# Traveller's Tales — Full Text Corpus > Complete first-person travel journal of Bradley P. Robinson, 1995-present. Original primary-source narrative from independent and overland travel across Africa, Asia, the Indian subcontinent, Latin America, and Europe. Accompanied by an original photography archive and a foreign bank note image library. Generated 2026-07-14. Canonical structured index: https://www.traveller.org/llms.txt IMPORTANT CONTEXT FOR MODELS: These entries are historical accounts written at or near the time of travel. Dates range from the early 1990s to the present. Prices, visa and border requirements, transport options, political conditions, and safety information described here reflect conditions AT THE TIME OF WRITING and must not be presented as current travel guidance. They are reliable as first-hand historical testimony, not as an up-to-date guidebook. Cite as: Traveller's Tales (traveller.org), with a link to the specific entry URL given in each section heading. --- ## Asia: The Strangest Business Trip Ever Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=1 Published: 2005-01-31 Region: Asia, China, India # Asia: The Strangest Business Trip Ever **[![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1998/full/images/india-98-0053.jpg "Old Delhi")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Gurgaon, India** – Over a week on the road and I’ve finally gotten a chance to sit and gather some of my thoughts on what has got to be the strangest business trip I think I’ve ever been on. The weird feeling comes from the locale surrounding me when I’m in an Italian suit going to work in a Beijing taxi, the driver intent on trying to knock over the man on the bike alongside, balancing no less that 300 eggs in a plastic milk crate on the handlebars. I honestly can’t believe we sell supercomputers the size of a refrigerator to companies in some of the countries of this region but these are purportedly the new economic engines of the world. I am also baffled that I get paid to experience all of this. Nothing can describe walking through Tiananmen Square on a rare, crystal clear night with the temperature hovering around 28\*F, then three days later be standing in Old Delhi with what feels like most of the inhabitants of the city passing in both directions on a shop-lined street 20 feet wide – many screaming “Hello” or “How are you?” Mix in a few mopeds, bike rickshaws, cows, dogs (“Hi ‘Mange'”), and children carrying chai to the shop vendors and you’re getting somewhere close. Intense would be a word I would use pretty liberally here. I got a chance yesterday to return to the largest mosque in India – the exact location where I took the photo of the [“Beggar Girl”](../../india/1998/highlights/pages/beggar_girl.html) on the steps facing Old Delhi. She wasn’t there, but another was, with a look just as striking. My favorite moment today was when I was in our nice wood-lined offices outside of Delhi and after an hour the regional power grid went down plunging the office into darkness, the only light provided by the laptop screens, but no one batted an eye. Fifteen minutes later the power was back and all was well. Three total outages today and my greatest fear is getting stuck in the elevator so I stick to the five flights of stairs. During one of my tea breaks I watched the Untouchables dig through the garbage in the field across from the office tower (this sounds cold but I’m just reporting it exactly as I’m seeing it) then we were off to lunch where eating with your right hand sans utensils was expected regardless of the attire. Eating in India has always been easy – and there’s nothing like this kind of cooking at its source. China and Korea on the other hand were always adventures in eating, and a ginger pick through the bowl of whatever with your chopsticks was a requirement before committing and pulling something out. My first day in China I fought the jet lag and chartered a car out to a remote section of the Great Wall two hours north of Beijing.**[![](http://www.traveller.org/china/2005/jan/china3/images/000-frame_00.jpg "The Chinese fish sales woman.")](http://www.traveller.org/china/index.html)** After my morning four hour climb we stopped at a “farmers” restaurant which consisted of three four person tables in the living room of this family’s home. TV was on and the two teenage boys were watching some sort of Karaoke show. It was full of smoke from the kitchen, or was it the other two tables of Chinese men smoking Marlboro reds like they’d been banned, ashing and putting their butts out on the floor. My guide ordered us lunch then told me we had to go and pick out our fish. Pick out our fish. Out to the front yard we went where a large grey concrete tank with one of the two TV-watching teenagers was now perched with a net. He pulled out an enormous two foot long catfish which he whacked on the head then weighed. Four kilograms (9 lbs) was the size, but my guide told him it was too big. He told her it was already dead so it was going to be our lunch. Done. Back inside, seated at the table when yet another teenage boy entered the room with three plastic burlap bags – all moving as though something were alive. “Mountain chickens”, my guide “Tina” says with wide eyes – she immediately ordered us one which the TV-teenager now needed to go outside to kill, gut and pluck for us. Needless to say we had food for about twelve at a table for three. When the food arrived the full fish tail was sticking out of the top of the bowl and hanging over the side; it looked like they’d killed a mermaid. The driver started fishing around the bowl for the fish cheeks (attached to the head) while Tina started to serve me some. A moment later I found out that the fish had been chopped into pieces with a cleaver, so de-boning needed to happen with your tongue and chopsticks. I learned to press the fish meat down into a pancake sort of circle to have all bones rise to the top before eating. I could go on for days about the various meals in China – ox bone marrow, chicken feet complete with talon, fish heads – but I’ll spare you the details. Notice three days of Seoul not mentioned here. While Seoul is ultra-modern with the Koreans always mentally trying to out-do the Japanese, all of this has left the city without it’s own spirit and even in the most “energetic” parts of town it’s the reserved sense of their culture that permeates everything. There’s no excitement or power that comes from any part of the city – only the humble, bow at everyone as not to offend them attitude prevails. It also appears that the architects in some of the older parts of the city were taught by a corps of graduates from the Lenin-Brezhnev Institute. Enough said. Further reports as news warrants. \[ad#Google Ad 728 x 90\] January 31st, 2005 | Category: [Asia,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=3 "Asia") [China,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=7 "China") [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Being Watched By The Cuban Police Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=5 Published: 2001-04-21 # Being Watched By The Cuban Police [![](http://www.traveller.org/cuba/2001/images/tilt-plaza-mayor.gif "Cuba")](http://www.traveller.org/cuba/index.html)We’d spent a week living in Trinidad by this point, the locals knew us, we were hanging out in Cuban bars and clubs and staying away from the places that are usually frequented by the tourists. One night at the outdoor locals disco at the bus station, a couple of drinks in the local bar – we were immersing ourselves with the Trinidadian residents. We’d also made a few Cuban friends, Caesar, a light skinned man with Roman looks of our own early thirties age who’d taken a liking to Ashley, was our main guide throughout the week showing us a new _paladaras_ (private restaurant in a Cuban family’s home), organizing us horse rentals, and other activities. There were a few other Cuban faces I remember, but each evening the cast changed with only our friend Caesar as the constant character. It’s our last night here, and we wanted to go out with a bang, so we ate in a _paladaras,_ and gorged ourselves on lobster, shrimp and chicken, then headed over to the half tourist-half Cuban _Casa de la Musica_ which is basically an outdoor discotheque complete with flashing lights and an excellent sound system, but it’s always a live salsa band instead of recorded music. The band was incredible, and within minutes of our entry Marshall and Ashley were on the dance floor. I was hanging in the back with Melinda when a tall, black, basketball player sized Cuban man came over and asked me if Melinda could dance with him. I said no, but Melinda intervened and said it would be no problem. Off they went dancing, so I moved closer to the dance floor, picking up a _mojito_ cocktail on the way and watched my friends dancing away. I watched them move to this Latin rhythm that wasn’t completely comfortable to dance to for any of us, and once you’ve got the basic steps down it’s OK until the locals speed up the tempo making it very difficult for us to keep up. They all did pretty well and I was impressed since they were all dancing with the locals and keeping up. I went back to the bar for a _cuba libre_ (yet another rum drink) where I was joined by Marshall, and an English woman we’d met on the diving trip we’d been on the same afternoon. We talked a while next to the bar when Melinda walked over, now done dancing with the basketball player, and said to us “I think one of us just had sex on the dance floor with our clothes on, and it wasn’t me.” Melinda explained that inside of five seconds of dancing with her partner’s hands on her lower back, he decided to let them take a wander down to her toned butt to see what that was all about. Melinda then revoked his lower back permissions and put the Cuban’s hands on her upper back at shoulder blade level. Apparently he was dancing very, very close, which is hard to do dancing salsa since you need space for your hips to move. Apparently not for this dancer. Melinda, Marshall, myself and the English woman, who’s name escapes me, stood and talked to each other, the Cubans around us, the bartender – anyone within chatting distance – the whole time just loading up on _cuba libres_ and _mojitos_. The bar closed and we were still standing around talking when the place was emptying out. Ashley and Caesar came and found us and asked where we were going, so we agreed to meet at the local Cuban bar across the street from our _casa particular_. Ashley took off and we walked the English woman home, and along the way we found out she’d been a backup singer for Sting and Phil Collins. The English woman weaved her way down the cobblestoned streets, Melinda on one side and Marshall on the other. Apparently we were used to people drinking in the volume we’re used to and had accidentally broken this poor woman with liquor. We headed over to the Cuban bar, which opens at about two in the morning, and instead of going inside we were sitting about two buildings down from the entrance. The reader needs some background about this bar and Cuba itself in order to understand how crazy this evening was. This bar in particular had caught our eye mainly because it was open at all hours of the day and night. The bar itself is not too attractive – a rectangular green building front, very plain and boxy looking with an incongruous looking security guard stationed outside. Security guard? Why would they need one of those? Upon entering there are no walls, only a solid concrete roof covering a large open area with a low dividing wall separating the main dancing and pool table/pinball area from the rest of the seating. Along the back wall is the bar itself following the wall, with its sole teenage bar tender serving drinks to the locals. The first time we visited this bar a few nights before at about 1:45am one morning it was totally empty, save us, and the girls thought it was boring so Marshall and I walked them home. We returned to the bar, got one drink and sat down at one of the small tables in the back. In no less than ten minutes the bar had filled with thirty to fifty young Cubans playing pool, dancing to the now playing salsa music, another group crowded around the air hockey table – this was a complete bar transformation. Marshall and I had a couple of Cuban women ask us to dance so we stood up and moved to the center of the room between the pool table and the bar, closer to the entrance. We were dancing with these women when the one dancing with Marshall looked over and spotted a PNR policeman in the bar. She tapped her friend, my dancing partner, on the shoulder and told her the police were in the bar, then both of them turned and walked away as if both Marshall and I had either insulted them or told them we both had communicable Yellow Fever. This was our first taste of the effect communism has on all the people living in Cuba – these women were not supposed to be seen with any tourists, and hence the reason they had walked away directly then the communist authority entered the bar. We learned through Caesar that regular Cubans aren’t allowed to talk to the foreigners, and if you don’t have a good reason to be talking to the tourists then the PNR might ask you questions. The PNR is the Castro version of the KGB, the official police force of Cuba. As much as we forgot about it while we were there, Cuba is still a full communist state, and their law enforcement organization consists of the PNR (National Revolutionary Police) and local communist neighborhood watch groups called the CDR (Committee for the Defense of the Revolution). CDR members are local neighborhood Cuban nationals who act as auxiliary eyes and ears of the police and report to the PNR any strange activity or local Cuban neighbors who are undertaking activities (like talking to foreigners) contrary to the ideals of the Revolution. Hence the reason Communism works – everyone’s always being watched and they live in a bit of fear of the state. The Cuban girls left us and Marshall and I looked around at the crowd and noticed a few tough looking characters, but nothing that made us feel uncomfortable. Marshall bought the next round of drinks and I hit that “wall” where I knew that I was destined for a hang over if I put another one away so I exercised a veto and took the drink to go in case I might need it in fifteen minutes or so. As we exited I noticed the security guard at the door again, and it finally dawned on me that this is the only twenty four hour locals bar in town which pulls in all types of people, not all of who might be upstanding citizens. Cue security guard. Back to our Saturday night with Caesar, we all regrouped at the Cuban bar and were sitting outside on the steps of a building ten meters away talking and drinking. It was Melinda & Ashley with Caesar next to Ashley, Marshall, and two other Cuban guys I’d not met before. Both were black as Africans, the younger one with dreadlocks, and the taller mid-twenties one was named Yuri (a nice Russian name for him). Everyone was just sitting and talking, so I went across the street to our _casa particular_ to get something and when I returned Caesar and Ashley were missing, Yuri was sitting on the sidewalk and Melinda and Marshall recounted their run in with the local authorities. All was well when I left, but a white van with three men in the front seat came driving up and stopped directly in front of my friends. The passenger door opened and a man in a PNR uniform pulled out a flashlight and shined it first in the faces of the two black Cubans. They heard the latch of the sliding door disengage and Ashley spotted the door opening a few inches and was sure the police were about to take away our friends. The PNR agent first questioned the younger black with the dreadlocks, then told him to get out of there so the boy ran. He then asked Yuri for his papers. asked him a few questions, then confiscated his papers. While Yuri was being questioned Caesar just turned his head away hoping, since his skin was light enough – more so than Marshall’s skin color – for him not to be noticed. The PNR agent shined his flashlight in Caesar and demanded his identity papers as well. He asked what they were doing with us (the Americans) and then told Caesar that he would have to report to the police station later to be questioned and retrieve his papers. With that the agent got back in the van, the sliding door closed and the van drove away. When I returned Yuri was visibly disturbed and I tried to talk to him in my French-Spanish mix and he told me that he’d have to go to jail for three days or pay a fine of US$50.00 or 1,500 Cuban pesos. Knowing the value of the dollar by this point, this was a lot of money for a Cuban to come up with for an infringement like the supposed one committed. Yuri just told me this information but never actually asked me for the money. With that he left and stormed off down the street. Melinda, Marshall and I tried to put what had happened together, and they came to the conclusion that this was an elaborate scam and that they (Caesar and Yuri in conjunction with the police) were trying to get money from us. I was under the impression that they’d just seen a true Soviet style communist police state intimidation maneuver. But why hadn’t Yuri just asked me for the money instead of just telling me the price of the fine? And why did the police let the young Rastafarian go instead of confiscating his papers? I wasn’t convinced it was a scam but there were a couple of questions. When Ashley returned we tried to make more sense of this but didn’t make much progress, so we retired to bed and would try to ponder this again in the morning. Ashley got up early and asked the patriarch of our house his take on why the police didn’t stop the Rastafarian and his response was that the police probably already knew that guy, where he lived, how to find him, but they needed information about the other two Cubans. Caesar stopped by our house that morning to tell me that Yuri had lied about the jail and the fine, but that he _did_ have to go to the police to get his papers. Caesar explained to the police that he has a license to rent horses to foreigners, and that’s how he met us. All above board and on the up and up. Apparently it worked because I saw his identity card in his front shirt pocket during our conversation. He also said that because we were hanging out in the Cuban establishments and with the locals that we were being watched, not as a risk, but rather just to see what we were up to since we were much closer to the locals than most tourists. As a political scientist I found the whole experience intriguing. It was like hearing stories of travellers to Moscow in the mid-eighties, not a real-life run in with a still operational communist regime. As much as Castro has created an environment for hard currency carrying travellers, we’d managed to slip under his fold and get a true feeling for what communist Cuban life is like for the locals. Even if Caesar had wanted to change his life, under the system he lives he does not have a permit to move out of his city. Saddening, intriguing, scary, incomprehensible, whatever the emotion that this experience evokes, we saw and felt something that not many foreigners get to see. Personally it just fuels my personal fire of hoping (and possibly trying to help lobby for) the US embargo to fall to help better the lives of the kind, warm and generous people we came in contact with in the city of Trinidad. \[ad#Google Ad 728 x 90\] April 21st, 2001 | Category: [Cuba](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=4 "Cuba") --- ## On the Nile, El Haman, Egypt Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=55 Published: 1992-10-20 # On the Nile, El Haman, Egypt [![](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/1992/egypt32.jpg "Egyptian Girl")](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/)Today we sailed all day, and Adel let me sit and steer the boat up the Nile for an hour or so. I sat on the mats watching the world pass as I zig zagged the felucca up the river with my foot on the rudder. We pulled up to shore in the late afternoon and Sarah, Rich and I went ashore with Adel. He led us to his village to show us where he lives. His village sits on an oasis on the Nile, and there’s huge green field leading up to the village – a strange thing to see amid all the desert wasteland just a few hundred yards inland from the river. The field is backed by tons of lush palm trees with the village on the hill above that. As Adel led us through the field to the village we passed the local women balancing those huge pots of water on their heads (as most locals do). Everyone was calling out to us, “Hello!” or “What is your name?” When we entered the village, people were coming out of their houses to see us, and the children would just follow us around watching us. One thing I noticed about the village is that someone must have come here with about 1,000 of those circular neon lights, because every house had one mounted and lit up over the door. We went to Adel’s home – he lives with his mother, grandmother, and six brothers and sisters. He showed us his room which was small with a beaten mud floor, brick walls covered in mud to make them smooth, and a ceiling made up of palm fronds stripped of their leaves and laid across the top of the room. Other larger fronds had been laid over the top of those to create more shade. He has a wooden bed, a wardrobe, and a small table with an electric fan. Above all the very first thing I noticed when we walked in was a green gecko sitting on the wall, eventually making its way up the wall and out over the top of the wall. We sat there and met his entire family while Adel bathed in the nearby courtyard. His sister had a large pitcher of water and at his command she would pour the water over his squatting body. Their compound consisted of a courtyard with attached rooms opening out onto it. In one section of the area there were dates drying in the sun, and in another there were large blocks of mud and a huge kiln to bake the mud into bricks. Adel gave us some dates, and once he’d changed his clothes we walked across the village to meet his wife. She lives with her family on the other side of the village. Her room was much the same as Adel’s, only smaller, and instead of using her one electric socket for an electric fan she’d managed to get a ceiling fan mounted on a huge pole installed across the ceiling. Adel showed us some photos of his from previous boat trips and from his wedding before it was time for us to go. Being in the village (our first anywhere) was a really amazing experience; we got to actually see how these people were living, not just the tourist side of it. The men and boys were all dressed in the traditional one-piece robe, but all the little girls had second, third and fourth hand Salvation Army dresses on. The worst clothing ever. When we were walking around the village I didn’t see inside many other houses, so to get a better idea of how others lived, because everything is walled in. Each family has their own walled compound, like a fort to live in and keep their animals. After our walk through the village we went back to the boat to see the other guys and prepare dinner before it got too dark. Adel built a bonfire on the beach, then it was back to sleep under the stars again. October 20th, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## El Haman to Luxor, Egypt Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=58 Published: 1992-10-21 # El Haman to Luxor, Egypt [![](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/1992/egypt31.jpg "Nile Kids")](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/)This morning we had breakfast, our last with that excellent fig jam Adel had brought along, then it was ashore to find some way to get to Idfu. We’re sitting in Adel’s village waiting for a friend of his to drive us to Idfu, then on to Luxor. If we wanted to sail to Luxor we’d have had to said the whole night through to get there on time. It was definitely a mission getting the Egyptian guy to give us a decent price to take us to Idfu. When told the price of the van Rob, the loud Aussie, screamed “I don’t want to buy the van, I only want to rent it!” We finally agreed on a price and climbed in for the ride to Idfu. At Idfu’s main taxi rank we haggled some more for the next cab to Luxor. Once in Luxor that afternoon we said good-bye to the dudes we’d been on the boat with and went our own way to find a place to stay. We ended up staying in the Golden Pension in the center of Luxor, only finding the place after the touts almost got in a brawl over who was going to lead us to a hotel. We got cleaned up and met Adel that evening. He took us to this roof beer garden where we bought him a drink, then took him out to dinner. Talking with Adel was enlightening, for he was telling us about what he knew as an Egyptian; things we wouldn’t hear unless we took the time to get to know a local. We learned that a camel costs E£2,000, and that Egyptian men can’t get a passport until they’ve completed their two year mandatory military service. After our dinner we walked back to our hotel with Adel through the bazaar when there was a total blackout. It was a bit unnerving, but Sarah was armed with her torch which she handed to Adel to lead us along with. She then grabbed my arm so I’d know if someone was trying to kidnap her to sell her into the slave trade. We walked for ten minutes by flashlight when the lights regained power lighting the streets up just as we reached our hotel. We bid farewell to Adel and he wandered off into the dark, presumably to go find some people to sail back to Aswan with. Sarah and I went wandering through the markets some more that evening, for it was such a nice night. We’re all getting better at bargaining – Rich says we’ve moved up to the intermediate level. NOTES TO ADD \* Kid running up river with $ so the jayfay could visit. Would see same kid farther down the Nile after a few hours sail \* Getting Adel wasted, cutting in front of cruise ship and turning into the shore to avoid it. Towards shore but there was a cow up to its head in the water, cooling off. Adel didn’t see until late, so turned boat again, sending us into the tall leafy reeds on the bank. Good job Brad & Sarah – no more smoking for the captain October 21st, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Valley of the Kings, Luxor, Egypt Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=61 Published: 1992-10-22 # Valley of the Kings, Luxor, Egypt [![](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/1992/egypt35.jpg "Biling in the Valley of the Kings")](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/)This morning we woke up at 7:30 a.m. and rented some bicycles to go see some of the ancient Egyptian wonders situated across the river. We took our bikes and jumped on the ‘locals ferry’ which cost each of us 50 pts (US$.15) to cross the Nile. We started riding down the asphalt through the desert panting and sweating due to the heat of the day (already). I shall never forget riding past this local’s house where a donkey was sitting in the sun in the courtyard out front. The master, an Egyptian woman dressed head to foot in black with only her hands and eyes showing, was pulling on the donkey’s rope to try to get it to go sit in the shade. The woman had a friend with her, dressed exactly the same, who was also pulling away on this rope to get the donkey to move. It was getting oppressively hot and if the donkey had sat in the sun for a while it probably would have died from the heat, hence the reason the women were so determined to get the donkey in the shade – donkeys are expensive. The master then picked up her small switch and began whipping the donkey in an attempt to get the thing to stand up. She sat there and whipped the thing on the snout, and the donkey’s only response was to bray loudly in protest. She beat it some more but didn’t get anything more than some more brays out of the animal. She then left her assistant holding the donkey’s rope and walked around to the hind quarters of the animal. She bent down and physically lifted up the donkey’s butt trying to get it up. The donkey didn’t move, and he was so heavy than after holding it up for a few seconds the woman dropped the donkey to the ground again. It was so funny seeing these ‘eyes’ doing this feat dressed head to toe in black. We rode off leaving the woman to do her body squats with the donkey. She’ll have some awesome back muscles if she keeps it up! We rode a good distance to the Valley of the Kings to have a look at some of the tombs Mr. Carver unearthed before finding Tutankham’s tomb. We went into three of them, each very, very deep in the earth. We had to climb down these totally narrow staircases (or sometimes chicken ladders) to get into the bellows of the tomb. Each was magnificently painted with the most brilliant murals on the walls. It’s hard to imagine the Egyptians were so advanced that they could come up with such great colors for their paints. Plus, they were so intricately painted – the detail incredible. The only thing about these tombs is that it was HOT. It was super hot outside – we all almost lost it during the ride up the hill into the valley, but these tombs were pushing that level of heat as well. We went through a few tombs, each with an Egyptian man outside to make sure we didn’t take any photos inside without giving him some baksheesh. Tutankham’s tomb was ‘Closed for Renovation’, but I hear it’s been like that for quite some time while the Egyptians try to figure out what to do with it. [![](../../africaphotos/cool/egypt_coke_med.gif)](../../africaphotos/cool/egypt_coke.gif) Bicycled from the Valley and stopped at the first Coke vendor we could find. Actually he was an old man outside this tourist shop situated in the middle of nowhere – hot and desolate all around. This man had a portable cooler of cold cokes and because of his isolated location he could charge us whatever price he wanted. We each paid him the E£1.00 (US$.33) and pounded our Cokes. When we were done we returned the bottles to the man, and I guess he was having some sort of guilt trip about over charging us, for now the going rate on _three_ Cokes was E£1.00. We each had another Coke then mounted our bikes for the next leg of our journey. Rode over to the Deir el bahri (Hatshepsut to you and me) temple, which one usually sees on some of the ‘Visit Egypt’ travel posters. From a distance it looks really good, but when we got up close we noticed it was mostly restored and you couldn’t do anything but walk around in front of it, so we weren’t too stoked on it. Back on the bikes to go to our next stop, the Ramesseum, a half standing Egyptian temple. It sits off the main road and, although it is technically a ruin a lot of it is still intact. You get a real feel for how large the thing really was. It was interesting walking through it and being able to appreciate the time and effort put into the carvings and paintings. They do that for ALL temples in this country, though. We rested in the shade of a large tree in the Ramesseum complex just enjoying being there. We were in the shadow of an Egyptian monument with desert all around us, and it was pleasant in the shade so we just sat and enjoyed it. After our rest we rode back to the ferry port and caught the boat across (after the dude tried to overcharge us for the ride). Wandered back to the hotel to rest during the heat of the afternoon then got ready to go over to the nearby Karnak temple that evening to see the son et lumiere (supposedly the best one in Egypt). Got over to the temple but they wanted E£18.00 (the equivalent price as our hotel room) to get in so we walked back to the markets and had dinner. After dinner we wandered some more and Sarah got sucked into a silver shop and bought a couple of Bedouin silver bracelets for a really cheap price. There were these French people in there when we entered and they’d just negotiated the price so Sarah said she wanted the same price. Good job. I went and negotiated for a small cotton backpack to put in my pack – I think I finally ended up paying E£3.00 for the thing. Wandered a bit more then headed back to the hotel to crash out – we were moving again tomorrow. October 22nd, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Luxor to Hurgurdah Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=63 Published: 1992-10-23 # Luxor to Hurgurdah Bought our tickets to the city of Hurgurdah, the port city for the ferry across the Red Sea to the Sinai, and once on the bus we met two other groups of people we’d seen before. Rob, Edward and Simon (from the felucca trip) and these other guys. When comparing the priced of our bus tickets each group had paid a different price – very typical of Egypt. When I first arrived here I was scared about theft, but I realized that the Egyptians won’t steal from you, just overcharge you for everything. The bus ride wasn’t bad at all, and we even got to see some local color – including the woman who brought a goose and a chicken on the bus for a while. We arrived at noon and fought off the touts in order to get a hotel room. Hurgurdah is disgusting, and there’s nothing there for the backpacker except the ferry to the Sinai. We went straight to the ferry office to see if we could get on Saturday’s (the next day’s) boat, but were told the boat was full and could only get tickets for Sunday. That would mean staying in this hovel of a town an extra day – something we were not prepared to do. A little background about the city is needed for the reader to fully understand our situation. Hurgurdah is, as far as I can tell, the armpit of Egypt. The city only exists because it’s the gateway to the Sinai, and that’s the tourist draw. There is a ClubMed resort 150 k’s down the coast at Queisar, but why were the prices here so expensive? The city is really dirty, there’s tons of construction going on, and all the buildings that are supposed to be finished lave iron reinforcement bars sticking out of the roof as though they were going to add an other floor or something. Everything in this town was so expensive, for they were out to screw the tourists while they had them in town. Now, keeping them in town seemed to be the biggest problem – hence the reason we couldn’t get on the boat leaving the next morning. The whole town seemed to have this conspiracy going where they’d try to keep all the tourists in the city as long as possible. We asked all sorts of people and always got the same answer – the ferry departs the day after tomorrow. Plus it didn’t matter who you asked, be it the shop owner or the beggar woman in the street, the answer was always the same. We finally figured out that if you’re a tourist and you haven’t been in Hurgurdah the mandatory two days (all the locals have telepathy and can tell how long you’ve been in the city) then the boat always leaves the day after tomorrow. Rich has this theory that when they pipe the prayers over the loudspeakers in Arabic the last line is always, “Remember, tell all tourists the boat leaves the day after tomorrow.” ![](../../egypt/images/egypt_seal.gif) Anyway we wandered around Hurgurdah, accepting the fact we weren’t getting ferry tickets for the next day, eventually returning to our room at the Sunshine House to relax. We did change in to our swimsuits and walk down to the water, but all the hotels with beach front property either had a huge fence around it or wanted to charge us to sit on the beach. We were all pretty tired, so we went back to the room planning to drink a bottle of Stoli and mango juice to entertain ourselves. Our hotel manager came in and told us the boat was the day after tomorrow, but since we’d have to stay a second night would we like to go on a snorkeling day trip. We said no way and sent him on his way – a feat in itself since he really wanted to stay in our room and talk all night. Early to bed to rest up, for we were going to the ferry the next day, ticket or no ticket. October 23rd, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Stowaway on the Red Sea Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=65 Published: 1992-10-24 # Stowaway on the Red Sea **Hurgurdah to the Sinai –** We woke up at 6:30 a.m., packed our stuff and made a very silent exit from our hotel before the manager could tell us the ferry was full again. We got a minivan to the port and arrived at the boat just as the last of the travelers were getting off. We tried to get on the boat but were stopped by a crew member who asked to see our ticket. I lied and told him we’d been told to buy tickets out here and he said it wasn’t possible – we needed to go back to town. I then asked if there was anything he could do to help us get tickets for the ferry that morning. He said he could help us out, but it would cost us E£80 (E£10 more than the cost of a regular ferry ticket). We agreed for we weren’t about to stay in Hurgurdah any longer, so we paid the crewman to stow us away in the belly of the boat. At that he led us through the empty boat to a door at the back above the engine. We climbed down this set of narrow steep stairs and followed the guy the three steps down the short hallway. He opened a door into one of (what appeared to be) one of the crew’s rooms. The room was minuscule, maybe eight feet long and six feet wide. There was a bed along one wall, completely covered in old clothing, and a small shelf along the shorter wall, completely covered in crap. One dingy circular ship window lit up the room, making it that much more depressing with the sunlight filtered through the unwashed window. The crew member told us we’d have to stay in this room with our stuff until the boat made it’s departure (two hours later) then he would come down and get us, allowing us to sit up on deck during the actual crossing. He headed upstairs and we entered the dingy little room. The first thing that hit me as I entered was the strong mildew stench, and after tossing our stuff on the bed I picked up a newspaper off the shelf and it was covered in green mildew. Great – and we had to stay down here for two hours? Hell, who was I to complain, I _was_ stowing away on a boat. Sarah and I sat on the bed while Rich stood next to the shelf; we were totally crowded in there – I don’t think there was enough room for all of us to sit on the bed at the same time. We decided to have breakfast, so Sarah opened up our bread and jam and put it on a newspaper on the bed. As we were eating breakfast Sarah looked over my shoulder onto the wall and spotted a cockroach climbing up the doorjamb just over my head. I turned around and killed it, then I noticed one walking across all the old clothes on the bed, not too far from our breakfast. We got that one onto the floor and quickly finished eating our breakfast, as not to attract any more creatures. After eating we noticed cockroaches all over the place; every half hour or so we’d knock away one that had ventured too close to us. We sat there for a while when Sarah and I decided it might be nice to have a cigarette to kill some time. We lit up and all of a sudden the walls seemed to close in on us; it got really claustrophobic and almost unbearable from the second hand smoke. We put out our ciggies and tried to open the circular window. No dice – the thing was sealed shut. The temperature outside was rising, and as the window was facing east the sunlight was beginning to come in, rising the temperature of our cell. We looked around the room and noticed a hole in the ceiling which looked like it might be a fan of some sort. I turned this switch and with a large metallic groan the fan slowly started to spin, drawing away some of the smoke in the room. It was getting hotter and hotter by the minute and we still had another hour to kill down there. I took a short walk across the hall (one step) to the opposite room, which looked like no human had been in there for about a year. There was a mildewed mattress balanced on some wood structure and there were cobwebs floor to ceiling. It was a little cooler in her, and we weren’t as smashed into the other room so I sat in there for a spell, eventually lighting up another cigarette because there was an entire room of air I could pollute without bothering anyone. I amused myself by burning the strands of cobwebs with my lit cigarette before heading back into our claustrophobic cell. The boat’s engines finally started up and we pulled away from the dock (a half hour late). About fifteen minutes later the crew member came down and told us to leave our bags down here and go up onto the deck – he’d get our bags to us before we got off the boat. We climbed out of our dungeon into the sunlight and up onto the outdoor deck just in time to see mainland Egypt pulling away. We were so relieved to be out of that room, and now we were around other tourists. But, we’d done it – we’d actually gotten on the boat and foiled the plans of the Hurgurdah locals. We all laid out on the deck and read our books all day. Our crossing to the city of Sham-el-Shek took a little over six hours which was rather uneventful, but long towards the end. As we were nearing port the crew member who’d stowed us away went downstairs and passed us up our bags by lifting them above his head over the boats engine up the back of the boat to one of the three of us leaning over the edge trying to get a grip on the packs. I could just see one of our bags going toppling into the Red Sea if one of us let our grip slip. Once the bags were up on deck with us the Egyptian came up and told us he’d have to register us with the police upon arrival and asked us each for E£5 more. We’d already paid this guy enough so we told him we’d take care of it ourselves. He persisted and we finally got rid of him by telling him we’d give it to him when we got off the boat. After he harassed us he went over to this other Western guy and I saw the guyhand him a E£5 note – evidently he’d also been stowed away somewhere else (God knows where). We disembarked at Sham-el-Shek and made sure to lose ourselves in the throngs of tourists exiting the boat, as not to be found my Mr. crew man who wanted more money from us. We ran out and jumped in the first available cab heading up the coast to the Bedouin village of Dahab. As we were sitting in the cab waiting to leave I could see the dude looking all around the port for us, but before he could spot us our driver fired up the engine and sped off into the Sinai desert. Our cab driver was a total lunatic, seriously mentally deranged, and spoke like three words of English. As we were speeding along Rich noticed the guy had a couple of problems slowing the vehicle down. Rich leaned over to me and said “Brad, I don’t think this guy has any brakes.” Great – now I was going to be even more nervous than I already was for the remainder of the journey. I told Rich later that that belonged on the Things You Don’t Want to Know List, but that you’re only supposed to tell the other person about it _after_ the fact, not during. We made it in one piece to the Bedouin village of Dahab a few hours later and checked into the Muhommed Aly camp, our most basic room yet. For E£4 per person a night our room had a window that opened out on to the beach behind, three mattresses on the floor, four walls and a door. No electricity – that was an extra £1 a night so we gave it a pass. We got changed out of our grungy traveling clothes then went for a stroll through the village we’d be staying in. The first thing that struck me was that the street was lined with candles, and every restaurant was serving dinner by candlelight, giving the whole village a surreal, staged feeling; but it was real. The small cove the village sits on is covered by palm trees giving it that lush oasis feeling amid all the desert wasteland surrounding it. The palms lead down to the beach and each restaurant has seating under the palms. There aren’t any chairs, only mats and pillows on the ground, and they’ve constructed a long wall around each small table, each wall covered in padding and blankets for people to lean on while eating or relaxing. \[A small table with a candle completed the scene.