I awoke to a still dawn. The wind had died peacefully in the night and the dust had settled, leaving me to admire a clear, crisp, salmon pink sunrise from my sleeping bag. Carol and Susan were already up and had produced a welcome breakfast of porridge and bananas. Once we'd consumed that along with buckets of hot, strong coffee we set off once more along the Niger river towards Timbuktu. The morning proved to be one of delight and frustration in equal measure. Without the wind the river was glassy smooth and there was plenty of bird-life to keep us entertained. Pelicans glided along the water in stately procession, yellow billed storks poked about in the shallows and majestic black and white African fish eagles gave voice to their eerie "kyow-kow-kow" call from some of the taller trees. Best of all were the Abyssinian rollers with their stunning sky blue, navy blue and rich chestnut plumage. They flew all around the truck, skimming the ground and swooping for insects. There were carmine bee eaters too, emerging from their nest holes in the river bank. They too were out for a breakfast of insects. Flocks of them perched in the trees at the river's edge, their red, orange, yellow and green feathers glowing like exploding fireworks as they caught the sunlight.
The frustration came later that morning when we encountered a series of soft dunes that the truck couldn't cope with. Every few hundred yards we'd have to unload the heavy steel sand ladders, dig the wheels out of the axle deep sand and shove the four ton truck with all our might while the wheels spun and threw hot sand into our sweating faces. Seven or eight episodes of this later I was beginning to doubt that we'd reach Timbuktu that day. We did though. Actually we didn't so much reach Timbuktu as it seemed to ambush us. One moment we were struggling through low dunes, the next we were driving along Timbuktu's main street, which funnily enough also consisted mostly of low dunes. There were a few tawny coloured buildings. Single story affairs made from mud and straw and corrugated iron. This was all that remained of a once mighty trading centre.
Deeper into the town we found a modern hotel, built in what I assume was meant to be traditional Dogon style. The portly French manager told us that we were welcome to set up camp in the hotel grounds and we spent the evening drinking expensive warm beer in the air-conditioned comfort of the lounge. Two Aussie lads and myself decided we'd get a triple room for the night, thinking that we'd sleep better in a real bed with air-conditioning. However, half an hour after we'd turned in the generator failed, the air-con gave a death rattle and the room quickly grew suffocatingly hot. I gave up on the dubious comfort of the bed and went to sleep the rest of the night in the truck with some of the others who hadn't trusted the generator from the start.
Shortly after we'd arrived that afternoon the Frenchman had appointed a tall, indigo clad Tuareg (predictably called Ahmed), to keep inquisitive children away from our camp. Ahmed was an intimidating character. Well over six feet tall, wiry, with piercing black eyes and a long hooked nose. I saw him demonstrate his strength to the kids by picking up a large goat by the throat with one hand and rendering it unconscious but still alive with just the right amount of pressure with his powerful fingers. The children were suitably impressed and kept away from our camp all night. In the morning he was still awake and alert and looking much more dignified than anyone who has been awake all night has a right to. Over breakfast he invited us to his camp a couple of kilometres away. We accepted and he told us to be ready in one hour and then walked away into the white dunes to the west. Exactly an hour later he returned and beckoned us to follow him.
In a hollow beyond the first dune five camels were kneeling in the sand. A small group of Targui tribesmen milled about impatiently - all dressed in the same indigo robes at Ahmed. It was going to be two to a camel. Ridiculously, the two heaviest of our group, Shin - a quiet Japanese and I were chosen for the smallest camel and as the poor beast laboriously rocked itself to it's feet with the two of us clinging to it's bony back a fight broke out amongst some of the other Targui. Apparently it was over who's camel should carry whom. Punches were thrown, guttural threats were made and all the time our Tuareg was leading us away from the group into the Sahara, under an empty blue sky . Inevitably I was reminded of the treacherous reputation the Targui of the past had earned themselves. They'd lied to, cheated and butchered hundreds of infidel explorers and missionaries who'd tried to cross or settle in the Sahara, though it has to be said that many had only themselves to blame for their fate, for they'd tried to exploit the tribesmen. Occasionally they'd play along with the missionaries, letting them believe they were being converted to Christianity before falling on them and slaughtering them. A comforting thought for Shin and I as we swayed across the dunes away from Timbuktu towards a Targui camp that was somewhere out there in the desert under a broiling, glaring sun.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The Great Thirst. Part One
My childhood was overshadowed by my parents' threat of deportation to Timbuktu should my behaviour fail to live up to their expectations. Of course I had no idea what or where Timbuktu was, other than a vague notion that it might be some sort of far away concentration camp for naughty children who arrived in crates from all over England. As it happens though I didn't find myself there until I was twenty seven and I arrived in a four ton Bedford truck rather than a crate, although I suspect that the crate option would have been more comfortable. Myself and about a dozen others from all over the world were participating in an overland adventure holiday - a tough 4 week drive from Lome to to Tunis.
