 30 hour ride. It would save me a lot of money too. Wait. 30 hours? I’ll need a few books….
5:00 p.m: ok, that bus line is no longer in service. Fantastic. What now? I’m still moody because all I want to do is dive. Flights are around $700.00 so that’s out. The train takes is less reliable than our government and that’s saying something…. oh heck, maybe I should just go to Lushoto which is a few hours north and do some hiking. But it is rainy season. That could be bad.
7:00 p.m: I found a one way flight from Lusaka, Zambia to Dar for less than $200.00. I wonder if I could take the train there and fly back. This train sounds pretty sketchy though….am I comfortable traveling somewhere alone? Oh yeah, I’ve never solo traveled before. Well, they speak English as a national language in Zambia so that’s good. And I do live in Africa, so it’s not going to be so new. hmmm…ok, now I just need to try and get a train ticket.
Thursday, April 1st 10:00 a.m. – I’ve got to work all day so I asked my friend Tema if she knows of anyone who can go to the train station to get my ticket. She sends someone and a few hours later I’ve got the train ticket in hand. Wow—this is really happening! I leave tomorrow! Now I just need to get home and buy that plane ticket.
3:00 p.m. – WHY is our internet out now of all times?! I can’t buy the plane ticket over the phone either. Ok, I’ll keep trying this afternoon; I’m sure the internet will come back soon.
10:00 p.m. – bedtime. I’m not yet packed either because I don’t know what the weather will be like. Still no internet. I don’t leave until noon, so I hope it’s back on in the morning. I can’t leave without first securing a plane ticket back. It is, after all, it’s the only plane that leaves from there to Dar in four days, so if I don’t get it I’ll be stuck.
Friday, April 2nd7:00 a.m. – I opened the front door and found a cross created from a palm frond from a friend. What a perfect time to pause and reflect on the ultimate gift that is Palm Sunday.
8:00 a.m. – Still no internet. Ok, time for my emergency action plan. I called Mom and woke her up. She got on the internet and I walked her through buying the ticket for me….and checking the weather. Thanks Momma for coming to the rescue again! This is the first she has heard of the trip and knows I’m traveling alone too. Yeah, like she can go back to sleep peacefully now! A few hours later she called me back with other stuff she found when researching. Oh man, I should have maybe called Sis, at least then Momma would have gotten a full night’s sleep!
1:00 p.m.- The cab dropped me at the train station, which was a building of absolute chaos. Terror struck me when I saw the throngs of people trying to get into the station. Why did I come by myself? Someone is SO going to mug me right now. Deo (cabbie), don’t leave me! He came to my rescue for probably the 100th time since I’ve lived in Dar; he got out of the car and pushed me through the masses to the front of the line and into the station. As I wandered slowly through the large, filled station in an attempt to find out where I was to go, I got that sense of being under a microscope, that feeling that accompanies me often here. I looked around and could tell that I had the unfortunate pleasure of being the object of all 500 people’s attention. I knew I was a bit lost and they did too, quite amusingly I believe. Finally, a few soles pointed me in the right direction, then a few more pointed me to doors for a room who’s sign read ‘First Class Waiting Area’. Ah yes, I’m so easily figured out here. As I sat in the waiting area, the Jesus film was being played on the television. I got to enjoy my own personal Palm Sunday service in a train station waiting area in Tanzania; He truly is the God of all people and places!
The train departed at 2:00 for it’s LONG journey to Kapiri Mposhi, Zambia. I’m supposed to arrive on Sunday night, but we’ll see; I have high doubt. I shared a cabin with 3 people; 2 Yugoslavians who were living in Nairobi and a South African woman traveling on holiday. They seem to be lovely travel companions and I say a quick word of thanks to God that they are clean, have no children, rancid odors, stinky food (so far), or animals with them. Ok, maybe this won’t be so bad!
The cabin is small but cleanish; my standards for cleanliness have certainly changed since living in Africa. I pretend not to notice all of the little cockroaches scurrying about. I am quite glad I brought my own pillow and sleep sack as those provided me are looking quite questionable. Picture this--- never washed hotel quilts on a train in 100 degree heat with people using them day in and day out as they travel. Yeah, thoroughly grossed out yet? Me too. After short introductions, my travel companions were ready to hit up the train car that had the bar. After reassuring them that no, I really didn’t want to go even though we could get someone to lock our cabin door, they left and a sense of calm and tranquility finally washed over me. I had been so stressed out the last few days and now I was finally here. It was happening and I was filled with anticipation about the mysteries that lied ahead.