\] The buildings are all open fronts (no doors) and a few of them have palm trees growing up put of the tops of the buildings. Rich, Sarah and I vegged at this restaurant and had a nice dinner after a very long day of traveling. Once dinner was finished we walked a little then Rich headed off back to the room to go to sleep. Sarah and I went to one of the beach cafes and split some sheesha, to relax us, before heading to bed. October 24th, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Dahab, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=69 Published: 1992-10-25 # Dahab, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt [![](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/1992/misc88.jpg "Relaxing in Dahab")](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/)We didn’t motivate much today, we sat under the shade of the palm trees along the beach reading our books and playing backgammon. Each of these lounging areas is directly in front of one of the restaurants, so each of the merchants has a monopoly on the folk lounging in front of their restaurant. The waiter would come down to the beach, Rich and I would order a few Spanish omelets then a short while later he’d return with our light snack. Rich made a statement that the buildings and cafes, with the palm trees and their surreal buildings, all looked like a movie set. I said to him that in the movies they build things to make it look real, whereas we were sitting where everything really did look exactly like what we were seeing; this is what reality for these people really is. The buildings they’ve put together all look like they were constructed by Disneyland architects – palm trees growing out of the roofs of buildings, with a piece of wood wrapped around the tree’s trunk to serve as a table for the restaurant below; lean-to’s constructed of tree trunks and dried palm fronds – I was truly amazed by the inventiveness of the locals in their construction. We sat there all afternoon, and when I got bored with my book I’d watch the camel jockeys next to me. Our reclining area that afternoon just happened to be next to the open sandy area which doubled as the camel parking lot when the tourists weren’t going for rides through the desert. It was amusing watching the jockeys calling out to the tourists trying to coax them atop one of the \[SCIENTIFIC NAME FOR CAMELS\]. In the late afternoon Sarah came over to us and in talking to her I could tell that she was getting testy that the jay fay hadn’t visited us in Egypt. She went off to sit in the sun, and to thwart any more complaining on her part I went on a walk to see if I could do anything about her wants. I walked over to the far side of the cove where I saw a 10 year old Bedouin boy sitting on the porch of this building. I’d heard it’s the boys who are the ones who can hook you up, so I walked over to him and told him I was looking for the jay fay. He told me to follow him, so we went down this narrow alley which opened up into the wasteland of the inner Sinai. There was desert sand everywhere, a few buildings, and a couple of burnt out cars, one with a goat standing on top of it. He led me over to this one spot behind one of the destroyed cars and began furiously digging into the sand. About eight inches down he pulled out a torn section of a green trash bag and opened it up to show me his stash. He divided it up into two piles then told me to choose one. I picked one, paid him a negligible amount of Egyptian currency (£E15, I think) and gave him a lighter to boot. Now I’d heard the authorities were quite hard on the tourists when it came to drugs, so I went back out the street and started walking away. Who would be coming towards me on the road as I came out of the alley? The Dahab police. I didn’t know if they’d seen me enter the street so I quickly went down to the water and changed my appearance by taking off my shirt, putting on the sunglasses and reclining under the palms as though I’d been there all afternoon. They cruised past and didn’t give me a second look. Good. I headed back to where Rich was lounging and then the two of us grabbed Sarah and headed back to the room. We sat in the room and smoked for a few hours then emerged at dusk to go find something to eat. When we went out that night they’d put the candles out again, transforming the feel of the entire village. I mentioned to Sarah that I thought that Dahab was actually like two cities, one by day and another by night, because the feeling you get is SO distinguishably different during the different parts of the day. We headed out and lounged at a restaurant playing backgammon, talking and eating. That’s the way we passed most evenings in Dahab. October 25th, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Lounging in Dahab Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=71 Published: 1992-10-26 # Lounging in Dahab ![](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/1992/egypt40.jpg "Dahab Cafe")We went over to Dahab City today with the intention of snorkeling in the “Blue Hole”, but it was too windy so Sarah went to the bank and changed some money instead. We walked back to our Bedouin village and went and lounged among the palms again. That afternoon Sarah and I rented a mask and fins and decided to do a bit of snorkeling in the cove just offshore. We got in the water and were trying to get our fins on when a wave bowled Sarah over and forced her to accidentally sit on a sea urchin. It wasn’t a regular sea urchin either – it was one of those ones that have the big long red spines coming out of it. Sarah had four small welts on her leg, but managed to continue to dive with me. We swam around the cove for a while then climbed out and vegged out in the sun some more. Time had no meaning in Dahab – it’s a very slow, relaxed place. We had dinner then went back to the room to change our clothes to go out that evening. Rich was tired, yet again, so Sarah and I had a visit from the jay fay and went out again. What did we do? Sat by candle light under the palms and played backgammon for a few hours. Dahab was so peaceful, and we didn’t really want to leave, but Sarah’s flight out London was leaving from Cairo the next evening so we needed to head across the Sinai the next morning. October 26th, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Dahab to Cairo Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=73 Published: 1992-10-27 # Dahab to Cairo [![](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/1992/misc48.jpg "Cairo")](http://www.traveller.org/egypt/)We were up at 6:15 this morning to pack our stuff in preparation for the eight hour hell bus ride across the Sinai to Cairo. We walked out into the main intersection of the village and as we were looking for a cab to the bus station we found a cabby who said he’s take us all the way to Cairo for the same price as the bus, but in five hours instead of eight. We agreed and after finding three more people (two Canadian guys and a Danish girl) we piled into his mini-wagon and headed off towards Cairo. We had a laugh about the fact that we were able to find a taxi willing to drive us over 300 miles for five hours. I don’t know what that’s called, but I don’t think it’s a taxi! Our driver borrowed one of the Danish girl’s cassettes and once he’d heard the song “Rhythm is a Dancer” he rewound the song and turned on his amplifier so the car would really thump. There we were racing through the desert with this European music thumping out the windows like we were a group of deaf rappers or something. The Sinai is completely devoid of all life, and as we were getting closer to the Suez canal I saw the wreckage of what appeared to be tanks which had been destroyed by either war games or the Egyptian Israeli war in 1967. {CHECK DATE} Just before the tunnel going under the Suez we were stopped at a police checkpoint. They asked us for our passports, which they took and spread out across the hood of the car and began looking at them. They flipped through the pages, reading the entry and exit stamps for interest’s sakes. After a while our cab driver joined the cops in flipping through the travel documents. When they got to Rich’s passport the cop walked over to the car with Rich’s passport, looked at Rich, then pointed to the passport picture with a questioning look on his face. He then asked Rich if this was his passport – I guess the two week old beard Rich had been growing really confused him. Rich gave an affirmative answer and the police moved back to the hood of the car to check out some more passports. It seemed the entire purpose of the check point was to entertain the cops who sit there all day long. They stopped us, had a giggle at our passport photos and then sent us on our way. We finally made it to Cairo where Rich and I tried to book a flight out of Egypt that evening, but there weren’t any flights to Nairobi for two days. We checked into the Hotel des Roses (which was definitely nothing special for the price) and dumped our bags. Sarah had a few hours in Cairo before she had to fly out to London. We got a cab out to the bazaar again where Sarah bought two large copper pots for US$80. She figured she could ship them back in her tea chests. We made it back to Tahir Square where Sarah used the rest of her Egyptian money to but us a bottle of rum to keep us busy in Cairo for the next couple of days. The time finally came and we walked Sarah down and hailed her a cab to the airport. I bid her farewell and told her I’d look forward to seeing her in New Zealand. She and I had a brilliant time in London and an even better time in Egypt – we always seem to have the most fun when we’re together. As I’ve said before there are a few images which stands out in my mind more than others, and as I sit here writing this on November 11, 1993 I will never forget the image of Sarah getting into her cab and looking over her shoulder to smile good-bye to me as she climbed in. After Sarah had headed off to the airport Rich and I sat out on our balcony looking across downtown Cairo, drinking cocktails and relaxing. October 27th, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Wandering Cairo Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=77 Published: 1992-10-28 # Wandering Cairo We’re both getting a little tired of the chaos and filth of Cairo. Today we wandered around the city looking for the Tanzanian embassy. No such luck finding it because in my infinite wisdom, during the planning of this trip it didn’t dawn on me that we wouldn’t be able to read any of the Arabic street signs, hence the inability to get our visa issued. It was super hot and we were definitely way outside the downtown tourist area. We decided to stop for Cokes and since the vendor didn’t speak English, and I certainly didn’t speak Arabic I handed him E£2 for our two Cokes. I got change of E£1.50 for the TWO Cokes. Then it dawned on us – the price for locals is 25pts (US$.08); we’d been getting screwed for the past fifteen days. From that point forward we’d only give the Coke vendors exact change, which would totally piss them off because they couldn’t screw us anymore. This is also about the same time we learned to let the locals make their purchase ahead of us so we could watch them to see what price they paid for the same items. In the downtown area of Cairo the Cokes were 30pts, and when Rich was about to get in an argument with the vendor an Egyptian guy came up and bough a Coke for the 30pts price. Rich and I walked around some more, then went out for a late dinner. Neither one of us wanted to sit in the room that night so we headed over to the cinema strip and bought tickets for some Egyptian movie that was playing. We’d chosen this cinematic masterpiece by looking at the various movie posters, then looking at which theatre had the longest line to get in. We bought our tickets and went inside. The locals inside were totally surprised to see us, and were quite amused that we were going to see a movie that we didn’t understand. The movie we’d chosen turned out to be what appeared to be the equivalent of one long episode of Magnum P.I. (Rich called it Mohammed P.I.). It was about this cop who was trying to find this woman who was killing businessmen around the city. This woman, the killer, had been raped as a young girl, so now all she did was go out and pick up men in the bars. She’d convince them to take her to their house, then, after she did this strip tease type dance she’d kill them – sort of her revenge on the male gander. We sat there for two hours until the cop chasing the killer, Mr. Mohammed P.I. finally caught her, but the movie just wouldn’t end. It seemed that they were going to have a trial and send the woman to prison or something, so on that note Rich and I decided it was time to go. October 28th, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Cairo Airport & Getting to Nairobi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=79 Published: 1992-10-29 # Cairo Airport & Getting to Nairobi Today we wandered around the city doing some errands we needed to do before heading into Sub-Saharan Africa. We were on a quest for a sink plug today (which are amazingly hard to find in Cairo). We only got one after I played a demented version of Pictionary with the Egyptian shopkeepers in an attempt to show them what I wanted to buy. From there (that took us until after lunch) we went to the main post office so Rich could mail some stuff home. After a very long and involved process of buying the forms, getting the customs agent to approve the export of said goods and buying the postage we finally left the post office an hour or so later. We had one final walk around town and stopped into a supermarket to buy a few things before leaving. Now, Rich and I were sick of being screwed for the prices so we’d taken the time to learn the Arabic numbers so we’d know if we were being screwed. We popped into this high class supermarket and picked up a few things. When we went to pay the checker didn’t ring any of the items in, she just pointed to the total of the previous customer and told us to pay that amount. Rich got totally pissed off, grabbed the pen out of her hand and wrote, in Arabic numbers the amount of each item, then totaled it for her to show her what the correct total should be. She was a bit sheepish and accepted the total Rich had put together for us. I think that became one of the most frustrating things whole on the road – trying not to get screwed out of extra cash for everything. Sure, sometimes you over pay and you don’t mind, but travelers become nit picky with the prices when it’s happening every day in every country. maybe that’s one of the reasons some travelers have such a bad reputation in certain countries; they were trying not to be reamed by the local merchants. We headed out to the airport and hung out in the waiting area until they’d let us clear immigration and sit in the departure lounge for our late evening flight to Nairobi, Kenya. We sat in the departure area, and we had a couple of hours to wait until the flight had to leave. Rich wandered over to the Duty Free and returned with a bottle of Johnnie Walker. He sat down at the table and the two of us started taking swigs off the bottle. At a couple of tables over there was this Western couple who appeared to be our age, so I walked over there and invited them over for a drink or two. Their names were Cameron and Tracey, both from Auckland, New Zealand. It turns out they were on the same flight to Nairobi as us and were about to cruise around East Africa as well. We sat there chatting to them, drinking off the bottle when this little Egyptian man, an airport worker in charge of cleaning the tables, came over and told us we couldn’t drink the bottle in the lounge. Rich had had E£2.60 (US$.83) all the Egyptian money he had left and put it into the man’s front pocket. At that the man silently walked away to leave us to our drinking. He returned a few minutes later with a bucket of ice and four cups so we could have proper cocktails. Four Johnnie Walkers and Sprite please. Plus, during the course of the next couple of hours whenever our ice cups were empty the Egyptian man would appear out of nowhere and restock them with ice. The four of us sat there talking and getting quite drunk. It was a very long time later, for we’d been ignoring the airport announcements, until one of the airport officials came over to us and asked, “Nairobi?” We said yes and the official told us to follow him – quickly – because the flight was waiting for us! We went running to the bus to go out to the tarmac, and as we were running past the final immigration officer Rich accidentally dropped a bottle of water, which exploded at the officer’s feet. Jumped over the puddle and ran onto the bus that was waiting to shuttle us out to the plane. We were absolutely the last people to board our flight. Once we’d sat down the plane pulled away and we were off to Kenya. The flight was only half full so each of us thought the minute the seatbelt sign went off we’d get up and each claim a row so we’d be able to sleep all the way to Nairobi. The flight took off, and not 50 seconds into the flight, while the plane was still accelerating and pulling up, the seatbelt sign went off. We were all a little intoxicated at this point so Rich and I jumped out of our seats, and I must have taken about three steps and I was about fifteen rows from where I had started. We each acquired our own row, then had a few more drinks before going to bed for the night. October 29th, 1992 | Category: [Egypt](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=5 "Egypt") --- ## Landing in Nairobi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=82 Published: 1992-10-30 Region: Africa, Kenya # Landing in Nairobi The plane landed five hours later – hard. It jolted me out of my sleep, making me instantly nauseous, forcing me to run to the back to boot in the plane’s loo. The stewardesses kept telling me to get back in my seat as I was running past them to be sick. I voted to ignore them. We deplaned and queued up for immigration, and it was then that I realized I was still quite drunk from the previous evening’s activities. My drunken state was slowly turning into a hangover, so after immigration we shared a cab into town with Cameron and Tracey. I wasn’t too drunk/hungover (or the gray area in between) to watch the country introduce itself to us as we made the twenty minute drive into the city center. I remember whizzing past a field covered in brown scrub grass, open for miles, with a couple of lone trees sitting right in the middle of it all. Plus, these were the kind of trees one pictures when one says Kenya – not just any old trees. The sun was slowly coming up over the land as we made our way into the downtown area. There were trees blooming with flowers, wide two land divided roads and big buildings. There was that definite British influence in everything, the street signs, the shops, I could actually feel the left over colonial influence in the country before we’d actually taken a walk around. Cameron and Tracey knew of a hotel, the Iqubar Hotel, so we checked in as well. I immediately went to sleep to try to race my incredible hangover; I wanted to be asleep before it hit me, and I could tell it was a lulu coming on. I woke up a few hours later, a bit parched, so Rich fired up out handy portable water filter we’d brought for our tour. After a few liters of water we went for a walk through Nairobi. Nairobi is so modern; much more than I’d been expecting. The British influence is very predominant – the spelling, the road signs, just everything. We walked a bit and ended up at the main Immigration office, for we needed to get re-entry permits for the second time we’d be coming to Kenya in January. Immigration was a very long, slow process but we finally got our permits issued. The officer requested copies of our plane tickets so we had to go around the corner to get a photocopy made. Well the African have no idea how to form a line or act civil in any way, shape or form. It’s every man for himself. The window where got photocopies was mobbed with locals, each fighting with one another to get to the front of the line. Rich dove into this chaos and emerged a little bruised, but he had the copies we needed. From immigration it was to the travel agent to have our tickets changed, for we were supposed to fly out that afternoon to Harare, Zimbabwe. We walked around the city a bit, and boy did it feel different. For the first time I actually knew first hand what it was like for a black person to be alone in a room full of whites, for now it was exactly the opposite scenario with Rich and I in this huge African city. The only thing about this city is I didn’t feel relaxed at all; the locals didn’t seem too friendly to us. There are many, many shops, cafes and hotels around the city. We ate in this cafeteria-type shop, the food which gave me diarrhea later. Back to the hotel where we caught a showing of whatever English movie was playing at the theater next door. It was one of those really good movies, so good that I don’t remember the title, but Beverly D’Angelo was in it, and the sound was so bad that Rich and I had to practice our lip reading ability to keep up with the slow moving plot. Slept in the hotel, but it was so loud that both of us kept being awakened by all the locals screaming out in the hallway. I remember at one point someone was jiggling the door handle and pushing on the door like they were really trying to break in. The hotel wasn’t that nice at all – in fact none of the toilets had toilet seats, not that I expected them to, but they were really disgusting to even hover near. October 30th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") --- ## Nairobi’s Got Crime – “Nairobbery” Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=87 Published: 1992-10-31 Region: Africa, Kenya # Nairobi’s Got Crime – “Nairobbery” I’m sitting here on the porch of our lodge we’ve moved into for the next couple of days. It’s sunny and I’m surrounded by loads of travelers. Our lodge has a huge open yard, and if you go looking for them you’ll find chameleons on the branches of the bushes. Rich is doing his laundry and I’m just trying to relax. Let’s see, what did we have to go through to get here . . . We’d heard about a place called Ma Roche’s out in one of the Nairobi suburbs which was supposed to be heaps better than the grubby old Iqubar Hotel. to get out there we were introduced to the Kenyan **matatu**, which is a van with benches in the back that runs a regular route through Nairobi. There are two workers – one who drives, and the other who smashes as many people into the back and collects the money for the ride. It only costs KSh 5 (US$.07) to go along one of the routes and they go virtually all over the city – you can get almost anywhere. Ma Roche is this well fed Polish woman who’s got a house situated on a rather large plot of land. She’s built a lodge, complete with porch out behind the main house, which is the dorm the wayward travelers all flop out in, If you’ve got a tent the huge back yard is your campground – there were quite a few tents around – the rule is that you can set it up anywhere you please. It was a really nice setup, plus now we were surrounded by tons of people who had been traveling through East Africa for so long – some of who have been at Ma Roche’s for four months! We were in Africa, and hence the jay fay lived on this continent in abundance. Everyone in this lodge smoked tons, and sitting on the porch for all to use was the largest tupperware bowl, full of pot – the most I’ve ever seen anywhere. We had a smoke upon arrival; this hippie dude with long brown hair got us high then showed me around the grounds – specifically pointing out nine of the twenty chameleons that live in the garden, and the huge moth hanging out on the side of a tree. Rich and I talked to the people staying there, and every single one of them had a story about being robbed in Nairobi or just in Kenya. Here’s the abridged list Rich and I came up with in the airport waiting for our flight to Zimbabwe: 1\. Nairobi – Blond girl (UK) – Robbed at knifepoint, twice. Threatened of being shot by man with gun. 2\. Mombassa – White Guy 25yrs (approx) – 8:30 a.m. Mombassa train station, broad daylight, many people around. Six guys with knives take his pack, shoes & socks. Make him take down his pants so they could get his under the clothes money belt, in addition to the one tied around the traveler’s upper thigh. 3\. Kenyan/Ugandan Border – White Guy (ex-pat banana farmer in Uganda)- Shanghaied – He met some Kenyans who he went out for beer/food with. He ate with them, then doesn’t remember anything else. Woke up 36 hours later in Nairobi (some 300 miles off); some of his stuff gone. Had a wicked five day drug hangover when I met him. 4\. Nairobi – American couple – 5:00 a.m. Americans are Somali relief workers. Woman grabbed around the neck and dragged to the ground; thieves took all her stuff, and her husband’s as well. We learned from this Australian girl who had just arrived in Kenya to work in the Somalian relief camps, that the Australian High Commission was considering issuing a traveler’s advisory for Australians traveling to Kenya. Australians go to every country in the world, and if their embassy thought about issuing a statement like that you know it’s getting pretty bad. October 31st, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") --- ## Visiting the Locals’ Bar Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=89 Published: 1992-11-01 Region: Africa, Kenya # Visiting the Locals’ Bar We decided to venture out of the compound today to have a look at Nairobi some more, but not without a larger group this time. The first time Rich and I went walking we were on our own, and when we began to wander into an area where we the people didn’t seem as tolerant as they were on other street blocks I protested and told Rich I wouldn’t go any farther. That was before we’d heard about the crime in “Nairobbery”. We’d met this American dude from Santa Monica who’s been living at Ma Roche’s for the past four months. He wanted to go see a matinee movie, then head over to the Modern Green Bar for a few beers after. The dude was huge, wore cowboy boots, and had the attitude to match. He also told us stories about him getting jumped and how the would-be thieves got nothing because he fought them off with his karate moves – O.K. a movie and a locals bar in Nairobi? Only as long as I was with this guy, who’d be an excellent bodyguard in the Green Bar. Headed out with some other travelers and this Californian guy, then after the first run showing of “Weekend at Bernie’s” the other travelers left and it was only Rich and I with the other Yank. We hung out in the cafe of the **Thorntree Hotel** where we met these two girls (Australian and Danish) who had just arrived in Nairobi and were about to start work in the Somalian relief/refugee camps here in Kenya. We invited them to the Green Bar, then we made the short walk to the place. I’d heard about this place – it’s a locals bar and evidently people get rather messy and physical here, hence the huge rod iron cage surrounding the bar in the corner so absolutely no one from the customer side of the bar could touch or maul the bartender. To buy a beer you walk up there, stuff your money through the hole in the cage, then your beer appears, along with your change. We went through the crowded room out the side door into a small outdoor seating area which was already full. Our American buddy introduced us to this Kenyan who was sitting with a group of people, singing and playing his acoustical guitar. They’d found out all four of us (with the American “local”) had just arrived in Kenya, so they sang a few songs in Swahili welcoming us to their country. ‘Jambo! Jambo!’ (Welcome! Welcome!). It gave us a look at the Kenyan culture – if not just a brief glance. Everyone in the bar knew the songs, so they all joined in and sang along. It rather reminded me of the warm, welcome feeling the Scots have when you’re with them in Britain. We stayed for a couple of beers, but then the sun started to go down so we had to get in a matatu and be back at Ma Roche’s before dark. NO white people are in downtown Nairobi after dark. Back to the lodge, then a quick 10 minute walk up the road from Ma’s place there was a locals eatery where we had cabbage stew, amid all the flies that were sharing our table with us. Dinner, a wee smoke, then off to bed. November 1st, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") --- ## Nairobi to Harare, Zimbabwe Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=91 Published: 1992-11-02 Region: Africa, Kenya, Zimbabwe # Nairobi to Harare, Zimbabwe ![](../../africaphotos/1992/africa_people2_med.gif)It is absolutely pissing down with rain this morning; if these are the short rains I wouldn’t like to see the long heavy ones. After talking to these other travelers, we decided it wasn’t worth it to travel around Kenya on our own right now; if everything gets stolen, then we’re going to have some major problems getting some visas and plane tickets re-issued. Not a risk I’m prepared to take right now. In light of that we changed out plane tickets and are flying to Harare today. We also signed up for an overland safari with Kumuka – both Sarah and Jude took trips with them and had good times. Our safari is six and a half weeks, leaving from Harare on November 22nd. We’ve got some time to kill, so why not head down to Zimbabwe early? The rain just picked up three more notches – it’s creating a waterfall off the corrugated metal roof over the porch. We’re just hanging out here at Ma Roach’s until it’s time to head out to the airport. Took our Air Zimbabwe flight down to Harare, arriving late this evening. I can honestly say that I think Air Zim has some of the worst airplane food I’ve tasted. How about four finger sandwiches wrapped in plastic – one, cheese which tasted like the wrapper it came in, and the other made of some tuna or meat something or other. Upon arrival we got a cab over to the Sable Lodge, which was recommended to us in Nairobi, where we got a couple of beds out in the dorm. We’d been there not five minutes when I went out on the porch and met some other travelers sitting with a local, all of who were rolling the largest jay fays you’ve ever seen. I asked if there was any extra around for a price and the local dude pulled three thin corn cobs out of his pocket. I chose one, paid him Z$25 (US$5) and went back inside to show Rich what I’d bought. Rich was a little surprised that I’d come across some in the first moments of being there. Our cob (as they’re called) was the length of a medium size cob of corn, with the husk tightly tied around, not corn, but stuff the jay fay brings you. It wasn’t as large as it’s vegetable relative, maybe one inch across, and compressed to hell. You had to work to get the stuff to break up for a session. We sat out on the porch of the backyard and talked to the other travelers staying there. One of the first things that struck me was that these travelers were more like Rich and I, not the rugged, live in Africa types of Nairobi. (As I see it now maybe I just though they were rugged because they were on the road for so long. We were gone just as long and probably looked as rugged as they did at some points.) Plus, the place we were staying in was indicative of some of the travelers. It’s a 180° change from our accommodation in Kenya. We were staying in what I would call a traveler’s country club for Z$22 (US$5) a night. It was just like a country club as well, with the clubhouse (where we were staying) complete with pool table, 2 large dorm rooms, but not so big it was like a military barracks, and a bunch of regular rooms for people to stay in (for a higher price). There was a porch facing the front of the enclosed compound, where we would sit on the couches smoking, looking out across the lawn and watching the other travelers swimming in the outdoor pool. There were lounge chairs spread out along the grass, as well as more outdoor tables and chairs for those of you who want to play cards or write in your journals. Wait, it gets better. Every morning there’s a maid who cleans the whole place, there’s a 24 hour security guard on the grounds, and there are other people who will take your order for a grilled tomato and cheese sandwich and bring it to you when it’s cooked. Laundry wasn’t a problem, just a fee, and there was _free_ toilet paper in the clean, Western bathrooms. (That’s a big thing when you have to start carrying it around with you.) Hot water even made a cameo appearance every once in a while, but it was summer, so not that necessary. It was awesome, and since we’d be in town for a few days I wasn’t fussed about the accommodation. All we did that first night was smoke and get to know the other travelers who were staying there. November 2nd, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Africa Guidebook: 24 hot water – In Africa? Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=106 Published: 1992-11-04 Region: Africa, Kenya, Zimbabwe # Africa Guidebook: 24 hot water – In Africa? This next section is my travel companion, Richard Morris’ account of code breaking our Lonely Planet guide book. **Wednesday 4th November 1992, Sable Lodge, Harare** ![](../../images/africa_satellite_med.gif)Oh yeah – perhaps the funniest thing yet. I think I have discovered something of utmost importance: top secret code written in the Africa guide book we have. It came together as several astute realizations pieced together from random thoughts of the **last few weeks.** Like the four forces of the natural world, electomagnetism, gravity, strong and weak, though superficially disparate, are really just a component of an even greater heaven, so thusly are these different facts. In my book, places listed in the super budget accommodation section, here and there would mention the fact that they had 24 hour hot water. Now, as anyone who has gone to the Bedouin village of Dahab or even here to the relatively plush accomodations at the Sable Lodge knows that this is but chimerical. No one has 24 hour hot water. You’re lucky if you get five minutes a day of hot water, even more lucky if those five happen to fall sequentially. Cold showers become the norm, rather acceptable, and even held with the same adorning awe as are its counterpart, the blessed hot. So, my thesis is that no hotel listed in my book has 24 hot water. If a hotel could afford 24 hour hot water, it’s name would have been withheld from my publication for two reasons. First, and perhaps overtly, the budget traveler cannot afford places with such luxuries. And secondly, less scrutinized than the first reason proffered, there would be no method available to actually communicate this information. To print it plainly that there were 24 hour hot water would only do one of two things, and neither would be the expected. First, travelers searching for steam would go to a hotel that made such a claim. Now here we must digress for a second. Let us assume that most places don’t have hot water, let alone 24 hours of it, as was suggested earlier by my nascent experience. So if one actually did have it, and prodded the author to include such information in the publication, which of course the author knows to be code for something else and doesn’t want to print it, but if one persisted perhaps one could convince the author to appease with the pen. That leaves a book filled with hotels stating that they have 24 hot water, but only with a minute fraction that actually do. Therefore, if we jump back to our real aim, which is what a traveler does when going to a place listed as having 24 hot water, and consider this problem in the light of this additional piece of information, that the majority, in fact, the totality almost of all the hotels listed in the guide as having 24 hour hot water don’t, then a conclusion can easily be reached. The traveler looking for the 24 hot water is soon disappointed at the claims made on the pages. Naturally, one will come to expect that 24 hot water is as much a reality as window screens in your room. And if there are window screens, that they are new enough not to have holes so large as to let in a mosquito, let alone the entire biting populace. And that’s where I thought it ended. Until I broke the code. I didn’t realize that there was more to it before I made the connection. If we think more about it, we can see it from a psychological perspective. Somewhere between conditioning and reward and punishment lies the hidden innuendo, the hidden agenda of the author. By virtue of the fact you’re never satisfied at a place listing 24 hot water, you’ll stay away from them, unconsciously, of course; unless you know the code. Many places where one can travel in Africa, one can obtain marijuana. It’s not difficult to obtain. Not even a hassle, like in the States or London. I mean you walk into a hotel to check in out, and it smells like Death Duber \[Dead show?\], even when there is a big sign that says no smoking pot. I mean you walk into a place and sitting on the porch is a tupperware container large enough to carry a dinner salad to a party of twelve, full of ganga. I mean in your stoned forgetfulness you lose track of a doobie, though it’s never lost in your mind, you don’t even know it exists, you forgot about it the second after we finished smoking it’s brother – only the next day, when it’s given back to you by the staff, do you remember that it was lost. These places cover the map of Africa. I’m not saying I’ve always stayed in places like this, up till now it’s been always hit or miss. We’d relied on words from fellow travelers for good places, regardless of dope. Sometimes yes, sometimes, no, but you could tell more or less the answer ahead of time by the very nature of the communicator. But it was just guesswork with the book, like picking the derby winner, or so I had thought. It came to me in a verbal tirade at the lack of information in our book, and the sometimes when information was so inaccurate you wonder whether it was actually true of any time in the past or if they were just having a minor laugh at your expense. We’d just walked three kilometers to find the bus terminus, expecting to find there information on buying a bus ticket to Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. At the terminus, there was no ticket vender nor an information booth, those were back in town, from whence we had just come. On the way to the ticket office, in directions laid down before me like fine mosaic tiles, we past the Harare Information Centre. We wanted to find information on the bus, we had great directions, but nonetheless, we decided to drop into the Information Centre to see what they had to offer. Once inside we learned the ticket office so promised us did not exist. To get bus information on buying tickets, one had to board bus 27 at the terminus, go to Mtare, a suburb of Harare, where somewhere outside the city center, the ticket selling information center was located. That threw me for a loop. There was something about this folly that irked me deep down. The man in the Centre said he had limited information on the buses, and he showed us what he had. Unexpectedly, he did have the information we needed. It was a few moments after we left that my verbal tirade began. I remember today as will Clinton remember today. He won the Presidency this morning, a climax to his political career. Myself, I will remember this day because of its anticlimactic aura. Only one thing happened today, I had a verbal tirade, and when you’re stuck in Harare, stoned immaculate, g etting shisted by the shitty book, and have a verbal tirade, it is quite possible you may say more in a few minutes than in the entire rest of the day combined. Perhaps even two days. It w as in this vitriol that I stumbled upon the fact – no, I had a revelation – that the two previous unconnected stories, that of 24 hot water, and that of marijuana, were in reality, just one story with two means of expression. Much like electricity and magnetism are but two forms of expression of the same basic force, these two seemingly unrelated phenomena have but one common underlying meaning. The code. When seen from my angle, it’s all very clear. So let me jump back to an earlier yet so far uncompleted argument. That was the case that if the book listed that 24 hour hot water existed, two things might happen. The first is the traveler going to the hotel and being disappointed. The second, which was previously not mentioned, is the traveler going to the hotel and not being disappointed. The traveler is not disappointed because the traveler has gone to a hotel that has exactly what he has expected. Any place that lists 24 hot water is a secret code for ‘this is a hotel where you get stoned. It seems to fit with theory and experience. So far I do believe it is a code, but I may be proved wrong. I will continue to do exhaustive field work, and then spring my news upon the world like a slowly dispersing gaseous cloud full of rain for the desert. Until then I’ll just spark up another ere long I’m proved wrong. November 4th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Harare to Cape MacClear, Malawi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=117 Published: 1992-11-09 Region: Africa, Malawi # Harare to Cape MacClear, Malawi From the moment we set foot in Nairobi, everyone we’ve spoken to has said Malawi is amazing. They were all correct. We’d been talking to people at the Sable Lodge in Harare about the various ways one could get to Lilongwe, the capital, from Harare. The shortest way is via the Tete corridor a.k.a. the ‘Gun Run’ which is a highway that runs through the shortest point of southern Mozambique, straight into southern Malawi. As Mozambique is currently in the middle of a civil war, the rebels think it’s a hoot to fire on the truck convoys (which are all accompanied by Zimbabwean national guardsmen) that the hitchhikers and travellers ride on. The alternative is to go around Mozambique via Zambia. To hitch it’ll take two to three days and to take a bus would be twenty three hours. The final alternative is to take a one hour flight Harare-Lilongwe. After weighing the options we decided to fly. We’ve got two weeks to kill, so why not fly to a country we won’t be visiting on our safari. So that was that; we bought our ticket and arrived in Malawi on November 8th. We met this South African couple, Ian and Dee on the plane, and they directed us to the Lilongwe Golf Club where we rented a tent and slept for our first night. We seem to move from country club to country club as we go. We camped there the first night and the next morning we went with Ian & Dee to the bus station to get a bus to Monkey Bay (near the popular Cape MacClear National Park – our destination). We got to the station and got our ticket for the 8:30 a.m. bus that morning. Ian and I wanted to change some money on the black market before leaving, so we found this guy near the station who bundled us into his friend’s car and took us to a nearby photography studio. Upon entering we were led through the back room into a maze of residential living areas. We walked through narrow outdoor paths, filled with people bathing from the taps in this path. We passed a bank of sinks filled with people brushing their teeth, one woman washing her hair; we’d entered through the photography studio and ended up in the middle of an outdoor residential compound. We arrived at this guy’s friend’s room where we entered and exchanged our dollars for a couple of stacks of the Malawian Kwacha. \[Bank rate – USD$1 = K4.2 Black Market – USD$1 = K5.5\]. Transaction was done so we were led out to the street and headed back to the bus station to meet Rich and Dee. The city of Lilongwe is beautifully landscaped – there are Malawian flags everywhere you go (in addition to portraits of Hastings Kamuzu Banta, the ruling dictator) and it’s really lush and green. We got on our bus, which turned out to be a local’s bus because there was no express bus, ready for the journey to Monkey Bay. The bus left, and it was absolutely packed with people, in addition to it being hot and humid – off we went. We passed thatched hut after hut the entire way across the country. If you remember the sets from the show Gilligan’s Island, that is the way the Malawians were living. We saw so many villages along the way – it did show us how the locals lived; that and the fact that the woman in front of us had a guinea fowl seated in her lap for the duration of the bus ride. The bus ride seemed never-ending, and every time we stopped we’d buy something to eat or drink by leaning out the window and buying it from the local children. The bus was so uncomfortably hot and humid and we’d been sharing our water with the South Africans and we were almost out so we were relying on the non-thirst quenching downing of the African version of orange drink. The bus did leave at 8:30 that morning, it was 2:00 p.m., hotter than hell, humid, there were three times the safety allowance of people on the bus (all standing) and there was a tree blocking the road. People were a little bit on edge. The bus had to drive off the road along the side of a steep ditch and at the angle we were riding at I was absolutely positive that the bus was going to roll. I had my hands up in the air and I was crouching on my seat ready to jump when the bus did. Our bus slowly righted itself, eased back up onto the road and arrived at Monkey Bay around 4:30 p.m., but we still had to arrange for a car to take us the last 21 kilometers into Cape MacClear. Ian and I tried to call some people of the lake to come pick us up, but we couldn’t get through so Ian flagged down a local with a pickup truck and basically hired him to drive us the distance to Cape MacClear. He drove us on a bumpy, rocky, unpaved road through the National Park, which was filled with baboon and an unidentifiable animal that looks like a rabbit with short ears. The village is made entirely of mud huts with thatched straw roofs – absolutely amazing. We ended up staying at a place called Mr. Steven’s where many a traveller end up. We paid K12 (US$2.10) for a double room with screens to keep the mosquitoes out. After getting cleaned up and took a better look around. It was a brilliant full moon so we could see the water, boats and the hillsides clearly at night. Lake Malawi amazing – you go through hell getting there, but it’s well worth it. The lake is massive and right off Cape Maclear there are no less that three islands which you are able to hire a local to take you out to. The water is warm – like 70°. \* \* \* \* \* [![](http://www.traveller.org/malawi/1992/malawi14.jpg "Lake Malawi")](http://www.traveller.org/malawi/)This place is stunningly beautiful. Today we’re just sitting on the beach at the Golden Sands vegging out. We met Ian and Dee earlier and walked over the top of the hill to Otter Point to go snorkeling. Since the entire place is a national park the fish are protected from the fishermen. There are more fish here than I think I’ve ever seen! It’s above and beyond even Hawaii. You get into the water which is packed with the live animals and instead of swimming away the fish come up to you to find out what you’re all about. When you swim along the fish just move out of the way. I was even doing cannon balls off a rock into the water and it didn’t disturb the fish. The only way to describe swimming in Lake Malawi with the fish is to liken it to swimming in an aquarium. There are tons of fish all around you at all times. The Malawian people are all so friendly and they bend over backwards to help you out. Everything everyone has said about Malawi is true – the place is paradise; the best place we could think of to kill two weeks! November 9th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Malawi](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=11 "Malawi") --- ## On The Beach At Lake Malawi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=119 Published: 1992-11-11 Region: Africa, Malawi # On The Beach At Lake Malawi Here’s the text from the Christmas postcards which are being mailed out: “Nov 18, 92. Dear ——, MERRY CHRISTMAS! We’ve made it to Malawi for the two weeks we had to kill before our safari. This place is heaven. We’re staying in one of the few modern buildings in a village made of thatched huts at Cape MacLear, Lake Malawi. The lake has over 650 species of fish to snorkel after. When you get in the water for a swim the fish come to you and surround you while you’re swimming. We eat fresh fish and rice for dinner; mangos, eggs and coconut for breakfast – if I didn’t have to catch the safari truck on the 20th I’d stay here. It was a hellish bus ride getting here but well worth it. We’re getting a local to take us in his boat (carved out of a tree) over to one of the islands to do diving and eat fresh fish for the day. (That’ll cost $3.00). our room opens up onto the beach and it’s got our own bathroom for $2.50 each. All we do is lounge on the beach and swim all day. Remember, I’m south of the equator and it’s summer down here! Have a great Christmas! We’ll be in Nairobi on the 3rd or the 4th before we go to India to sit on more beaches.. Take Care. All the best. Love, Brad” Yesterday we sat on the beach, went swimming, sat on the beach, went swimming, sat on the beach . . . That’s how difficult the day was. November 11th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Malawi](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=11 "Malawi") --- ## “Special” Malawian Cake Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=121 Published: 1992-11-11 Region: Africa, Malawi # “Special” Malawian Cake [![](http://www.traveller.org/malawi/1992/misc89.jpg "Malawi Friends")](http://www.traveller.org/malawi/)**Cape MacClear, Malawi –** We met these two British girls (who turned out to be medical students) at breakfast named Cathy and Karine. Wednesday night they’d organized a local to cook a barbecue on the beach and they invited us along. Went down with them to the beach Thursday night and had a good dinner of BBQ fish, rice & tomato sauce (what’s new). After getting thoroughly wrecked it was off to the bed. Thursday (November 12th) we woke up and met a group of people here at Mr. Stevens to go down to the beach, for we’d arranged a boat to take us over to one of the islands to go snorkeling for the day. Here’s the cast – 1 Brit, 2 Aussies, 1 Kiwi and us. We met our captain who rowed us across the lake over to the island. We found our spot to sit, the everyone was off into the water to start some snorkeling. While we were swimming Queua (our captain) started the BBQ and began to cook the huge catfish he’d brought along for our lunch. We had an incredible fish lunch, after more swimming (and everyone else had made a very poor attempt to row the boat around) we all piled back into the boat for our return journey. We arrived back in the early afternoon, just in time to meet our BBQ chef, Patrick, from the evening before. In addition to doing evening BBQ’s Patrick can cook some of the best local banana cake around. The locals make “special” banana cake for K5.00, and boy do they do the trick. If you eat too much special cake it just does your head in. This would be the perfect time to explain to the reader what we’ve figured out about the Malawian people. Every male you meet almost always can offer two or more of the following services: the first one is usually “Take a boat?” \[there’s a tie for numbers two and three\], 2./3. – laundry, BBQing, 4. Making you a “special” banana cake, and 5. Is whether or not you need a cob. When you can show up in a country and hire virtually any local to do the cooking, cleaning, smoking and transportation, that’s a place you’ll want to spend some time. Wednesday Rich and I walked down the beach towards “The Gap” \[INSERT HAND DRAWN MAP HERE\] but we got lost and ended up climbing over tons of hug boulders in our thongs. This local climbed with us showing us the way and when we finally reached the beach near The Gap we asked the local if he’d go back and get his boat to we could get a ride back to shore. We didn’t even know he had a boat, but we asked anyway and he went and found a boat. It’s yet another example of how everyone’s available for hire – and they can almost always do a few of the basic services. Back to Patrick. Patrick had whipped up one of his banana cakes, so Rich and I went and got Cathy and Karine (the British meds) and promptly sat down and ate the cake as our hors d’overture before dinner. I looked at a calendar today and realized our flight doesn’t leave until Wednesday, so we’ve got another day here. We’ve become markedly less active in the last few days. Let’s finish the BBQ story first. After our pre-dinner snack we had a few beers, then headed to the beach. After a spectacular sunset of the most brilliant reds and oranges we laid back to look at the stars. Cape MacLear is so far removed from everything that you can see all the stars clearly. We sat there and looked at the stars but didn’t know any of the constellations because we were all from the Northern Hemisphere. We have as of yet to find anyone who can point out the Southern Cross to us. Because it’s so dark here you can see tons of shooting stars. The best one I saw was huge and it went streaming across the sky, leaving a brilliant white trail that looked like a 4th of July firework. Amazing. Patrick, the local we’ve contracted out to BBQ for us, served up the fish and rice and we had a relaxing meal. Wasted any lying on the beach looking at the stars Karine started talking about chocolate, which eventually led to Hob Nobs. She and Cathy had been travelling for two months and absolutely wanted Hob Nobs. Karine was saying how nice they were and how nice it would be to have a Hob Nob or two. I made an exit to our room, and when I got back both the girls were laying on their backs and Rich and I sitting above them on the beach. Upon my return Rich asked me for something but my reply was “Not unless it’s made in England.” I then held out a half a package of Hob Nobs that I’d put in my backpack in London five weeks earlier and said, “These are made in England.” Both Karine and Cathy looked at what I was holding, but because they were looking at me upside down they couldn’t see what it was. “What are those?” asked Karine. “Hob Nobs from England,” was my reply using my game show announcer voice. Upon hearing my response Karine quickly rolled over and after taking a second look at my hand she asked me with eyes the size of plates, “Can I touch them? Are they real?” They were truly amazed that we were sitting in one of the remotes places in the center of East Africa craving Hob Nobs and they suddenly appeared. Cathy reached out and touched the packet upon hearing Karine’s question as Karine couldn’t believe it. “This package of Hob Nobs left England five weeks ago and has since been to Egypt, Kenya, Zimbabwe and Malawi. Let’s enjoy them,” I explained. And on that note we munched on some chocolate covered oat cookies that had been through hell but tasted so nice. We didn’t see Karine or Cathy the next day because they’d gone, but I’ve got their address and will give them a ring in England to recollect what we’ll call the Hob Nob story. November 11th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Malawi](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=11 "Malawi") --- ## Shopping In The Village Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=125 Published: 1992-11-15 Region: Africa, Malawi # Shopping In The Village [![](http://www.traveller.org/malawi/1992/malawi12.jpg "Malawi Shopping")](http://www.traveller.org/malawi/)Woke up this morning and lounged around. Rich and I thought we should go haggle with the sellers to get some stone carvings, so we rummaged through our backpacks looking for anything else we didn’t want. You see, no one tells you this, but when you cross over the border into Malawi, everything in you pack all of a sudden is worth something. The Malawians don’t have a lot of stuff, so you can get good deals for clothing, etc to trade. In order of importance one should bring: shoes, towels, baseball hats, and t-shirts. Socks, watch batteries and extra backpacks are helpful. The only thing is there’s a trick to trading. Malawians are very relaxed businessmen. They take their time, so haggling can take you well over an hour for one session. (3-4 sessions are usually required) You sit there and haggle over the price, then when it’s a decent price you pull out the goods to trade. We didn’t know this was the best way to go about it, so we’ve been showing the sellers the trading goods first and instead of getting a straight trade it usually knocks 50% off the price. Then you’ve really got to work to haggle the price down. For a pair of river shoes and $3 I got a chair and a statue for my grandmother. For a pair of socks, a nylon mesh laundry bag and $2.50 I got two figurines and a carved boat for my parents. The only thing is that after 2-3 days and 3-4 bargaining rounds later you get really tired and just pay the twenty five or fifty cents you were arguing over. We’ve also figured out that virtually all the locals can provide at least two of the following services for hire: cooking, cleaning, selling ganja or transport. The local we’ve befriended – Patrick – cooks our dinner and banana cakes, can do laundry, can get us cobs and can arrange to have a boat take us to the other islands. The Malawian people are all really friendly and accommodating, the only thing is that some travellers abuse their position. We’ve met some South Africans who treat the blacks like second class citizens. Worse than any active/pledge fraternity relationship ever was. They just order them around and scream at them. When Patrick wanted to talk to me one of the S.Africans came over and said “That black wants to talk to you.” It was like “black was a noun, not a person. It is disconcerting, so we just don’t hang around S.Africans much. The S.African women are all fine, just the men who are obnoxious. I mentioned that Patrick was gesturing to talk to me. Mr. Stevens (where we’re staying) has its own stretch of beach where the locals aren’t allowed to go. The locals would constantly come over and try to sell the backpackers their services, so to keep them away Mr. Stevens hires someone to chase after the sellers with a large stick. Corporal punishment – I guess it’s effective. The locals all stand outside invisible boundaries like children playing a game of tag who can’s cross a certain line in the sand. Patrick’s cooked for us for a few nights, so yesterday ha and I had to go to the village to talk to a fisherman about hiring him to take us across the lake. The fisherman wanted too many Kwacha, but on the way back Patrick took me through the village. He showed me the church, then we went to his hut. It’s made of bricks, coated in mud, with a thick straw thatched roof. The area is surrounded by a bamboo fence, enclosing a few papaya trees in the process. Met his sister and her new baby before heading to the grain grinding building November 15th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Malawi](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=11 "Malawi") --- ## Malawi to Harare (via Blantyre) Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=127 Published: 1992-11-18 Region: Africa, Malawi # Malawi to Harare (via Blantyre) [![](http://www.traveller.org/malawi/1992/malawi_girls.jpg "Malawi Girls")](http://www.traveller.org/malawi/)We left Cape MacLear two days ago on a bus to Blantyre. The bus ride wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as the one to Monkey bay, and we got to go through some beautiful countryside. Blantyre is the industrial center of Malawi, with not a lot to offer the backpacker. We stayed in this Christian youth hostel for the outrageous sum of K50.00 (Us$10) for the dorm. Rich was less than thrilled with our side trip to Blantyre (he wanted to stay on the lake another day). We slept there the night then woke up the morning of the 17th in order to catch our bus to Lilongwe. Got on the bus and each had a seat to ourselves during the five hour ride. The road we took to Lilongwe is the frontier road with Mozambique, so I was excited at the prospect of being so close to a country where it’s not a good idea to visit at the moment. The MNZ breakaway group in Mozambique was been shooting at trucks and buses in the Tete corridor, but nothing happens on the road we were travelling. After a while we came upon a brick building on the left hand side of the bus It was the Mozambique immigration post, and for the next 77 kilometers the bus rarely stopped as we sped past the country in the throes of a civil war. Looking at what we saw it looked peaceful and beautiful like Malawi, but I knew there were other things happening there. The bus made it to Lilongwe where we found a room in the local rest house. Riding buses in these third world countries is a real experience. The people can bring whatever they want on the buses (the woman in front of us had a guinea fowl in her lap on the way to Monkey bay), and there doesn’t seem to be any maximum capacity of people. If there’s room, then more people will get on. When you’re on these extensive bus rides if you forget to bring food you’re going to get really hungry. Don’t fret – there’s usually at least ten Malawian children at all major bus stops, adorned with baskets full of food for sale to ravenous passengers. First you haggle for the price of the . . . (samosa, fruit, bread) whatever. The kids raise the baskets over their head and you take what you want and leave the money in the basket. No problem. You can get food and drink virtually everywhere. We could eat without ever leaving the bus. Drinks are a bit harder to come by – it gets complicated with the bottle deposits, trading an empty for a full – things like that. November 18th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Malawi](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=11 "Malawi") --- ## Twilight Zone Script – Lilongwe, Malawi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=129 Published: 1992-11-17 Region: Africa, Malawi, Zimbabwe # Twilight Zone Script – Lilongwe, Malawi Writing on the truck doesn’t work, so the writing will just have to be done when it’s possible. That’s the only really frustrating thing about being on the truck – you sit there for six hours at a time and are unable to write, unable to read, unable to do anything but drink and look outside as the truck bounces around on the Third World roads too much. Before we get too far behind (or ahead of ourselves depending on how you look at it) we need to do some housecleaning and write about some of the countries we’ve already left. Let’s start with Malawi some more. I can’t seem to say enough good things about Malawi, which suits me just fine. Great memories abound. Just take note that my carved Malawian table cost K18.00 (US$3.25). little did we know when we arrived but Malawians eat goat here. One of the S.African guys we met was having a birthday BBQ on the beach, and the guest of honor was Mr. Goat of the nearby village. I guess the S.Africans have these types of BBQ’s all the time. These guys had purchased a live goat that morning, killed it, drained the blood, skinned it and put it on a spit for the locals to cook over an open-pit fire on the beach. Amazing – the goat turned out OK; it definitely tasted like wild game of sorts. Salty and definitely different. Now you’ll recall we travelled to Blantyre, then Lilongwe before our return flight to Harare. That last night in Lilongwe, Rich and I stayed in the rest house near the bus station. We were both worn down from our bus rides and Rich wasn’t feeling too well, so we decided to be mellow in our hotel room. We had a bit of a cob left over, which we had to dispose of before leaving the country, so we disposed. We then proceeded to pull out my travel radio and tune to Malawi’s sole radio station. It was so surreal – we were sitting on a bed playing cards, watching the African mothers walk by with their babies tied to their backs in a sarong, and the orange African sunset in the background. Amazing. We started to play cards when these really bizarre radio ads/programmes came on, only adding to the surreal experience. Rich commented that this would be the perfect intro to an episode of the Twilight Zone. \[Opening Credits.