It was mid-May, the hottest time of the year in Mali. We had reached Mopti and our aim was to drive to Timbuktu, following the Niger River but it was a race against time as the rains were due and if they broke we could find ourselves trapped on the floodplain by the rising river. We left Mopti in a dust storm. A hot, abrasive wind whipped up the dead, powdery earth and threw it in our faces. The sky turned dirty brown and the glowering sun became a dull orange ball. Still the heat was unrelenting . Fifty five degrees centigrade and humid with it. Just as unrelenting was the dust. It was everywhere. In our food, our mouths, our underwear, our cameras. We reached a point in the river where a ferry operated. Normally the Niger at this point measures a mile from bank to bank, but now it had shrunk to a couple of hundred yards wide and was as brown and sluggish as molten chocolate. Twenty minutes later the ferry deposited us and our truck safely on the far bank, although the high sides of the vehicle had acted as a sail and pushed us many yards downstream where it was much more difficult to disembark in the soft sand. An hour of pushing, shoving, cursing and man-handling our heavy steel sand mats and we were on our way once more at quite a good speed, trailing a huge plume of dust.
We stopped for lunch but in such heat it was impossible to raise an appetite. Thomas - a young Japanese and myself dug a fire pit to boil water for tea and we all slumped to the ground and guzzled litres of the stuff. No matter how much we drank we wanted more. The sweat evaporated from our skin the moment it emerged from our pores, leaving it perfectly dry despite our exertions. The plain spread out around us as far as the eye could see and was featureless save for a few stunted thorn trees and sandy hillocks. The only sound as we sat and drank our tea was the cracking of the truck's canvas covering as it flapped savagely in the wind.
Later that afternoon we reached a Peul fishing village. The low mud dwellings blended perfectly with the landscape so that we didn't see them until the last minute. Dozens of children, some naked, some dressed in tattered clothes swarmed from the village and we had to stop for fear of running them down as they surrounded the vehicle. Thomas and Siggy - a young gaunt German woman leapt down to greet the children who initially were frightened and stood back, their stomachs swollen by malnutrition and their mouths set in gleaming white grins. Soon they overcame their fear and Thomas was dragged away by the hand to see the village by twenty or thirty children. Siggy was lifted shoulder high and placed on an emaciated donkey which was then bullied into trotting around in circles while the children whooped and cheered.
An elderly, tall, spindly man with white hair and sagging black skin which seemed too big for him pushed his way through the children and approached the truck. He spoke to David - our driver who was still sitting behind the wheel. "Bonjour. Ca va?" He said, addressing us all. His legs were so thin it seemed they could snap under his meagre weight at any moment. In French he told David that he was a rich man with many cattle and that his village needed nothing except medicine. All we had had was aspirin and gastro-stop, neither of which would make much of an impression against river-blindness, bilharzia and malaria. Nevertheless we gave him all we could spare. He thanked us, turned on his heel and marched with great dignity back to the village.
Ten minutes later Thomas reappeared, still surrounded by children. They released him and he clambered up into the truck and as we slowly pulled away the children started to run alongside, faster and faster as we picked up speed. I was astonished by their stamina considering how badly undernourished they were. But then I couldn't watch as they ran and stumbled dangerously close to our wheels. finally, one by one they fell back and stood waving and shouting until we were out of sight.