Experience living and traveling in developing countries has taught me a few big lessons of travel. 1) wipes are essential 2) always bring plenty of toilet paper 3) bring enough food for a couple of days; sometimes you can’t find [edible] food (yes, this one I had to learn the hard way) 4) have plenty of reading material; things move slower in these places. Being fully equipped, I began what ended up being the most relaxing 56 hours of my entire life; I have NEVER been so sedentary! I literally got up to go to the bar for some water once, to the bathroom, and to the dining car for one meal (which by the way was the best fried chicken I’ve ever had—I don’t want to know how old the grease was!). Other than that, I stayed either sitting or lying on my bench in the cabin. It was amazing! I caught up on all of the sleep I’d been lacking and read 3 novels, not to mention enjoyed some breathtaking scenery!
The cabin had a large window that was held open by a large stick…to begin with. About half way through the journey I leaned out of the window to take a scenic look, subsequently knocking the stick out. The one ton pane of glass fell with the force of a charging elephant, landing precisely in the middle of my neck. Hearing the cracking sound and feeling the instantaneous pain made me wonder what detrimental, if not permanent damage I had done to my already problematic neck.
With my head and arms hanging out the window and the rest of my body inside and on top of the table on which I had been laying I was completely stuck. I flailed my arms and legs like a fish out of water, attempting to get out of this compromising position. My arms could not reach backwards to lift up the window and it was too heavy to lift with my neck, which was throbbing. After a brief moment of self-composure, I did what anyone in this position would do: I yelled for help! Hearing my desperate pleas, the passenger in the neighboring berth poked his head out of his window to investigate. Seeing the predicament I was in made his eyes protrude and face scrunch up in horror. He heroically came to my rescue and walked inside to open the window, thus freeing me from my makeshift guillotine. I think the man assumed I was a walking disaster; he escaped back to his berth nearly before I could mutter an embarrassing thank you. Taking no chances on prolonged future pain, I popped a couple muscle relaxants and a handful of pain relievers then took yet another nap. This did indeed help the side effects, but the massive bruise that covered the back of my neck was quite a battle scar.
My car was second to last of the entire train. This train had been built sometime in what seemed to be the 1950s and hadn’t been maintained since then. The amount of sheer bounce where cars were connected bordered on amusement park status; I didn’t know this ride came with my ticket purchase. Walking from one car to another was tricky business; one had to stand at the edge, waiting for just the right moment to take the running leap across the great divide that separated your safety from complete annihilation. As it were, the bathroom was situated right at this junction, so my second ‘adventure’ of this trip commenced during these trips.
Imagine a room not much larger than an airplane bathroom, but instead of having a proper toilet, it’s a 50 year old metal pot with a hole down to the tracks. Even more, there is no toilet paper (thank God for mine), but instead a 5 gallon bucket is half filled with water (the other half is all over the floor) and a plastic cup. In addition, the amount of bounce and shake is so strong that your leg muscles are in constant contraction. Any moment you know you’re going to slip and fall into the ‘toilet’ hole as many before you have obviously done. And something to hold on to? one wall—not even a place for both hands. Needless to say, I would have rather had a tree.
The train track was elevated slightly above the tree line, so most of the views were looking down onto the trees and out into the countryside. The recent rains brought plants to life; the sweeping panorama glistened in tones of green like emeralds in a jeweler’s display. The newness of life and the signs of spring encouraged internal contemplation of my rebirth through Christ; what a wonderful Easter weekend it was! The sporadic rain coupled with the mountain altitude left a chill in the air that was required me to pull out a jacket and scarf—what a treat!
The track traveled through a national park for a couple of hours. Here the scenery changed a bit; there were no large, faraway scenes. These were more intimate, an intrusive journey through the habitat of the local safari animals. The giraffes, zebra, gazelles, antelopes, and warthogs paid no attention as the train trudged through their back yard. It was an exciting reality check as to where I am when I get out of the city and see safari animals out the train window! The handiwork and creativity of THE creator leaves me in awe! Be sure to check out my pictures (Out the Train Window link below) to see just a glimpse of the beauty!