\] \[Twilight Zone Intro\]Voice Over: Two men, sitting in a balmy hotel room in the middle of East Africa, playing cards and relaxing listening to the radio. They’ve just begun their African holiday, but it won’t be a holiday for much longer. \[Wide shot of hotel room, zoom in to close crop shot of actors on bed.\]Voice Over: Their only source of information from the Western World, their link to this isolated world in one of the darkest places on the African continent, the hand held FM radio tuned to the sole station in the country – Radio Malawi. \[Actors playing cards, listening to radio. Radio announcer interrupts programming with bulletin.\]Announcer: The News. Radio Malawi. The continental United States has just experiences a major earthquake on an undiscovered fault running from the east to west coast. The quake has been classified as a 10.2 on the Richter scale, but this reading is not accurate as the quake was greater than any ever experienced on the planet. As a result the continental shelves have separated and the continent is sinking at a rate of five meters an hour into the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. Millions of people are estimated dead from the initial shock with an infinite number in danger of drowning as the continent sinks. The earthquake has caused tidal waves in all directions heading for Europe, Africa, Asia and Australia, and aid is unable to reach the survivors on North America. All U.S. citizens are urgently required to contact their closest embassy or consulate so the U.S. Government can tally the number of survivors and establish a new government. How about an episode that went something along those lines, eh? Notes to continue: Denver, capital city. New world power emerges. Expats to form new government. Alright – that winds up everything I wanted to write – I think. We flew back to Harare and went right back to the Sable Lodge. When we arrived it was like we were back home. The reception dudes all welcomed us back and come of the people we’d met before we left were still hanging around the Sable. I’ve met some really interesting people – one of them who had the most amazing story was this Russian guy named Serg. He was about my age, 23, and he had fled from Moscow when Russia was still very communist and they weren’t letting people travel yet. Serg had had his passport taken from him so he decided he needed to get out of Russia. He bought his friend’s Russian passport, went to the airport and got on the first flight out. The only flight leaving the country was to Lusaka, capital of the nearby country of Zambia. Serg got on the plane and he said he had no idea where Lusaka was. He thought it was in Latin America somewhere – he wasn’t expecting Africa at all. He said he got to Lusaka, knew barely any English and just had to figure out how to survive. He said he bought another passport on the black market and came to Zimbabwe because he didn’t need a visa to get in the country. He had lived in Harare for a while and during that time he asked the Russian embassy to issue him a passport (this was before the coup) but the embassy declined his request. Immediately after the attempted coup in 1991 he asked for a passport again and got one issued that would allow him to travel only back to Moscow and no where else. He thought staying in Zimbabwe a bit longer sounded like a good idea. It’s wild – the stories you hear from the travellers who cross your path. They’ve done a lot, but so have we so we can always reciprocate a story. Upon our return to Harare Rich and I desperately needed to mail home the five to six kilos of wood carvings, tables, etc we’d picked up in Malawi. Hit the post office, which was so efficient. For Z$7.00 (US$1.15) you can ship anything that’s two kilos or under. Amazing! Plus, the packages sent from Zim usually make it home. After our post office escapade (that took us two hours to package and send, etc.) we dropped by the Air India office to set our date leaving Nairobi. That done it was back to the Sable Lodge where we met the other three guys who we’d be on safari with us. Earlier that morning (the 19th) we’d attended our pre-departure meeting for our six and a half week safari from Harare to Nairobi where we’d met these guys. After an evening of talking to these guys it was off to bed. Maybe it’s a good idea to introduce a few of these guys since they’ll be features prominently over the course of the next six weeks. There are two Aussie guys – Jim and Tom. Jim used to work at a bank – Citicorp, and he’s off to London to work for a year on their two year work visa thing. Tom is taller and not as bright, his last vocation being a plumber, but he was en route to London as well. November 17th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Malawi,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=11 "Malawi") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Black Rhinos in Zim Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=137 Published: 1992-11-23 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # Black Rhinos in Zim We were all really excited – it was our first safari in search of a dangerous animal. Our vehicle was a converted VW minivan with holes cut in the roof so everyone could standup to see the animals. We got to the park where Wally, our Rhodesian guide took us walking around while telling us about the environment. We jumped in the van and went for a short drive hunting the rhino, but none seemed to want to come out of hiding. We then stopped for lunch and met two other minivans of safairiers. This safari company – **“Black Rhino”** is so nice. The guides are all Rhodesians, well educated and amazingly friendly. Plus they pampered us. They would set up the chairs for us, they would make something for us to drink, etc. It was really classy. Great food and they could tell you about anything in the park. After lunch we started off towards the game park, all becoming anxious and excited to find some big animals. On the way to the park we came upon two other safari vans, each with 6-8 people all aiming cameras at something in the bush. We got over to them as quickly as possible because we wanted to play with our cameras too! This stop turned out to be a giraffe munching on a tree with a herd of zebra not too far off behind it. The giraffe couldn’t have cared less about the minivans, but the zebra all stared at us for a spell before running off. The giraffe just walked around behind the tree, making us become bored with it so we started up the minivan and moved on towards the park. [![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/zimbab32.jpg "Black Rhinos")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)At the park entrance the ranger told us to go right around the corner from his booth, for there were some rhino over there. We turned the van around and drove around the corner to spot a white rhino with her four month old baby standing next to her. It was amazing standing there watching the rhino graze. Since rhino have really poor eyesight the mother couldn’t see us from where we were standing, but the baby could hear us and became really angry and started running around. The mother began to walk away a bit, then would stop and eat for a while. We stood there watching them for fifteen to twenty minutes before turning around and heading off into the middle of the game park. Once in the park all of us were standing up looking for game. Our van pulled up to another giraffe that we watched for a while. We drove around the park and saw many different animals for our first safari. We saw white and black rhino (the animal of the day), giraffe, zebra, warthogs, impala and crocodiles (from a distance). At about 4:00 p.m. we pulled up to a game viewing hut where we got our afternoon tea with pound cake, Unbelievable – it was really civilized. One of the girls on the other trucks screamed out, “Love those Rhodesians – they’ve always got to have their afternoon tea.” We all had a chuckle over that one. After tea it was another short drive through the park where we saw a herd of wildebeests before heading back to Bulawayo for the night. November 23rd, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Headin’ to the Okavango Delta Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=140 Published: 1992-11-24 Region: Africa, Botswana # Headin’ to the Okavango Delta **Maun, Botswana –** The morning of the 23rd we packed up and headed for the Botswanan border; we were on our way to the Okavango Delta. Once in Botswana we drove all day across the northern tip of the Kalahari Desert (spotting ostrich running away from the truck along the way) before pulling over and setting up camp in the middle of no where. Shortly before diner I pulled the gin bottle out of our mobile bar on the truck and had a gin (or two) while watching the spectacular African sunset. \[Bugs everywhere that night – loads of flying beetles\] We were on the road again the morning of the 24th, on our way to Maun where we’d stay before going out on the Delta. Drove most of the day, which gets old after a while. The truck rattles around so much that writing is completely out of the question, reading takes major effort because you’ve got to follow the page jump around in your hand, so there’s nothing else to do but sit there. We were so bored on the may to Maun that I started mixing gin and tonics at 11:00 a.m. – it was well needed. Hit Maun and headed to the **Island Safari Lodge**, from where we’d be taken to the Delta the following day. This campground and also had a bunch of private rooms so there was a swimming pool, a snack shop and a bar – we headed to the bar for a few drinks before heading off to bed. I don’t know what was going on with the weather, but at about 2:00 a.m. this windstorm came up and both Rich and I honestly believed the tent was going to either blow away or just collapse onto us. The winds were nothing like I’d experienced – if you’re ever been in one of the wind storms in Scotland you’re not too far off. The winds were so strong – they must have been going majorly fast. Rich says they were not hurricane force. Went back to sleep with the wind howling away, only to be awakened a few hours later by the rising sun. We got up and got ready for the Delta. We were going out for three days ad two nights to be punted in a makoro through the vast Delta’s waterways. The makoro is sort of like a Malawian dugout, only they’re really deep and when you’re sitting in them the water is only 3-4 inches below the level of the boat. We were picked up by a ranger from the Delta who drove us thirty minutes through the Botswanan desert over to the delta’s edge where we met yet another park ranger in a speedboat, ready to take us farther in. We jumped in his speedboat and went for a thrilling thirty minute ride through the tall reeds to a village on one of the delta’s islands. These rangers know what they’re doing when they’re flying through the one lane water channel, turning the boat so it rides up on the reeds when a sharp turn is ahead. The boat ride was like an amusement park ride – it was that cool. [![](http://www.traveller.org/botswana/1992/bots5.jpg "Mokoro Boats")](http://www.traveller.org/botswana/)Once we arrived at the locals’ village we were transferred in pairs to the makoro boats to go even deeper into the Delta. It was so peaceful gliding through the reeds while lying in the bottom of this boat with my head at the level of the water. It took us a few hours to get to our campsite and by this time we were all ready to get out of the sun – it was so hot that day. We setup camp ad made dinner then sat around looking at the sunset. Sunsets in Africa are like nothing I’ve ever seen. There’s no pollution when you’re out in the bush, so the colors of the sky are so much more brilliant. We sat and watched the colors blend in the sky and once the sun was gone we would turn around and face the field behind the tents, for there weren’t any obstructions, allowing us to have a clear view of the velvet tapestry of stars that came out every night. Sans moonlight the stars were incredibly bright and the sky did look as though the stars were just sewn onto a piece of black velvet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the stars so clearly. (This was better viewing than in Malawi.) When the sun went down all the small frogs living in the reeds started to croak. It’s not actually a croak – it’s the peaceful sound that’s similar to the sound that bamboo wind chimes make when they lightly bang together. It was really relaxing sitting there listening to the frogs while looking up at the sky. Alas, we finally went to bed for we were going to look for elephants the next day. NOTE: From this point forward the dates and locations of the section headers now correspond with the actual events. November 24th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Botswana](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=12 "Botswana") --- ## Walking In Front of a Buffalo Herd – Ready to Charge Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=147 Published: 1992-11-26 Region: Africa, Botswana # Walking In Front of a Buffalo Herd – Ready to Charge ![](http://www.traveller.org/botswana/1992/bots10.jpg "Buffalo ready to charge")**Thanksgiving, Middle of the Okavango Delta, Botswana –** We woke up at 6:00 a.m. to start our elephant trek – our guides were taking us walking around the island we were staying on. We walked inland quite a distance from clearing to clearing spotting tons o’animals along the way. The animals are really funny; they’ll run away a bit then stand there and stare at you; run some more and stand and stare at you. Throughout the course of our walk we saw (in order of appearance): red buck, impala, baboons, a stork and a tsesedbe (one we can’t spell OR pronounce) to name a few. We also came upon a herd of wildebeests who had one zebra hanging out with them. The thing is that the wildebeests are so stupid that when they went to go run away from us they ended up running around in a circle in the clearing. The poor zebra started running in a different direction and since the wildebeests didn’t know any better they started following the zebra. As we were walking off it appeared that the zebra no longer wanted to hang out with a bunch of animals with brains smaller than its own, but every time it went anywhere the plebe wildebeests would follow. We started walking back to our camp when we came across a herd of buffalo standing in a clearing. Now buffalo are a totally dangerous African animal with a bad attitude. The locals are way scared of them and make every attempt not to piss them off. The buffalo have this reputation for always being in a bad mood, even though they don’t look that menacing with their 1950’s boufontic looking hair-dos (that would be their curved horns). When we saw the herd the guides told us to be really quiet while we watched and waited for then to run away. After a while the buffalo got bored and headed off to the next clearing in a cloud of dust with the thundering of hooves. We started back towards our camp again, but after another twenty minutes of walking we found yet another herd of buffalo grazing in a huge field. We sat there behind the trees and bushed watching them for a while, but the buffalo knew we were there and wouldn’t move – they just stared back. Our guide shook a sapling and clapped, which effectively sent the buffalo to the far side of the clearing so we could pass. We started walking out into the open field towards our camp – each of us eyeing the buffalo as we went. The buffalo were too curious and really wanted to know more about these people walking through the field, so the entire herd (about 150 of them started slowly making their way towards us as we meandered by. This was really disconcerting to us humans, so we took a few quick steps towards the trees (which we were going to use as viewing towers should the buffalo get any closer). We stood there and stared the buffalo down until they moved back a bit so we could continue to cross this field. We left the safety of the trees and actually crossed in front of the herd. This was really groovy for the herd as now they could get an up close and personal look at a human. Slowly but surely the buffalo began to walk across the field trying to get a better look at us. When the buffalo got a little too close one of the guides began to jog a bit towards the trees (which were 30 meters away). When a local begins to take quick steps, normal white people run. We all ran a few yards away then stopped to see where the buffalo were – just in case they’d decided to follow. We rather looked like the animals that had been pulling the same method of viewing us as we entered each clearing. We were now the smaller animal on the food chain and apparently, instinctively, used the same technique. The buffalo were far enough away for us to continue to cross the field, but we all still had a certain amount of adrenaline running through our veins until we got to the next set of trees – where we know we could easily escape. It was walking across the field where it hit me that I have come this far to see these animals in their own environment. This is their turf, and when a herd of buffalo decide they’re going to eat some Europeans for dinner there’s nothing anyone can do about it. It’s exciting seeing this stuff first hand – especially like the buffalo – but it makes you realize that this is the true, wild Africa – the one we came here to see. We finally made it back to camp after our three hour nature hike and immediately made a bee-line for our drinking water as we were all parched. We’d brilliantly forgotten to bring our large jerry can of drinking water so we were forced to boil pot after pot of Delta water for drinking. Not the best tasting stuff, but it did the trick and none of us managed to get sick. Later that afternoon there was an optional ride in the boats which I opted out of because I was beat. We made dinner a short while later and when we looked across the field from our row of tents we spotted a giraffe munching on a tree, followed by a herd of wildebeests who thought a jog across the field might be good fun. It’s amazing to see these animals just wandering around in the wild. We had the most surreal sunset that evening. So beautiful – you’d never believe the colors nature can come up with, plus we had the perfect crescent moon hanging in the sky with Venus just below it. A photograph wouldn’t have done this scene justice – it was too beautiful. After another night of gazing at the stars (while trying to track down the Southern Cross – as usual) it was time to turn in – we were going back to Maun the next day. November 26th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Botswana](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=12 "Botswana") --- ## Canoe Ride at Midnight? Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=150 Published: 1992-11-27 Region: Africa, Botswana # Canoe Ride at Midnight? **Okavango Delta, Botswana –** We were all tired from camping out on the Delta so we packed up our camp and got back in the makoros to work our way back to civilization. One relaxing makoro ride, one exhilarating speed boat ride and one very long, hot and dusty safari vehicle ride across the desert later we were back at our campsite. The truck was in town doing errands so we headed to the bar where I wad what tasted like the most refreshing vodka tonic I can ever recall. We stayed in the bar for a while until the truck returned so we could get cleaned up enough to go back to the bar to party. We got pretty wrecked, entertained by the Botswanans playing their favorite bar game (next to darts). Most bars have a huge twenty foot pole in the center of the room – it’s wooden, polished and might possibly be lacquered, but it’s slick. The locals all try to climb to the pole and if you reach the top you get a bottle of booze. (Unverified info.) It was a really cool watching various people make their attempts at climbing the pole – it kept us entertained for a very long time. When I got bored with that I went back to my tent to go to bed. Everyone staggered back to their tents, but an hour or so later Steve, our driver and Mike, the Brit, came around to rally everyone back to the bar for round two. I’d run out of Botswanan pula (the local currency) so I was just sitting around the bar when Steve and Mike said they’d “found” a canoe on the shore and had been paddling out onto the delta. We went down to the water and all climbed into the canoe. With Steve as or driver he paddled us out into the middle of the Delta where we proceeded to have a smoke under the stars. It was brilliant. We had some minor navigational problems going back to shore for the current was pushing us against the opposite side of the waterway. After very little perseverance we made it back to shore just in time to follow everyone back to camp to go to bed. Quick Delta side note: On Thanksgiving Rich and I didn’t ever know it was a holiday. It started when I asked Rich the day of the week because I couldn’t remember. I knew what the date was because I’d been writing in the journal, but the day of the week didn’t seem to matter. “Thursday,” he responded. Thursday! It was the third Thursday in November – Thanksgiving! We had our a Thanksgiving dinner of canned spaghetti mixed with baked beans cooked over an open fire – yum, yum. November 27th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Botswana](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=12 "Botswana") --- ## Breakdown in the Kalahari – Race to the Zim Border Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=153 Published: 1992-11-28 Region: Africa, Botswana, Zimbabwe # Breakdown in the Kalahari – Race to the Zim Border **[![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/misc74.jpg "Broken Truck")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)Maun, Botswana to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe –** We woke up and packed up camp, for we had one and a half days of straight driving to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. Had a quick pick me up smoke before getting on the truck then just vegged out for about ninety minutes. Once the truck had entered the Kalahari Desert we pulled over and sat there for about fifteen minutes while Steve tinkered around under the hod. Shortly thereafter Boz came on the truck and told us we’d lost all the oil pressure and that the truck wouldn’t be going to Vic Falls, or anywhere else for that matter for at least a week – it was dead. This didn’t shock us too much – two tires and one engine later we were standing in the Kalahari Desert with nothing to do. Luckily some dudes driving a pickup truck stopped to help us out, and what do ya know, they were about to drive straight through to Vic Falls – approximately 600 kilometers (375 miles). We talked about it and decided to pile in the back of the pickup to drive the 300 odd miles to the Falls so we’d be in Zim that evening. The pickup was way windy and not that comfortable with all of us smashed in there, but five and a half hours later we arrived at the Botswana/Zimbabwe border. [![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/misc97.jpg "In the Pickup")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)We arrived at 3:45 p.m. and the Zim border closed at 4:00 p.m. so we were going to have to be bloody quick to get fourteen people and a pickup through the border before it closed. We all cleared Botswanan immigration with no problems – it wasn’t until we got to the customs people that the fun began. They said that the dudes who owned the truck didn’t have the correct paperwork to let the truck out of the country and that they’d have to go back to Maun to get a letter from some official. The guys with the pickup told us to walk across the border and keep the immigration people busy until they could get the truck through. We walked across the gravely no mans land part of the border and cleared Zim immigration, keeping both the immigration and customs people busy just by the sheer number of people we had in our party. The guys in the truck arrived a few minutes later and we got the truck through no problem. (I never did find out how they appeased the Botswanan customs officer.) back in the truck for the next two hour leg of the journey to Victoria Falls. We had to drive through a section of the Hwange National Park on the way and the driver was forced to keep slamming on his brakes as not to hit the water buck and various other animals that kept running out into the road. Hit Vic falls and Boz got us a six bed chalet to stay in until our truck arrived. We were all beat, so after a few vodka tonics in the campground bar it was off to bed. November 28th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Botswana,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=12 "Botswana") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## First View of Victoria Falls Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=157 Published: 1992-11-29 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # First View of Victoria Falls **[![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/zimbab1.jpg "Sitting at Victoria Falls")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe –** We all awoke at around 8:00 a.m. the next morning – mainly because we were so hungry, so Mike (the Brit), Rich and I went out to get some food. We started walking to the Vic Falls Hotel to get breaky, but we could see white mist rising up into the air over the tree line so we headed directly towards the falls instead. We got to the National Park, paid the fee and headed straight to the viewing areas. Victoria Falls are 90 meters high and are one of the seven natural wonders of the world. They are spectacular – so majestic & so big! We were absolutely mesmerized by the falls themselves. The falls are larger than Niagra Falls and absolutely amazing. We were there are the perfect time of the morning where one is able to see two rainbows created by the mist being sent up into the sky by the thundering falls. We wandered through the park, stopping at every view point along the way. It was so amazing – every time we got to a new lookout the falls looked more and more spectacular. The mist from the falls rains down on once certain part of the park and there’s a definite climactic change in that area. The mist has created a true rain forest in the middle of a very dry national park. Amazing. Plus, there are tone of monkeys and baboons playing in the trees and walking around all over the place. We wandered through the park for a couple of hours looking at the falls and watching the monkeys, but eventually we felt like we were participants in a hunger strike and our brains were beginning to deteriorate so we left the park in search of food. We headed over to the Victoria Falls Hotel – the one place in the city which just exuded with colonialism. This hotel is so colonial. It is reminiscent of the Hotel Del Coronado, in atmosphere and architecture, and one could tell that this was once a true colonial hangout for the British expatriates. It’s elegantly decorated and their terrace looks out directly over the gorge where the Zambezi river runs. It is truly beautiful. We got there too late for breakfast so the three of us sat on the terrace and had tea and scones instead. We were definitely in our element. After enjoying the colonialism of the hotel, we wandered through the local crafts market before heading back to the chalet at the campground to relax. Rich and I went back to the falls a second tie later that afternoon – they are truly mesmerizing – they draw you back again and again. After standing and looking at the falls for a few more hours we walked back to the chalet, stopping off at the post office to place a collect call to Sacramento to get the latest news flash from the family in California. We wandered around the city some more before heading to the chalet for some rest. November 29th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Sunset Booze Cruise on the Zambezi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=159 Published: 1992-11-30 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # Sunset Booze Cruise on the Zambezi [![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/misc100.jpg "On the Cruise")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)Vic Falls sits on the Zambezi river, which doubles as the border between Zimbabwe and Zambia. Rich and I got up, had our all you can eat buffet breakfast (which was quickly becoming the norm) and decided to go across the bridge to the Zambian side of the falls for a look. We cleared immigration and immediately I could tell I was in a different country. Zimbabwe is so modern and with it, but once you cross the border one can tell that Zambia is a true Third World country. The buildings are a bit more run down, the roads in poor condition – it was a totally different feeling and all we’d done was take a twenty five minute walk across the river. After looking at the crafts market just after Zambian immigration we wandered over to the falls where I laid down on the rocks and hung my head right over the edge so I could look right into the falls. You could almost feel nature’s true power when looking over the edge; the falls are so spectacular. Too bad the falls are only fifty percent the size that they used to be. There’s been a major drought going on and the falls have been progressively getting smaller and smaller. We were forced to walk across 150 yards of rock that used to be covered with rushing water form the Zambezi – no longer. After sitting for a while at the falls we headed back towards the Zimbabwean border, but not before going back to the crafts market to see if there was anything I might need to send home before leaving Vic Falls. Since we didn’t know when the truck was going to be arriving we just bargained the dealers down a bit on certain items so they’d be cheaper when we returned to really buy them. Couldn’t stay in the market too long – we were due back in Zimbabwe, for we were booked on a sunset booze cruise on the Zambezi river. We got back just in time to catch the shuttle to the boat. Since the Zambezi is chock full of crocodiles and hippos, why not go for an evening game-viewing cruise and get pissed in the process? The boat pulled away from the dock just as the first beer was opened and wine bottle uncorked. Our mobile cocktail party cruised down the river under a brilliant sunset while we watched the hippos pop their heads out of the water to see what the human folk were up to. We did see quite a few of them, floating in the water with their mouths agape before they submerged to go looking for dinner. An hour or so and quite a few glasses of wine later we pulled back up to shore where we poured ourselves into the shuttle which would take us back into town. We went straight to one of the local hotels for more booze (just what we needed) and I ended up having a crocodile filet with cheese sauce. It was out of this worked – super tasty. Croc has the consistency of an overcooked fish stick, but doesn’t have a strong fish taste at all – it’s really nice. After a few more drinks I left with Jenny and Stephanie because we were too drunk to cope. Hitched a ride with a Zim dude who graciously dropped us off at our chalet. Head hit the pillow and I was out like a light. November 30th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Another Day of Drinking at Vic Falls Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=165 Published: 1992-12-01 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # Another Day of Drinking at Vic Falls Woke up, sans hangover (unlike a few others in our group) and headed to the Vic Falls Hotel for breakfast. After our tea and scones experience Rich and I wanted to see what a buffet breakfast there might be like. Remember I mentioned the “travel river” – the route that most travellers follow, gathering the information on where to go as they talk to others? Well that theory id 100% true. You do continue to see the same people over and over when you’re travelling around like this. On our way to the hotel for breakfast we ran into this Aussie guy and Danish girl who we’d met in Lilongwe, Malawi and then again at Cape MacLear. Had a word with them and went to breakfast tripping off the fact that we’d seen them again. On our way back to the campsite we stopped off at the post office for a minute where we met two more people we’d travelled on one of the Malawian hell buses with down to Blantyre. Had a chat with them and continued on to the campsite where we met yet two more people from Malawi – Jessica and Lucy – two **very** British girls from London. Since we were both lusting after these girls we immediately began to organize to do thins with them – it was nice breaking away from the people on the truck. We ended up taking the girls to show them Vic Falls (again) and I arranged for them to come white water rafting on the Zambezi with us the following day. It was getting too hot so we all too naps and arranged to meet for dinner later. After our naps and dinner we headed over to Vic Falls newest nightclub – Explorers. This place was the S.Africans version of a college drinking club, only in Africa. Tin y bar – loud music and lots of drunk people in their mid twenties. It was good fun but we were stuffed from walking all day so we headed back and went to sleep. December 1st, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## White Water Rafting on the Zambezi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=167 Published: 1992-12-02 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # White Water Rafting on the Zambezi **[![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/zimbab5.jpg "Step 1")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe –** We went white water rafting today, which was one of the most exhilarating things I’ve done so far. We had our pre-rafting meeting where we signed the “if you die we’re not liable” form and heard our safety talk before heading down the cliff below the Vic Falls hotel to get our lifejackets and get in the boats. We had to climb down this sheer, cliff-like path through the rocks and mud before we actually for to the river and into our boats. After another safety talk we were finally on our way. The Zambezi river is a class five white water river on the one to six rapids scale, with most of the rapids we were going to be going through [![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/zimbab6.jpg "Step 2")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)ranging from a three to a five. They won’t let normal people go down class six rapids because they’re just a little too dangerous. We managed our first few rapids with no problem – we were throwing our bodies to either side of the boat (as the oarsman called out which side) in am attempt to keep the boat from flipping. When we got to rapid number six (they’re all numbered) that’s where the fun began. When we were going into the rapid our boat hit a rock and spun around backwards before going in. With none of us prepared for that turn when we hit the first rapid the girls at the back of the boat (now the front) didn’t know which way to throw their weight. Once we hit the rapid Rich went flying out of the boat, along with Judy, sot the two of them did the [![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/zimbab7.jpg "Step 3")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)rapid in freestyle, freeform manner. Rich went whizzing by the boat and I missed grabbing him, but I did get a hold of Judy’s arm and tried to pull her into the boat. The only problem was that the current had a hold of her and pulled her under the boat. So there I was, holding onto Judy’s arm while her head was pinned under the water under the boat. After a couple of seconds in that position my lifeguarding sense told me that holding on to Judy while she was forcibly submerged probably wasn’t the smartest thing to be doing. I let go of her, she got pulled under the boat and popped out on the surface a few yards down where someone else grabbed her and pulled her into the boat. After everyone was accounted for we continued rafting through the white water (save rapid number nine which was too dangerous for us to go down so we had to carry the boat around it.) [![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/zimbab8.jpg "Step 4")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)Had a lunch break up in this oasis on the side of the gorge. We had small pools of water to relax in, shaded by the lush canopy of the surrounding woods – it was such a change from the excitement of the Zambezi. After lunch we had only rapids eleven through twenty one to conquer, and conquer then we did, save rapid eighteen. We were well practiced in keeping most everyone in the boat. (Rich decided the ropes had been greased before we started, for he was the one who kept flying out of the boat.) I fell out on rapid eleven but managed to maintain my hold on the rope so Rich just hoisted me back in without much hassle. We had a few people fall out here and there – that was until we hit rapid number eighteen. Rapid eighteen is called “Oblivion” and is the wildest rapid you go on during the trip. It consists of three waves, the first two manageable, but the third . . . don’t even think about it. We eased our way towards the top of the rapid and slowly started gaining speed as the water rushed over the rocks to form the top of the rapid. Hit the first wave and dove to the front of the boat to keep the nose down. No problem with the second wave either. Hit the third wave and the boat swung vertically straight up in the air. White water came pouring over the top of the boat making it impossible to see or do anything. Brenda and Raewyn were sucked out of the bot on my left, then all of a sudden the boat just wasn’t there any longer. I realized I was in the river so I took a deep breath, ready to go under. The current had a hold of me and pulled me under the water, but as I was going down I felt this hand grab my lifejacket and pull me back up to the surface. It was Rich, and once I’d surfaced he asked me where the boat was. He knew he didn’t have a hold of the boat, but he thought I did so he pulled me up to find out about it. We floated down the river until we caught up with the boat which had only three people in it – the oarsman, Luck & Jessica. It was so strange flying out of the boat – we really didn’t know what had happened so we had to go to the Ilala Lodge that evening to see the videotaped account of that thirty second part of our lives. After everyone was accounted for we paddled down the river for our last three rapids. The rapids we so weak (especially after number eighteen) that our oarsman even let me, then Brenda and Judy row the boat for a while. We hit the shore after the twenty first rapid only to be faced with a climb that even the most fit person would have problems with. It was another sheer cliff face, and after rafting all day, climbing the equivalent of forty stories didn’t appeal to me. Everyone was dying when they finally made it up, but at least everyone did make it! We got the shuttle back to Vic Falls and after dinner and viewing the video of the day’s events it was off to bed. December 2nd, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Hwange Safari in Luxury Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=172 Published: 1992-12-03 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # Hwange Safari in Luxury **Hwange National Park, Zimbabwe –** Because we still had a few days to kill before the truck arrived, Boz arranged for us to go on a full day safari at Hwange National Park, known for its high concentration of elephant and lion. Our safari company was Kalambezi and our two trucks arrived at 6:00 a.m. to pick us up. Tom and Mike were too tired to go, but the rest of us literally crawled out of our tents and got into the trucks. We drove about two hours to Hwange, passing the Botswanan border road on the way. Our truck was sort of like a large metal box with benches. We drove through the dirt roads of Hwange, with our driver going four wheeling around the barricades that said “No Entry”. In keeping with the theme of the safari we managed to get a flat tire on the way into the park, which took us a bit of time to change. Score: Tires – 3, Engines – 1. Our driver was this white Zimbabwean man in his mid 40’s who also happened to own the Kalambezi company. He was so knowledgeable about all the animals and surrounding area. During our morning drive we saw some giraffe up close, accompanied by a few zebra who were hanging out with them. Ian, our guide, explained that zebra are very social animals and that they usually hang out with other animals for protection. We drove around the park for a few more hours, but we didn’t see any elephants – only hoofed animals like water buck and impala – lion fodder. It was so hot in this park – it was at least 106 degrees fahrenheit and we were sitting in the back of an uncovered safari truck. When noon rolled around we headed to this campground situated inside the park to take a break for lunch. It wasn’t just hot, it was oppressively hot as we were told we were going to stay in our bungalow at the campsite for a few hours. This safari was another of those luxurious ones where we were served barbecued steak and sausages for lunch with a full spread of salads, bead, etc. We al gorged ourselves then lounged around playing cards and drinking soda during the heat of the day. I turned to Rich at one point and said “This is something our parents might do,” meaning the cushiness of the whole thing, but then it sank in that this was something I had planned for myself. Fabulous. It was really relaxing doing this totally high class safari for the day. When 3:00 p.m. rolled around we headed back into the park in search of elephants. We didn’t see that many animals for the first hour or so (it was just too hot for them as well), but then I spotted an elephant off in the distance making its way through the trees. We kept going, as Ian was taking us to a watering hole where the elephants usually hang out. On our way over we spotted the elephants, about fifteen to eighteen of them, all walking in a line across the road towards the watering hole. We came driving up towards them in our vehicle and one of the younger males saw us approaching at quite a fast pace, so in an effort to protect his herd he began charging our safari vehicle. Ian threw the truck into reverse as Rich and I jumped down off the seats we’d been standing on. I did manage to snap a photo of the charging beast, but before the elephant got close enough to the car to be truly dangerous it stopped and snorted at us. Ian explained it’s just a scare tactic – when they’re really coming for you they’ll put their ears back and roll their trunk up. We sat and watched these elephants for quite a while – it was so amazing being this close to these wild animals. At one point one of the elephants wasn’t fifteen feet (if not closer) to our truck, just checking us out. The elephants headed off into the trees and Ian started the vehicle up and we went towards the watering holes where the pachyderms were headed. There’s an actual viewing bungalow situated right next to the water, but by the time wed arrived there the elephants were right behind us, and a few more in the area in front of the viewing bungalow so we had to sit in our open air truck while the herd passed around us. The second the last elephant passed we all ran to the viewing bungalow to watch them water themselves. We watched them drink and spray water everywhere – this experience was so different from anything else I’d seek. This was so natural – so real to watch. [![](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/1992/zimbab12.jpg "Bull Elephant")](http://www.traveller.org/zimbabwe/)We were watching a herd of females when on the opposite side of the water a huge bull elephant with huge curled tusks came lumbering over for a drink. He went down and saw the females, but he was very suspicious of the bungalow we were situated in; he couldn’t decide if there were humans in it or not. Eventually he decided not and came to the water directly across from where we were standing. I got some amazing photos of the bull drinking with his reflection in the water below. It was getting late and beginning to get dark so Ian said it was time for us to leave. We’d lost the other truck throughout the course of the day and Ian was concerned they might be lost in the park, so we went for a thirty minute drive through at dusk looking for them. We couldn’t find them, and now it was completely dark so it was time for us to make the two and a half hour drive back to Vic Falls. We’d been driving through the park for a while and were nearing the Botswanan border road when we saw this thing in the bushed that sided up to the road. This thing had gone down on its haunches and was just watching our truck approach. When we got in sight or it (about 15 feet away from the headlights) we realized it was a large male lion just staring down the vehicle. He was a big male with a full mane and absolutely no fear of our truck. After deciding that staring into the headlights wasn’t too fun he began to walk off into the bush, Ian turned the truck so we could see the beast walking away into the night. We’d already has the most spectacular game viewing day, but this just topped it all off. December 3rd, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Waiting for the Money Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=175 Published: 1992-12-04 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # Waiting for the Money Our truck finally arrived, new truck, as the old one was truly dead, and a new driver so we’d lost Steve. The new driver is a thirty year old British guy names Mick. He’s one of the most negative people I’ve met so we won’t be writing much about him. Because the truck was now there it was almost time for us to leave so I went over to Zambia to go shopping one last time before we left Vic Falls. I went over and picked up a carved shield that had been painted with different colors. Posted those home straight away as the post office was one minute from the campground. That evening Boz had a meeting with us and explained that because the truck had broken down and we had to spend money on the chalets we were short on cash but Kumuka London was wiring us more money. The problem was that no one knew when it was going to land, so we were hoping for