We drove on under an alien orange sky for the rest of the afternoon. At dusk we set up camp on higher ground under a large baobab tree. The wind had dropped a little but it was still a struggle to erect the tents and some of us didn't bother, choosing to scoop a hollow in the sand in which to lay our sleeping bags. Let the scorpions come. We didn't care, we were too hot and tired and nightfall brought little relief from the heat . Dinner was the same as it had been for the last five days - vegetable and pasta stew. There was no meat, and nowhere to keep it cool if we had it. So we sat around the camp fire, pecking unenthusiastically at our food and swallowing litres of tea. Tomorrow if all went well we would be in Timbuktu by sunset and there were rumours of a hotel with air conditioning.
It was mid-May, the hottest time of the year in Mali. We had reached Mopti and our aim was to drive to Timbuktu, following the Niger River but it was a race against time as the rains were due and if they broke we could find ourselves trapped on the floodplain by the rising river. We left Mopti in a dust storm. A hot, abrasive wind whipped up the dead, powdery earth and threw it in our faces. The sky turned dirty brown and the glowering sun became a dull orange ball. Still the heat was unrelenting . Fifty five degrees centigrade and humid with it. Just as unrelenting was the dust. It was everywhere. In our food, our mouths, our underwear, our cameras. We reached a point in the river where a ferry operated. Normally the Niger at this point measures a mile from bank to bank, but now it had shrunk to a couple of hundred yards wide and was as brown and sluggish as molten chocolate. Twenty minutes later the ferry deposited us and our truck safely on the far bank, although the high sides of the vehicle had acted as a sail and pushed us many yards downstream where it was much more difficult to disembark in the soft sand. An hour of pushing, shoving, cursing and man-handling our heavy steel sand mats and we were on our way once more at quite a good speed, trailing a huge plume of dust.
We stopped for lunch but in such heat it was impossible to raise an appetite. Thomas - a young Japanese and myself dug a fire pit to boil water for tea and we all slumped to the ground and guzzled litres of the stuff. No matter how much we drank we wanted more. The sweat evaporated from our skin the moment it emerged from our pores, leaving it perfectly dry despite our exertions. The plain spread out around us as far as the eye could see and was featureless save for a few stunted thorn trees and sandy hillocks. The only sound as we sat and drank our tea was the cracking of the truck's canvas covering as it flapped savagely in the wind.
Later that afternoon we reached a Peul fishing village. The low mud dwellings blended perfectly with the landscape so that we didn't see them until the last minute. Dozens of children, some naked, some dressed in tattered clothes swarmed from the village and we had to stop for fear of running them down as they surrounded the vehicle. Thomas and Siggy - a young gaunt German woman leapt down to greet the children who initially were frightened and stood back, their stomachs swollen by malnutrition and their mouths set in gleaming white grins. Soon they overcame their fear and Thomas was dragged away by the hand to see the village by twenty or thirty children. Siggy was lifted shoulder high and placed on an emaciated donkey which was then bullied into trotting around in circles while the children whooped and cheered.
An elderly, tall, spindly man with white hair and sagging black skin which seemed too big for him pushed his way through the children and approached the truck. He spoke to David - our driver who was still sitting behind the wheel. "Bonjour. Ca va?" He said, addressing us all. His legs were so thin it seemed they could snap under his meagre weight at any moment. In French he told David that he was a rich man with many cattle and that his village needed nothing except medicine. All we had had was aspirin and gastro-stop, neither of which would make much of an impression against river-blindness, bilharzia and malaria. Nevertheless we gave him all we could spare. He thanked us, turned on his heel and marched with great dignity back to the village.
Ten minutes later Thomas reappeared, still surrounded by children. They released him and he clambered up into the truck and as we slowly pulled away the children started to run alongside, faster and faster as we picked up speed. I was astonished by their stamina considering how badly undernourished they were. But then I couldn't watch as they ran and stumbled dangerously close to our wheels. finally, one by one they fell back and stood waving and shouting until we were out of sight.