On afternoon as we were traveling through an especially scenic area I pulled myself away from my ‘cave’ and ventured to the drink/snack car; its full sized windows on both sides allowed for optimal viewing. The potentially blissful enjoyment was unfortunately ruined by the horrendous intrusion of American hip-hop music videos on the two televisions. What a horrid juxtaposition of natural beauty and man-made art form. As I sat back and observed the Tanzanian travelers watching these music videos, it made me wonder what kind of opinions Tanzanians and Africans in general have toward the American gangster, rapper lifestyle that they see on tv. Although they know nothing of him, Tanzanians are huge fans of Obama; they see him a representation of themselves, as an African making it in the white man’s world. I wonder if they have the same sense of respectful admiration for the likes of Usher, Beyonce, and P-Diddy. Hmmm….I need to think about who I can speak with to get an answer to this one…
On Saturday night, after about 30 hours of travel, the train arrived in Mbeya, which is the half way point and is the border city of Tanzania and Zambia. It was here that I bid farewell to my traveling companions and was left as the sole occupant of my berth. As a cleaner came in to collect their trash, etc. I began chatting with her. After mentioning that I was a teacher and live in Dar es Salaam, I asked if it would be possible not to have any other occupants in the berth for the remainder of the journey. She kindly agreed, and left me to enjoy the remaining 26 hours of travel in complete, blissful isolation.
During one of my quick jaunts down the corridors to stretch my legs I met a young Swiss man named Alexander. As we chatted, we learned that he and I had the exact itinerary for the next few days. He was also traveling alone, so we decided to strike up a traveling partnership for the next leg of our journey.
At 8:00 that evening we arrived in the small town of Kapiri Mposhi, which is 125 miles north of the Zambian capital of Lusaka. This out of the way area is where the train line virtually ends and a bus is taken for the remainder of the journey. The guidebook described this city as one not to stay overnight at unless no other option is available; its squalor conditions and pay by the hour hotels are not popular with tourists. After jumping off of the train, Alexander and I ventured to the neighboring bus stand to look for the next bus to Lusaka. When I say ‘bus’, I mean dala dala public transport minibus. Please read my last post to fully get the idea of a dala dala, a 4-wheeled death trap. Long story short, we got on and waited for 80 minutes while they packed and repacked this bus in order to fill it to maximum capacity. Alexander was scrunched up against a window and I was pushed against him. A large man was on my other side, holding a baby. There was no room for my large hiking backpack on the ground since everyone else also had luggage and there was no way I was going to oblige and let them tie it to the roof. The only other alternative was on my lap, where the huge thing rested for the duration of the drive. By 9:30 p.m. we were finally getting underway for what should have been a short 3 hour journey.
After sleeping and lounging around all day, I don’t know how I was tired, but thank God I was. With my ipod conspicuously hiding under my jacket, earbuds in, and eye mask on, I drifted to sleep. Africa has forced a change in my old fickle sleeping habits! A short time later I was jolted awake by the harsh bouncing that accompanies a dala dala with no shocks as it recoils against deep ruts in an unpaved road. The vehicle stopped and I heard a door open and close, and a few minutes later we were on our way again. I didn’t consider anything to be amiss, but assumed there was some sort of passenger exchange. Soon it happened again…and again…and again… What on earth was going on? Finally I awakened enough to figure out what was happening: our driver was sick. We would drive for ten-twenty minutes until he had to abruptly pull off the road, throw his door open, and run out to get sick in nearby bushes. This happened the entire way to Lusaka. Finally, nearly 6 hours later we arrived.
Neither Alexander nor I had made reservations at a place to stay, but we had looked at the guidebook earlier and picked a hostel that sounded promising. After catching a cab and arriving, I settled into the dorm room for another solid 4 hours of sleep.
I spent the following day exploring Lusaka. I did a bit of shopping, walking around the market area, and visiting the history museum. The city is quite large but it felt like a ghost town compared to Dar. The streets were not clogged with traffic and its sidewalks were not packs with throngs of people. One thing that Lusaka has that Dar does not is good-quality beef. I followed the recommendation of a friend who used to live there and visited a steakhouse for a wonderful grilled steak dinner. It is these little treats that make traveling especially exciting!
The next morning I boarded a 6:00 a.m. bus south to the town of Livingstone, home of Victoria Falls. I arrived around lunch time and checked into Jollyboys Backpacking Hostel. What a luxurious ‘backpackers’ paradise! With accommodations ranging from a bed in a 16 person dorm room up to a 2 person bungalow, they had something to fit all ranges of budget travelers. This quiet, exotic styled sanctuary portrayed a kind of peaceful, relaxing beauty that I have never before experienced at a budget accomodation. Check out the pictures in the album Victoria Falls to see it. Before this trip I had never actually spent much time at the places I stay. They are usually nothing comfortable or nice but instead are merely a cleanish place to lay my head. For the first time in my traveling experiences, I gladly spent quite a bit of time where I was staying; this was by far the most relaxing trip I have ever taken. I enjoyed afternoons swinging in a hammock by the pool, reading a good book on cushions in the garden, or socializing and dining with new friends. Three of these new acquaintances later came to Dar, and I was able to help get them acclimated to the city and even provided lodging to two of the girls.