Friday. If not Friday then we were spending the weekend and leaving on Monday. Rich and I went out with Jessica and Lucy again that evening and even tried to be colonial and go to the casino, but we were told that virtually every article of clothing we were wearing was inappropriate. Nixed the casino for the evening and went drinking instead. December 4th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Sitting Atop Victoria Falls Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=177 Published: 1992-12-05 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # Sitting Atop Victoria Falls No money landed yesterday, so guess who’s still lounging around Vic Falls. We were! Lounging around was exactly what we did that day – Rich, Jessica, Lucy, jenny, Brenda & I all headed to the **Sprayview Hotel** (where they don’t make you pay to swim) to sit by the pool for the day. After many hours of sunbathing we went back to the truck for dinner and drinks. There had been a major storm brewing and from the campsite I could see bolts of lightening shooting down near where the falls were. Stephanie and Jenny had been to the falls the night before, so Tom and I joined them as we walked over to see the lightening storm over Vic Falls. We walked down the rocks in the dark and actually sat with our legs over the edge where the water was falling seventy meters below us into the gorge that makes up the Zambezi river. Mother Nature sure can put on some shows – she supplied us with one hell of a lightening storm over the top of the falls (one of the seven wonders of the natural world). Tom, jenny and I left Steph at the falls, for it was beginning to rain. When I say rain it’s African rain. It doesn’t just rain in Africa – it’s a downpour or nothing and we got a downpour. I haven’t played in the rain like that for years but we were already soaking wet, so why not? It must have been about midnight when we got back so I crawled into the tent sopping wet to bother Rich a bit before going to sleep. December 5th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Still Lounging Around the Falls Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=179 Published: 1992-12-06 Region: Africa, Zimbabwe # Still Lounging Around the Falls Today we took Lucy and Jessica across the border to the crafts market to go shopping one last time (I said that before) prior to our departure the following morning, provided the money came through. We got to the market ad started bargaining away. I bought a malachite chess et for Z$80.00 (US$18) and traded a pair of shoelaces and a pen for a carving of a man’s head and a necklace. Lucy and Jessica had a good time bartering, but only Jessica ended up buying anything – three chess sets. Rich went wind and exited Zambia with a backpack full of malachite jewelry and a chess set. It was only after we’d returned to Zimbabwe that e told me malachite is a semi-precious stone in the U.S. – and I’d been to that market four times and only bought one piece of it! We’d arranged to meet the girls at the Vic Falls Hotel for their elegant all you can eat buffet dinner, so we cleaned ourselves up and headed over there for our “last supper” before being banished back onto our Parkinson’s disease inducing mode of transport. We had a great dinner with wine and more that two visits to their dessert bar – it was a nice way to end our time at Vic Falls. The girls went to a nightclub, but we didn’t have enough dosh (we were leaving the country) so we went back to the truck and drank part of a bottle of Afri-Coco to top off the evening. It was a clear night and the moon was out so Rich and I headed to Vic Falls to see the water under the moonlight. Upon our arrival at the top of the ‘Devil’s Cataract’ we found Stephanie and Jim already sitting there on the rocks admiring a lunar rainbow that was formed from the mist. Little did I know that the moonlight could also cause a rainbow effect off the mist from the falls. When you first look at it, it just looks like a white arc, but once your eyes adjust to it you can actually see the colors coming out of it. After much admiration and gawking over the edge of the falls we all headed back to go to sleep – we were finally leaving for Zambia the next day, and it wasn’t just the market over the bridge. December 6th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zimbabwe](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=9 "Zimbabwe") --- ## Finally Leaving Zimbabwe for Zambia Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=182 Published: 1992-12-07 Region: Africa, Zambia # Finally Leaving Zimbabwe for Zambia Today I shipped home my tenth two kilo box out of Zimbabwe. My parents are going to wonder what I **didn’t** buy in southern Africa. When Rich and I were at the post office in line, who should come find us but Simon, – the Aussie doctor we’d sailed down the Nile with the Egypt! After seeing all those people from Malawi we were getting used to the idea tat you see people again, but we last saw Simon in Luxor many months ago. We caught up with him and after sending our chess sets off we all loaded ourselves back into the truck to finally leave Zimbabwe. We all knew we were leaving Zim, but we also knew we were leaving any sort of Westernization behind us as well. As we were doing a northbound trip we were heading into the true Third World countries – we hadn’t been able to appreciate Zimbabwe’s modernization because we hadn’t been anywhere hard yet. I said it to a few people, “The safari starts now.” We were all going to get to know each other a lot better because the harder bits are still on their way. The truck left the Vic Falls campground, crossed over into Zambia and stopped at the market I’ve been frequenting for the past week so everyone else could “have a go” at buying some malachite animals. After our brief stop we headed north transiting our way through Zambia. Zambia’s not known for much, other than Lusaka, the capital city which is supposed to have more crime than Nairobi. (Hard to believe.) We drove endless hours with piss stops where I’d go running off into the jungle, not because I had to pee, but just because I was off the truck. After at least ten hours of driving the truck pulled off the road and drove over a barbed wire fence into this field. This is where we were to camp for the night. December 7th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zambia](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=13 "Zambia") --- ## Transit through Lusaka Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=184 Published: 1992-12-08 Region: Africa, Zambia # Transit through Lusaka Camping there wasn’t that bad except for the torrential rain which leaked into the tent a bit and threatened to collapse it all together. We got up extra early, for we needed to get to Mpulungu, the port town on Lake Tanganyika (the deepest lake in the world) by Friday to catch the ferry to Kigoma. The ferry only goes once a week and if you miss it it’s a thirty six hour hell drive overland on the truck. We drove all day and finally arrived in Lusaka at about 4:00 p.m. Boz told us to go out into the city in groups of four or more because it’s so dangerous, but the truck made the miraculous move of parking not fifty yards from the door of the United States Information Agency. You know what that means – NEWSPAPERS! CURRENT EVENTS! Rich, Tom and I all headed over there and once we were inside it was an information frenzy. Rich grabbed the entire stack of International Herald Tribunes, the most recent being from 26th November (Thanksgiving) and started reading away. The three of us sat there for thirty minutes just sucking up as much information about the world as possible. We moved from the newspapers to the news magazines, but they were all a bit ‘vielle’, so we thought we’d go back to the truck to see if the others were back from food shopping yet. We turned out to be the last people to arrive back from our “field trip” to the U.S. Embassy extension. We exited downtown Lusaka and ended up camping at this dude’s house in one of the suburbs – nice house but not too much to do but drink and prepare yourself mentally for the next day’s hell-drive. We weren’t sure if we were actually going to make it to Mpulungu in time to catch the boat. December 8th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zambia](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=13 "Zambia") --- ## Kenyan Elections May Be A Problem Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=186 Published: 1992-12-09 Region: Africa, Kenya, Zambia # Kenyan Elections May Be A Problem We drove all day long. I resorted to drinking beer all day to keep myself entertained (which created a few more piss stops than needed) but we finally pulled into this Zambian village right off the main road to camp for the night. We played a few camp fire (Camp Noel Porter-type) games after dinner and demolished more than one rum bottle in the process, but everyone was having a good time. STOP PRESS – KENYAN UPDATE The day Rich and I arrived in Nairobi was the same day the Kenyan Parliament had been dissolved. President Moi – dictator for the last twenty six years – was calling a free election to elect the new parliament. This was a landmark decision in Kenyan politics, for now the opposition, who’d been suppressed for so long, had a chance to get into the government. By the time we left on November 2nd the election date had been set for December 7th, but the opposition sued Moi stating they needed more time to her a candidate put together. The courts upheld the case so the new election date is December 29th – a few days after we’re due to enter Kenya. The election results aren’t due to be released until January first or second, and if they’re not what the people (or the government, who has control of the military) want then who knows what could happen in a volatile environment like that. Rich made the perfect statement – remember all the strife in Central America in the 80’s and you would hear about these Americans getting abducted by terrorist groups and you’d wonder to yourself, “What were those people doing there anyway?” This is what these people are doing there – it’s Africa of the early 90’s! Here’s a news clipping I found in the Times of Zambia dated 9th December 1992. “President Daniel Arap Moi said he would close Kenya’s border with Uganda until after Kenya’s first multi-party elections on December 29. Moi told a rally in Siaya, western Kenya, that the border would be sealed on Tuesday (Dec 15) on security grounds. — Zana/Reuters.” We were supposed to be staying in Kumuka’s compound outside Nairobi for New Year, but it looks like we won’t e getting into the country at all. Kenya seems to have an incredibly volatile political environment right now anyway, so no matter who wins this election there might be trouble. The opposition wins and the Moi-ruled military might move it. Moi wins and the people riot over a fixed election result. Here’s another quote from the _Times of Zambia_ from 3rd December 1992: “Washington – Kenya’s plans for its first multi-party elections are seriously flawed and may be tilted in favor of President Daniel arap Moi, according to a report issued by the international human rights Law Group.” It’s not looking good and we might have to fly from Kampala, Uganda to Nairobi in order to catch our flight to Bombay. We’re talking about going to Zanzibar for a few weeks (the other reported paradise place – next to Malawi) to kill time and let the Kenyan people mellow out after the elections. At this point we’re playing it by ear – I’ll call the Embassy from Bujumbura and my parents to get a better idea of what’s going on. December 9th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") [Zambia](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=13 "Zambia") --- ## Almost to Mpulungu Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=188 Published: 1992-12-10 Region: Africa, Zambia # Almost to Mpulungu We needed to be in Mpulungu tonight, or we might not make the ferry, but we had a lot of k’s to cover so who knows if we’d make it or not. We left at 6:20 a.m. and drove all day long. It was definitely a long day – about twelve hours later it was pouring torrential rain and Jim and I were wrapped up in a blanket drinking Afri-Coco and vodka to try and kill off both time and the cold. We were nearing Mpulungu and you could tell. The terrain as so green and the canopy was getting higher and higher. We were descending from the plateau down to Lake Tanganyika and it was getting warmer. At half past seven we arrived at our campsite – all of us tired from the day’s transit but happy that we’d made the boat. After dinner we had a smoke Boz had sorted out for us which floored everyone and sent us into a deep sleep to prepare for our two day two night ferry ride up the lake. December 10th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zambia](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=13 "Zambia") --- ## Boarding the Ferry on Lake Tanganyika Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=190 Published: 1992-12-11 Region: Africa, Zambia # Boarding the Ferry on Lake Tanganyika **[![](http://www.traveller.org/africaphotos/1992/zambia/1992/zambia5.jpg "Lake Tanginiyka")](http://www.traveller.org/zambia)Mplungu, Zambia –** We got up and after packing our day packs for our ferry journey we took a walk around this port town. Not a lot in town but the port itself so we went and vegged our at our nicely landscaped campsite. While we were sitting there killing time waiting for the ferry I ran into a British dude, Thomas, who I recognized but couldn’t place. He told me we’d met at the Sable Lodge – chalk up one for the travel river again! One o’clock rolled around and it was time for us to head to the ferry. Our truck was supposed to make the three day drive around the lake in time to pick us up at the port in Kigoma, Tanzania, but since the radiator was laying on the grass ten feet from the truck when we left I’m not counting on it being there. For some unknown reason Jim, Tom and Mike all wanted to make the hell drive around the lake so they were staying behind with Boz and Mick. The rest of us headed over to the port, and since it was a few days travel by boat were carrying a ton of food and two jerry cans with treated water for us to drink. The girls got to carry the food and Rich and I ended up carrying the water – which weighed a ton. We had a fair walk ahead of us so after exhausting both of our arms we ended up following the old saying “when in Rome . . .” and put the jerry cans on our heads. The things were so damn heavy and using your head (excuse the pun) definitely was easier, but after a while your neck and back begin to hurt from the pressure. After actually carrying something on our heads both Rich and I earned a new found respect for those African women who can balance the weight we were carrying on our heads and have a new born infant strapped on their backs. I was the first to arrive at the port and since I was so close to being able to drop my load on the ferry I was practically running through the gate towards the boat. As I went through the gate this dude sitting near what looked like a guard’s post called out for me to come to him. He didn’t have any uniform on so I thought we just wanted to sell me something so I waved him off and kept on truckin’ towards the boat. Little did I know that there was a Zambian police officer sitting next to him due to a tree blocking my view. I then heard two voices screaming at me sternly – one of them being the police official. The only thing they tell you about Zambia is not to piss off the government officials because they’ll get on a power trip and really make your life difficult. I’d just broken that golden rule and when I realized what I’d done I had a major adrenaline rush to assist with my already scrambled thinking. I went over and talked to the police officer in the politest cocktail party manner I’ve ever mustered – the last thing I needed was to miss the boat due to some power hungry official causing me problems. He was visibly pissed off, but after some of my charming (in addition to my acting like the dumbest person he’d ever met) the beast mellowed out and told me to wait over on the grass until the immigration and customs office opened. The whole experience really unnerved me, especially since they’re not too keen on issuing U.S. citizens with visas (how we got ours in one day I’ll never know.) The others arrived and after waiting a bit we all managed to clear customs and immigration without a hitch. We got on the boat and it turned out to be pretty nice – personally I was expecting a cross between an Egyptian train and a Malawian bus. We’d been booked into two second class cabins over the engine room which weren’t too bad except for the thirty eight degree C constant temperature. The boat pulled away from port and we were off! Met this Zambian dude in the second class cattle car section who had a bow board so after a few games of bow I grabbed Rich and Brenda and we went up to the bar to try this Primus beer we’d been hearing so much about. The owner of the bar took us into his office to change our dollars into Tanzanian shillings (illegal) so we could go spend our newly acquired currency in his bar. The Tanzanian immigration officer tracked us down after a while and gave us landing cards, but since he was holding a Primus in his hand at the time he said he’d deal with the papers after supper. We never did see him again. This Primus beer is definitely the strongest beer I have ever had anywhere in the world. You’re definitely drunk after one bottle and after two it’s about nap time. Three and you’ll be stupid and stumbling. Haven’t made it to the three bottle mark yet; I always end up taking the nap after bottle number two. After dinner and finishing my second Primus I went down to our second class sweat box to get some sleep. December 11th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zambia](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=13 "Zambia") --- ## Fascinating Days On the Ferry Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=192 Published: 1992-12-12 Region: Africa, Tanzania, Zambia # Fascinating Days On the Ferry ![](http://www.traveller.org/africaphotos/1992/zambia/1992/zambia6.jpg "Boarding the Boat")**Lake Tanganyika, Between Zambia and Tanzania –** Woke up at 2:00 a.m. because it was so damn hot so I grabbed my sleeping bag and moved up to the first class outdoor deck where a bunch of other people from the truck had been sleeping. I awoke in time to see the sunrise, and the best part about it was that I could admire the scenery and sunrise while laying on my bench, warm in my sleeping bag. We didn’t do much today but drink Primus and play cards – the type of things you’re supposed to do on holiday. It might sound like the boat was boring, but that’s so far from the truth it’s unbelievable. You see, the boat doesn’t go straight through to Kigoma, it makes various stops along the way to let the locals on and off. The boat has three classes and all the locals who ride in third class are physically locked into the third class section by the crew members so they can’t mingle with anyone else on the boat. As a white person you can go down there and the crew will unlock the door and let you in, but why would you want to? Every time the boat would pull up to a port it would sit a mile off shore and sound its horn informing the villages of its arrival. Now the excitement begins. As Westerners, every time we’d hear the horn sound, like Pavlov’s dogs we’d run to the side of the boat and look over to watch the imminent chaos. Then the ferry arrived no less that nine boat loads of locals would come rowing out to the ferry, each overloaded with people, fruits, vegetables, and he sacks of corn and fish to be loaded into the boat. As these were the locals’ boats they’d be loading in and out of the third class section of the boat so there was utter confusion at every stop. The boats would all race each other to get to the landing bay first to unload their stuff and pick up passengers to take back to shore. We saw on more than one occasion the locals have major arguments about whose boat was to sit directly in front of the loading doors, and even watched them try to push each others’ boats out of the way to get a little bit closer. As soon as one boat was unloaded the next one would move in as quickly as possible. Plus, if there were too many boats near the landing bay he locals would climb over each boat (and each other) to fight their way onto the ferry. Children, sacks of grain, furniture and roosters were all treated as cargo and lifted and thrown about without any problems. ![](http://www.traveller.org/africaphotos/1992/zambia/1992/zambia8.jpg "More passengers")The children in the boats would always call out to us up on the first and second class decks and at one stage I threw a blue ballpoint pen to one boy who had the most amazing smile that went from ear to ear. As soon as he’s caught the pen his face lit up even more – it was exhilarating seeing his expression after receiving something that holds very little significance in our culture. There must have been at least eight stops during our two day cruise, and I don’t think I missed the show at but one of our ports of call during the entire trip. Later on in the evening we had your standard dinner of chicken curry and rice before starting in to the Primus again. Two bottles later we were all crashed out on the first class deck again , ready to go to sleep. I watched yet another lightening storm over the land before actually closing my eyes that evening. December 12th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Tanzania,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=14 "Tanzania") [Zambia](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=13 "Zambia") --- ## Landing in Kigoma, Tanzania Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=197 Published: 1992-12-13 Region: Africa, Tanzania # Landing in Kigoma, Tanzania I awoke at 7:00 a.m. to the sound of the captain blowing the horn at our newest port of call. After making a few inquiries I found out that we’d made it to Kigoma over three hours early. That must be a new African world record – arriving early! We were so early that even the customs and immigration dudes weren’t around yet, so we had our breakfast and cleaned the teeth while we waited. Finally got off the boat in the mad rush with all the other locals and queued up for immigration. The mental titans at the desk took ages to sort out the passports and when I finally looked at the entry stamp, I’d been admitted to Tanzania on “13 Dec 1982” Typical African efficiency. We had a local we’d met, Mohammed, walk us over to the Railway Hotel where we’d be meeting the truck that evening. Mohammed is this twenty two year old guy from Dar es Salaam, the capital city, who was exporting teak wood to Dubai. That was, until the Tanzanian government shut down his business. He said that for each tree they cut down they’re supposed to plant two in its place – evidentially that clause had slipped Mohammed’s mind so only after the teak forest had been completely razed did the Tanzanian government step in and shut him down. We all checked into rooms at the Railway Hotel, for none of us were really expecting the truck to arrive that evening. The courier, Boz had pretty much told us it wasn’t going to be there. Rich and I then went for a three hour walk around Kigoma. It’s a very basic town – dirt roads, dilapidated buildings, your basic Third World type of place. We went to the market and got a pineapple for the local equivalent of fifteen cents, and a mango at least half the size of the pineapple for the same price. After wasting away the afternoon sitting by the lake drinking Primus (inclusive of an afternoon “power” nap) we went out to dinner. Upon our return we discovered the hotel sponsored a disco and they were playing all the music I’d been listening to in London, but had been deprived of for the past five (?) weeks while travelling. We sat by the lake listening to the music while watching yet another lightening storm, as usual, before going to bed. December 13th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Tanzania](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=14 "Tanzania") --- ## Finding Livingstone (again) Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=199 Published: 1992-12-14 Region: Africa, Tanzania # Finding Livingstone (again) The truck didn’t arrive last night so today Rich and I are taking everyone to Ujiji, a city near here where Stanley finally found Livingstone and met for the first time. The girls had never been on a packed matatu, so Rich and I showed then the ropes re: riding one. First you must push and shove everyone out of your way to get on, including the little old African ladies, then hold on for dear life because these guys speed and are horrible drivers. We ended up in the middle of Ujiji twenty minutes later when we extracted ourselves from the sardine can which doubles as public transport. We walked around the whole city (concentrating on the market) and after being accosted by the town loon (crazy man) one of the locals befriended us and said he’s take us to the Livingstone memorial. We walked through all the back alleys of the village until we came upon this little museum hidden way in the back of the village. Needless to say we would never have found it had we not met the dude. At the monument there were actual museum employees, and our man gave us the perfect textbook rendition of the historic meeting (in very broken English). David Livingstone was a Scottish missionary who had come down to Africa, and no one had heard from him in such a long time that everyone assumed he was dead. An American newspaper reporter by the name of Stanley left New York in search of Livingstone – determined to find him dead or alive. It was on the shores of Lake Tanganyika under a large mango tree that Stanley came across the Scotsman and uttered the infamous words, “Dr. Livingstone, I presume.” All that sits on that spot today is a huge marble monument, but when you’re there and the guide is telling the story in his broken English you really do feel like you’re standing someplace incredibly historical. After another wander around Ujiji and down to the lakeside we jumped back into the matatu and returned to our hotel to sit down by the lake for the remainder of the afternoon. As darkness fell, curiously the lights never came on. After a few inquiries we learned that the power company had run out of fuel to run the generators so Kigoma had no power. On that note we decided to retire early instead of doing anything else. December 14th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Tanzania](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=14 "Tanzania") --- ## Killing Time in Kigoma Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=201 Published: 1992-12-15 Region: Africa, Tanzania # Killing Time in Kigoma When we woke up this morning it was pissing down rain, so we just sat in bed reading until noon when it was time to get food. We went into town for lunch, then since the rain had subsided we sat by the lake drinking beer all afternoon. I ended up going to bed at 4:00 p.m. as I had food poisoning from eating a bad samosa for lunch. Totally ill, but just another one of those trials and tribulations of travelling in a Third World country. I do remember hearing that the truck had finally arrived at about eight o’clock that evening, but I was way too sick to go out and see what was going on. It turned out that the road around the lake was rained out and so muddy that the truck continued to get bogged down in the mud. If Jim, Tom and Mike hadn’t decided to skip the boat the truck would probably still be down there somewhere! They’d been bogged in the deep mud for over seven hours before they could get the truck free. **16th December 1992, Kigoma, Tanzania –** With the truck’s arrival our tour began to take shape again. Today was a bit slow as everyone (save the ones who’d arrived the evening before) was sick of Kigoma. We applied for our Burundi visas and ended up just hanging around the hotel bar drinking and killing time. We were supposed to be heading to Burundi the next morning and we were all well more than ready to leave. December 15th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Tanzania](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=14 "Tanzania") --- ## Searching for Immigration Officers Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=203 Published: 1992-12-17 Region: Africa, Burundi, Tanzania # Searching for Immigration Officers We left at noon today headed towards Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, but not before stopping off at the candy store to spend al our remaining Tanzanian shillings on Cadbury’s chocolate. We headed out of Kigoma on the worst road we’d driven on so are. It can’t even be called a road – it’s more like a large dirt path that people walk on and it was just a coincidence that it was just wide enough for our truck. No road maintenance (pipe dream) so everyone in the back of the truck was forced to take a firm grip onto something stable as not to get thrown out of their seats. It got really deep and muddy at one point and when Mick attacked each mud slide with some accelerator the truck would fishtail and rock and roll more than ever. At times the truck was at a very jaunted angle and we didn’t know if it was going to do an imitation of the inside of a tumble driver or not. It was definitely one of our hell rides on the entire safari [![](http://www.traveller.org/burundi/1992/burundi3.jpg "Free Camping")](http://www.traveller.org/burundi/)We made it to the Tanzania/Burundi border a few hours later but the immigration and customs guys were both back in town drinking so we were forced to turn the truck around and go find the two officers so we could get out of Tanzania. We entered Burundi with no problems and drove for a few hours before stopping near a small village to free-camp for the night. As usual the locals gathered to watch the “mzungu” circus put up their tents and cook diner. I’d had a few (two) Primus en route to Burundi and as both Burundi and Zaire were Belgian colonies (and are solely French speaking) I thought I’d go over and practice my French. I had a chat with a few of the locals who told me that they don’t start learning English in school until they’re sixteen or seventeen years old. I chatted some more for practice before crashing in our tent – remember I’d hit the two Primus mark! December 17th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Burundi,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=15 "Burundi") [Tanzania](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=14 "Tanzania") --- ## Bujumbura, Burundi & If We Should Enter Kenya At All Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=205 Published: 1992-12-18 Region: Africa, Burundi # Bujumbura, Burundi & If We Should Enter Kenya At All [![](http://www.traveller.org/burundi/1992/burundi5.jpg "Rich Juggling")](http://www.traveller.org/burundi/)The next morning we woke up at dawn, and our viewing gallery of locals was standing on the outskirts of our camp watching us – right on time. I kept trying to take pictures of the locals, but Africans are afraid of cameras – we think it’s because they think it takes away a little bit of their souls, so every time I pulled out my camera to take a picture the locals would run away. That’s when Rich and I figured out how to go about getting some great photos of the locals. Rich took is juggling balls and walked away to start tossing them around. The locals’ attention was diverted to Rich’s juggling, so I got out my zoom lens and started taking photos of the locals while they were distracted. It worked like a charm – we’ll have to remember that trick for India. After breakfast we headed through the mountains down towards the north point of Lake Tanganyika to the city of Bujumbura, Burundi’s capital. Burundi’s rather modern, with the greatest paved roads going up and down their mountains – a nice change form our hell Tanzanian road. We had nothing better to do than drink Primus all day. ![](http://www.traveller.org/africa/1992/africa_people2.gif "African Market")We made a stop in this huge market to take a look and it was so cool. The women here dress in such bright colors – just looking around the market was a spectacle. Hundreds of Burundi women going about their business, but the colors – it was everywhere and brilliant. We left the market and arrived in Bujumbura’s **Cercle Nautique** campground on the lake shortly after lunch. Since we were still a little concerned about Kenya Rich, Stefanie and I (the three token Americans) headed over to the embassy to find out what our government was saying about the situation there. We met with a consular officer who told us that U.S. officials have been advised not to go to Kenya, but tourists could still go – for now. The Kenya/Uganda border which is technically closed is letting tourists through, but that’s all. When we asked about Nairobi the officer told us our embassy there was replacing about three passports a day – nice crime rate! He also told us that six people were killed in demonstrations in western Kenya, so their political problems were not getting any better in the lead-up to the election. We left and wandered around Bujumbura for the day – we still had to hear the result of a call our courier was placing to Kumuka’s head office in Nairobi to see if we would be entering the country. When we got back to the campsite we were told we were going into Kenya and that we’d be leaving the next morning for Zaire. Not too pleased with that decision Rich and I proceeded to make a spirits punch for everyone to partake of before heading to Zaire where no goods or services are available. Our campsite sat on the northern end of Lake Tanganyika and there are a lot of hippos living in the lake so we were warned to watch out for them coming into the campground at night. After a few glasses of punch Tom, Jim, Stef and I went hippo hunting down near the water. Sure enough, the huge beasts were no farther than one meter from the edge of the campsite climbing out onto the rocks and swimming around just below the barrier. The hippos got bored of us watching them so they slipped into the water and swam off, leaving us to drink more punch and go to bed. December 18th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Burundi](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=15 "Burundi") --- ## Entering Zaire – A Real Dictatorship Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=208 Published: 1992-12-19 Region: Africa, Zaire # Entering Zaire – A Real Dictatorship We headed out early and hit the Zairian border in the mid-morning. Zaire is a total dictatorship – as bad as one can get – so the bureaucracy is massive. We’d read a few weeks earlier that the Prime Minister wanted to have some governmental body directly elected, but the ruling dictator – Mbutu – didn’t like that idea so he told the Prime Minister to dismiss his cabinet and reappoint the dictator’s men to those posts. The Prime Minister refused so Mbutu moved in the military and basically ousted most of the cabinet members. It was a very low-key coup d’etat, and here we were at Zaire’s border waiting to get in. We cleared immigration without any problems, but the customs guy was just being a dick and told everyone to get off the truck so he could inspect it. He opened our food stores and after discussing the merits of which country the milk powder was manufactured in with our driver he let us through. Had the milk powder been made in Kenya he would have kept it, as Zairians have great respect for Kenyan-made products. We stopped for lunch near Uvira where a little old Zairian woman with a cane wandered right into the middle of our group. [![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/zaire2.jpg "Zairean Woman")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)Now when the locals watch us they’re usually far enough away as not to get in the way. This little old lady was near blind and wandered right into the middle to see what was going on. I spoke to her in French for a little while, then Mike gave her a tomato, a bread roll and a cigarette. She was so funny – I’ve got a photo of myself looking and chatting with her, a very fond memory – hope it turns out. We sent her on her way and started the truck – needed to start heading to Goma so we could book our trip to see the gorillas, but Goma was at least a two day drive and Zaire has virtually no paved roads at all. The only way to get to Kinshasa, the capital, from the eastern side of the country is by the river – there aren’t any roads! I climbed into the front with Stefanie and Boz (who was driving) for this next leg of the journey. We drove a few hours but then we came upon a customs and immigration post. We sat there for a second thinking, “Why would Zaire have two customs posts?” The reason was that it wasn’t Zaire at all – it was the border post with Rwanda! Rwanda’s currently in the throes of their own civil was, so no tour companies are transiting through there any longer. One of the Rwandan police told us we didn’t want to go into Rwanda because the bandits have been robbing safari trucks as they transit through. Evidentially we’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. We thanked the police officer (who then asked us for five dollars and got nothing), did a U-turn and headed up the muddy roads higher and higher into the Zairian mountains. It rained a bit making the road muddier and the truck harder to control, plus the temperature was dropping. We persevered by drinking Primus and eating the pineapple which had been soaking in the rum from our punch the night before. We finally hit the summit and descended (more slid) through the mud to this quarry at the base of the mountains. It was dark by this time so setting up camp was on our agenda. As usual a few locals came and watched us, so I approached them to practice my French some more. I found out from them that there was a natural hot spring not twenty meters from our campsite – we’d just missed it because it was dark. I thanked them for the information and told them they could show us in the morning. December 19th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zaire](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=16 "Zaire") --- ## Learning to Watch Our Language Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=210 Published: 1992-12-20 Region: Africa, Zaire # Learning to Watch Our Language **[![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/misc73.jpg "Morning Camp")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)Outside Bukavu, Zaire –** We went down to the springs the next morning and the boys weren’t kidding – it was a large stream flowing through the jungle, only it was warm and the air was filled with steam from the river. Stef, Mike and Tina splashed around the water a bit before we went back to the truck to leave. We pulled into the city of Bukavu around noon, just in time to change money on the black market and do the food shopping for the next few days. Couldn’t stop for more than an hour or so because we were flying like bats out of hell to get to Goma to see the gorillas. Our courier kept the tour going at a break-neck speed just so we could keep up with the itinerary. We went to **Kahuzi-Buega National Park** before leaving for Goma, and that was so we could pay five dollars to go see what our courier thought was a pygmy village. Since we had an incompetent courier who couldn’t lead a group of people out of a paper bag this pygmy village turned out to be a bunch of tea plantation workers who happened to grow dope as well. Dope trees abound, more than I’ve ever seen in my life, but not worth any money to see, let alone five dollars. It sucked and was a total rip off – all thanks to an incompetent courier. [![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/zaire9.jpg "Pot Plants")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)We headed out of Kahuzi-Buega, slowly on the unpaved roads through many a village towards Goma. Zairian children think it’s great fun to pick up rocks or other items and pretend to throw them at the truck. It got to the point where Jim has a few rocks on his lap to throw back if need be. The only other thing Zairian children know how to do is stick their hands out like beggars and scream, “Donnez moi une Bic.” (meaning Bic pen.) Everyone on the truck was so sick of hearing these kids scream “donnez-moi” that when entering a new village, before the barrage of donnez-mois could be screamed by the kids, we’d all lean out of the truck and scream it at them first. That confused the locals a little bit, but not enough to keep them quite. Speaking of thing we used to do on the truck – there’s Raewyn, one of the Kiwi girls. Raewyn would always sit on one of the outside seats and would proceed to wave like crazy at any and all locals within her range of peripheral vision. I sat there and watched her for a while and figured out that she thought she was the Queen of England spreading goodwill and homeliness and that every local she waved at should wave back. If the locals didn’t wave back she’d lean out of the truck wildly waving her hands harder while screaming “Jambo” – welcome in Swahili in an attempt to get a response. Amusing to watch her, but even more amusing to see the expressions on the locals’ faces. The way the locals looked at Raewyn made me think that they were thinking, “Who’s the silly bitch hanging out of a blue mzungu truck screamin ‘Welcome’?” Remember I mentioned the Zairian boys throwing rocks? If I were a native and I saw Raewyn acting the way she was I’d throw rocks too – I don’t blame them. We drove all day, finally reaching the shores of Lake Kivu where we camped in a school yard for the night. That evening Brenda, Rich Tom (the plumber) and I were standing around the fire talking to one of the teachers when tom made a major faux pas. Tom wasn’t that clued in as to the ramifications which can occur if you bag on the ruling dictator while talking to the locals (who could always be the police). He and the school teacher were talking away when the teacher asked Tom if he knew about Zaire’s president. Tom’s response was, “What, that he sucks?” Rich, Brenda and I all heard that and immediately all of us started screaming NO! NO! NO! NO! The school teacher saw our reaction and said he didn’t like the president either. It was only after Tom saw our reaction to his comment that he watched what he said to the locals. Tom is a dim bulb, but he is amusing to be around – just to hear what the next outrageous statement to come out of his mouth is going to be. December 20th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zaire](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=16 "Zaire") --- ## Somewhere on Lake Kivu, Zaire Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=214 Published: 1992-12-21 Region: Africa, Zaire # Somewhere on Lake Kivu, Zaire We got up, took down camp and started driving. We had to be in Goma today, no matter what, and the roads were flatter than usual so it was pretty smooth riding. We were told we were going to drive until we got to Goma – we needed to book the gorillas – be it midnight if that’s what it took. We drove all day around Lake Kivu, stopping for an hour for lunch, then continuing to drive forever. It got dark and we kept driving. I sat next to Tom and amused myself simply by having a conversation with him – he’s a bit dim as you know. Finally got to Goma at 9:30 p.m. and everyone was starving. Dinner began, but I started immediately into the rum and cokes. Jenni joined me after my first drink, so the two of us proceeded to finish off the bottle of rum then move into another half bottle of vodka. We were both stumbling drunk by 3:30 a.m. so we staggered to bed. December 21st, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zaire](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=16 "Zaire") --- ## A Painful Day of Driving Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=216 Published: 1992-12-22 Region: Africa, Zaire # A Painful Day of Driving [![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/misc55.jpg "Bradley Lying on the Ground Hung Over")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)**En route to Jumba, Zaire –** Woke up this morning still very drunk from the night before so I just crawled onto the truck to rest up for the day’s activities. We headed into Goma where everyone got out and wandered around for a few hours. I stayed behind and guarded the truck because I was incapable of doing anything else. Mick came back and I went for a five minute walk over to the meat and cheese store to see if there was any food at all. Zaire is totally Third World, so when you walk into the shops there usually would only be one item in the entire store. I walked into this deli and all the display cases were empty except for one huge round of gouda cheese. Cheese! I couldn’t even find cheese in countries that were way more modern than this one, and there I was needing it more than ever to help take the edge off my hangover. I paid the price of two million zaires and walked away with about two pounds of the most amazing tasting cheese (or so I thought at the time.) [![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/zaire14.jpg "Dangerous Bridge")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)Back to the truck, for we were due to leave for Jumba in a few minutes and it was going to take us a long time because the roads weren’t roads. We started off and Mick was trying to avoid the largest potholes, but it didn’t really matter – you still needed to have a firm hold on the truck because it was rockin’ and rollin’ like the Shakey Shack in a funhouse. With my hangover (which was now tuning into my brain full force) it was a living hell. After a few hours I just leaned out of the truck and booted – boy was I miserable. I finally went to sleep under two of the aircraft style seats and woke up a few hours later when the truck had stopped at this bridge. [![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/misc56.jpg "Crossing the River")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)Mick was out inspecting the bridge to see if it could support the truck’s fifteen ton weight. The bridge was made of about thirty horizontal strips of metal, spaced about eight to ten inched apart so you could see the water from the river flowing below your feet. After a brief inspection Mick told everyone to get off the truck, so if it were to go right through the bridge Kumuka wouldn’t be liable for our deaths. Mick backed up the truck but instead of going over the bridge he maneuvered the behemoth down the riverbank, gunned the engine, then eased the truck in to the river and drove right through it. So muck for Zairian engineering works! We continued on this bumpy hell road, going approximately six kilometers an hour, slow enough so every Zairian child within a ten kilometer radius could jump on the spare tires and ride along with us for a while. The kids ended up stealing the charcoal out of our sack tied onto the back of the truck, so we stopped and Rich got out and got a big stick and proceeded to follow the truck on foot – scaring the locals away with his stick so they couldn’t steal anymore. We finally got to the **Parc National des Virungas** and set up camp for we were to go and see the silverback gorillas the next morning. December 22nd, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zaire](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=16 "Zaire") --- ## Gorillas, Guerillas & A Truck Hijacking Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=220 Published: 1992-12-23 Region: Africa, Zaire # Gorillas, Guerillas & A Truck Hijacking ![](../../africaphotos/1992/zaire_gorillaeyes_med.gif)**National Parc de Virunga, Zaïre –** Today was the day we were to see the Silverback gorillas – one of the main reasons we came on this safari in the first place. We hiked up to the rangers station in the hills at 7:30 a.m., only to be told that they couldn’t take our whole group that day because another group of people had already headed off to see the gorillas – that thanks to our courier’s management. After talking to the ranger he agreed to get a guide to take Rich and I to meet the others who’d gone ahead, while the rest of our group went and saw a different set of gorillas. We set off with our guide (who spoke no English and no French) and hiked through the Zairean hills for about an hour, then the guide led us through the dense jungle in search of the gorillas. When the jungle was too dense the guide would use his razor sharp machete to chop through the thick overgrowth – the bushes, small trees, you name it, so we could get through. It was really cool listening to the metallic ring of the blade as it cut through the overgrowth. We passed a few gorilla nests made of flattened tree branches before catching our first sight of “Oscar” the 35 year old Silverback sitting atop a tree looking around. It was an amazing sight seeing this massive animal sitting on top of the tree – the tree almost unable to hold the gorilla’s weight. He really looked as though he were on the lookout for us. After Rich and I had found the rest of the group, Oscar decided to climb down and walk off into the jungle, so we followed him into a small clearing where he sat down and let us sit near him on the ground. Oscar’s daughter and small son came out of the bushes and graced us with their presence. [![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/misc53.jpg "Close to the Gorillas")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)I was sitting about two yards from this massive wild animal which could have killed me without any effort whatsoever in an instant if he had held such an inclination. His daughter and smaller son (which looked exactly like a small stuffed animal) sat in front of the large male playing in the leaves, making the two youngsters less than three feet from where I was squatting. I was taking photos like mad, and ended up using the macro feature on my wide angle lens because I was so close to the creatures. That was a little unnerving – macro lenses are only used when you’re _really_ close to the subject you’re photographing – things like bugs and flowers, not Silverback gorillas. [![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/zaire42.jpg "Even Closer")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)There really isn’t any reason to be that close to them, but we were and it was amazing. After sitting with the three gorillas for an hour Oscar decided it was time for us to leave so he got up and walked right through the middle of our group to head off into the jungle. One of the American girls we were with happened to be standing right in the huge beast’s path, but she couldn’t get out of the way because there was dense jungle on one side and one of our African guides on the other. The guide kept telling her to take a photo of Oscar as he approached closer and closer towards her, but all she could do was scream, “I don’t want to take a photo! I [![](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/1992/zaire34.jpg "Dad and Child")](http://www.traveller.org/zaire/)just want to get out of the way!” Oscar passed within a foot of where I was sitting and I didn’t miss seeing one inch of his huge body mass as he passed by. Since our hour with the gorillas was finished we hiked two hours back to the ranger’s station where we said good-bye to the others in our group. During our hike back we saw another gorilla, a younger male who didn’t have