We drove on under an alien orange sky for the rest of the afternoon. At dusk we set up camp on higher ground under a large baobab tree. The wind had dropped a little but it was still a struggle to erect the tents and some of us didn't bother, choosing to scoop a hollow in the sand in which to lay our sleeping bags. Let the scorpions come. We didn't care, we were too hot and tired and nightfall brought little relief from the heat . Dinner was the same as it had been for the last five days - vegetable and pasta stew. There was no meat, and nowhere to keep it cool if we had it. So we sat around the camp fire, pecking unenthusiastically at our food and swallowing litres of tea. Tomorrow if all went well we would be in Timbuktu by sunset and there were rumours of a hotel with air conditioning.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Last Gua Gua Home
The island of Tenerife lies about 250 kilometres off the coast of Morocco. It sits in the North Atlantic, way south of the latitude of Marrakech. If one was to row due east to the coast of Africa and then keep walking you'd see nothing but the sands of the Sahara Desert until you reached the Red Sea. The island is Spanish territory, yet it's about 1000 kilometres from Spain. It is the most spectacular of the Canary Islands. Essentially, being Spanish, the island is European. Geographically it is African. Scenically it is neither really. Although many of it's best tourist beaches consist of millions of tons of sand shipped from the Sahara. Tenerife's natural beaches are black volcanic sand thanks to the huge now extinct volcano - Pico del Teide. At 3718 metres (12198 feet) it is the tallest mountain on Spanish Territory and it's snow capped peak can be seen from almost anywhere on the island.
Most Europeans know Tenerife as a package holiday destination; somewhere to escape the drudgery of the northern winter for a couple of blissful weeks. However you may know it as the scene of what is still the world's worst air disaster if you don't count 9/11, which let's face it, was no accident. On a foggy day in March 1977 two Boeing 747s, one from KLM and the other from Pan Am collided on the runway killing 583 passengers. Only 61 survived. The greatest tragedy is that neither planes were supposed to be there. Both had been diverted from Las Palmas due to a bomb scare. This happened at Los Rodeos airport and by the time I flew there in 1983 the main international airport had been moved to a less fog prone location.
Still, that night, as my plane bumped and jolted through a flashing thunderstorm on the final approach I couldn't help but be a little tense, and it was with rather sweaty palms that I finally undid my seatbelt when the aircraft pulled up at the terminal. I walked and walked during my week in Tenerife. I've always thought it the best way to get to know somewhere. You meet people, you see things that you'd miss flashing by in a vehicle, and you smell things too, and that for me is the most evocative sense of all. A whiff of freshly baked bread can transport you to your favourite Parisienne patisserie in no time at all. And so that first morning I walked from my accommodation in central Puerto de la Cruz to La Orotava a few kilometres away perched on a great green sloping plateau. Initially there was a fine, soaking drizzle, but before I reached my destination this cleared away and was replaced by a watery blue sky and warm sunshine which made the wet road steam eerily. There was mile after mile of banana plantations. Each tree hung with it's heavy bunch of green unripened fruit, while fresh raindrops on the enormous leaves sparkled like diamonds. Giant palm trees grew along the roadside too, 20 or 25 metres tall, each with a great green explosion of fronds at the top, and each filled with a profusion of chirping, squabbling sparrows. Back home in frigid Britain it was only two weeks before Christmas - hard to believe, surrounded as I was by the warmth and lush flora of the sub-tropics.
By the time I strolled into La Orotava it was siesta and everything was closed except the odd bar. Scrawny dogs snoozed in patches of cool shade and leathery skinned old women swathed in shawls sat on faded balconies sewing, or simply staring out of the endless Atlantic Ocean. The whole town snoozed while I explored its streets and charming parks. It only woke when it was time for me to return to Puerto de la Cruz and it wasn't a gradual awakening. Suddenly I was surrounded by jostling hoards of people and steady stream of traffic. The shops reopened and the kids came out to play. Siesta was emphatically over.
The next day I sampled the delights of the local public transport - privately owned mini-buses called "gua-guas." Each gua gua driver is hand picked by the boss for his psychopathic tendencies and unbridled aggression. It was in the company of one of these lunatics that I drove to the island's capital Santa Cruz. The buttock clenching trip ended with in swooping glide down a steep hill amidst a forest of Hong Kong - like high rise, which I have to say was unexpected, but the town was a disappointment. It was dirty and decaying and the fact that heavy grey clouds began to gather and sprinkle cold rain did not improve my impression of the place. And so it was back on the dreaded gua gua for the nerve jangling ride back to the more pleasant Puerto de la Cruz.