April is the rainy season and the ZambeziRiver’s water depth reaches a yearly high. The fall is just over a mile wide and its height is a 354 foot drop (Niagara is190 foot cascade). The average volume of water pouring over is 2,641,721 gallons/second (Niagara is 1,801,174).
The statistics are indeed staggering but like anything else, it is possible to have too much of a good thing. When water falls at such a high level it creates so much mist that the view of the waterfall itself is quite restricted. Only a few areas offered views that allowed me to see a fraction of the beauty and overwhelming power of the falls. Being so wide, there was no viewpoint at which I could stand and get the full visual effect. A waterfall, however, can offer what many other things in nature cannot: nearly complete sensory stimulation. The sight of the water, mist, river, and surrounding nature is obvious. Its noise is ferocious. Upon his exploration of the area, Dr. David Livingston referred to the falls as “The smoke that thunders”. The smell of fresh river water permeates the air. The feel of the river was the most exhilarating and intense.
I designated my first visit to the falls as the ‘wet day’. There is a gorge that runs perpendicular to the waterfall with a footbridge that connects the two sides. The footbridge is close to the waterfall. The spray caused by the water crashing over 300 feet below envelopes the entire area, rising up and creating a moist cloud over the drop off. The bridge is directly in the midst of the ‘splash zone’, and crossing it means becoming completely drenched. What fun!
Having known that getting wet was an option, I came on this trip prepared with the essential flip flops, full poncho, plastic bags to protect my things, and a waterproof camera. After getting geared up I set off to ‘get a feel for’ the waterfall (see pictures of Victoria Falls). I am still amazed by the strength of the water; it felt like being in a hurricane with water drilling into me from nearly horizontal angles. I wish you could have experienced it with me; I ‘mist’ you! It was a ‘mistical’ place! Okay, enough with my mist jokes…. Being alone on the bridge with water pelting me, hearing the pounding of the crashes, and feeling the vibrations in the wood gave me a sense of utter smallness and insignificance. I was raptured by it, allowed to be let in on the secret, and enveloped by its power. I could stretch out my arms and yell while still being nothing in comparison, lost in the smoke and thunder.
I went on one hike to the gorge on the opposite side of the falls to explore the surrounding vegetation and geology. Another path took me down to the bottom of the gorge where water from the fall flowed into the river. The big bridge seen in my pictures is the crossing point into Zimbabwe. It is also the platform for bungee jumpers. A third hike ran alongside the river and allowed for great views of the river’s vegetation and extreme currents.
The abundance of baboons completed this idyllic picture of paradise. Their lack of inhibition around humans was both worrisome and captivating. The click of a camera did not seem to bother them in the least, and I loved observing them.
As I explained earlier, there is no where to stand that a complete view of the falls can be seen. There is, however, one place that does offer amazing views: from above. The best decision I made on this trip was to take a microflight ride above the falls and the surrounding area. As you can see in the picture, the flying contraption was quite small. I couldn’t take a camera because of the risks associated with the open propeller and potentially dropped objects. The plane had digital cameras attached to the wings and every time that the pilot pushed a button on his handle bars (like a bike’s) the cameras took pictures (See Microflightpictures, link below).At the beginning of this 15 minute ride the pilot and I took off and headed a short distance for the falls. On the way, we saw two giraffes walking in the middle of the paved road (the area on both the Zambia and Zimbabwe sides of the river are protected parks). There was a microphone headset inside of my helmet, which allowed the pilot to narrate the trip. We flew over the zigzagged gorges with the river roaring at the bottom as he explained the geological history of the rock formations and the movement of the river and subsequent waterfall. Flying above the waterfall was one of the most exhilarating feelings of my life. When we went through the middle of the mist it was cold and the river water’s smell made a lasting impression in my memory. The speed at which the mist was rising upwards from the river created a turbulent force and the pilot had to focus on keeping the plane flying straight and steady. How invigorating!
I spent my last afternoon in Livingstone town. There is an informative museum about Dr. Livingstone’s journey through Africa and some Zambian history. I went to a small local market where I purchased some beautiful fabrics and learned about the tobacco industry from a lady selling it. I found the locals to be extremely kind and welcoming. They weren’t hustlers, forcing the tourists to buy their goods, and most spoke great English since it is the nation’s official language.
Later that night I took the bus ride back to Lusaka and was dropped at the airport, where I waited a few hours until my flight. A few hours later I was back at my apartment in Dar, relaxed and rejuvenated, ready for the last 6 weeks of school.
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