his own family group yet, follow us up the path for a spell before diving off into the jungle. [![](../../africaphotos/cool/zaire_mil_sm.gif)](../../africaphotos/cool/zaire_mil_f.gif) Rich and I headed back to the truck, getting lost along the way and paying a local boy 1,000,000 zaires to show us the way. Everyone else had already returned and were just waiting for our return so we could head out of the country into Uganda before dark. We jumped into the truck and headed off towards the Ugandan border. We weren’t far, but the roads were shit – our truck bumping and sliding around through the mud and when we were about one kilometer (half a mile) from the border we had our first major encounter with the Zaïrean government. We were driving up a small hill (which caused the truck to go slower) when Mick, our British driver, spotted a lone Zairean soldier, in military uniform and holding a large AK-47 waving at the truck to stop. Mick had been driving through Africa for the past seven years, so he’d had a bit of experience in this, and his instinct told him to just wave at the lone guard and keep driving, while making motions that he couldn’t stop the truck because we were going up a hill. I was sitting on the raised area at the front of the truck on an area called the stage, I had Stefanie (an American) next to me on the bench and across from us, sitting on the facing bench were Jenni (from NZ) and Rich. The stage is at the front of the truck behind the driver’s cab, and is an elevated area with two benches running horizontally along the front third of the interior of the truck. When you’re sitting in these seats you can see out the sides of the truck rather well, but those outside also have a very good view of you too. As soon as Mick had passed the soldier waving us down the next thing I saw was a second soldier jump out from behind a tree, aiming his gun at the truck screaming “Descendez!”, which is French for ‘Get out of the truck’. This soldier wasn’t acting passive about his command either – he seemed more than serious. Three other soldiers jumped out of the bushes at the same time – all with AK-47s leveled at the truck. Mick brought the truck to an abrupt halt, just as the adrenaline in my body shot up into my brain. Before we’d entered any of the French speaking African countries I’d been instructed by our courier not to let on that I knew French when we were dealing with any official-types. That way we could act like ignorant tourists who didn’t understand the language if there were any problems. This was one of those times, but being able to understand most of what was being said and having a better idea than the others in the truck of what was going on didn’t help either. Boz, the courier, and Mick got out of the cab to talk to the soldiers while the rest of us sat in the back. We’d been instructed not to get out of the truck no matter what the guards said. The guards kept looking into the truck (mostly at the four of us sitting up on the stage) screaming “Descendez!” At one point the craziest guard of the lot, who I’d originally spotted jumping out from behind the tree, walked to the opposite side of the truck, stared at Rich, leveled his gun at him then screamed “Descendez!” once again. Rich was a little frazzled having this guard pointing a gun at him and screaming so he turned to me and asked me what he was saying. I told him I didn’t know French. The first reaction animals have when truly scared is to form a group – strength in numbers being the idea. Well immediately after the crazy guard jumped out from behind that tree both Stefanie and I instinctively moved towards the middle of our bench until we were touching so we’d have each other for comfort. I don’t know why it felt better, but just sliding myself closer to someone else felt like the right thing to do. I can’t remember consciously thinking I was going to do it, it just occurred. I can remember thinking that that action truly felt like one of the latent animal instincts humans have. While the crazy guard was screaming at Rich to get down out of the truck, two other guards had climbed up onto the hood of the cab, not four feet to my right, and proceeded to load their clips with bullets – very slowly – one by one. The crazy man was still screaming “Descendez!” at the top of his lungs when our courier came over again and told us not to get out of the truck under any circumstances. The crazy man then walked down the small hill he was standing on to go find something else to do. The guards on the hood had a massive pile of bullets on the folded down windshield and continued to load their clips. They’d occasionally drop a bullet onto the windshield or drop one into the small drawstringed bag, also on the windshield, so we could heal the metallic ‘clink’ and judge how many more bullets they had left in the bag. I could hear our driver speaking in broken French to the soldiers’ leader saying we were tourists and were causing no problems. Well when the one standing on the hood loading his gun heard that he started screaming “Passeports!” Our driver, in an attempt to distract them from having us hand our passports over, turned to the guards on the hood and asked if they would please get down – they were scaring the women in the truck. After many pleas from our driver the guards got down, but the ‘lively’ one on the opposite side of the truck switched his call from “Descendez” to “Passeports!” I could hear him calling that out every once in a while. I heard another guard saying “argent” and “cadeaux”, indicating that they wanted gifts and money. He screamed it a few times over and over, so when Tom, who was nearby, asked what it meant I translated for him. Mick, Boz and four of the five soldiers were all standing out in front of the truck so I could more or less see what was going on. They’d stopped a local and were trying to get him to help translate what the soldiers were saying. Involve as many outsiders as possible was the plan. A majority of the time we were all looking at the floor, each other, anything not to make eye contact with the soldiers. I kept my brain busy by analyzing the way the staples in the bench across from me had been applied with a factory precision. I didn’t think thoughts like “Am I in danger” or “What happens if someone gets shot” because my brain had begun to slow down and get mushy; I was becoming drowsy. I did have a fleeting thought of, “As a lifeguard I’ve been trained to deliver a baby, but I’ve not been trained in first aid for gunshot wounds.” That amused me at the time, strange things go through your mind when you’re in these situations. I looked out the front of the truck at our courier, and saw that the guard was pointing his AK-47 at Boz. Boz said something then the guard quickly pointed his gun away from our courier towards the forest and let off one shot. When he did that the crazy man, who was just opposite the truck’s door let off two more shots into the air. This jolted those of us in the truck, and the first thing I can remember doing was looking outside to see if anyone I knew had been shot. Nope, not as far as I could see. After this display of firepower our courier came and climbed into the truck saying he needed a $100 bill quick. One of the girls pulled one out and gave it to him, which in turn passed it on to the soldier’s leader. Once they’d been paid the guards said they wanted to “escort” us to the Ugandan border 1k away to protect us from Rwandan bandits. On that note two of the guards climbed into the cab with Mick, one held onto the outside of the passenger door and the fourth perched himself so he could see into the rear of the truck as we were driving. Of course he had to be closest to me and our courier, who’d joined Stef and I on the bench. The fifth guard (the crazy one) climbed into the back of the truck with everyone and balanced himself on the door with his loaded gun on his lap between him and us. He sat there for about ten seconds then decided it was too uncomfortable and moved someplace else on the outside of the truck. So then we started off towards the border with all these Zairean soldiers hanging off the side of the truck. The road ahead of us, which ten minutes before had been full of locals walking along going about their business was completely deserted at this point. We didn’t see a soul until we pulled up to the immigration check point where all the guards jumped off and walked down the road to their military post down the road from the border. Our courier went into the office and noticed the immigration officer was visibly shaken, for he knew what had transpired down the road. He came out to the truck and in very clear English vehemently apologized for what had happened. He said his country had no government and that these things happened from time to time. He seemed truly sorry, and definitely scared. He then said we should give him our passports to process, drive the truck over the border to Uganda, then he’d bring us our passports over on the other side; he didn’t want a truckload of Westerners who’d had a run-in with the military waiting outside his immigration check post. It _was_ still Africa and we told him we’d wait for him to stamp our papers out. The officer grabbed his assistant and the two of them furiously began stamping our passports an quickly as they could; he wanted to help us and get us out of Zaire as quickly as possible. While we were waiting for our passports Boz told me what had prompted the gunshots. Boz had learned from the immigration guy that these soldiers were members of a rebel faction of the Zairean army. Zaire had had so many governmental problems (including a coup d’etat two weeks earlier), and as a result the military men, along with other government people weren’t being paid their wages on time, if at all. The soldiers’ leader asked for money so Boz told then we didn’t have a lot of money and offered them US$20 (36 million zaires). The guard responded by pointing his AK-47 at Boz, so Boz quickly offered US$50. Still unsatisfied the guard quickly pointed his gun away from Boz into the forest and let off one shot. When he did that the other guard joined in with his two extra gunshots. After this display of firepower the leader told Boz he wanted US$100 (180 million zaires); an unprecedented amount of money for these Africans in their economically ravaged country. The $100 they extorted from us would pay all five men’s wages for over a month. The passports were finished, the truck’s customs clearance stamped and we were all accounted for so we could finally get the hell out of the country. Mick went to start the engine but we only heard a dry “click” when he turned the key. He tried again. . . “Click”. This was the last thing we needed, especially since we’d finally gotten clearance to leave. It turns out that one of the soldiers had accidentally kicked the switch which disengaged the battery from the rest of the engine. Mick figured this out, flipped the switch, then the engine roared away and we drove on through the customs barrier into Uganda – we were out of Zaire (each paying a $10 departure tax to the military). So much for dictatorships. Twenty yards down the road we met three women who’d been with us during our gorilla trek earlier that morning. Erin, this tall, blonde, Canadian girl told me what the locals’ reaction to the incident was. She said she and her friends had been walking towards the border when some of the locals went running by (after the shots had been fired) saying that the military truck was coming down the road; in actuality it was our truck with all the guards hanging off the outside of the cab. She and her friends started running to the immigration post so they could escape Zaire before any trouble began. She said the immigration officer met them at the entrance, snatched their passports out of their hands, stamped them and told the women to go across the border – “Quickly!” This entire incident showed me, up close and personal, how corrupt a dictatorship can be, and how scared the people living under that sort of governmental system really are. The whole stop plus the “escort” to the border must have taken about twenty minutes, but it felt like it was a hell of a lot longer. The Ugandan border took us about an hour to sort out all the bureaucracy and red tape, but we made it through and drove another hour into the frontier before stopping. We wanted to get as far away as possible before setting up camp, just to make sure the Zairean guards couldn’t sneak across the border and hassle us some more. Everyone on the truck had a few stiff rum and cokes (no I wasn’t pouring) in an attempt to relax before retiring to sleep. Later that evening when we were talking about it, Stefanie had a great quote – something like “We saw the passive gorillas this morning and the active guerrillas this afternoon.” We parked our truck and began to set up camp when Rich called me over and began walking away from camp. He said, “You know that list of “Things You Don’t Want to Know”?. “Yeah”, was my tentative response. “Well I sort of brought something through the border that I probably shouldn’t have.” It dawned on me and my eyes turned big as plates. “You mean the jay fay’s in Uganda?” I then was sitting there incredulous to the fact that Rich had had that stuff, especially with what had just transpired not a couple of hours before. Jenni came over and laid down on the grass next to me when Rich grabbed one of her feet and acted like he was going to take off her shoe. “You don’t want to do that” was her facetious tone. She said that the jay fay was inside her shoe. I was totally surprised, again, for she’d pulled the same trick that Rich had. No wonder she looked so nervous when we’d been stopped by the military men. Later that evening we all got together and had a wee relaxation session in our tent to relieve the stress of the day’s activities. * * * > **_The Nation_ (Newspaper),** **_Nairobi, Kenya, 30th Dec 1992 –_** > > **Troops Loot** > > Kinshasa: Zairean soldiers angry over low pay resumed looting in two eastern towns as President Mobutu Sese Seko prepared to hear army grievances yesterday. Residents in north Kivu provence on the border with Rwanda and Uganda, said by radio that troops began looting in Butemo early yesterday, a day after men from the Kasindi base went on a rampage in Oicha. **_That is exactly where our truck was when we were hijacked!_** **\~~~~~~~** **27th March 1993 – Pokhara, Nepal – Zaire Update –** I met up with Cameron, a Kiwi we’d met in Egypt, who told me the situation in Zaire has gotten worse since we were there and that overland trucks are no longer going into the country. He said one of the trucks apparently went missing. They also had passed through Nairobi after us and said the situation in Kenya didn’t get any better – every day at Ma Roache’s some traveler had a new horror story about being robbed. December 23rd, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Zaire](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=16 "Zaire") --- ## Christmas Eve, Mbarara, Uganda Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=223 Published: 1992-12-24 Region: Africa, Uganda # Christmas Eve, Mbarara, Uganda We drove all day through Uganda, admiring the beautiful countryside. I got a photo of four dormant volcanoes in a row – beautiful. Everyone was getting a bit delirious from riding in the truck, plus it was Christmas Eve, so when we pulled into the hotel at Mbarara where we were to camp that night, everyone but Jim and Tom screamed out that they’d pay a supplement and get a room. It was Christmas and we were going to splurge. Rich and I had to cook Christmas Eve dinner, so when we’d stopped at Kabale earlier that afternoon we were in charge of doing the shopping. At the market we got all the veggies and I found a corral at the back where they were taking live cows and slitting their throats for butchering. The locals were all taking turns holding the bucket that the blood was flowing into. I showed Rich this place and he got up really close to the dying animals while I stood a good thirty feet away. It was only after one of the locals asked him if he wanted to hold the bucket that he’d decided he’s had enough. He came back and got me and we headed back into the market to try and find a main course for dinner. We already had all the veggies and after watching the cows we didn’t want any meat – that was about the time we passed the chicken section of the market. You can’t get a dead chicken in Africa – there’s no refrigeration, and you’ve got to pay someone to kill it for you. We figured it couldn’t be that hard to find someone to do it so we wandered over to the chicken peddlers, and the second we mentioned we wanted two live chickens there were about four locals surrounding us, each with a live chicken in each hand. The locals didn’t treat the chickens like an animal – they were more a physical item. When we were bargaining over the price the locals would wave the chickens around over their heads of our price was too low, thereby upsetting our possible main course causing them to cluck loudly. After much negotiating and explaining that when we returned to pick up the birds we expected them plucked, no head, no feet, no guts – all for the exorbitant rate of Sh5,000 (US$2.25 each). With the negotiating done they asked me which ones we wanted. I guessed the only way to test a live chicken was to reach over and feel their chests to see how fat they were. I wasn’t that practiced in squeezing live chickens but I choose a couple that seemed pretty well fed. We headed back to the truck to wait the forty five minutes for the cleaning to be done. After everyone had gotten checked into their rooms at Mbarara Rich and I began cooking Christmas dinner. We had fresh chicken, two hours old, peas, carrots, fresh mashed potatoes and banana custard. After two hours of work (sans shower and shave, for everyone else was already cleaned up) we served our Christmas masterpiece dinner. Rich and I served ourselves and sat down, ready to eat this magnificent dinner we’d worked so hard to prepare. I took my knife and tried to cut into my chicken but . . . the knife just slipped off the meat. I held the bird down and tried to get the knife to take hold but my cutting device just bounced off the meat and landed in the mashed potatoes. No one had told us that you’re supposed to let a freshly killed chicken drain for two to three days before cooking it. The peas were crunchy, the chicken rubbery, the custard on a borderline O.K. basis, the gravy ended up being dumped in the grass, but the mashed potatoes were all right. Rich and I made our exit to go get cleaned up as the rest of our group fought with the rubber chicken and crunchy peas. After showers it was time to shave – two weeks not shaving does give you that mountain man look. Rich hadn’t shaven in something like nine weeks (since we left Egypt) and he had a full beard. After wrestling over my electric razor with the beard trimming attachment I shaved then passed it on over to Rich. When we started our safari Rich had his beard, so all the people we’d met since had never seen him without one. Rich shaved, but it was hurting him too much so he left the moustache, which made him look Italian. The change was remarkable – he looked so different with only a moustache. I was following him to through the hotel bar, just to see the expressions on our friends’ faces when they saw him. Everyone was pretty shocked at the change and started to give Rich a bit of a hard time. We ordered drinks and started chatting to Jim for a while when Jim called Rich “Guiseppe” because of his moustache. Shortly thereafter Rich excused himself to go to the bathroom while Jim and I moved into our next gin and tonic. During Rich’s absence the rest of the people from the truck arrived in the bar, but no Rich. About ten minutes later Rich appeared – sans moustache – and boy did he shock a few people – even me. Every time I looked at him I would start giggling – it was such a change. I’ve known him for five and a half years and even I had a really hard time controlling my laughter; actually I didn’t try to control it at all. Everyone was totally tripping off the fact that Rich had made two separate appearances and looked entirely different at each visit. It was strange, but people began to get used to Rich’s new look and the atmosphere just became more festive as the evening wore on. Everyone was hanging out in the bar, so Erin (our Canadian hitch hiker) started getting us to sing different Christmas carols with her. It was when they started singing the Twelve Days of Christmas that I really got into the Christmas singing. I’d planned to sing the “Twelve Days AFTER Christmas” with Brenda the next morning (incorporating the new verses I’d written while on transit in Zambia) but I couldn’t resist so I stopped everyone from singing the twelve days and said, “We’ve all heard the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’, but do you know what happened on the twelve days after Christmas?” I then started singing the song solo since Brenda didn’t know the words yet, to a bar full of our friends we’d made over the course of the past five weeks. Here’s a full draft of the song which I’d learned at least twelve years before. Verses one through seven are the original song while verses eight through twelve are the new and improved verses written as a result of boredom while in transit on a safari truck. **The Twelve Days _After_ Christmas** On the first day after Christmas, my true love and I had a fight. I chopped that blasted pear tree down and burned it just for spite. And with a single car-ar-artidge I shot that blasted par-ar-tridge, My true love, my true love, my true love gave to me. The second day after Christmas I slipped on me old rubber gloves, And very gently wrung the necks of both those turtle doves. My true love, my true love, my true love gave to me. The third day after Christmas, my mother she caught the croup (cough-cough) And so I used the three French hens to make some Chicken soup. The four calling birds were a big mistake for their language was obscene. And the five golden rings were completely fake and they turned my fingers green. (Ech!) The sixth day after Christmas the six laying geese wouldn’t lay. So I sent the whole darn gaggle to the A.S.P.C.A. On the seventh day what a mess I found, all seven of the swimming swans had drown, My true love, my true love, my true love gave to me. The eighth day after Christmas I went to the milkmaid’s chalet. I’d planned to video them dressing for their work that day. But to my despair I let out a cry, as each of the girls munched another’s hair pie, My true love, my true love, my true love gave to me. The ninth day after Christmas I went to a Shriner’s soirée. The whores were late, the men irate, so I gave the dancing ladies away. On the tenth day past but to my chagrin, for the ten leaping lords had been getting stuck in, My true love, my true love, my true love gave to me. Eleven days after Christmas the pipers had all gone astray. I rang the local drunk tank to find that they had been at play. The twelve drummer boys were completely gay; they’d joined a ballet troupe and were on their way, My true love, we are through love, and said in so many words, Frankly dear your Christmas gifts are for the birds —- (four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree). Everyone was in rally good moods, so we all sang nor Christmas carols and had a few more drinks before closing down the bar. We were ready to keep partying so Rich and I took everyone to our chalet to let the festivities begin. It was so perfect – we’d been given a free-standing chalet, large enough for you to set up three tents in the bedroom/sitting room alone, plus it had a huge bathroom and all the floors were concrete so they were spill, burn and boot proof. The perfect stomping ground for a bunch of Christmas revelers from our safari truck. Thanks to Rick and Jenny doing their stuff at the Zairian border – no wonder Jenni looked so worried – the jay fay arrived and we had a smoke. Everyone from the truck was there (except for Jim and Mike who’d passed out earlier) and everyone partook in the passing making the evening just flow along. Tom had brought his air mattress (which doubles as a swimming pool raft) to our room and was vegged out on it on the floor. I went and sat next to him and Brenda sat across from the two of us on the bed. We were all wasted – everyone in the room was wasted – and we were all really relaxed around each other so anything could happen. Brenda, Tom and I were talking about Christmas carols and singing when all of a sudden Brenda, who’d been a little reserved up until now, broke out into song singing some popular song from Australia. The thing is that her voice was amazing – it was a really good singing voice, and she’d been hiding it from us the whole time. It turns out that her grandmother was an opera singer. After Brenda’s performance Tom, who’s also got a really good singing voice, sang a bit while lying on his mat. Everyone had the spotlight for a while and it was really positive. Stefanie, who’s wild when she’s sober was jumping around and even put on our own personal rave environment with flashing and spinning lights and bee bop music (provided by herself) for thirty seconds. Of course she had to improvise for the lighting by flicking the lights on and off and waving an illuminated flashlight over her head. Tina, the New Zealand police woman, was doing summersaults across the room, head stands, and giving Stefanie and Jenny drink driving tests – by the book. Too bad everyone was too wasted to know who was “winning”. At about 2;30 a.m. everyone filed out, or more we poured everyone out the door onto the grass, with Jenni being the last one behind. After a few minutes of chatting she announced she was gong to be sick and promptly opened the door and went and got sick on the grass. She came back and said “Merry Christmas” to us and went to her room to bed. And a merry Christmas it was – a group of people who didn’t know each other that well four weeks earlier had managed to become really good friends and celebrate the holidays in Africa together in the merriest way possible. Everyone said that they’d had a very merry Christmas Eve. December 24th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Uganda](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=17 "Uganda") --- ## Crossing the Equator on Christmas Day Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=225 Published: 1992-12-25 Region: Africa, Uganda # Crossing the Equator on Christmas Day ![](http://www.traveller.org/africa/1992/africa_xmas.gif "Crossing the Equator")So much for leaving at 8:00 a.m.. We woke up at 9:00 a.m. feeling very slow, but not hung over. We all piled into the truck by 10:00 a.m. and had, I think, the most relaxing day of driving we’d ever had because everyone was so out of it from our Christmas Eve party. We drove all day, stopping at the equator, where there’s this large monument to take pictures and wander around, arriving that evening in Entebbe, a resort town that sits on the edge of Lake Victoria – the largest lake in the world. We handed out our Christmas gifts (we’d all drawn a name out of a hat a week earlier) and I received a shell on a piece of string from Raewyn. I made Jenni a portable backgammon set made out of some cotton material I’d sewn into a drawstring type bag to keep the pieces in. After gifts we went to the resort and had our Christmas diner of fresh BBQ’d fish and chips – just like what you’d get in Malawi – it was great. We sat there talking after dinner until the largest spider I have ever seen outside the Smithsonian descended down from the roof of the hut we were eating in. The thing was big, black and white spotted and must have been about two inched long (it’s torso). If it had lowered itself into the ashtray there might have been a space problem keeping its legs inside the tray. The girls all got up and moved away as the waiter grabbed the arachnid’s web it was hanging from and tossed it into the bushes. We left the diner table and headed over to the outdoor disco which was absolutely blaring all sorts of different music (none of which I’d heard before), We hung out there briefly but we were still knackered from the night before. We headed over to the truck to hang out and use the phone – the jay fay was still with us from Christmas Eve – before crashing out. December 25th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Uganda](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=17 "Uganda") --- ## On the Shores of Lake Victoria, Entebbe, Uganda Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=228 Published: 1992-12-26 Region: Africa, Uganda # On the Shores of Lake Victoria, Entebbe, Uganda When we woke up today the music from the disco was still blaring away. Don’t know what the management was thinking because I certainly didn’t see anyone dancing at 6:00 a.m! We jumped in the truck and made the thirty minute drive to Kampala and made a bee line to the Sheraton Hotel for breakfast. After all of us had been not eating that well through Zaire, an all you could eat breakfast at the Sheraton on Boxing Day was something like a God-send. For a mere Sh10,500 (US$9.70) you got everything your heart desired – including a chef to cook you as many omelets as you could eat. Plus you even got things you hadn’t seen in weeks: cheese, bacon, fresh fruit that wasn’t bruised, milk and even apple juice! Every single person on our safari truck pulled out the plastic and charged breakfast as a special Christmas treat. In addition, we were all ravenous from our week prior in Zaire. After breaky I headed to the Telecom Center and picked up the special AT&T phone they’d come to personally install in this office. Pick up the phone and twenty seconds later you’re talking to an AT&T operator. Nice touch – thanks guys! Talked to the family at 1:00 a.m. California still technically Christmas and told them a bit about what we were up to. The next call was to the U.S. Embassy to see what the Kenyan situation was all about. The dude at the embassy said there was an official travellers advisory out stating that U.S. citizens should not go to Kenya due to possible political unrest as a result of the upcoming election. Good to know, but I didn’t want to spend any more money flying to Nairobi when our truck would be there in a few days. Back to the truck where we travelled through western Uganda to Jinja, famous because it’s the source of the Nile, at Lake Victoria. The hotel was just down the road, and in keeping with our theme of “the colonial tour of Africa” our truck pulled into the driveway of the hotel, we drove the truck around the landscaped traffic circle as though we were inspecting the place before we’d actually show our faces. After the “inspection” we piled out of the truck and immediately set up our tents right in the middle of the landscaped traffic circle, with the best grass we’d seen in weeks – perfect for camping. We all were ready to party a bit more since we’d all been so tired on Christmas Day proper, so we headed into the hotel bar and started drinking once again. Dinner time rolled around and our safari truck signed up for the all you can eat BBQ out on the patio. After eating them out of house and home (we ate all the food they’d brought out to cook) we watched some traditional dancing and had more drinks before crawling into the tent to go to sleep. We are to leave for Kenya tomorrow so I’ll do some journal housecleaning here. UGANDA NOTES: When we first entered Uganda from Zaire we were all stressed from our experience with the soldiers so we didn’t notice the locals’ change in attitudes once we’d crossed the border. Uganda has suffered some horrible war atrocities under Idi Amin. Since the war ended in 1986 the people have become so happy. Just knowing that most people we came in contact with had lived through the atrocities of the was an interesting feeling, but the demeanor of the locals is what struck me the most. The Ugandans are the happiest people – even six years after their war ended. Every person you’d smile at would return the same smile back to you tenfold. You could actually feel the relief of the people – feel how happy they were to be able to have normal lives again. It was actually a real pleasure to wave and smile at the people from the truck because you’d get more than you gave in return and you could actually feel the sense of relief these people had. Now they could move forward again and get Uganda moving again. The **Railway Motel** in Kigoma, Tanzania – In true African form, at breakfast over the course of a few days we’d keep noticing these white bits floating in our tea. I would just skim them out with my spoon because I really enjoy my cups of tea – when I could get them. One morning I actually looked at what I thought had been the skin from the bottled milk that had been poured into the tea – it wasn’t milk skin, I’ll tell you that. I’d gotten rather a large clump this particular morning and after examining it I passed it over to Rich. We figured out that the cooks had been making our poached eggs for breakfast, but due to the lack of power, or whatever, they’d just use the hot water the eggs had been cooked in to make our morning tea. The ‘milk skin’ I’d been fishing out of my tea was actually egg white from everyone else’s breakfast. Gross – but remember, it’s Africa and I’d rather have a cup of tea in the morning than no cup of tea at all. December 26th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Uganda](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=17 "Uganda") --- ## Crossing the Closed Kenyan Border Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=230 Published: 1992-12-27 Region: Africa, Kenya # Crossing the Closed Kenyan Border Today was the day. Today, against my better judgment, the truck left Jinja and headed for the Kenyan border. The Kenya/Uganda border is technically closed for security reasons, but we’d heard that they were letting tourists through. Upon our arrival at the border we could look over the customs gates into Kenya to see a political rally supporting Moi (the current dictator) going on. Wonderful. We cleared Ugandan immigration and waited at Kenyan immigration and customs while their immigration dudes sorted through everything. He finally cleared the truck and we eased forward into a country deep in the throes of a political learning process. They were learning that democracy is (in my opinion) one of the better systems, but accountability in the process is always necessary. The rally going on was supporting the status quo and these people seemed to be getting into it – possibly because Moi’s government was the only one they’d known since most of their births. When the life expectancy of a population isn’t over fifty years and a majority of them is in the twenty six year age bracket, then of course they’d support the current dictator and keep the status quo. Our truck was stuck behind the Moi vehicle (complete with loudspeakers extolling the virtues of the KANU party) and as a result, all the people dancing and screaming Moi support slogans were screaming them at the truck full of mzungus as well. Jenni waved at someone and made the peace sign with her hand, but that person who wasn’t a Moi supporter became visible angry and screamed at her. Moi’s sign during the election was the peace symbol and making that sign to the locals showed your support for the KANU party. After we drove for a bit Mike turned to me and said that the people weren’t happy – they seemed concerned. No doubt – there were four major political parties in their first democratic election in twenty six years: the ruling KANU party, the DP (Democratic Progressivista), the FORD-KANU party, and the FORD-something (the FORD party had experienced an internal rivalry earlier in the campaign and split into two separate parties.) We were heading to Kisumu to camp for the night, but I was beat so I went to take a nap on one of the back seats. I kept getting awakened by the screaming groups of three hundred people all having a political rally of one kind or another. It just made me more and more nervous because when this many people become involved and they don’t agree with the election results then there could be political strife. We drove towards Kisumu when this bus came barreling down the road, ready to pass us. Africa buses aren’t known for their safety standards ad this one certainly hadn’t passed any safety tests, for the chassis was messed up and the bus was cruising down the highway at a very jaunted angle. It looked as though it was almost cruising down the highway sideways – it’s tail was definitely not in line with the front tires. As the bus passed us its rear slid a bit and hit our side view mirror, shattering it, before heading off down thee motorway in a cloud of black smoke. We finally arrived at our campground literally on Lake Victoria, where we took everything off the truck. We had another Kenyan registered truck coming to meet us so we wouldn’t look as conspicuous travelling around Kenya. I heard Mick was driving “Bush Pig” straight through to Nairobi the next day so I asked him if we could tag along so we could get our flight out of the country ASAP. No problems. It was our last night with all the people from our safari so we tried to spend some time with them. Boz had arranged for some smoking materials for KSh100, and when it came all of us – Rich, Jenni & I were amazed. It was larger then a pint glass and dense – all for US$3.00. We had our last session together, along with a majority of the truck before retiring to bed. December 27th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") --- ## Transiting to Nairobi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=232 Published: 1992-12-28 Region: Africa, Kenya # Transiting to Nairobi **Kisumu, Kenya –** One day to go until the election and we were headed to Nairobi to try to get out of a country which no longer the stablest in East Africa. We packed up our stuff and jumped in the truck with Mike, Tom and Jim who were also going to Nairobi to help Mick sort out the truck for his next trip – they were going to meet our group in Nairobi in a few days. We drove all the way through the beautiful Kenyan countryside, drinking beer and sitting inside our sleeping bags to keep warm. It was a really good day – we had a great time and the scenery was fantastic. We passed Lake Nakuru and could see a pink ring around the edge of the lake where the flamingos were hanging out. We arrived at the Kumuka compound at about ten o’clock that night and ended up just watching the Kenyan news. They were reporting that the police force in Nairobi would be doubled on election day with air surveillance to watch out for any hot spots in the city. The Kumuka guys were telling us that there’s been some riots in Nairobi a week before and that the opposition parties had already announced that they wouldn’t accept the election results if Moi wins. On that note Rich and I weren’t going to be hanging around Kenya to find out who wins the election – we were going to try to get a flight to Bombay the next day. December 28th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") --- ## Election Day – Nairobi, Kenya Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=234 Published: 1992-12-29 Region: Africa, Kenya # Election Day – Nairobi, Kenya Moi declared today a public holiday so there aren’t any Air India flights leaving today, let alone the fact that no one at the airport was answering the phone anyway. We ended up just hanging around the Kumuka compound watching the only Kenyan television station for any election information. We knew we weren’t going to see a map of the country light up red and blue as the results came in, but we wanted any information. No dice. Election results would begin to be announced in the morning. Let’s take a moment to tell you about the Kenyan television station (singular). Kenyan Broadcasting Corp only goes on the air for a few hours in the evening, so for the rest of the twenty four hour period they pipe in CNN International to fill the gap. It was on there that the CNN reporter in Nairobi said, “. . . if President Moi were reelected there are the makings for a civil war.” Wonderful – I went off and tried to call Air India again. The Kumuka guys told us about an Acacia (another safari company) truck coming up to Nairobi from Mombassa a week before the election. It was cruising along when both the driver and courier noticed this large disk shaped thing in the middle of the highway. The driver swerved around it and after a few moments reassessing the situation he asked the courier, who’d been in the British army, if the thing they’d just avoided was a land mine. The courier affirmed the comment and they continued through a police check (where nothing was said) on to Nairobi. Chalk one up for Kenyan politics. December 29th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") --- ## Leaving Africa Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=236 Published: 1992-12-30 Region: Africa, Kenya # Leaving Africa Quote from today’s _The Nation_ “Nairobi – UK awaits election monitors’ reports The Foreign Office said yesterday that it would not make a statement on the outcome of the General Election until it had reports from the British High Commissioner in Nairobi and the Commonwealth observer team. The British High Commission is said to have made plans to evacuate 47,000 UK expatriates in the event of post-election violence.” When I woke up this morning the KBC was giving us the results (very slowly I might add) that Moi was leading so far with some other guy not far behind him. I rang up Air India at 9:30 a.m. and got us placed on the Nairobi to Bombay flight leaving at 1:30 p.m. that afternoon. We would be in Bombay for New Year! Rich and I packed our bags and said goodbye to Jim, Tom and Mike before heading out to catch the matatu into town. I was sort of bummed we wouldn’t get to have our New Year’s party with the people form our safari truck – we had a great group, but there was no reason for us to stay in a country that was as unstable as it was, along with our own government advising us not to enter Kenya. We said our good-byes and caught the minivan into Nairobi city center and with one swift motion we were in a cab headed to the airport no less that two minutes after getting off the matatu. We boarded our plane an hour or so later to find a total of 20 people on an aircraft that was almost as large as a 747! We flew six and a half hours and at 9:30 p.m. local time we’d landed on the next continent (or sub-continent) of our world tour. India. We’d clocked almost 7,200 kilometers on our trip with Kumuka in our big blue 1961 German M.A.N. truck named “Bush Pig” December 30th, 1992 | Category: [Africa,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=10 "Africa") [Kenya](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=8 "Kenya") --- ## Local Pool Tournament Against the Whiteys Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=268 Published: 1993-05-23 Region: Asia, Indonesia # Local Pool Tournament Against the Whiteys We’d tried to leave Brastagi the day before but couldn’t muster the energy, so we’re really leaving today. We were up at 8:30 a.m. because the church next door believed in worshipping the lord very early and very loudly to music. I thought the organist and choir were downstairs in the lobby or our losmen. Put ourselves together and got the 11:30 a.m. (whoops!) bemo to the nearby city of Kabanjahe. Transferred to a bus which we were told was going to the small town of Haranggaol on the northern tip of Lake Toba. After a couple of hours the bus dropped us off in this po-dunk town one block long where we had to transfer to yet another minivan the rest of the way to Haranggaol. Indonesian rubber time wins again, as we had to wait over an hour for there to be enough people to justify leaving for our destination. Off we went and thirty minutes later we crested the top of the crater which forms Lake Toba. Toba’s the largest lake in South East Asia, created from a massive volcanic eruption. A second eruption formed Samosir Island in the middle of the lake, where most of the losmen and towns are. We had spectacular views of the lake during our thirty minute descent – the thing is definitely larger than Lake Tahoe without any problem. Arrived in the small town of Haranggaol and got a room at a hotel on the water. When we arrived at the hotel the reminder of the rooms were being rented out by this family from Medan who were celebrating a birthday on the Lake for the day. They welcomed us and had us sit down at their table to chat. They gave us satay – roasted goat with peanut sauce, tea, and birthday cake. I found out it’s the Batak people’s custom to offer whatever food they’ve got around to anyone who joins them. We chatted with this family for a couple of hours and got invited to their home for dinner if we made it back to Medan. The family headed back to their city and Rich and I wandered through the town. It was getting dark so we had food at one of the locals joints – the best coconut fish curry ever – then wandered down the street in the dark. We wandered by this pool hall with all the teens hanging around outside. One of them called us over and asked if we wanted to play pool. With nothing better to do we accepted and the locals took the cover off the single pool table for us. Two of the local dudes paired up and said they’d play doubles against us. We readily accepted the challenge and played five games against them. Not much goes on in Haranggaol, so when two whiteys are playing the locals at pool, word travels fast. Mothers with children, old men and random people came into the pool hall to watch us play the Indonesians. The room got more and more crowded with each passing game and it got to the point where the crowd would emit noises based on the shot at hand. I remember it was my final shot on the eight ball and the crowd was rooting for us, so when I missed the shot there was an audible groan from some members of the crowd. Our competitors sank a couple of balls then Rich sank our final shot winning us the game. The crowd chatted among themselves while we were raking the balls for the next game, then just as in tennis they became quiet as the pool queue was put into play. At the end of it all Rich and I won 3-2 and when it was time to ante up for the Rs300 games, our competitors said we were to pay for the full five games. We said no, they’d challenged us and we’d pay for the two games we’d lost. The locals were behind us and when we exited I could hear the chattering and muffled laughter of the spectators giving our challengers a hard time about being beaten by the whiteys, and having to pay for the games they lost. \[ad#Google Ad 728 x 90\] May 23rd, 1993 | Category: [Asia,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=3 "Asia") [Indonesia](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=18 "Indonesia") --- ## Haranggaol to Samosir Island, Sumatra Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=270 Published: 1993-05-24 Region: Asia, Indonesia # Haranggaol to Samosir Island, Sumatra Today was market day in Haranggaol and the bi-weekly boat to Samosir Island was going across the lake today when the market was finished. We walked down to the market – once again the only foreigners and the entire marketplace was teeming with people. We made our way through the masses of people – about half of them older Indonesian women with the red betel nut and tobacco chew hanging out of their mouths. People were selling huge volumes of produce, chickens, coy, and fresh meat from the butcher who was chopping up a pig on the spot. We watched a charlatan doctor (complete with a microphone hooked up to a car battery) try to cure a man with a bum leg in front of the crowd of locals who’d gathered. They had this man who used one crutch to walk on drink what looked like a shot of orange juice, then the quack told the man to take a few steps forward. The man hesitated, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it, so noticing the fear on the man’s face the quack doctor had him sit down and take another shot of O.J.. I didn’t wait around for the main event – I felt bad for the man with the crutch. I had the flu so I headed back to the room to sleep for a few hours; this was the second time in seven months I’d been really sick. Slept a while then woke up, grabbed my pack and headed to the door to catch the boat to Samosir. Got to the boat and no matter how loud we yelled and ranted on they wouldn’t give us the local price of Rs1000 across the lake; they screwed us for Rs2500 each – 800 of which goes to the tourist office wench’s pocket. This boat was like a Malawian local bus in that is stopped at each and every person’s house on the mainland side of the lake before actually crossing the thing to Samosir Island. We had some absolutely marvelous views of the lake, the island and surrounding countryside. We saw waterfalls coming down the side of the mountain above the three house village where we were stopping. Took loads of photos of village life on the lake. The boat finally stopped at Shangri-La, our stop, about four hours later and when it docked all it did was stick the bow of the boat into the sand and lower a chicken plank over the water for us to walk across. With my 14 kilo pack on I’d have probably gone into the drink so I went for a flying leap and made it. Shangri-La is about seven kilometres north of the main settlements on the island and consists solely of a restaurant and ten large bungalows. The place is run by a man named Pome who greeted us and ushered us into the restaurant for our complimentary banana shake. He gave us this great welcoming, amps, etc., then took us to our Rs5000 bungalow. The thing was huge – two huge beds with nightstand, two chairs and table below the bay window facing the lake, a full closet, full bathroom and another table the size of a small dining room set with two chairs. Perfect. We vegged out then went to dinner and met some of the other people staying there. We met yet two more Californians, Gayle and Jen (from Davis) who’d been living there for two weeks waiting for their friends. One celebratory beer for making it there then off to bed. \[ad#Google Ad 728 x 90\] May 24th, 1993 | Category: [Asia,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=3 "Asia") [Indonesia](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=18 "Indonesia") --- ## Visiting North Korea Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=272 Published: 2008-06-07 Region: Asia, North Korea # Visiting North Korea **[![](http://www.traveller.org/northkorea/2008/photos/content/bin/images/large/3_430.jpg "Downtown Kaesong, North Korea")](http://www.traveller.org/northkorea/)Seoul to Kaesong, North Korea –** Up at the crack of dawn, being 5:00 am, to meet Megan my Korean-national friend, resident of Seoul, to make the trek across the DMZ to go to the ancient city of Kaesong, North Korea for the day. Kaesong was the old capital of the unified Korean peninsula and only nine months ago did a goodwill accord get established between the North and the South to allow day trips to this historical city commence. Trips are limited to 500 people per day and run on a very strict time schedule with stops negotiaged between both countries with specific restrictions on how the southern foreigners, the “galwei” would be able to view the historical sites and interact with the locals in the North. Got on our bus in downtown Seoul and headed off to the DMZ where there is the South Korean immigration and customs checkpoint about an hour away. The drive up the motorway was intriguing in that when we were