A couple of days later I dragged myself from my bed at 4am determined to walk to the summit of Pico del Teide - a 100 kilometre round trip. I was super fit in those days as well as super stupid. I brewed some tea and went out onto my balcony and there in the distance peeping out from behind the dark foothills was the snow capped peak glowing in the moonlight. It was the first time I'd seen the mountain. The road took me once more through La Orotava. The streets were as dark and silent as the banana plantations and nothing stirred as I left the town behind and started climbing towards the mountain. I was well beyond La Orotava when dawn broke and every cockerel on the island seemed to be celebrating. Dogs barked and each village was blessed with the aroma of baking bread. Then suddenly I was stopped in my tracks. There in front of me was Pico Teide. It loomed from behind a jagged ridge as pink as a giant strawberry icecream in the sun's early glow. It was stunning. I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful.
At three thousand feet it began to grow cold and everything was coated in a glistening layer of frost and my breath hung in the air. At five thousand feet the road was covered in a layer of ice wherever the rising sun had not yet reached and I found myself in the midst of a heavily scented pine forest where the thinning air was fragrant and intoxicating. Beyond the tree line was a moonscape of red and black rocks, and great orange volcanic crags bit huge lumps from the blue sky. At 8000 feet the peak seemed close enough to touch, but clouds moved in rapidly and a stinging squall of sleet began to fall. By the time I reached 11,000 feet I was in the midst of a full blown blizzard and I realised that any chance I had of reaching the summit had gone. Disconsolately I walked back to the nearest village and warmed my hands on a mug of hot chocolate, fortified with a healthy slug of brandy.
It was almost dark as I staggered back into the straggling suburbs of Puerto de la Cruz. I'd been walking for almost sixteen hours and had covered almost a hundred kilometres. To say I was a little tired is like saying that Mount Everest is a little hill. Three kilometres from home I gave up and risked what remained of my life in a gua gua. I slept well that night. I dreamed I'd reached the summit of Pico del Teide and could see Africa from her summit, the unforgiving sands of the Sahara stretched out in oceanic waves of dunes far to the east. Impossible of course, but a pleasant dream anyway.
Most Europeans know Tenerife as a package holiday destination; somewhere to escape the drudgery of the northern winter for a couple of blissful weeks. However you may know it as the scene of what is still the world's worst air disaster if you don't count 9/11, which let's face it, was no accident. On a foggy day in March 1977 two Boeing 747s, one from KLM and the other from Pan Am collided on the runway killing 583 passengers. Only 61 survived. The greatest tragedy is that neither planes were supposed to be there. Both had been diverted from Las Palmas due to a bomb scare. This happened at Los Rodeos airport and by the time I flew there in 1983 the main international airport had been moved to a less fog prone location.
Still, that night, as my plane bumped and jolted through a flashing thunderstorm on the final approach I couldn't help but be a little tense, and it was with rather sweaty palms that I finally undid my seatbelt when the aircraft pulled up at the terminal. I walked and walked during my week in Tenerife. I've always thought it the best way to get to know somewhere. You meet people, you see things that you'd miss flashing by in a vehicle, and you smell things too, and that for me is the most evocative sense of all. A whiff of freshly baked bread can transport you to your favourite Parisienne patisserie in no time at all. And so that first morning I walked from my accommodation in central Puerto de la Cruz to La Orotava a few kilometres away perched on a great green sloping plateau. Initially there was a fine, soaking drizzle, but before I reached my destination this cleared away and was replaced by a watery blue sky and warm sunshine which made the wet road steam eerily. There was mile after mile of banana plantations. Each tree hung with it's heavy bunch of green unripened fruit, while fresh raindrops on the enormous leaves sparkled like diamonds. Giant palm trees grew along the roadside too, 20 or 25 metres tall, each with a great green explosion of fronds at the top, and each filled with a profusion of chirping, squabbling sparrows. Back home in frigid Britain it was only two weeks before Christmas - hard to believe, surrounded as I was by the warmth and lush flora of the sub-tropics.