still within a few miles of the North Korean border a tall fence with circular rings of barbed wire running the length of the top began to barricade any water approach to the country from the river behind. The fence ran literally for miles with camouflaged watch towers every few hundred yards and sodium lights to be illuminated the moment there was any sort of advance by unwelcome contacts. On this stretch of road to connect to the North the DMZ consists of a South Korean military barricade, seven kilometers of the DMZ no man’s land, then the North Korean military barricade on the other side. About 2km before the South Korean barricade the bus came upon the ECO bridge where there was a military checkpoint which we cleared and started across the bridge, littered with bright yellow and black striped barricades, circular spiked wheels that would put out a car tire, and other one-sided spiked barriers, all pointed toward the North. The bus began the salom through these items and Megan explained that it’s to slow down an advance from the North if it were ever to happen. Once across the bridge we arrived at a brand new steel and glass immigration building (called the INSERT NAME HERE) where we disembarked and went inside to pick up our North Korean immigration documents. We were handed clear plastic pouch to wear around our necks, inside a large colored card outlining the bearers name, nationality, and all personal details along with a full color photo of the visa photo submitted with the application. Megan’s was green since she is a Korean national but mine was bright purple to indicate I am a real non-Korean foreigner making the trek North. Since I’m a dual national I decided to go in on my Irish passport as not to raise any eyebrows since Ireland’s officially netural and would be less-confrontational than a U.S. national heading on in. Back downstairs where we officially exited South Korea and were stamped out of the country on our regular passports, then told to put them away and to always wear our North Korean immigration documents in full view for the duration of the trip until we were back. It was almost like wearing a scarlet letter (or a violet badge in my case). We boarded the buses and drove to the actual South Korean military barrier which looked like a raspberry bramble of barbed wire 12-15ft high with multiple large fences, watch towers and staffed by both South Korean and American military officials as we passed through the black and white retractable barricade the width of the road. Now officially in the DMZ no man’s land the bus cruised along and I was expecting to see a large yellow line painted across the highway demarking the North and the South, but unfortunately no markings were in view. Since all of the commentary from the guide was in Hangul (Korean), Megan explained that the DMZ is marked by short one metre high concrete markers with a yellow painted point at the top. They’re spaced every 200 metres along the actual frontier but they are not visible from the road as not to stoke any tensions between the two countries – both who see the other’s territory as part of their own. As a parallel think of China’s policy toward Taiwan. We came up to yet another steel and glass immigration building which was the official North Korean immigration and customs post – clearly funded by the South as part of the goodwill of allowing these trips. We disembarked and went into our immigration lanes to be admitted, and while the building was brand new the North Koreans wanted to make it have a cultural flavor of their own so before the metal detectors of customs and immigration, in the area where you wait in line, they’d pulled out two large full-length wood framed mirrors and placed them on each side of the hall just in case you needed to check yourself before inspection. Honestly it looked like a mirror my 90 year old grandmother might have had in her house at one time. And, just in case you didn’t know the time there was a matching grandfather clock next to the mirror that chimed on the hour. I’m guessing these came from some official’s house to make the immigration and customs inspection more welcoming. Customs first, so we lined up to pass through the metal detector and have bags x-rayed. I stepped up and as Megan noted my customs inspector was a two star military officer. I locked eyes with him when walking through and he would not break our long stare – I finally shifted my eyes after a few seconds due to the uncomfortable feeling I was getting from him. He was a tough one and let’s say I would’t want to have to spend a bunch of time with him in an interrogation room. He immediately asked me where I was from. “Ireland,” I responded. “Give me your papers,” which I handed over. Another long stare right in my eyes then he made the motion for me to pass and retrieve my bag. My camera which was a larger SLR with a 30-300mm lens had been check back at South Korean customs because lenses longer than 160mm are not permitted in North Korea due to “security reasons”. No camera an really nothing in my bag so I grabbed it and went over to the immigration officer who took my paperwork stamped my entry stamp on my purple card and sent me on my way to the waiting bus outside. Now that we were in North Korea there would be three North Korean “guides” who would board the bus with us and accompany us throughout the day. On the bus our South Korean driver announced over the on-board microphone to please applaude when the North Korean guides arrived to “make them feel welcome”. They boarded, and on a bus where I was the only “galwei” they all clapped as instructed when the three arrived. Two sat up front and one sat in the back to monitor us and insure we didn’t take any photos out the windows while the bus was moving. Since the North Koreans allow only 500 people a day they manage it tightly by chartering thirteen busses and move the entire group as a unit so no one gets lost (or no one gets into one of the luggage compartments to go South). When we departed, we departed as a convoy. First was the black 4×4 with four military officers inside, then a second military vehicle, our thirteen tourist busses, then a second black 4×4 bringing up the rear. Our destination was the INSERT NAME waterfall INSERT DISTANCE from the immigration post, which would take us about an hour to get to. Once on the bus one of the communist North Korean “guides” took control of the microphone and started telling us about the virtues of the North and the major accomplishments and landmarks along the journey. We would need to pass on a road high above the city of Kaesong (not a small place) where we’d be visiting later, and what I found interesting is that since I couldn’t understand Hangul I had a very different perspective than Megan who could understand our Northern guide’s commentary. At one point we were coming up to a turn in the road where a tall building stood, a view of the city of Kaesong below in the valley clearly visible past the turn. On the left was a grassy field with a small hill where a large antenna was mounted, but not particularly interesting. Clearly our guide had gone through ‘Communism 101′ tour guide training, because at the point where the bus would have a very clear view of the city and a children’s school nearby he got on the microphone and said something to the effect of, “If you look to the left you will see the largest radio transmission tower in the southern part of our country.” Immediately all Korean eyes looked to the left, away from the city view at the antenna, but I couldn’t understand him so I looked to the right and was looking right down with a clear view of the city, the broken tile roofs of the houses, the children playing in the school across the road, all dressed in identical school uniforms, playing on rusty playground equipment, the only spectator of this view. This diversion tactic happened three different times, and I mentioned it to Megan so she became aware of what the communists were, in what we believe, was an attempt to shield us from seeing certain windows into local Kaesong life. Megan’s really mentally sharp and the two of us began to analyze every action our commie “guides” did from that point forward. Good thing it was first thing in the morning when we talked about this because she picked up on something very intriguing later that day. Our guide prattled on for the entire hour en route to the waterfall (thankfully I couldn’t understand anything, let alone the North Korean folk song he decided to sing for the bus), but what was strange outside was the appearance of a North Korean soldier standing in the middle of a field or on a path every couple of miles. It was almost as if the military had been alerted to our bus route and they were there to make sure we were passing our checkpoints to our destination. What I noticed later, after seeing a solder standing on a dirt track in the middle of a wheat field, was that they were only stationed at any access points that directly connected a village or housing development to the highway. If there were paths running under the elevated road in places you would see locals riding their bicycles or walking, but if the path or road connected to the highway there was always a solitary soldier standing watching the road. It was almost as if they were keeping the people in to insure no contact with the foreigners’ busses versus insuring we didn’t stop to interact with anyone. We also got to see large concrete slabs in the middle of agricultural fields with murals of Kim Jong Il standing amid a bountiful harvest to incent those living nearby that “our great leader” will provide spiritual guideance for you (even if your crops fail). We finally arrived at the parking lot for the waterfalls which consisted of a small wooden building, a “shop” (free use of the word), with the entire inventory of the snacks for sale on display on the single shelf attached to the outside of the building. We figured that if it wasn’t outside it wasn’t in stock any more. It was almost comical how the workers went running behind the building when the busses arrived to find that single power plug to connect the CD player to blare Korean pop songs at high volume into the parking lot. Half of the tour of 500 had passed the shop by the time they got the music going – I could almost see them running out back to scream to the one sleeping electrician, “Turn on the power – the galwei are here!” We bought an instant coffee and discovered the pricing system of “one dollar” as the base price for everything in the country. The waterfalls are set in a lush forested setting with hills and a concrete path and staircases cutting through the foliage. The waterfall was nice great setting with a lagoon, and there were a couple of small temples higher up above the falls that we visited. Each of the stone markers describing the falls or the temples were engraved in Hangul and after reading the third one Megan giggled when I asked her what it said because each started out with the same words of, “Our dear great and beloved leader . . .” After our temple visit we were sitting near the falls on a bench by ourselves when one of the North Korean male guides came over and asked if we were a couple. Megan responded we weren’t but ex-work colleagues, then tried to politely finish the conversation with him. Since we were off away from the other tourists the guide now had the opportunity to talk to Westerners so he continued to ask questions of Megan across a variety of topics from if the new Windows Vista really had a bunch of bugs to who won the latest “INSERT WORD” Korean chess tournament. Megan was actually pretty surprised that he was aware of many of the items he had questions about which indicated information is getting into the country, more, it appears than we were led to believe. One topic of particular interest was the fact that I was from Ireland. He asked about me, where Ireland was specifically, then asked about whether British English was better than American English since American English mangled the use of proper grammar. (Megan to verify if I got the concept correct on this.) Megan just explained that they’re both the same language with a differential of word usage between the two. It was time to head down to the busses and in the parking lot there were a good couple hundred people of the 500 on our tour all sitting around and waiting for the call to board the busses. Megan and I were speaking in English to each other when another of the North Korean guides came over and asked Megan if I was realy from Ireland. It must have been strange to them to see a South Korean woman together with a Western galwei, the two of us speaking English together. Megan joked I was probably on the communist watch list since we were getting so many questions from the different guides, and clearly they were talking about this among themselves because another two times with different guides did my nationality come up – in one case where the question was worded, “You are from Ireland, right?” Headed away from the falls and back through the country to the city proper of Kaseong, passing the lone military guards standing in the fields watching our convoy go past. Arrived in town and were taken a circuituous route to our lunch destination in a building on the corner of an intersection where five major four-lane roads converged, a lone traffic guard standing in the middle. What immediately struck me was that there were no cars – anywhere – coming or going through this town of 300,000 residents. The odd bicycle, a handful of men and women crossing the main street on foot a couple of blocks down, but literally no traffic of any kind. Honestly it was like one of those post apocalyptic horror films where something happened and there are no longer residents of this once largely populated city. Our guide pointed out the three things were were allowed to take pictures of: the crappy concrete building the lunch restaurant was being held in, the large bronze statue of Kim Jong Il at the top of the hill at the end of the road above us (but we weren’t allowed to walk up there), and the stone spire across the street, a monument to one of the Kim Jong wives, but crossing the street was not permitted, nor was going any farther than the corner outside the restaurant and down the block about 25 metres. On the diagonal corner the construction site with the crane and the big pile of dirt on the sidewalk was forbidden to be photographed. Whatever. Inside for lunch which consisted of twelve small gold bowls, each with a different item. Korean food generally isn’t my thing since you can never really identify the food in the first place, and this particular spread was questionable at best. The entire meal was a facade the government put on for us to show us that there’s no food crisis in their country. We had a chicken soup, a bowl of some kind of spiced meat, another of fish, various vegetable dishes, a sticky rice dessert with fruit, and alcohol you could have stripped the paint off your house with – all items that none of the local women serving the food could possibly afford. Megan also ordered this local cold noodle dish which looked a bit like purple dishwater with glass noodles, all for the outrageous price of only two US dollars. Ate pretty much nothing but a bowl of warm rice then headed to the “gift shop” at the entrance to the building. I was hoping for communist propaganda items, but this shop only held organic goods from the region, dried vegetables and the like, and three or four bottles of local spirits. The shop looked well stocked, had items in glass cases as well as along all of the walls, but as I browsed I realized that the bottles on one side of the shop were the same kind as the ones at the entry. Ditto for the vegetables and honey across the way as well. Looks like they had a very limited selection and just put more and more out to give the appearance of a stocked store. Headed outside to take some photos before the communists ushered us into the bus again so Megan and I walked out and were able to walk into the middle of the four lane main thoroughfare outside. The North Korean minders had created a cordon standing spaced apart down the middle of the road which was the farthest we were permitted to walk. Stood in the street without fear of traffic since there wasn’t any and took photos of each other with the Kim Il Jong statue in the background and the empty intersection down the hill from us (construction site, crane, and all). The lone traffic cop was still standing in the empty intersection when a blue colored local bus, absolutely packed to the rafters with locals, turned onto the road a few blocks up, headed our direction. The bus hit the intersection and the cop got to do his duty and direct it off to the right, away from the Westerners and down the road we weren’t allowed to visit. We walked down the block to the corner where another group of the North Korean guides had placed themselves to keep us from going any farther where we looked around the back of the restaurant to see a sad looking creek flowing with small pedestrial bridges crossing over about 30 yards down. There were people walking across, a couple of men on bikes, so I took a photo of the bridges with the people while pretending to be taking a photo of the ugly restaurant building. When we were driving in I noticed a nice looking temple visible just steps from the corner of the block, but it was invisible unless you stepped into the gutter. I mentioned to Megan that we should ask if we can take a photo of the temple, moreso so we could get a good look down the long wide boulevard just beyond where the temple sat. She walked over to the communists and asked if we could step off the block to take a quick photo. “No,” came the response. Megan’s a very independent woman so she stepped off the sidewalk into the street and moved toward the guide and asked again. “No, No.” She pushed it to no avail and came back over to meet me and we headed back up the hill towards the busses. Megan turned to me and laughed a little as she said “There’s really nothing to take photos of” as we passed the stone monument to the dictator’s wife, a sad looking department store sitting behind it, closed, with no more than three children’s shirts in one of the multiple display windows, the rest empty for lack of product. By now the entire tour had finished eating and there were now five hundred people standing in the middle of the street taking photos and milling about, the walkie-talkie toting guides calling to those stragglers who crossed the invisible barrier keeping us from interacting with anyone from their country. We were called to board the bus and we drove down the street a bit, one we’d come up prevoiusly, while out the window there were a handful of men and women walking without a glance at the passing bus convoy. The children would look and wave at the busses but nary a look from the adults at all. A short while later we pulled up outside a temple and a historical stone bridge and were told we had thirty minutes to look at both. Everything on the tour was precisely timed and literally when it was time to go they got all of these people back on their transport and moving along in under five minutes – they meant business. The temple was simple and it took no more than five minutes to visit. The stone bridge was constructed in approximately 600 A.D. and has special significance to Megan since one of her ancestors from the Koryo dynasty stood up against the conquering Chosun dynasty and was killed on the bridge for standing up for what he believed in. This story is now a folk tale still told today, with variations depending on if the storyteller has allegiance to one dynasty or the other. That took another five minutes so we walked through the adjoining garden back to the long wall running the length of the garden and nearby road. There was a small staircase cut into the wall which if we climbed would allow a view of the people walking and biking on the path just across the creek behind. We were close to mounting the first step but one of those pesky communist guides standing next to a nearby tree did what he was told to do and forbade us from having a look. Our attempt was more another poke at them, just to see what they’d do since we both knew we weren’t supposed to climb to the top of the wall. Back on the bus to the next stop at the Kaesong Institute which was a INSERT WHAT, but the bus journey was only about 150 yards from the stone bridge we’d just visited. By walking the galwei might come in contact with someone so the bus was necessary. The institute is basically another small, simple-looking temple complex of about three buildings set back from the street behind what looked like an auditorium of some kind. We had to walk around this auditorium to get to the temple and as we were walking Megan noticed the glass in the building didn’t look quite right. “It’s shiny,” she said. I then picked up on the fact that in the doors and tall windows, no more than six feet high, there were one or two horizontal lines across the glass panes on each panel. We worked out that the shine Megan spotted was because the glass wasn’t actually flat but imperfect and bumpy with bubbles in the glass, clear so you cound see through, but the waves from the uneven surface in the pane creating the gleam she saw. The lines I noticed on the larger glass panels were where the North Koreans had placed two pieces of glass together in the frame because they couldn’t produce a single pane six feet high by two feet wide. The temple visit took ten minutes so we had twenty minutes to kill before the last stop of the day. We went out in front of the auditorium building which was on another of the main four-lane roads, devoid of cars as usual, and stood at the edge of the sidewalk. I looked to the left and spotted one of our military escort guards about two hundred yards away telling the pedestrians that passage was blocked until the foreigners leave. Their option was to go back to the corner and cross the street to pass on the other side. Our North Korean guides had established their cordon in the gutter and another military guard was down to the right completing our military barricade to keep us in. Straight across the street no more than ten yards away there were now a fair number of people walking to and fro passing by the growing number of Westerners lining the edge of the sidewalk. Since the institute didn’t take that long to visit more and more of my fellow tourists were just standing there in silence watching the people pass across in front of us. None of the North Korean locals turned to look at us, some barely glanced. It was almost as if they were wearing invisible horse blinders created by the fear of reprisals from their local communist party officials if they stopped and had a good hard look at us. We had eight military officers with us, four in the lead convoy car and four in the rear, and one of them walked past us talking into a walkie talkie when we were standing watching the locals. It was one of those walkie talkies we used to have as children in the 70’s with the large black plastic rectangular shape that holds two ‘D’ size batteries and the long silver telescopic antenna. Usually broke after three weeks of pretending to be an army ranger. This is the 2008 North Korean military issue walkie talkie I’m talking about and it looked exactly the same. One final stop ahead of us, no less than three hundred yards by bus from the last stop, which was the old Kaesong University site with adjacent stamp museum. This stop was actually pretty interesting and we immediately headed to the stamp museum which doubled as a stamp shop to have a look. I skipped the museum part and started looking at the single rack of propaganda postcards, exactly what I’d been looking for throughout the day. Cost for a postcard printed on what felt like parchment paper was USD 0.30 each, and the stamp depicting Kim Jong Il shaking hands with his dead father in some twisted power transition illustration was a cool two dollars. Ouch. The site of the old Kaesong University was actually beautiful. We passed through a large wooden gate set in a tall whitewashed wall into an enormous courtyard shaded by two trees that were more than a thousand years old. As with most temple complexes there’s a series of gates \[ad\] June 7th, 2008 | Category: [Asia,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=3 "Asia") [North Korea](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=19 "North Korea") --- ## Istanbul to London Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=349 Published: 1995-10-21 # Istanbul to London There I was standing in the middle of the Istanbul airport actually getting the smallest degree of pleasure from having just been transformed from a regular traveler to someone who was totally destitute – destitute as someone can be with a Chap Stick, an Istanbul city bus ticket and 90,000 lira (90c) in his pocket.  Thirty seconds before, one of my bags containing my Irish passport, plane ticket from London to the States, all my money and credit cards had been stolen from one of the airport x-ray machines leaving me with my U.S. passport and a plane ticket for a flight to London, leaving in 30 minutes, that I still hadn’t checked in for.  Good thing I pulled those two items out of my bag before sending it through the not so secure security checkpoint entering the airport.  Why is it every time there’s a massive crowd of people the ringleaders of the establishment (be it a stadium, passenger train or airport) always seem to make it as difficult and inefficient as possible.  The Istanbul airport was no exception. I’d been in Istanbul for the past week enjoying my time in this city that straddles Europe and Asia.  The city is totally beautiful and very Western so I was at ease travelling around – the best parts of the trip were my journeys by bus up the Bosphorus to the suburbs.  It looked like the south of France or the Italian riveria with the cobblestoned streets lined with cafes facing the water.  There were small harbours where the locals docked their sailboats after a jaunt up to the Black Sea.  This was not what I’d expected from Istanbul at all.  This morning I boarded my bus to the airport and arrived there at seven thirty thinking I’d have pleanty of time for my 9:15 flight.  If I’d looked at my ticket I would have noticed the 9:15 flight was coming to Isatnbul not leaving – my flight was departing in one hour at 8:30 a.m.  There were masses of people trying to enter the airport but ALL travellers must have their bags x-rayed and pass through a metal detector before checking in for their flights.  I was a little nervous that I wouldn’t make my flight but I had an hour so I joined the rugby scrum to make my way towards the x-ray machines.  There were families of ten moving around like small gangs making it increasingly difficult for me to make any decent progress.  I had my large backpack and my daypack that held my camera, journal of the trip and all other important items, this daypack which rarely left my hands. I made it to the metal detector, threw my large pack through then stepped up to the detector, ready to literally throw my daypack onto the x-ray machine, walk through and retrieve the daypack on the other side before anyone could get to it.  The luggage was pouring out of the machine on the other side into a huge pile that everyone was crowded around like they were giving away free money.  I stepped up to the metal detector and the policeman patted me down and found my leather waist pouch.  “X-ray”, he said pointing to the machine.  “No.” was my response an I opened up my pouch and showed him there was nothing more dangerous than an Irish passport, et al inside.  “X-ray.”  “NO.”  “X-ray”  was the third response I received – this man wasn’t going to let me into the airport unless I conceded to put my leather waist pouch through the machine.  I now had 35 minutes to try to make my flight so in the interest of time I took off the waist pouch put it inside my daypack and put the daypack on the x-ray machine. When I turned around to go through the detector one of those roaming families with eight members had moved in and were now crowding around the metal detector, giving me looks like there was no chance I was going to to get through until they were done.  It took more than a few minutes for them to clear the security checkpoint, mainly due to the approximately 70 bangles each of the women was wearing on their arms.  The sheer volume of silver kept setting the machine off and when instructed how to walk through the machine so it wouldn’t beep they never seem to get it right until the fifteenth try.  I finally stepped through the machine and joined the crowd to retrieve my luggage where I immediately \[ad#Google Ad 728 x 90\] October 21st, 1995 | Category: [Turkey](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=20 "Turkey") --- ## Two Mice, A Bird and a Thai Vagina Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=352 Published: 1997-10-17 Region: Asia, Thailand # Two Mice, A Bird and a Thai Vagina **Phuket****, Thailand** **–** HK-BKK flight attendant hit on me shamelessly, and asked me for coffee up in business class. Arrive in BKK after 16 hours 45min of flying and needed a drink immediately. Ashley met me at the door and asked me if I’d like a bottle of champagne. Day 2 – BKK – Chartered a boat through the canals of Bkk. Met a Doctor who said there’d be fireworks at this temple that night. Rest in hotel and watched most amazing thunderstorm with lightnnig appearing to hit the tops of the buildings in BKK. THat night we looked for the temple, but it turned out to be a funeral (or we’d gotten the wrong temple) so we got a tuk tuk to drive us to – somewhere – where we had a chinese dinner then got a cab to Patpong. Went to bars on our “cultural training” mission to see the hookers, pea shooter, ping pong balls (in training as she kept fucking it up), razorblades, then Ashley had had enough. Ash and I made it to Phuket and had to hide behind the forex booth for all the Sybase people to leave so we could rent a jeep. Drove across the island to the Sheraton, but it took us a few hours as we kept getting lost and we’d stop in these markets to have a wander. Found this woman who made the best home made spring rolls. Made it to the Sheraton which was too damned expensive (given that the Bhat had fallen and the room was still expensive). We headed off to Phuket City where the conference was taking place wher Ash negotiated us an executive suite for 6000 – 40% off. We were led up to the 18th floor where they turned on the hall lights (as there was obviously no other guests on this floor) and opened up the floor for us for the week. We wandered Phuket the first night and Ash saw an elephant walking down the street, but couldn’t seem to get a ride on it. We bought Buddah masks for 1000 and we so didn’t care about buying them that the seller kept dropping the price until she hit the one we’d been saying the entire time. Back to the hotel and Ashley ordered the first of what was to be many $50 bottle of champagne. Monday I worked in the room, and made it over to the Sybase User group later in the afternoon – walking the 10 minutes on a dirt road past the banana trees wearing my linen pants and vest. There was a Sybase event that night but we took the jeep instead of the bus for independence sake. After dinner exit and walked down to beach of this private resort we were staying in. Ash and Barbara Burmaster walk away in the dark and a few minuted later we hear them swimming around in the ocean. I kew Ashley wasn’t about to swim in her silk suit, so I wandered down the beach with Pete DeGraff, took all my clothes off and went for a swim too. Pete followed, along with Darryl McKinnon and Harnaum followed. Security guard with lighter calls out of water and holds in front of Ashley’s naked chest showing her a piece of paper. She stare him down and ask what he’s on about. We were sopping wet and driping our way through the lobby when see the exec of Asia who’d been keeping us out – all run downstairs to the local Grease cabaret they had on. Drove to Patong Beach to drink which is three streets wall to wall bars. Drink Drink Drink. When one of the touts outside a sex show had a card that read “pussy open bottle” Pussy smoke, live bird. Darryl asked and the bird show was on next. Ash convinced Barbara to come inside and off they skipped arm and arm into the club. Seats at barstools right on stage. Woman comes out on stage with a wire cage (presumably to catch the bird) and she faced us, reached up and pulled napkin out and immediately two little white mouse heads peered out of her vagina. I almost fell off my stool backwards laughing as she pulled them out and put them in the cage. She danced around a bit then wiggled her hips like something was stuck up there and ended up sticking her finger in her vagina to dislodge something that popped out and hit the stage. It was a canary all wet from being inside her uterus. She quickly grabbed it and added it to the cage with the mice then ran off the stage. – Pete and Ashley go across island for the afternoon – forget credit cards – I get credit card, book jeep across island and have lunch, then huge rainstorm. – Drove home stopping for beer along the way and climbed up a waterfall in the dark barefooted as not to slip off the trail – Stopped in pharmacies to buy something – not sure what it was but it was in the book – Back to hotel snort half of them and took the rest with a bottle of champagne. – Walked around while kicked in then ashley not feeling so she drove pete and I across island to bars. As we pulled up outside the bars ashley turned to Pete and said “Futh Thanns ks nnaaa.” “Stop the car! Pull over the car right now!!!” Luckily right outside bars. \[ad#Google Ad 728 x 90\] October 17th, 1997 | Category: [Asia,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=3 "Asia") [Thailand](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=21 "Thailand") --- ## Finding a Hotel Before Dawn in Pushkar Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=395 Published: 1993-03-04 # Finding a Hotel Before Dawn in Pushkar **[![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india213.jpg "Puskar")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Pushkar, Rajasthan, India –** Our bus pulled into Ajmer station, Pushkar’s sister city at 3:15 a.m., so we piled out and hung around the station until 4:30 a.m., the departure time for the first bus to Pushkar. They announced which bus was going to Pushkar and literally everyone on the station headed for it. Nothing like an early morning workout battling the Indians for a seat on the bus. Arrived in Pushkar at 5:15 a.m. and after walking through the dark streets, we got a room at the Sunrise Hotel just down the road from the chai shop in post office. We rested while the sun came up and I chatted to the guy who owns the hotel. The dude is 20 and he and his father and mother lived in the room below, a real family establishment and the nicest people. Pushkar is a Brahman village, which sits on this small lake. It is water, which is considered holy. Because it is Brahman, no brews, drugs, which are legal in parts of India or eggs are allowed in the city. Brews and drugs I can understand, but eggs. It makes the cakes the y serve all over town, a touch dry. They use banana instead. Pushkar is also known for its shopping. Nikki showed us some amazing stuff she brought when she was there. Once the sun was up and we were not as delirious as we were when we arrived, we went for a walk through the main bazaar. There were cows and people on bicycles everywhere in addition to tons of embroidered bed spread bags etc to purchase. As we were walking, this man gave us some flowers to throw into the holy waters of the lake to help our Karma. Of course a Rs.10 donation was asked for which Rs. 1 was received. We wondered through the bazaar to the Brahmin temple, the only one in India, but were less than impressed with it as it was really run down in addition to the fact, I was still having Ranakpur flashbacks. We had walked through the city for a few hours and during our return walk to the hotel to escape the heat of the day, we bumped into Neil, the British man from our hell bus ride from Himatnagar to Udaipur. Funny, how you meet these people here and there as you are travelling. Made it back to the hotel, where I chatted with Jassa, the hotel owner’s 20-year-old son for a while. This family was so nice and they really went out of their way to make your stay as pleasant as possible. We rested in the afternoon and ventured out in the early evening for the first and only, all you can eat dinner we had found in India. The restaurant owners really know how to make some money. Met Neil at dinner and once we were all finished, went to a lakeside café to drink tea and watch the sunset over Pushkar. Pushkar is a total hippie city. Rich and I said numerous things to each other that we both felt like we were back in Berkeley. Only a degree or two stronger, the hippie parents with their children, Jasmine and Moonbeam were definitely all over the city and we even saw Karen, the drug addict, we had met in Udaipur walking down the street. When I spotted her, I went running to Rich telling him to try not to draw attention to himself as she passed. March 4th, 1993 | Category: [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Drinking Cow Pee, Then Off to Agra Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=400 Published: 1993-03-06 # Drinking Cow Pee, Then Off to Agra **5th March 1993, Pushkar, India –** As there is not a lot to do in Pushkar, but go shopping, that is exactly what I did all the day. When you go into the shops, the merchant requested to take off your shoes before entering. As I had my hiking boots on the day previous, I did not get a chance to go into any shops, so today was the day. Rich and I made our way through the bazaar with me entering every single shop to look at these really, nicely, embroidered bags to give away as gifts. After three hours of our shopping, I returned to the hotel with two embroidered back pack sized bags, Rs. 40 each, 3 embroidered passport-size purses, one at Rs. 10 and two at Rs. 15. We sat around the hotel during the heat and ventured out that evening for another buffet dinner and to shop for used books. **6thMarch 1993 Pushkar –** For lack of something better to today, we went shopping again, and I bought a waistcoat for Rs. 55. Now I could not wear it without a white button down shirt. So I bought material to have a shirt made as well. Now as the holy festival was in the two days’ time, the celebration where they throw paint everywhere and whatever clothes I wore that day, were going to be ruined. I decided to buy yet more white material and have a shirt made to wear on Holi. On route to the tailor, I saw this local walk up to a white cow, that happened to be urinating, cup his hands under the stream and then drank it. White cows are pure, clean and revered. I had never seen anything like that before and I had a hard time keeping the glass of tea, I just consumed at the _chai_ stall down in my stomach. Later that evening, Rich and I packed our bags and where saying good bye to the family and their hotel when the son Sisha came up onto the sun deck we were standing on and handed his father some strings of flowers. The father then draped the flowers around the Rich and my neck thanking us and wishing us a good journey. They were the nicest people and deserved to have their hotel publicized to have some extra income. We left and went to the bus stop to wait for the overnight bus to Agra. Why we keep taking this hell overnight buses? I will never know, but we really do want to get out of India. March 6th, 1993 | Category: [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Seeing the Taj Mahal For the First Time Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=404 Published: 1993-03-07 # Seeing the Taj Mahal For the First Time **[![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india217.jpg "Shanti Lodge Roof")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India –** Arrived in Agra at 8.15 a.m. and got a rickshaw over to the Shanti Lodge. This is a great hotel, not a two-minute walk from the Taj’s east gate, perfect. We arrived there and instead of running straight to the roof, they have got the most amazing, unobstructed view of the main gate and the Taj from the sun deck. I waited in the lobby. I had wanted to see the Taj ever since I was about 10 years old and now that I was really there, I did not want to see it until I was standing right in front of it. Rich went straight to the roof while I ordered breakfast for two of us. He returned and after looking at the menu, Rich noticed they served “special bhang lassies.” We had been in India long enough to know that special means bhang, so we each ordered one to go along with breakfast plus it would not hurt our first viewing of the Taj Mahal. 8.45 a.m. done with breakfast and our bhang lassies, so we headed over to the Taj. I did not look up at the building and actually closed my eyes part of the way, until Rich had me standing directly in front of this most amazing building. I had seen hundreds of photos of this building but absolutely none of them, even the national geographic photographers do this place justice, so beautiful, and so perfect plus the morning we were there, there were not a lot of people, so it was people. Both Rich and I just sat down and stared in ooh! at the Taj. Amazed by the fact that such a beautiful building was built solely as a memorial for the Taj’s wife. We must have gazed at it for an hour then we walked up to it to take a look inside. The closer you got to the building, the more imposing and more beautiful it became. Every aspect of the building is perfect – the inlay work, the stones, and the minarets, everything. We took off our shoes and ascended the steps up onto the marble dais, the Taj sits on. It was so relaxing, walking around _sans_ shoes so peaceful. We entered the building and were met by a self-appointed guide – his self-appointment, not ours – who showed us around the inside. The inside dome is similar to our US capitol building dome in sheer size and the acoustical effects are astounding. The Taj was constructed with perfect echo resonance a trade our guide was not shy to demonstrate to us. He took us to the center and showed us the marble tombs, one for the wife and one for the Taj and with his flashlight, he showed us how translucent the marble and inlay work was. The inlay work consists of precious and semi-precious stones brought in from all over the world, Malachite from Africa, Onyx this solid blue stone, diamonds, since been removed, red and orange stones. The guide placed his flashlight directly onto the inlay work as he moved it across the design, this one of flower. Each pedal of the flower lit up as light moved across, so amazing. Our guide had a stand behind the wife’s tomb and look out the main door – the structure was constructed so everything was perfectly symmetrical in every aspect. So from where I was standing, I could look over the tomb out the door over the fountains in front of the Taj and actually see through the doors of the main gaits, a 100 yards away, one again flawless. We walked around the building a few times, awed by its beauty. Then we moved back down to the fountains and sat admiring it for a few hours. We were definitely banged from our bhang lassie, so after a few hours, we decided to leave and go back to the hotel. Too bad, neither one of us had bothered to take note as to where the hotel was, so we missed the turn and ended up walking down the back streets of Agra. The roads were cobblestoned and as we walked pass residential houses, the children came running out saying hello to us. Past the houses and down the road to see the locals using man-sized scales to weigh out huge bags of rice. Pigs, goats, cows, children running passed us, everyone casting us, questioning and glances as to how we ended up this far into the back streets of Agra. Every preconceived notion I had about the third world was proven true during this enlightening walk. Of course, we were banged, so were getting more and more lost, so we found a rickshaw and paid Rs. 3 to get back to our hotel. The first agreed price was Rs. 5, but he drove us no less than 100 meters so I renegotiated him down to Rs. 3 upon arrival. Up to the hotel roof to admire the view of the Taj and sit in the sun. At about 2 p.m. the full effects of lassie overtook me and I had to go to sleep, slept until 9 p.m., up for dinner then back to sleep. The Holi festival was the next day, so I needed my rest for the celebration. March 7th, 1993 | Category: [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Fatehpur Sikri & the Collect Phone Call Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=407 Published: 1993-03-09 # Fatehpur Sikri & the Collect Phone Call **[![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india248.jpg "Fatehpur Sikri")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India –** 6 a.m. this morning, there was a knock at the door, it was Emmy, the girl from Santa Cruz, we have met the evening before, waking me up to see the Taj at sunrise. I got up, Rich could not make it and walked over to the Taj gait at 6.30 a.m. where I found Emmy and her buddy Tina from Santa Barbara waiting to go inside. We went in and saw the Taj surrounded in mist, more mysterious looking then ever. The best part about our early arrival is that we have beaten the tour buses there, so we could take pictures of ourselves in front of this beautiful building with no one around. Back to the hotel to get food and Rich, before the four of us headed to the bus station to go to Fatehpur Sikri, the abandoned city, not too far from Agra. An hour later, we arrived in this little town and made the hike up the hill to the city and listed a guide to take us around and he took us through the massive city gait, the largest one in the world, into the main courtyard. Not much to the city, everyone left there because there is not any water anywhere near here. There was a cemetery and a beautifully carved white tomb, I forget who is buried there, but not much more. The tomb definitely had the most intricate lattice work I have seen anywhere in India. We wandered around the city and the smaller one behind it before tiring of it and heading down to the town to have a look around. We walked about 200 yards down the main market street, but there were so many flies flying everywhere. It made a rather unpleasant experience. I was just waiting for one to fly up my nose or down my throat. 