By the time I strolled into La Orotava it was siesta and everything was closed except the odd bar. Scrawny dogs snoozed in patches of cool shade and leathery skinned old women swathed in shawls sat on faded balconies sewing, or simply staring out of the endless Atlantic Ocean. The whole town snoozed while I explored its streets and charming parks. It only woke when it was time for me to return to Puerto de la Cruz and it wasn't a gradual awakening. Suddenly I was surrounded by jostling hoards of people and steady stream of traffic. The shops reopened and the kids came out to play. Siesta was emphatically over.
The next day I sampled the delights of the local public transport - privately owned mini-buses called "gua-guas." Each gua gua driver is hand picked by the boss for his psychopathic tendencies and unbridled aggression. It was in the company of one of these lunatics that I drove to the island's capital Santa Cruz. The buttock clenching trip ended with in swooping glide down a steep hill amidst a forest of Hong Kong - like high rise, which I have to say was unexpected, but the town was a disappointment. It was dirty and decaying and the fact that heavy grey clouds began to gather and sprinkle cold rain did not improve my impression of the place. And so it was back on the dreaded gua gua for the nerve jangling ride back to the more pleasant Puerto de la Cruz.
A couple of days later I dragged myself from my bed at 4am determined to walk to the summit of Pico del Teide - a 100 kilometre round trip. I was super fit in those days as well as super stupid. I brewed some tea and went out onto my balcony and there in the distance peeping out from behind the dark foothills was the snow capped peak glowing in the moonlight. It was the first time I'd seen the mountain. The road took me once more through La Orotava. The streets were as dark and silent as the banana plantations and nothing stirred as I left the town behind and started climbing towards the mountain. I was well beyond La Orotava when dawn broke and every cockerel on the island seemed to be celebrating. Dogs barked and each village was blessed with the aroma of baking bread. Then suddenly I was stopped in my tracks. There in front of me was Pico Teide. It loomed from behind a jagged ridge as pink as a giant strawberry icecream in the sun's early glow. It was stunning. I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful.
At three thousand feet it began to grow cold and everything was coated in a glistening layer of frost and my breath hung in the air. At five thousand feet the road was covered in a layer of ice wherever the rising sun had not yet reached and I found myself in the midst of a heavily scented pine forest where the thinning air was fragrant and intoxicating. Beyond the tree line was a moonscape of red and black rocks, and great orange volcanic crags bit huge lumps from the blue sky. At 8000 feet the peak seemed close enough to touch, but clouds moved in rapidly and a stinging squall of sleet began to fall. By the time I reached 11,000 feet I was in the midst of a full blown blizzard and I realised that any chance I had of reaching the summit had gone. Disconsolately I walked back to the nearest village and warmed my hands on a mug of hot chocolate, fortified with a healthy slug of brandy.
It was almost dark as I staggered back into the straggling suburbs of Puerto de la Cruz. I'd been walking for almost sixteen hours and had covered almost a hundred kilometres. To say I was a little tired is like saying that Mount Everest is a little hill. Three kilometres from home I gave up and risked what remained of my life in a gua gua. I slept well that night. I dreamed I'd reached the summit of Pico del Teide and could see Africa from her summit, the unforgiving sands of the Sahara stretched out in oceanic waves of dunes far to the east. Impossible of course, but a pleasant dream anyway.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Special Samburu
Half a day's scenic drive or a short flight north of Nairobi lies Samburu National Reserve. The drive takes you along some reasonably good, smooth roads and some pretty horrible dusty ones, but it's all worth it. On the way you squeeze between the green Aberdare mountains and the towering twin peaks of Mount Kenya. This is Africa at it's spectacular best. You'll stop at the equator on the way, where you'll have the chance to hop from one hemisphere to the other.
Samburu itself is a place of hippo and crocodile filled, broad rivers and vistas of tall, rounded, rocky hills which glow like hot coals as the sun sets. It is also a place of unique species of flora and fauna. There are stand of doum palms, the only palm with a divided trunk. There are also some birds and animals that are found in very few other places. There is the beautiful/ugly vulturine guinea fowl - a chicken sized bird with the plumage of a bird of paradise and the head of a vulture. There's the Grevy's zebra - a handsome creature, much bigger than other species of zebra. It has beautiful fine stripes and large, round Mickey Mouse ears. But most amazing of all is the gerenuk - an extraordinary antelope that looks like the love child of ET and an impala. They stand on their hind legs and extend their amazing necks to incredible lengths to reach the most succulent leaves of the thorny trees that thrive here.