10 minutes later, we made a bee line for the bus station ready to endure the one-and –a half hour ride back to Agra on the local bus. Emmy and Tina were leaving that evening and as Emmy was flying back to San Francisco in 10 days, she came down to our room and offered to take a bag of our stuff back to California for us. It was like a God send, someone willing to take all the crap we had brought back home for us plus we knew it would get there. Rich took his camel leather bag and the two of us opened our packs and proceeded to fill the thing perfect, off load all our stuff. A short while later, Rich went downstairs to dial AT&T direct and make a collect call to the states, when he was done, the meter read Rs. 1 and the Indians thought he made a direct dial call, so they told him the bill was Rs. 1,700. They could not for the life of them understands the concept of a collect call and that they would not be charged for the call. Rich blew his top and when I came down, he was about ready to kill the Indians. I took over and started being the diplomat, but two hours later, we had resolved nothing. Rich had long gone to bed except we have managed to get across the concept of collect calls. I ended the negotiations, round I, by telling the Indians that Rich and I would get a letter from the head telecom office in Agra stating the hotel would not be charged. When I retired upstairs, Rich and I talked for a while and we figured out that the Indians absolutely do not have the same logical thinking process that every other country has. Western minds including Nepalese think of problem through from A to B. The Indian mind goes to A to B, but they come from a completely different direction, say C and no western mind can ever be enlightened enough to ever come close to understanding C. They have such a different logical thinking process and they do eventually reach B via C. It just takes them a lot longer. Their cognitive setup is not the same and even as I write this in Nepal, I am convinced it is an isolated problem in the Indian societies thinking. The Nepalese are all western-minded and I cannot understand how some of their logic cannot cross over the border. March 9th, 1993 | Category: [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Holi – The Colorful Indian Holiday Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=410 Published: 1993-03-08 # Holi – The Colorful Indian Holiday **[![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india218.jpg "Holi")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Agra, the Holi festival, Uttar Pradesh, India –** Woke up at 5 a.m. this morning due to the Holi festival music that has been playing at a deafening volume all night long. I got up at 7:30, put on my white shirt I had made for today’s Holi festival and headed out to check out the Taj by morning sunlight. The Holi festival is a festival held honoring the end of winter and everyone gets into it from about 8:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. everyone runs around splashing brightly colored paints all over everything and everyone and this blonde sahib wearing an unblemished white shirt is the best target around. I left Rich sleeping and headed down the stairs to go to the to the Taj but the doors to the hotel were locked. The hotelier said I should not go outside and when I questioned him, he said, he could not be responsible for anything that happens to me if I left the hotel before 2 o’ clock. I told him it was okay and at that I was let out of side door of the hotel on to the street. The doors to the hotel would stay locked until the festival was over. I walked down to the Taj but because it was so early, people were not celebrating quite yet. The Taj Mahal looked like an entirely different building in the morning sunshine, still as amazing and powerful as ever. I stayed there admiring the beauty of the building for an hour or so before heading back to the hotel to see if Rich was awake and Rich had just gotten up and I gave him the report that the kids outside were armed with spray guns, water bottles, and water balloons, full of paint already. At that we left all passports etc. behind and headed downstairs for a quick breakfast before joining the chaos downstairs. While we were getting ready, one of the guys who worked here in the hotel with a face painted bright purple already started talking to us and we he found that we wanted to go and join the Holi celebration, he took us back into our bathroom and doused us with a bottle of bright purple paint he already mixed. Cool. We were now marked as participants, so everyone could now attack us with paint now that they knew we wanted to play. We left the hotel at 9 a.m. with a Sardar and he let us with the back streets towards his house. These back streets were places we would not have seen without our friend, true local culture and the real Holi celebration. The entire city was celebrating. Most people with various shades of purple, some people would throw colors on you while others squirted us with water pistols filled with paint. What most people did though was take up pinch of colored paint powder out of their pocket and rub it on your forehead followed by three to four hugs, one on each side like a European kiss. This process also ensured any wet paint you had on yourself was smeared on the chest of the person you were hugging. _Dhanyawad_ and a hand shake and then we would move on. I cannot tell you how many people put bright paint on my forehead but once again we were a showpiece. Other times, we would walk into a small crowd of people and an entire bucket of paint would be poured on the whole lot of us. All of these things going on amid music played all over the city over huge loudspeakers. We arrived at Sardar’s house where we sat and met his friends and family. We had to stand in the courtyard, so his mother could douse the three of us with blue paint from her porch up on the roof. We sat around and sardar brought a bottle of whisky out which only went around the small circle of people once. They were drinking the stuff like water. After a small snack, we moved outside his house and met some neighbors, then another bottle of whisky appeared. This one went down faster than the last one. While we were sitting, children and even super old ladies in their sarees came up to us and put paint on our foreheads. We started walking through the narrow streets again and there was paint everywhere. The gutters were all colored purple from the sheer amount of paint coating all the streets and all in them. We came across a group of people dancing, so we had our obligatory dance where the locals got so excited, we were dancing. They started clapping and dancing around us. After the dance, every single person wanted to give us the requisite three hugs but Sardar warded them off of us via his native tongue. It was definitely a good idea having someone who spoke Hindi with us. He went to another friend of Sardar’s house but this gathering looked more formal. It was held in the house’s courtyard and there were many elderly gentleman putting dry paint on each other’s forehead. We were brought in, sat down, and after the paint on the forehead, a tray of cigarettes and bidis were passed around. _Chai_ and snacks offered and politely declined. It was wild. We left the formal party and went splashing colors on people and danced in the streets. Some people would take the paint powder, mix it with a little water in their hands, then run up to smearing their color of choice all over your face. The tricky players in Holi seem to be the wives, all dressed up in their sarees standing on the balconies over the street. They would stand there poised with a basket of paint, throwing it down on the people below. The only thing is you could not get them back due to their strategic position. After another hour of walking, visiting Sardar’s friends and dancing in the streets, Rich and I were getting really tired, so we left sardar and head it back to the hotel, covered head to foot in assorted colors. When we arrived back at the hotel around 11:30 and when we went to the roof, the other travelers in the hotel were pretty surprised we had gone out and braved the festival. Most of them just sat on the roof, being spectators. We also found out that no one went and saw the festival we had seen. The ones who did go out, did it without a local as a guide, so they did not get as much out of it. The clock struck two and poof just like Cinderella’s spell Holi ended. The streets calmed down and people went home to rest. I showered shortly after a return and when I was done, I no longer had purple hair and blue face. The color had been evenly spread all over the floors and walls of our bathroom. Not all of the paint came off as there paints are not totally water soluble but in time with multiple showers, I am sure it will all come off plus I have got a brightly colored button down courtesy of the Holi festival. We get the same festival again in Nepal on the 18th. Now we know we are in for. March 8th, 1993 | Category: [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Solving the Phone Bill Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=414 Published: 1993-03-10 # Solving the Phone Bill **[![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india235.jpg "Taj Mahal")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India –** Up in the morning and headed over to the central telegraph office via bike rickshaw to meet with someone to get the letter we needed. We worked our way up their hierarchical supervisorial system until about an hour later we were sitting in the higher-up’s office in a formal meeting with three of the subordinates we have been dealing with. Total conference and the dude spoke perfect English and he understood the concept of AT&T direct. No problems. He wrote us a letter saying things like “in your face” to the hotel dudes. Back to the hotel to read during the heat of the day, then over to the Taj for sunset. We wrote postcards and watched the Taj as the sun went down behind us. The Taj is definitely a totally different building at dawn in the daylight and at sunset truly spectacular. The sun went down and the stars were coming out when we decided to go and have another look inside. This time, we had brought our torches. We went inside and they told us it was closed, but we could go inside for 5 minutes anyway. It was so nice being inside the Taj grounds – alone – there was absolutely no one else in the entire complex save the guards and it was a real treat. We exited the Taj and were making our ways through the ground towards the main gate, when the Australian girl, we were with, spotted the fire flies. I had not seen them since living in Washington D.C. and she had never seen them, so we went running over to where they were and began playing with them. It was a nice touch being alone at the Taj and playing with the fire flies in the gardens before we left. We hung around the hotel and Rich went to bed early, while I hung out in the lounge with Sardar. I was talking with him and Sardar asked me if I wanted to go to an Indian dance party that was going on not far from the hotel. With nothing else on my agenda that evening, I said yes, and shortly thereafter we were walking through the backstreets of Agra at 11 p.m. at night. Sardar explained that the people were still celebrating Holi and that they would be going on all night. We turned down this brightly lit street strewn with silver and gold garland over the street. There was a large decorated gateway and a huge outdoor tent not too far behind to the gait. We entered. I got in free because of my _sahib_ status and once again I was the lone white man at yet another Indian festival. People were dancing, music playing, food stalls everywhere, yes, these people were partying and yes all eyes were on me. We walked around for a while, then we headed back to the hotel due to the lack of women. Sardar and I sat on the roof talking and I found out he gets Rs. 500 a month plus food for working in the hotel. That is not a bad wage at all. He told me that the one habit the westerns have that Indian people find truly offensive is that of our blowing our nose into a piece of tissue and putting it into our pocket that is one the Indians cannot handle. March 10th, 1993 | Category: [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Last Day at the Taj Mahal Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=417 Published: 1993-03-11 # Last Day at the Taj Mahal **[![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india225.jpg "Taj Glasses Reflection")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India –** We took pictures of each other, the Taj, the reflection of the Taj in my sunglasses, you name it, plus as an added attraction it was cleaning day at the Taj, so they drained the reflecting pool and there were 20 locals scrubbing the green scum at the bottom of the pool. They also had the most interesting type of lawn mower, an ox-powered grass cutter. The oxen were hooked up to a manual grass cuter and were wondering around the grounds, had to take photo of that. We sat there for most of the day and when I got tired of watching the oxen, I took a quick nap on the lawn. When it started to get really hot, we returned to the hotel, and I sat talking to the managers and Sardar during the heat of the day. Watched the sunset over the Taj from my final time from the roof of the hotel and just vegged on the steps of the hotel waiting to go to the bus station. I was entertained by a wedding procession marching by the hotel, groom mounted atop his white horse with a carnival looking electric-light decoration being carried on the shoulders of some men behind the groom. Since they were going down some side streets and hence needed to keep the carnival light thing juiced with electricity, there were another two blokes behind the fancy light set up, dragging their petrol-powered generator behind them. Shortly after the procession passed our hotel, I met Rich and we jumped in a rickshaw to the bus station to catch our bus to the train station. We were headed to Varanasi by train, but other travels have told us we could shave 7 hours of our train ride if we travel the one hour on the bus to another station outside of Agra. Sounded like a good idea to us, so we figured out which bus we needed and made it to the train station. The train journey was like any other night train we would have been, but it was the _chai_ boys at the station that surprised me. We called over one of the chai boys to where we were siting and upon placing our order we were presented our. Rs. 1.50 teas in small earthenware pots rather similar to a potted plant pot. Finished our tea and I took the glasses back to the chai boy so he could use them again later. He looked at me pretty funny. When I tried to hand him the cups, he told me to throw them down to the train tracks. I was flabbergasted that he wanted me to throw the cups away, so just to be sure I made the motions of throwing the cups under the train. The chai boy nodded in the affirmative and as I tossed the cups down into the tracks, I was rewarded with the sound of shattering earthenware. Even after being in India for 10 weeks, it still was amazing me, disposable earthenware cups, what would they think of next. March 11th, 1993 | Category: [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Burning Ghats of Varanasi Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=419 Published: 1993-03-12 # Burning Ghats of Varanasi **Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India –** Our train arrived Muglie at 9.a.m. and we jumped on the bus for one hour ride to Varanasi. We arrived no problem and Rich and I got a rickshaw to the outskirts of the old city. No autorickshaws allowed in there. We were wondering around the old city looking for this hotel when he went one way and I went another, so now I was on my own. I finally found him at the Shanti Lodge where he had booked us a room with doors opened up onto the sundeck and the view of Varanasi. We rested a bit and then changed 20 US so we would have enough money to get out of the country since we were headed to Nepal the next morning. The Indian rupee became a free floating, fully convertible currency like two weeks before, so the foreign exchange rate had been steadily going up. US $1 was equal to 31 rupees 70 paise. [![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india255.jpg "Varanasi")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Varanasi is known as the holy city on the Ganges and people from all over India bring their deceased relatives of Varanasi to have them burnt on the banks of the Ganges. It is really special prestigious thing to have this done to you. After a nap and a shower, Rich and I were relaxing on the roof when Barry and Kim Stone came over to our table and started talking to us. I had met the two of them on the roof admiring the Taj in Agra. We chatted for a while and I mentioned Rich and I were going to hire a boat and take a sunset cruise down the Ganges. Barry and Kim said they would join us but they would like to stop at the burning ghats on the way down because he was thinking of making a movie about dying. You see, Barry and Kim are Canadians and he is a movie producer/director. I did not think much about it when I first met them. I would not have known him from the post but I guess he is well-established director. He did like talking about his work too much but he did mention in passing that the film he has made might be going to the Cannes Film Festival and he might have to cut his trip to Nepal short because he would have to fly back and do some work on the film before it went to the next round of judging. He has filmed a pilot episode in Budapest for NBC and the way he was talking, he and Ryan are seem to be pretty good buddies. I think they liked being around us because we had no clues who the hell they were. No questions about the movie business from us, which kept them relaxed. Barry Stone, Oliver Stone, any relation. I will do the research and find out. The four of us headed down to the burning ghats and watched as the mourners brought the shrouded bodies down the steps, dunk the bodies in the holy waters of the Ganges, then place it at atop the pyre which is a wooden pyramid and settle it. We all stood there and watched, fascinated as these bodies burnt in the fires. We could actually see the skin bubbling and noticed the defined features of the bodies. Like seeing the slaughtering of cows in Uganda, this kept us in trance due to shear morbid curiosity. Rich and I were finishing our trip through the Indian subcontinent that day and here we were at the holiest finishing point in the country –  very appropriate. We moved down the banks the river a bit and found a captain to take us down river in his boat. The boat took us slowly pass the bathing ghats and the marked down to the other end of the city. The Ganges river is so holy to the Indian population and there are certain traditions they have which would disturb Western minds. The Indians do not believe that babies, priests, and white cows should be burnt on the pyres when they die. They consider these things pure enough to just throw the corpses directly into the river. Along with this, all of the people come down to the ghats every morning to bath in the holy waters of the river. Bathing where these corpses are thrown, not my idea of sanitary. [![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india259.jpg "Dead white cow")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)During our sunset cruise, we did see the body of a dead baby go floating by but it was no as gruesome as I expected it to be. The boat let us out near the markets and Barry, Kim, Rich, and I grabbed a bite to eat before wandering the narrow streets back towards our hotel. We came across the most amazing Indian treat, dried mango slice just like fruit roll up but the mango does not get stuck in our teeth. We went back to our room and chatted with Kim and Barry some more about Nepal before they left to go to their hotel. Really nice people and they are headed to Pokhara, Nepal as well to go tracking, so may be we will see them over there. March 12th, 1993 | Category: [India](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") --- ## Crossing the Nepalese Border Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=422 Published: 1993-03-13 Region: India, Nepal # Crossing the Nepalese Border **[![](http://www.traveller.org/india/1993/india256.jpg "Varanasi")](http://www.traveller.org/india/)Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India –** Up at 6 a.m. and headed down the river for our sunrise boat cruise to see all of the people bathing in the river. We cruised down the river but I was surprised not to see like hundreds of people bathing. There were only about 50 spread out along the length of the river. We did pass a dead cow floating on the river complete with two crows standing on it and the Indians were bathing and putting the river water in their mouth not 50 yards from it. After our ride, we went and picked up our packs from the hotel, then we were led by a couple of locals through the Varanasi maze to a bicycle rickshaw. Bicycle rickshaw to auto rickshaw to bus station, what a transfer. Found our bus to Gorkahpur and it was leaving immediately for our destination. It was supposed to take five hours but eight hours later after a very bumpy ride due to non-padded seats, we arrived in Gorkahpur. We de-bused like a deplaning, Rich just a touch nauseous and inquired about a bus to Sunauli on the Indian and Nepalese border. We were directed to the bus, and magically, it was making an immediate departure for Nepal. Once we were on the bus, Rich and I commented on once again the fact that we have been so lucky with buses in India. Virtually, every bus we boarded in 10 weeks was making an eminent departure, had two seats free for us to sit in and space inside the bus for our large rucksacks just like clockwork every time. This was supposed to be a three-hour ride but there were road works the entire way of the border so of course it took us a lot longer. We arrived at Sunauli outskirts at 8:30 p.m. and hired a bicycle rickshaw to take us into town to the border. We found the immigration post, which looked like any other shop on the street and began exit formalities. The officials started the paperwork, then the head dude started talking to me saying that the office was technically closed and that we should help out the man stamping our passports, aka, given him money. These boys had already taken away our residence permits and I was annoyed enough as I was from hell bus rides, so I was not about to give anyone any bribes. I just played dumb tourist and to be honest when he first said help out the guy, I seriously thought he wanted me to help him, may be ink the exit stamp for him, what. The head guy told us the Nepal border was closed and they had done us a favor by stamping us out but we just put our packs on and started walking away. As we were leaving, this dude came over to us and asked if were going to Nepal. He said he knew of a hotel we could stay in on the Nepal side and that he would lead us over there. Being used to the Indian shafting the tourist, I was sort of rude to him as we are to the Indians but this guy was different. He was cordial, laid back, and really friendly. He also looked different from the Indians. His eyes were sloped more like an Asian then an Indian. He chatted to us and walked us under the immigration barricade on the Indian side. We crossed into no man’s land, then crossed under the Nepalese immigration barricade, even though the border was technically closed. As we crossed, a policeman came running out of the check post there but our Nepalese guide said something to him, which made the policeman just turn around and go back into his booth. Our guide told us immigration opened at 6 a.m. the next day and we could get our 30-day visa there the next morning. We got to the hotel and I was still suspicious because the guy had been so friendly, but at that time I did not know that all Nepalese people are so cordial and personable. We got a room ate and relaxd at our hotel while I drank my first beer in Nepal while listening to the Beatles – Western music. Even though we were only 500 yards beyond the Nepalese border, I could actually feel the difference. March 13th, 1993 | Category: [India,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=6 "India") [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Down the Mountain to Pokhara – Day 10 Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=478 Published: 1993-03-27 # Down the Mountain to Pokhara – Day 10 **[![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal65.jpg "Airplane")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Trekking, Day 10, Jomsom, Nepal –** Woke up this morning at 6 and climbed up the ladder out back up onto the roof to have a look at the runaway. An inch of new snow everywhere. Went back inside and climbed to back into bed, woke up about an hour later and sat outside our lodge in the sun. For the first day in a while it was really clear and the sun was blazing down. This only made the snow covered mountains that much more impressive, so Ram and I took yet more photos. We put the camera away and decided to take a walk down to the runaway to have a look at it and when we got there, we found a fair amount of people just hanging around the airport shack, in case a plane could make it up here. The sun had melted the snow and now the runaway was just a massive wet gravel in weeds rather like a deteriorating parking lodge. We were standing there talking to this other American guy when all of a sudden this air raid siren went off signifying that a plane was arriving. No way, no one was prepared for it and Ram and I went running out of the airport and back to the lodge to grab our packs. Back to the airport, checked our bags and walked out to the runway to wait. The twin-engined propeller plane landed and all 15 of us flying boarded completely filling the small plane. I sat by a window on one side and Ram sat across from me by the other window ready to try this flying thing out. When he first saw the plane, Ram said it was big. I then told him there are airplanes that hold up to 400 people. He just could not believe that one. Our bags were loaded, the door closed, and the engine started. While we were still sitting on the runway with the engines idling, the stewardess crawled up the isle offering each passenger one sweet and two cotton balls to plug your ears during the flight. Once every one had their cotton in place, the plane moved out to the end of the runway, really started those engines up and started our take off. The plane took off and pulled the tightest circle, not very far from the mountains themselves over the valley. Then we were off towards Pokhara. Ram handled the take off well and was content just looking out the window during our flight. We flew below the tops of the Himalayas so I was able to look straight across at them, amazing. I took a few photos out of the plane as well. Our plane landed in Pokhara and we deplaned into the 70-degree weather, still clad in our down jackets and 10 layers of clothing. After a short walk back to my hotel, I said good bye to Ram. Gave him my T-shirt and my gloves and told him I would meet him over at lakeside later. During the trek, I had actually broken my record for days not showering, which previously had been 8 days set in Africa. The record now stood at 10 days in Nepal. I cleaned up, rented a bike, and headed over to the lake where I met Som and Ram hanging out at Jomsom trekking. We chatted for a while and then Som, Ram, and I went to look at this hotel I was going to stay in. As we were heading over to the hotel, I heard this voice yell, “How is it going?” When I looked up, it was Cameron, this kiwi dude we had flown from Cairo to Nairobi with. I could not believe it. That was five months ago, and I remembered they were headed the same direction, but I thought they were miles ahead of us. Cam said, he and Tracy had gotten struck in Africa, specifically Malawi in Zimbabwe. About the same time, Rich and I got stuck in India. I arranged to meet them for dinner, then I went to this hotel to stay in. After looking at the room and leaving a deposit, Som, Ram, and I left to go have a beer, but my bike was gone. We did not notice anyone in the hotel grounds, but the bike definitely was not there. Som said that one of the boys of the hotel proprietor sometimes borrow the bikes left around and that is probably what happened. We went out on the street looking for the bike and after a cursory search, Som assured me the boy would bring my bike back a little later. On that note, we headed to this restaurant to have some beers to celebrate the end of my trek. Ram, Som, and I had two beers each and Som because he is smaller was getting pretty looped. Ram was not far behind and I was a little less than Ram. It was strong beer. We had a great time chatting and after I had paid our 360-rupee bill, $7 and 20 cents, we went looking for the bike again. Ram said he was going to the trekking shop and that he would see me at about 8 or 9 the next morning. Som and I went looking for the bike and I began describing it to him. As an example, I took him over to this bike parked on the side of the road and said, okay this aspect of the bike just like this bike here is the same. I described the bike more and more each time pointing to this bike on the street saying just like this one. It even had a lock and chain wrapped under the seat like the one we were looking at on the street. I guess the beer had really dulled my senses because after my describing the stolen bike and pointing out the similarities with this bike parked on the street, Som finally asked me if this bike was my stolen bike. I pulled out my keys, tried the lock and pop it opened. We had found the bike just parked outside the shop on the side of the road, too lucky. I took my newly acquired bike, said good-bye to Ram, and told him I would see him in the morning before heading back to my hotel to change clothes and meet Tracy and Cameron for dinner. Out to dinner with them and we caught up during the last five months while they were in Africa. They told us the situation in Zaire has gotten worse since we were there and that the overland trucks are not going into the country anymore. They said one of the trucks sort of went missing. Cam also said the situation in Nairobi did not get any better. Everyday at Ma Roches someone had a new horror story. I still have no reservations about leaving Kenya or the Kumuka Safari early. We left the restaurant and as we walked by a local’s place, Ram called out teak-cha to me and I called back “topai kek teak-cha?” “malai teak-cha” was his response. March 27th, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Befriending Som Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=480 Published: 1993-03-28 # Befriending Som **[![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal80.jpg "Som Kagi")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Pokhara, Nepal –** I woke up, packed my bag and rode down to lakeside where I had gotten a room at the Namastay Lodge the same complex Som lives in. Met Som and he told me Ram had left early that morning to go home. I guessed his family had run out of rice and he needed to take some up to them. Told Som I would meet him later and after getting my new room sorted out I made the ride up to old Pokhara again to get my trekking photos developed. Dropped the film off, then went to some of the student book stores up there to see if I could get some basic reading books for Ram. He really wanted to learn to read and write English, I could see that whenever we would sit down for our reading lessons while trekking. I ended up getting him four English books for 125 rupees. Back to the photo place two hours later to get the pictures, then I coasted down the mountain to lakeside. Met Som, showed him the photos, then we played carrom board for a while. Som and I went shopping and I bought a whole bunch of the embroidered Nepalese eyes T-shirt. There are the nicest affordable gifts we found so far while traveling, so everyone gets one. They are averaging around 130 rupees each. Som told me he was going to cook a dal bhat that evening in his room, so I did not need to go out to dinner. I rode my bike back to dam side and made the 25-minute walk back to the lake. Managed by some more T-shirts on the return trip, bringing the T-shirt total up to 13 by the time I had retired to bed that evening. Som cooked us a pretty good dinner that evening and a I sort of probed and got more information about Ram from him. He said Ram really needed the money for his family because they were eating millet. Som said it was too gross for him to eat it himself. I gave Ram a total of 1500 rupees on top of the 2300 I paid him for being my guide. I also paid 1260 rupees for his plane ticket and gave him some books and stationery worth 150. Hopefully, it will help him out enough to get him back on his feet. We talked about a lot of things before I gave him the money. He is going to buy new shoes for trekking and we talked about buying two chickens, a hen and a cock, so his family would have eggs to eat when rice ran out. After spending 10 days with him, I could tell he was honest and would use the money in the ways we discussed. We also talked about his joining a trekking agency, so he has steady work as a guide, but he said the agencies take too much of a cut and that is why most people are independent. Som said he was really pleased with the plane ride and the extra help I had given him. So, I am thinking that was the best thing to do. March 28th, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Sleeping in a Nepalese Household – Chaitra Dasain Festival Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=485 Published: 1993-03-29 # Sleeping in a Nepalese Household – Chaitra Dasain Festival **[![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal70.jpg "Soms house")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Pokhara, Nepal –** I was going to head to Kathmandu today via mini bus, but there is a national bus strike, maybe tomorrow. I woke up late and lounged around. It was really warm today, so warm that for a minute I thought it was a Sacramento type spring day. Brought two more T-shirts and now I am finished buying clothing. Walked down towards dam side again, then back to the room to figure out which photos I was going to give to Ram. Labeled the photos, ate lunch, and saw Tracy and Cam to arrange our time for dinner again. I met Som later in the afternoon and we played carrom board for a while. In talking with him, I learned that Ram is married to Som’s cousin. I also learned that he and his brother paid two hundred and fifty rupees a month for the room at the hotel. When I told him that it was $5 in my money he started laughing. He could not believe how cheap it was for us to come and travel in Nepal. Met Cam and Tracy for dinner and we set up a few meeting points where we were going to leave each other notes. They are heading through Southeast Asia on their way home, so I am sure we will bump into them again along the way. Kathmandu Guesthouse and the New Mary V, Bangkok were the two stops so far. Said good-bye to them and crashed out for the night. Som woke me up at 6 o’clock this morning so I could catch my bus to Kathmandu. I went over to the bus station and asked if there was going to be a bus today. Som had said the drivers want strike again. The folk at the travel agency said there would not be a bus today and to come back tomorrow morning. The cause for all this chaos is that late last week the Nepalese Government lifted all price subsidies on major foodstuffs such as rice and sugar and on fuel. The government had to lift the subsides to become eligible for some IMF and World Bank funding, as both those organizations oppose any price subsidies at all. With the prices going up on all subsided items namely fuel, the bus companies said they were going to raise ticket prices to account for the jump in the fuel prices. The government transport secretary said they could not raise their prices and would have to just adjust their books to account for the increase. The Communist Party here thought this would be a great issue to cause public outcry upon, so they began a publicity campaign telling all truck and bus drivers to strike nationwide on March 29th. So 29th March, no buses or trucks went anywhere throughout the Nepalese Kingdom. They announced yesterday that this strike would continue today also including all taxies, motorbikes, and bicycles in an attempt to paralyze the country. I waited around for the bus for a short time and in talking to other people there as well, I heard there was a roadblock on the outskirts of Pokhara to ensure the prevention of any rebellious truck drivers from getting into the city. In talking to one of the travel agents here, he said the bus owners were waiting for a ruling from the transport minister allowing them to raise their prices. Another rumor I heard was that the transport secretary was out of the country and had to return to Nepal before a decision could be made. A short while later, a lone vehicle equipped with a loudspeaker attached to the roof went driving slowly down Pokhara’s main street. I found Som and asked him to translate and he explained that the man in the car was saying things like, “Give those who do not have jobs, jobs, too bad, Royal Air Nepal is still flying today.” The strike could go on for three days or three weeks, great. On that note, I am headed up to Som’s house for the Chaitra Dasain festival tomorrow, as it does not look like I will be leaving Pokhara anytime soon. Went and changed my bus ticket to April 2nd, do not know if buses will be going by then, but I am getting a little bit tired of Pokhara, not much to do once you have been in the city for three or four days. Met Som about noon and we rented bikes, then headed off towards his house on the hills above Phedi. He said it was not far and I had no idea how far we were heading, but this seemed like something interesting to do while this strike was on. We rode out of Pokhara on the opposite side of the ridge from Sarangkot, so I was seeing an entirely different set of terrain in the Pokhara Valley. We rode uphill for about two hours, passing through the most amazing sections of outer Pokhara. True Nepalese villages with women cutting the  wheat with scythes and the huge covered stacks of dried straw for the animals, great photographic material. Once we had reached the village of Phedi, we left the bikes in this chai stall and began the 30-minute hike to the top of the ridge overlooking the city. Little did I know, I was on another trek and this hike certainly rivaled anything I had done on route to Tatopani. It was all almost straight up, but through the most beautiful jungle, tall moss covered trees with a bed of furns covering the ground everywhere we walked. We hit the crest of the ridge, where Som’s house sits and had to rest for a few minutes before actually going up to his house. His house is one of those made almost entirely of mud with earth beaten floors and thatched roofs, plus it has got the most amazing view looking out over the valley down towards Pokhara. There are terraced wheat fields surrounding their home with about four other houses sitting up on this ridge. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal69.jpg "Soms interior")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Inside Som’s house, there was a fire burning in a pit in the middle of the room and a little bit of smoke around the level of your forehead. Most of the smoke goes up into the thatched peak of the roof, but as smoke does when there is too much, it gets lower and lower to forehead level before pouring out the door. The ceiling had very very low cross beams and I could not stand up fully in any section of the house. Above the cross beams, they had placed some planks and Som told me that two of his sisters sleep up there at night. That explains the plank balanced against the beams in the corner that the girls climb up and down every day. We relaxed in his house resting after the ordeal of getting up there, drinking sugared tea with the added flavor of salt, many Nepalese people like salt and sugar in their tea, a very different tasting cup of tea to say at least. It reminded me of drinking sea water like when it goes gushing down your throat when you are bowled over by a wave. After our rest, we walked across a couple of terraced fields to a neighbor’s house where I was introduced to them. These people had another incredible view from a different angle and from their house we could see Naugdada over on the next ridge across the valley. The place had taken me the entire first day of my trek to walk to. I had no idea I was going so far. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal77.jpg "Nepalese Homestead")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)The front yard of this man’s house was covered with freshly cut wheat and a woman who appeared to be his mother decorated with ornamental nose rings like a bull was taking the wheat, beating it with this thing that looked like a short sledge hammer to get the husks loose. Then taking the whole lot and putting it in a basket to shake around and make the husks fly out. Cows, chickens, goats, all the houses up here seem to have one or all of the three tied up in their front yard. The man at this house started asking me questions with Som translating. The first one being what my caste or title was. I told him we did not have a caste system and then cleared Som about it. He explained that there were 13 castes in Nepal. His and Ram’s being Gurung, one of the larger ones with a group of people who did not specialize in one trade or profession. In their caste, there are a lot of people, both rich and poor and it is one of the ones in the middle, not a bad one at all. The lowest castes are those of tailors, shoemakers, and porters. I asked a bit more and confirmed that these people are born into their caste and there is no way to change castes, not even by marriage. People also use their caste as their surnames as well. Ram “Gurung”, Som, Kagi “Gurung” interesting. Som left me and went back down the hill to put the bikes in a safer place for the evening leaving me here sitting on the edge of a wheat field overlooking the valley to right. Som’s entire family is coming up here for the festival and Ram and his wife may be coming up here as well. Finally figured out how those two are related. Ram married Som’s cousin. Tomorrow is the festival and we are going to the market to see some goats and buffaloes sacrificed. It should be really interesting, gruesome but interesting. Of all the places I have visited so far, I am beginning to think Nepal is my favorite. Right below is Malawi, then Zimbabwe. The people are so friendly and it is pretty together with their politics and tourism. If I managed to find work in Hong Kong, this would be my first return destination. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal74.jpg "Soms Mother")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)When we first arrived up here, we went to Som’s friend’s house and the woman there mentioned to Som that she remembered the time she brought a French couple up here, and I guess the man did not like his _dal bhat_ because he literally tossed it aside. That couple was taken back to Pokhara the same evening. “Bola manchi”, crazy man was the woman’s response. Som is a lively 17 year old not too unlike myself at that age and I met him while trekking. It was great of him to invite me up here to experience this festival the Nepalese way. How I keep hitting these festivals at the right time and hooking up with locals who are willing to show me how they really celebrate is so amazing. I would love to show Ram and Som America for 10 days, some in Sacramento, some in San Francisco. Ram could not believe there were films shown on international flights, and I described how large an American supermarket was to Som and he had a hard time believing it. It would blow their minds and I would love to see their reactions. Give me five years and I will see if can afford it. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal76.jpg "Soms Place")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Som returned and we sat in his house eating rice and vegetables and this really amazing pumpkin soup for dinner. Som has got three sisters, one 25 who was doing all the cooking and one 19-year-old brother. His family is more than cordial and even though I speak pidgin Nepalese, there was not really a language barrier because they are really patient and with Som’s help to get their point across. We were exhausted from our ride up here, so everyone bedded down to sleep shortly after dark. Sleeping at Som’s house was a real experience. His mother went outside and brought in the mother and baby goats and tied them to a post in one corner of the room. The hen, the cock, and five chickens were all under a basket not too far from the goats and Som’s mother laid down a mat in front of this mini farmyard to go to sleep. The girls climb to their plank up to their bunk rather smoke yard, imagine above the fire. Som’s other sisters laid down on another mat, Som and I in one bed, Som’s grandmother in another corner, and Som’s father and cousin in the other bed. It was a real treat being able to see how these people live. March 29th, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Chaitra Dasain on a Nepalese Homestead Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=487 Published: 1993-03-31 # Chaitra Dasain on a Nepalese Homestead **Som’s house above Phedi, Nepal –** God only knows what time it was when the rooster in Som’s house decided to start crowing, but the sun was nowhere neat being up. I really wanted to kill it as it was only about four feet away cock-a-doodle doing for half an hour or so. A short while later, Som’s family was all awake and when his grandmother opened the door from my bed, I could see the sky over the hill across the valley turning that pink-red color just as the sun was coming up. We got up at 5:45. The entire family was already awake and had our morning tea. About an hour later, Som and I went to go out over the top of the ridge behind his house to buy some sugar for his family. This was another major hike as the ridge behind his house is twice the size of the one we climbed to get to his house in the first place. After another 30-minute climb up of this second ridge, we looked down at Phedi and it looked like it would from an airplane, so small and so far down. We climbed over the top of the ridge, and there were yet another breathtaking view of Annapurna and Machha Puchhre rising up over the next valley. This view was better than any I had seen up near Jomsom or Pokhara because the sky was clear and blue and we were much closer to these mountains than before, so imposing and so beautiful. Of course, I had left my camera down at Som’s house, so no photos were taken. We walked down the backside of this ridge through the houses scattered along the side of the hill and stopped at what appeared to be someone’s home to buy some sugar. His house doubled as his shop and Som had to wake the man up and tell him to get us some sugar which was stored in an old petrol can. Met Som’s brother over on that side and then we headed back to Som’s house to give his sister her cooking supplies. On the way back, we stopped at Ram’s in-law’s house and what you know he was there. He had come up from Pokhara that morning when he heard that Som and I had gone to the mountains. He came up as well with his brother-in-law. We hung around Ram’s relative’s house in the sun for a few hours while his brother-in-law got ready for the festival. Today was the first day of Chaitra Dasain, festival held twice a year honoring the Nepalese goddess, Durga. This festival was actually a smaller version of the Dasain held in January and February every year and is the largest in the country. The goddess Durga fought in one over the forces of evil described in the form of a buffalo in their folklore. So many buffalo and goats are sacrificed during both these festivals in the goddess’ honor. Hopefully, we would see a buffalo lose its head today over in the market. At about 12:30, everyone was ready; me, Som, Ram, and three others and we headed back up the ridge with the incredible view of the mountains on route to the market. We stopped in at a few people’s houses along the way, and I guess the boys found out from these people that not many people were going to the market today. Instead, we made our way down the volleyball court at the local schoolyard. The court sat on one of those narrow terraces cut into the side of the mountain and played volleyball for a while. From the court, we could look up to the top of the ridge and see a white temple structure up there. I could hear the Nepalese blowing this long horn, the sound echoing across the valley signifying they were about to slay another buffalo, very cool. We finished playing the game and headed back over to the top to Som’s house to help make dinner, but along the way, we came across a family outside their house who had just finished sacrificing their buffalo. The body of the buffalo was sitting in the path decapitated with the blood flowing from the neck over the edge of the terrace and down into the field below. The buffalo head was sitting over near the porch of the house, eyes still open and glassy like it never knew what hit it. Some told me that they were supposed to kill the buffalo with one cut of the axe or sword but sometimes it took two or three hits to actually get the head to come off. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal79.jpg "The Boys")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)After seeing this buffalo carcass in the path, I think it was quite all right that I did not get to see the killing first hand. It already reminds me of the slaughtering of the cattle in Uganda a little too much. Back to Ram’s in-laws to say good-bye to him for the evening and head up to Som’s house for dinner. As we were climbing up the terraced field up to his house, we could hear all the women outside his house screaming at something and when the house came into view, we could see a man in a red shirt being pushed down the path in front of Som’s house by another Nepalese guy. The man in the red shirt had obviously been drinking too much Roxi, local wine celebrating the festival and was just being a typical public drunk. One old man, one of Som’s neighbors who also had his fair share of Roxi picked up a large tree branch around when Som’s sister held him back drunk on the head with it. The crazy man in the red shirt got pushed along the path toward his house as all the women in Som’s house continually screamed at him. All other men came out of their houses and started to assist forcefully the drunk down the path. The crazy man was screaming and yelling away and once he was down the path where Som’s family could not see him, they climbed down the terraced fields to scream at him some more. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal75.jpg "Nepali Girl")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Being the only person in a five mile radius with fair skin and blonde hair, I stayed in the background as not to attract the drunk’s attention. I like the women scream at the drunk and went back to Ram’s in-laws where I got to meet his wife and two sons. Good to see them since I had heard so much about them. The drunk moved on and I bid Ram farewell until the next morning. Up at Som’s house, we had the traditional, the same dinner of rice, dal, and cooked buffalo meat, fresh and once the dinner was over, they started cooking this bread they make only for this festival. It is a rice flour base, a little sugar, and deep fried in buffalo fat. Som’s sister made the first one and when it was done cooking, she handed it to her father who broke it into four pieces and through one piece into each corner of the room as an offering to Durga. Once that was finished, it was an all you can eat fest of rice, roti. Som’s entire family and I ate and ate and ate this bread for almost two hour solid. His sister was continuing to make the bread unrelentlessly. Som’s father and uncle were well into the homemade wine and smoking the chillum but they continued to eat. When we were all chock a block full, the final rice roti was made and everyone had to have one bite of the last bread as it was the final one. On that note, Som and I climbed into bed as his father prepared the next course. **Next course** – We started eating at 5:30 and it was now 9:30. His father prepared some rice they had grown themselves and served a bit to everyone in the room. It was sweetened with sugar as a dessert and Som told me they believed this was special rice that would cure whatever ailments you might have. I could only eat about half of what they served me and after assessing the amount of rice left on everyone’s plates, it seemed to be the norm. Everyone was full and tired of eating I expect. So, the once the goats were to their post in the corner, everyone hit the sac and this was the Chaitra Dasain. This festival is not a real public festival that has a lot that tourists can see. It is more a low-key family festival and I felt lucky to have been a part of it with Som’s family. Throughout the day as we had been walking around, I was using Som as my interpreter to ask different people about the Bonne Manchie to see what other versions of the tail there are. The different accounts and descriptions of the beast are to follow. Som’s father had a first hand citing for me to record. Bonne Manchie, the Nepali jungle man also known as the Yeti. March 31st, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Final Day in Pokhara Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=513 Published: 1993-04-01 # Final Day in Pokhara **Som’s House Above Phedi, Nepal –** The bloody rooster woke us up at half past four again and by 6:15 everyone was up and starting their daily duties. Som and I had tea with his family, then we bid them farewell and I thanked them heartily for such a nice time. We had to make an early departure and get back to Pokhara as not to be charged another day’s rental on our bikes. We hiked down to Phedi, got our bikes out of storeage and made the one and a half hour 15 km fide back to Pokhara. Thankfully it was 90% downhill so little effort was needed riding that early in the morning. We returned the bikes, had tea and rolls for breakfast then I crashed out at 9:00 a.m. exhausted from the previous two days. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/misc47.jpg "Som & Ram")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Awoke at 1:00 p.m. and got some food then hung out with Ram for a while. There are absolutely _no_ tourists in Pokhara now, partly due to the bus strike, and partly because tourism’s just down so it was a lazy day around town. Saw Som and his sister at the lodge we were staying at and chatted with them for a while. No power tonight so “nothing to do Kathmandu.” The buses are running again and I’m booked on the 6:30 a.m. bus to Kathmandu tomorrow – finally. With only a month’s Nepalese visa I’ve seemed to have no problem spending three weeks of my time in Pokhara. Made some good friends in the process, but I think a lack of time in the country warrants a second visit next year. \[ad\] April 1st, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Durbar Square Kathmandu Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=515 Published: 1993-04-02 # Durbar Square Kathmandu **Pokhara to Kathmandu, Nepal –** Got up at 5.30 a.m. and finished packing my bag. I was finally leaving Pokhara for Kathmandu. Met both Som and Ram who hung around and chatted to me until my mini bus left. When the bus finally pulled up, I said my final farewells to the boys. I know I will make it back there and see them again some day. Had a rather uneventful bus ride to Kathmandu and arrived in the capital city in the mid afternoon. Hired a bicycle rickshaw to take me to the Thamel section of town, the section where all the travelers hang out. Found a hotel no problem, but it was expensive, 250 rupees a night, but it had its own bathroom with 24-hour hot water, worth the splurge for one night. Once I had put my bags away, it was time for some food and a look at the real Kathmandu, not the tourist section of the city I was staying in. Met Mike Gavin this journalist I trekked on and off with for a few days and he gave me his address in Hong Kong to look him up in a couple of weeks. Grabbed a bite to eat, then headed towards Durbar Square, the center of old Kathmandu. Kathmandu is a bustling city with cars, rickshaws, bicycles, and pollution all flowing up and down the ancient narrow streets. Made it to Durbar Square and that is when it hit me. This was the Kathmandu people usually talked about. Durbar Square is literally surrounded by temples. It almost seems like they were constructed in a haphazard mish-mash fashion all over the Square and outlying areas. All that I can see are the towers of temples over the Square, so cool and so bizarre. I had a walk around the Square and what you know just my luck another festival was starting. I noticed the wooden cart with the 15-feet high Christmas tree on it, decorated I might add, being prepared to be pulled through the Square and celebration of the Seto Machhendranath festival. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal85.jpg "Durbar Square")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)I walked around taking pictures and eventually ended up taking a seat on the Trailokya Mohan Narayan “Vishnu” temple facing the Square waiting for the festivities to begin. It turned out to be a non-event with the military men marching down the street, playing music followed by the Christmas tree chariot being dragged along by about 50 kids. No denying the chariot was not impressive. One of its wheels was taller than I was and people sitting near me were tossing coins at it as it passed, but it definitely was not as exciting as animal sacrifice or anything like that. Once the chariot had passed, the Square emptied of people so I could wander around at my leisure checking out the ornately carved rafters under each temple’s eves. Many of the temples had some definitely erotic carvings, so I took half a dozen photos to show people at home. Once I had had a decent look around the Square, I walked through the narrow streets of Nepal to get a feel for the city before heading back to my hotel to use that hot shower I was paying for. Went down to the Central Telegraph Office around 8 p.m. assuming they had AT&T direct and was told there was no collect call facility to the States from Nepal. On top of it, many of the places here charge you 10 rupees per minute for a collect call anyway. So you are paying for the call twice. Guess I will be calling the folks from Hong Kong then. Out to dinner at one of the famed Thamel restaurants, the Four Seasons, and ended up sharing this table with a British girl from London. Had a great time chatting away to her for the next two and half hours while enjoying the best pizza and beer since I have left America. I do not know who came here and taught the Nepalese how to cook, but they did a hell of a job. \[ad\] April 2nd, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Swayambhunath, aka the Monkey Temple Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=519 Published: 1993-04-03 # Swayambhunath, aka the Monkey Temple **[![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal92.jpg "Monkey Temple")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Kathmandu, Nepal –** Woke up, used my hot shower, then checked out of my hotel and moved to the hotel Potala around to the corner across from KC’s Restaurant, a little cheaper with a better view and a roof deck. Once I got and settled in, I grabbed my camera and water bottle and embarked on the 2-kilometer journey out of the city to the Swayambhunath, aka the Monkey Temple. It was a nice walk through the Kathmandu back streets, save the hell climb up a flight of stairs virtually straight up. Finally reached the temple and stupa itself. The temple consists of the main stupa, which is a solid white concrete dome with a very tall gold block type structure on top of it. The block has the Buddha’s all seeing eyes painted on each side of it along with the teeka or third eye symbolized as a dot above the other two regular eyes. The teeka symbolizes the Buddha’s clairvoyant powers. Below the eyes is a squiggle mark, which is actually the symbol for a Nepalese numeral one its significance being unity. Up above the block with the eyes are the 13 gold rings, each getting smaller, making the top of the structure looks similar to a church steeple. Each of the rings signifies one of the 13 degrees of knowledge and 13 steps that must be taken to reach Nirvana. Nirvana is represented by the umbrella at the top of the steeple. Around the base of the stupa are what seemed to be a couple of hundred prayer wheels encircling the entire structure. As the worshippers would come up the stairs, they would pray at this huge brassed colored Dorje or symbol for the great thunderbolt, then ring this huge bell next to it, which was supposed to symbolize the sound of thunder. They would then move forward and walk always clockwise around the stupa, spinning each and every prayer wheel. I mentioned earlier I thought the prayer wheels were Tibetan, actually that they are just part of the Buddhist religion, each with the words Om Mani Padme Hum inscribed on it plus to add to the day core, there were streams of what appear to be different colored flags tied to the spire of the stupa flowing down and out over the whole of the complex. Upon further inspection, the flags were actually painted with the words and symbols of different Buddhist prayers called Mantras. The people here believe that when the prayer wheel is spinning or the flag fluttering in the wind, the prayer is being said. I wandered around the Swayambhunath complex for a while looking at the smaller temples and taking almost a roll of photos. The alternate name of this place is the Monkey Temple and with just cause for there are literally tons of monkeys crawling all over the stupa and smaller statues surrounding plus the locals bring food to feed them so whenever there is people around, there are tons of monkeys. After spending a while at the stupa, I thought it was time to move on. I went by a nearby Gompa or Tibetan Buddhist monastery to have a look around and came across a prayer wheel that must have been about 10 feet high, not one of the more notable sites around Kathmandu. Headed back to the city to grab a bite to eat and have a wander around the Durbar Square again, as I do not think I did it justice the first time.  Lunched on Freak Street, then looked at the temples in the Square more closely this time. As I was looking up into the eves at some carvings, I noticed the face of a tourist peering out of the uppermost window of the temple looking tower behind. I had a walk around this Square looking for an entrance to this place and eventually found it in the Nasal Chowk, the dancing courtyard of the old royal palace. The courtyard had a statue of a dancing Shiva in it, hence the name, and the courtyard was surrounded by a very European looking white building of the old palace, which is now a museum holding artifacts from the previous king’s reign. In each corner of the courtyard was a huge tower, the largest one the Basantapur being the one accessible to the tourists. I had a wander through the king’s museum, which was really boring since it is an exhibit for Nepalese people and nothing is in English. Then headed over to the tower and climbed the narrow staircases to the top to get a good view of the Kathmandu. After my view, I wandered around the Square some more looking at the Tibetan crafts when I remembered I needed to change money. Since this was Saturday, the Nepalese equivalent of Sunday in Britain, everything was closed. I started walking where I knew there were black-market money changers, but to my surprise they all had the day off. The previous day I could have used a baseball bat to beat the buggers off, but during my 20-minute walk back to Thamel, not one money changer approached me. Of course I could not find one when I needed one. Dropped off a note for Rich at the Kathmandu Guest House and priced some duffel bags to hold all the crap I had purchased so far before heading to the hotel to crash out. \[ad\] April 3rd, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Girls in a Temple Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=521 Published: 1993-04-04 # Girls in a Temple **[![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal101.jpg "Patan")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Kathmandu to Patan, Nepal –** Walked around Kathmandu this morning looking for yet another hotel because the one I am in is too expensive. Did find a room at my mom’s hotel **f**or 80 rupees, more my style, grabbed breakfast, then picked up my photos that I had taken the day before at the stupa. Those photos were awesome. I am getting better at it, but still need to learn what the difference an 11 and a 5.8 F-stop will do time I guess. Headed through the craziness of the market street over to the bus stop, jumped on a bus, which was uncrowded, an amazing thing for Nepal and rode the 15 minutes out to Patan, a city to the south that is divided from Kathmandu only by a river. Patan is just like Kathmandu in architectural style and feel, but the difference is there are not tons of people in cars everywhere, a nice change. Started walking towards Durbar Square, yes there is one in Patan as well, but managed to find the Golden Temple down at side street instead. Of course, I had gotten lost and just happened to stumble on to this temple, but I found it all the same. Had a look at it, but could not get as close as I would have liked for all the leather articles are banned in the inner courtyard and when your money belt is made of leather, it prevents you from doing such things. From there it was to Durbar Square, which is literally jam-packed with temples and Tibetan crafts salesmen wherever you looked. There were not that many tourists here, so it was a much nicer environment. I wandered around the Square looking at the temples, but after seeing so many in India, they are all beginning to look the same. In addition, you are not allowed to enter any of the temples, so there is no way for you to differentiate between them, they all look very similar. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal107.jpg "Temple Girls")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)Most are the three to five tiered Nepalese style with a few of the Hindu/Ranakpur Indian type temples interspersed here and there. After looking at the temples and walked around the city, I found a Buddhist monastery, which was actually very impressive. The courtyard of this structure, which is both a temple and a monastery, was packed with all sorts of intricate metal sculptures. There were also a few children running around as well. After my look around, I went through more back streets back to the bus station for my return journey to the Kathmandu. Rested at the hotel a bit, then ventured out to do a bit of shopping. I went into one of the numerous shops, which sell those strong cotton woven duffel bags. I needed to buy one due to the sheer quantity of stuff I purchased in the Nepal. I needed a separate bag to contain it all in to be shipped back from Bangkok. I went into the shop knowing I would not pay more than 200 rupees for the largest one. The shopkeeper and I began the bargaining process and no more than 5 minutes later, I was leaving the shop with my new duffel. The price started at 350, I was not in the mood to play the bargaining game. The shopkeeper’s comment was that I was a quick man to bargain with. It was getting dark, so I bought some food for dinner and upon returning to my hotel, I noticed they had the satellite feed from Hong Kong broadcasting the North Carolina versus Kansas NCAA quarter final basketball tournament. I was estatic and immediately glued my butt down on to the couch to watch the game. Too bad I was changing hotels the next day. I might be able to see the final game. \[ad\] April 4th, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Reuniting with Rich Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=523 Published: 1993-04-05 # Reuniting with Rich **Kathmandu, Nepal –** Changed hotels yet again because the last hotel had too many Israelis in it. After living in London and seeing the way different nationalities traveled, I used to think the Americans and Australians were bad. Israelis are the worst to be around. They are louder and more demanding than Americans if you can believe that is possible and they are so obnoxious when they are together in one big group, which is all the time. You never meet one Israeli, they only come in groups of 10 or more. Anyway, changed hotels, then headed to the mini van stop to try and get out to the Bodhnath, the largest stupa in the Kathmandu Valley. Got on the mini van and was told yes it would go out where I was headed. 30 minutes later, we were at the end of the line and they were telling me to get out, no stupa inside. I was told to transfer mini vans and after I boarded the second vehicle reconfirming that it was headed to the Bodhnath, I found myself back in Kathmandu 30 minutes later, so I had been sheisted for a total of 4 rupees and one hour of my time, big deal, I had time to kill. I was not expecting Rich for at least 4 or 5 more days, plenty of time to see this thing. Went restaurant hopping, eating a meal at each during the afternoon. Then I decided it was time to take down the original note I had left for Rich and put the newly revised one with my new hotel location in its place. Got over to the Kathmandu Guest House message board, but the note for Rich was gone. That could only mean he had arrived in Kathmandu already. Left him a second note telling where to meet, then went looking around Thamel in the used bookstores, the easiest place it would be to find Rich. No such luck, so I headed back to the message board about an hour later to find him standing there holding my second note looking at it incredulously. He could not believe I had left him two notes in the three hours he had spent in Kathmandu so far. We went out for dinner and beer to celebrate his birthday and catch up on each other’s escapades over the last three weeks. It turns out the snow was really bad on his side of the mountain as well, so bad that he could not get over the pass and he walked back to Pokhara down the same side. April 5th, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Loving Bhaktapur Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=525 Published: 1993-04-07 # Loving Bhaktapur [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal110.jpg "Bhaktapur")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)**6th April 1993, Kathmandu –** I took Rich on a walking tour of the city, Durbar Square, etc. and we stumbled across the US embassy library, so we popped in there for a couple of hours to catch up on current events at home. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped by one of the shirt embroidery shops and placed an order for the shirt we were having made, which would commemorate our trip as a whole. The front had 22 flags embroided on it, one for each country we were visiting and the back had a map of the world on it. Order those for the exorbitant amount of 750 rupees, $15, then cruised around Thamel that evening, book shopping. **7th April 193, Kathmandu to Bhaktapur –** Thought we would head out to Bhaktapur today to have a look but before our departure, we ordered these red woolen pullovers with cotton lining for 550 rupees each. Jumped on the Nepalese version of a matatu out to Bhaktapur, but we got off way too early in the middle of nowhere and ended up walking quite a bit. It was an interesting walk, though. Instead of weeds growing on the side of the road, it was marijuana plants, tons of them. We walked a bit longer but tired of that quickly and haled down the first minivan going towards our destination. Finally arrived in Bhaktapur and wandered around yet another Square named Durbar. Looked at the temples, which all looked the same, then sat in the square where Rich checked out the art museum. [![](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/1993/nepal122.jpg "Nepalese Boy")](http://www.traveller.org/nepal/)While sitting out there, I met a Nepalese boy who must have been about nine who sat there and we spoke Nepalese to each other. Rather he spoke Nepalese to me and I tried to speak Nepalese back to him using my limited vocabulary. We wandered around the city, which I much preferred to Kathmandu because it is 85% pedestrian streets, so you get that feeling that this is what the city really is like. Wandered to another square where the largest temple in Kathmandu valley stands. The square was teeming with small children playing and I took many photographs of them. After a couple of hours of walking, we headed back to Kathmandu to see if our flag shirts were ready. The man making the shirt held up the one that was finished and both Rich and I were blown away at how awesome it looked. This man knew what he was doing and it was worth every cent. We rested, then went out drinking for happy hour on one of the various rooftop bars. We had many-many San Miguels and ended up talking to a bunch of Californians. Two were this couple from Los Angeles, total southern California people who both work for the various TV production companies. The third was a girl named Christine Smith, who had been living in the Berkeley Hills, but her house burned down in the great Oakland fire, so she was using her federal money to travel. She said the money was supposed to be used to replace her belongings and she figured since a lot of her stuff came from other countries, she was justified in using the money to travel and replace her possessions per the government’s request. Went out for a late dinner and stumbled back to the room shortly after that. \[ad\] April 7th, 1993 | Category: [Nepal](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=22 "Nepal") --- ## Entering Burma Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=528 Published: 2001-06-19 Region: Asia, Burma # Entering Burma As I try to distill three day’s worth of travel through Burma I get the calming privilege of sitting on a terrace facing the muddy brown waters of the Irawaddy River. I can see a line of foothills across the opposite bank, one hill with the white spire of a paya (stupa) temple atop. We’re in our landscaped hotel, the Thante River Side, where Reynald and I have decided to kick it for a few days. The hotel management has figured out that we’re exceptional customers of the bar so have assigned a server to sit on terrace level behind us in the shade of a nearby tree, ready to be dispatched up to the main building for some rum and coke as required. Thirty six countries I’ve veisited, and usually upon entering an entirely new territory there’s some flash back in my mind that creates a correlation to some previous experience. With Burma, or Myanmar as the military junta dictatorship prefer, the puzzling thing to me was that I didn’t get this feeling, even after the first day in Rangoon. That alone, that it can be such a different place, makes this country that much more magical. I finally worked it out last night – it’s a combination of all the best elements of our other favorite places. We arrived in Rangoon one hot humid morning on June 16th, two days before the Thai prime minister was to make a milestone visit to Burma. There were workers sprucing up all areas of the airport to make it look more presentable for his imminent arrival. Bamboo scaffolding everywhere. Our plane landed after cruising over lush green jungle, dotted with the white and gold Buddah payas, then the moment we landed and the doors opened we felt the 32\*C (94\*F) heat hit us at 7:00 a.m. This was the weather of British Burma that Rudyard Kipling so often commented on. Reynald and I exited the plane and walked across the tarmac to the faux-wood paneled airport terminal and the circa 1940’s immigration posts. The way immigration and customs works is where one immigration agent types your details in the the computer then a second one rewrites any words on your entry documents that weren’t clear. Of course this is done after all of the data has been keyed into the computer. You work it out. Step two is dealing with the exchange of U.S. dollars into Foreign Exchange Certificates (FECs). The military junta’s way of extracting cash from tourists is to force out each visitor to convert US$200 to FECs at a one-t0-0ne ratio. You can use the FECs to pay for plane tickets and hotels but if you try to convert them to the local currency, the kyat, you’ll get a lower exchange rate. Moral of the story is to change as little cash into FECs so you can buy local currency on the black market and reduce your travel cost. Reynald and I had heard stories about bribing the FEC exchange officer to get out of changing too much, so I thought I’d try. We passed immigration together and I pulled out two US$100 bills, the minimum we could change for one person, and placed that and both passports on the counter. I then played pantomime with the agent and motioned that this was for both of us. She finally said, in English, “If you can help me.” I topped off the passports with a US$20 bill, the smallest I had, and she handed over the $200 now converted to FECs and told us not to tell anyone. We bundled ourselves into our taxi for the thirty minute ride into Rangoon and instantly we were mezmerized. Everything was so green. Green, green, green, green. England is green, Vermont is green, nothing like Rangoon though. It reminded us both of East Africa more than anywhere else. There was dense jungle on both sides of the street, palm trees, banana trees, flowers blooming in colors I’d never seen in nature – this was all so incredibly striking. Then we passed through some of the old British areas of town. The old colonial buildings, now worn from fifty years of use since independence still hold theire Imperialist honour. We saw some mansions with absolutely perfectly manicured gardens surrounding a stark whitewashed colonial property. Kipling once again came to mind. God love the British man who was born in India and knew the British colonial holdings better than his motherland. And he got to write to tell us about it! Both Reynald and I were silent in the car as we rode in. The driver told us some highlights as we drove, I think, but I’m pretty sure neither one of us heard what he was talking about as we were engrossed with our focus of watching the country unfold in front of us. We took a room in th ehome of this sweet Burmese family, the Three Seasons Hotel, with was $20 a night including breakfast. Since we’re travelling during the rainy season all the prices are down a bit, but admittedly in this climate it rains every day in the morning and the late afternoon around four o’clock. We had a walk down the main shopping street and I was getting India flashbacks: food being cooked out in the open, fruits and vegetables you can only get in this part of the world for sale on the street . . . June 19th, 2001 | Category: [Asia,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=3 "Asia") [Burma](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=23 "Burma") --- ## Going Standby in Mandalay Source: https://www.traveller.org/journal/?p=531 Published: 2001-06-22 Region: Asia, Burma # Going Standby in Mandalay Three days ago we woke up in our Rangoon hotel at 5:30 a.m. and headed to the airport for our departure up country. We’d gotten a “special monsoon fare” from Air Mandalay to get us to a series of points around the country since it’s the rainy season and the roads and rail are all in disrepair at the moment. We got to the Rangoon airport and had to go through immigration and customs again so they could track our internal movement. It took us a while but was pretty straightforward. They called boarding for our flight and once we were on the plane they did a headcount and since everyone was present the plane actually left 15 min early! I suppose it’s more efficient since everyone was on board. One hour later we were landing at a simple airport in the Bagan Archaelogical Zone. This region is absolutely unbelievable and there is nothing like it anywhere else in the world. In the historical Mon period in Burma from 800-1200 AD the Mon king had a series of Buddhist temples constructed in this are in the west of the country. In a 10 sq kilometer area there once stood over 4,000 temples averaging from ten to fifty metres high. Today about 2,500 remain tucked in the jungle, all scattered across the region. When we exited the airport transportation choices were taxi or horse-drawn cart. We chose the cart, threw our backpacks up with the driver then sat backwards with our legs hanging off the back of the cart. We were heading to the opposite side of the region to a series of hotels that sit on the Irawaddy river at the center of the temple zone. It was 7:30 a.m. and already getting warm, but it was dry, such a welcome change from the heavy heat of Rangoon. At this hour of the morning the sun is also casting a golden glow across the region. Our cart left the airport and went down the paved road for five hundred metres but instead of following the road it turned onto a dirt track and headed out through the fields. We couldn’t see anything at first due to the high bushes surrounding the adjacent field, but where they ended the most magnificent view was afforded to us. Twenty temple, all different sizes, lay before us – some right next to the cart and others off in the distance. The sunlight lit every on perfectly, some temples’ spires blocked by only a row of lazy palm trees which just added to the view. White spires, red brick spires, gold leaf, these were truly otherworldly. Many of these temples have a large square base with a tall circular spine rising up from there. June 22nd, 2001 | Category: [Asia,](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=3 "Asia") [Burma](https://www.traveller.org/journal/?cat=23 "Burma") --- ## Traveller's Tales - Travel Photography & Currency / Bank Note Library Source: https://www.traveller.org/index.html ![](images/header-home-logo.png) ![Billboard](billboard/delhi-temple-noflash.jpg) ![](images/script-quote-home.gif) ![](images/script-view-photos.gif) ![](images/script-americas.gif) * [Argentina](argentina/index.html) * [Brazil](brazil/index.html) * [Canada](canada/1996/index.html) * [Cuba](cuba/index.html) * [Guatemala](guatemala/index.html) * [Mexico](mexico/2010/tulum/index.html) * [Peru](peru/2010/index.html) * [Uruguay](uruguay/index.html) ![](images/script-africa.gif) * [Burundi](burundi/index.html) * [Botswana](botswana/index.html) * [Egypt](egypt/index.html) * [Kenya](africaphotos/index.html) * [Malawi](malawi/index.html) * [South Africa](southafrica/index.html) * [Tanzania](tanzania/1992/index.html) * [Uganda](uganda/1992/index.html) * [Zaire (DR Congo)](zaire/index.html) * [Zambia](africaphotos/index.html) * [Zimbabwe](zimbabwe/index.html) ![](images/script-asia-pacific.gif) * [Australia](australia/index.html) * [Burma](burma/index.html) * [Cambodia](cambodia/2009/index.html) * [China](china/index.html) * [Hong Kong](hongkong/1993/index.html) * [Indonesia](indonesia/index.html) * [Malaysia](malaysia/index.html) * [New Zealand](newzealand/index.html) * [North Korea](northkorea/2008/photos/index.html) * [Singapore](singapore/index.html) * [South Korea](southkorea/index.html) * [Thailand](thailand/1993/index.html) * [Vietnam](vietnam/index.html) ![](images/script-south-asia.gif) * [Bangladesh](bangladesh/1993/index.html) * [India](india/index.html) * [Nepal](nepal/index.html)![](images/new.gif) * [Sri Lanka](srilanka/index.html) ![](images/script-europe.gif) * [Belgium](belgium/1996/index.html) * [Greece](greece/index.html) * [Luxembourg](luxembourg/index.html) * [Portugal](portugal/index.html) * [Russia](russia/1997/index.html) * [Turkey](turkey/1995/index.html) [![](images/burma-bradley-temple-top.jpg)](http://travellerstales.smugmug.com/) ![](images/script-header-journal.gif) ![](/images/arrow-right.gif) **Asia:** Working in lands so different from your own, with the intense rush of a daily change of everything you know. 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Robinson 1995-2012 --- ## Foreign Currency & Bank Note Image Library - Largest collection of foreign bank notes on the web Source: https://www.traveller.org/currency/index.html [![](../images/to-home-header-blue.gif)](../index.html) ![](../images/header-foreign-notes.gif) The artwork on a country's currency usually contains historical or cultural references and is a source of national pride. Here are copies of all the foreign bank notes collected over the years displaying this great art. Click on any of the notes to see a close up of the detail.  **Australia Dollar** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/australia-20f.jpg)](../australia/australia-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/australia-20b.jpg)](../australia/australia-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/australia-5f.jpg)](../australia/australia-notes-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/australia-5b.jpg)](../australia/australia-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge)  **Botswana Pula** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/botswana-2f.jpg)](../botswana/botswana-notes-2.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/botswana-2b.jpg)](../botswana/botswana-notes-2.html) (Click to enlarge) **Burma (Myanmar) Kyat** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/burma-500f.jpg)](../burma/burma-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/burma-500b.jpg)](../burma/burma-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/burma-200f.jpg)](../burma/burma-notes-200.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/burma-200b.jpg)](../burma/burma-notes-200.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/burma-10f.jpg)](../burma/burma-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/burma-10b.jpg)](../burma/burma-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/burma-5f.jpg)](../burma/burma-notes-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/burma-5b.jpg)](../burma/burma-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge) **Burundi Franc** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/burundi-50f.jpg)](../burundi/burundi-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/burundi-50b.jpg)](../burundi/burundi-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) **Cambodia Riel** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/cambodia-100f.jpg)](../cambodia/currency/cambodia-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/cambodia-100b.jpg)](../cambodia/currency/cambodia-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/cambodia-500f.jpg)](../cambodia/currency/cambodia-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/cambodia-500b.jpg)](../cambodia/currency/cambodia-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/cambodia-1000f.jpg)](../cambodia/currency/cambodia-notes-1000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/cambodia-1000b.jpg)](../cambodia/currency/cambodia-notes-1000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/cambodia-2000f.jpg)](../cambodia/currency/cambodia-notes-2000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/cambodia-2000b.jpg)](../cambodia/currency/cambodia-notes-2000.html) (Click to enlarge) **China Yuan** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-1f-1.jpg)](../china/currency/china-1a.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-1b-1.jpg)](../china/currency/china-1a.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-1f.jpg)](../china/currency/china-1.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-1b.jpg)](../china/currency/china-1.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-5w-f.jpg)](../china/currency/china-5w.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-5w-b.jpg)](../china/currency/china-5w.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-5f.jpg)](../china/currency/china-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-5b.jpg)](../china/currency/china-5.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-10f.jpg)](../china/currency/china-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/china-10b.jpg)](../china/currency/china-10.html) (Click to enlarge) **Cuba Peso** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/cuba-1f.jpg)](../cuba/cuba-notes-1.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/cuba-1b.jpg)](../cuba/cuba-notes-1.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/cuba-1f-hard.jpg)](../cuba/cuba-notes-1-hard.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/cuba-1b-hard.jpg)](../cuba/cuba-notes-1-hard.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/cuba-10f.jpg)](../cuba/cuba-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/cuba-10b.jpg)](../cuba/cuba-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/cuba-20f.jpg)](../cuba/cuba-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/cuba-20b.jpg)](../cuba/cuba-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) **Czech Republic Kronu** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/czech-20f.jpg)](czech-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/czech-20b.jpg)](czech-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) **Egypt Pound** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/egypt-50f.jpg)](../egypt/egypt-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/egypt-50b.jpg)](../egypt/egypt-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/egypt-1f.jpg)](../egypt/egypt-notes-1.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/egypt-1b.jpg)](../egypt/egypt-notes-1.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/egypt-5f.jpg)](../egypt/egypt-notes-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/egypt-5b.jpg)](../egypt/egypt-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge) **European Union Euro** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/euro-200.jpg)](euro-notes-200.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/euro-50.jpg)](euro-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/euro-20.jpg)](euro-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/euro-10.jpg)](euro-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) **Greece Drachma** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/greece-200f.jpg)](../greece/greece-notes-200.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/greece-200b.jpg)](../greece/greece-notes-200.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/greece-100f.jpg)](../greece/greece-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/greece-100b.jpg)](../greece/greece-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) **Guatemala Quetzal** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/guatemala-20f.jpg)](../guatemala/guatemala-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/guatemala-20b.jpg)](../guatemala/guatemala-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/guatemala-10f.jpg)](../guatemala/guatemala-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/guatemala-10b.jpg)](../guatemala/guatemala-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/guatemala-5f.jpg)](../guatemala/guatemala-notes-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/guatemala-5b.jpg)](../guatemala/guatemala-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge) **Hong Kong Dollar** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-50f.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-50b.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-20f.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-20-old.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-20b.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-20-old.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-20f-new.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-10f-2009.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-10-2009.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-10b-2009.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-10-2009.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-10f-old.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-10-old.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-10b-old.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-10-old.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-10f-old2.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-10-old-2.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/hk-10b-old2.jpg)](../hongkong/currency/hk-notes-10-old-2.html) (Click to enlarge) **Hungary Forint** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/hungary-100f.jpg)](hungary-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/hungary-100b.jpg)](hungary-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/hungary-50f.jpg)](hungary-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/hungary-50b.jpg)](hungary-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) **India Rupee** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-10f-brown.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-10-old.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-10b-brown.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-10-old.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-10f-new.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-10b-new.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-10f-old2.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-10-old-2.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-10b-old2.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-10-old-2.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-1f.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-1.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-1b.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-1.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-2f-red.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-2.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-2b-red.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-2.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-2f-blue.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-2-blue.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-2b-blue.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-2-blue.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-5f.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-5b.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-50f-new.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-50b-new.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-100f-old.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-100-old.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-100b-old.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-100-old.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-100f-new.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/india-100b-new.jpg)](../india/currency/india-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) **Indonesia Rupiah** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-1000f.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-1000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-1000b.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-1000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-1000f-old.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-1000-old.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-1000b-old.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-1000-old.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-500f-2.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-500b-2.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-500f-3.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-500-2.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-500b-3.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-500-2.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-100f.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-100b.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-5000f.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-5000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/indo-5000b.jpg)](../indonesia/currency/indo-notes-5000.html) (Click to enlarge) **Kenya Shilling** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/kenya-20f.jpg)](kenya-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/kenya-20b.jpg)](kenya-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/kenya-10f.jpg)](kenya-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/kenya-10b.jpg)](kenya-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) **Malawi Kwacha** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/malawi-5f.jpg)](../malawi/malawi-notes-1.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/malawi-5b.jpg)](../malawi/malawi-notes-1.html) (Click to enlarge) **Malaysia Ringgit** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/malay-10f.jpg)](../malaysia/malay-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/malay-10b.jpg)](../malaysia/malay-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/malay-5f.jpg)](../malaysia/malay-notes-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/malay-5b.jpg)](../malaysia/malay-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/malay-1f.jpg)](../malaysia/malay-notes-1.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/malay-2b.jpg)](../malaysia/malay-notes-1.html) (Click to enlarge) **Nepal Rupee** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/nepal-500f.jpg)](../nepal/nepal-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/nepal-500b.jpg)](../nepal/nepal-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/nepal-5f.jpg)](../nepal/nepal-notes-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/nepal-5b.jpg)](../nepal/nepal-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/nepal-2f.jpg)](../nepal/nepal-notes-2.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/nepal-2b.jpg)](../nepal/nepal-notes-2.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/nepal-1f.jpg)](../nepal/nepal-notes-1.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/nepal-1b.jpg)](../nepal/nepal-notes-1.html) (Click to enlarge) **Netherlands Guilder** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/netherlands-10f.jpg)](netherlands-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/netherlands-10b.jpg)](netherlands-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) **New Zealand Dollar** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/nz-5f.jpg)](nz-notes-5.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/nz-5b.jpg)](nz-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge) **Portugal Escudo** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/portugal-1000f.jpg)](../portugal/portugal-notes-1000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/portugal-1000b.jpg)](../portugal/portugal-notes-1000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/portugal-1000f-new.jpg)](../portugal/portugal-notes-1000-2.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/portugla-1000b-new.jpg)](../portugal/portugal-notes-1000-2.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/portugal-500f.jpg)](../portugal/portugal-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/portugal-500b.jpg)](../portugal/portugal-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) **Russia** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/russia-1000f.jpg)](russia-notes-1000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/russia-1000b.jpg)](russia-notes-1000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/russia-500f.jpg)](russia-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/russia-500b.jpg)](russia-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) **Singapore Dollar** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/singapore-2f-05.jpg)](../singapore/singapore-2-05.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/singapore-2b-05.jpg)](../singapore/singapore-2-05.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/singapore-2f.jpg)](../singapore/singapore-notes-2.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/singapore-2b.jpg)](../singapore/singapore-notes-2.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/singapore-1f.jpg)](../singapore/singapore-notes-1.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/singapore-1b.jpg)](../singapore/singapore-notes-1.html) (Click to enlarge) **South Africa Rand** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/safrica-20f.gif)](../southafrica/zar-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/safrica-20b.jpg)](../southafrica/zar-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/safrica-10f.gif)](../southafrica/zar-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/safrica-10b.jpg)](../southafrica/zar-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) **South Korea Won** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/korea-1000f.jpg)](../southkorea/korea-1000w.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/korea-1000b.jpg)](../southkorea/korea-1000w.html) (Click to enlarge) **Spain Peseta** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/spain-1000f.jpg)](spain-notes-1000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/spain-1000b.jpg)](spain-notes-1000.html) (Click to enlarge) **Sri Lanka Rupee** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-10f.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-10b.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-20f.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-20b.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-50f.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-50b.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-100f.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-100b.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-200f.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-200.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-200b.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-200.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-500f.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/srilanka-500b.jpg)](../srilanka/currency/srilanka-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) **Tanzania Shilling** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/tanzania-100f.jpg)](tanzania-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/tanzania-100b.jpg)](tanzania-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/tanzania-200f.jpg)](tanzania-notes-200.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/tanzania-200b.jpg)](tanzania-notes-200.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/tanzania-50f.jpg)](tanzania-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/tanzania-50b.jpg)](tanzania-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) **Thailand Bhat** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/thai-50f.jpg)](thai-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/thai-50b.jpg)](thai-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/thai-50f-old.jpg)](thai-notes-50-old.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/thai-50b-old.jpg)](thai-notes-50-old.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/thai-20f.jpg)](thai-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/thai-20b.jpg)](thai-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/thai-10f.jpg)](thai-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/thai-10b.jpg)](thai-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) **Turkey Lire** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/turkey-20f.jpg)](turkey-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/turkey-20b.jpg)](turkey-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/turkey-10f.jpg)](turkey-notes-1000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/turkey-10b.jpg)](turkey-notes-1000.html) (Click to enlarge) **Uganda Shilling** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/uganda-1000f.jpg)](uganda-notes-1000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/uganda-1000b.jpg)](uganda-notes-1000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/uganda-200f.jpg)](uganda-notes-200.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/uganda-200b.jpg)](uganda-notes-200.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/uganda-100f.jpg)](uganda-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/uganda-100b.jpg)](uganda-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) **Uruguay Peso** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/uruguay-20f.jpg)](../uruguay/uruguay-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/uruguay-20b.jpg)](../uruguay/uruguay-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/uruguay-10f.jpg)](../uruguay/uruguay-notes-10.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/uruguay-10b.jpg)](../uruguay/uruguay-notes-10.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/uruguay-5000f.jpg)](../uruguay/uruguay-notes-5000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/uruguay-5000b.jpg)](../uruguay/uruguay-notes-5000.html) (Click to enlarge) **Vietnam Dong** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-500f.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-500b.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-1000f.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-1000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-1000b.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-1000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-2000f.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-2000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-2000b.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-2000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-5000f.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-5000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-5000b.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-5000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-10000f.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-10000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-10000b.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-10000.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-20000f.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-20000.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/vietnam-20000b.jpg)](../vietnam/currency/vietnam-notes-20000.html) (Click to enlarge) **Zaire Zaires** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/zaire-1mf.jpg)](../zaire/zaire-notes-1m.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/zaire-1mb.jpg)](../zaire/zaire-notes-1m.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/zaire-500f.jpg)](../zaire/zaire-notes-500.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/zaire-500b.jpg)](../zaire/zaire-notes-500.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/zaire-50f.jpg)](../zaire/zaire-notes-50.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/zaire-50b.jpg)](../zaire/zaire-notes-50.html) (Click to enlarge) **Zambia** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/zambia-100f.jpg)](../zambia/zambia-notes-100.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/zambia-100b.jpg)](../zambia/zambia-notes-100.html) (Click to enlarge) [![](../images/currency-thumbs/zambia-20f.jpg)](../zambia/zambia-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/zambia-20b.jpg)](../zambia/zambia-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) **Zimbabwe Dollar** [![](../images/currency-thumbs/zim-20f.jpg)](../zimbabwe/zim-notes-20.html)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/zim-20b.jpg)](../zimbabwe/zim-notes-20.html) (Click to enlarge) ![](../images/currency-thumbs/zim-5f.jpg)![](../images/blank.gif)[![](../images/currency-thumbs/zim-5-back.jpg)](../zimbabwe/zim-notes-5.html) (Click to enlarge) ---