Nearby are Meru National Park and Kora National Reserve - the old haunts of George Adamson of Born Free fame. Elsa - his most famous lion is buried at Meru National Park. YouTube star lion Christian was also rehabilitated by George at Kora National Reserve. This really is great big cat country. George was appropriately known as "Baba ya Simba" (Father of Lions) by the local Swahili speakers.
No visit to Kenya would be complete without a visit to Samburu and Ucango Travel's Rosemary McTeigue is leading a small group tour of Kenya which spends two nights there. The group will also visit Amboseli National Park, Ol Pejeta Conservancy where you can pet a black rhino and visit a very special chimp and bonobo rehabiltiation centre. Lake Nakuru and the wonderful Masai Mara National Reserve are also on the agenda. Then after this twelve day safari you can relax with three nights at Zanzibar where you can enjoy the beautiful Indian Ocean beaches and the fascinating history of Stone Town.
You'll be very well looked after by Rosemary and (Don't tell anyone I told you this.) you can help her celebrate her fiftieth birthday during the trip.
For further details double click on the adjacent lion photo or contact Rosemary at Ucango Travel on
07 5451 8600 or 1300 822 646.
Samburu itself is a place of hippo and crocodile filled, broad rivers and vistas of tall, rounded, rocky hills which glow like hot coals as the sun sets. It is also a place of unique species of flora and fauna. There are stand of doum palms, the only palm with a divided trunk. There are also some birds and animals that are found in very few other places. There is the beautiful/ugly vulturine guinea fowl - a chicken sized bird with the plumage of a bird of paradise and the head of a vulture. There's the Grevy's zebra - a handsome creature, much bigger than other species of zebra. It has beautiful fine stripes and large, round Mickey Mouse ears. But most amazing of all is the gerenuk - an extraordinary antelope that looks like the love child of ET and an impala. They stand on their hind legs and extend their amazing necks to incredible lengths to reach the most succulent leaves of the thorny trees that thrive here.
Nearby are Meru National Park and Kora National Reserve - the old haunts of George Adamson of Born Free fame. Elsa - his most famous lion is buried at Meru National Park. YouTube star lion Christian was also rehabilitated by George at Kora National Reserve. This really is great big cat country. George was appropriately known as "Baba ya Simba" (Father of Lions) by the local Swahili speakers.
No visit to Kenya would be complete without a visit to Samburu and Ucango Travel's Rosemary McTeigue is leading a small group tour of Kenya which spends two nights there. The group will also visit Amboseli National Park, Ol Pejeta Conservancy where you can pet a black rhino and visit a very special chimp and bonobo rehabiltiation centre. Lake Nakuru and the wonderful Masai Mara National Reserve are also on the agenda. Then after this twelve day safari you can relax with three nights at Zanzibar where you can enjoy the beautiful Indian Ocean beaches and the fascinating history of Stone Town.
You'll be very well looked after by Rosemary and (Don't tell anyone I told you this.) you can help her celebrate her fiftieth birthday during the trip.
For further details double click on the adjacent lion photo or contact Rosemary at Ucango Travel on
07 5451 8600 or 1300 822 646.
Monday, February 7, 2011
How Safe is Africa?
"Is it safe?" That's the question I am most frequently asked when fielding enquiries from clients considering an African safari. The answer is emphatically YES. I know, I would say that wouldn't I? But it's true, you're not going to be shot as you get off the plane at Johannesburg Airport. You're not going to be mugged as you pick up your luggage from the carousel at Nairobi. The fact is that as tourists you're more likely to be attacked in Sydney's Kings Cross, Brisbane's Queen Street Mall or the Gold Coast's Cavill Avenue.
Most Aussie tourists in Africa are met at the airport by reputable ground operators contracted by Australian companies. They are driven by cheerful, pleasant drivers safely to their hotels and are picked up from that hotel by their tour operators. They are not left to their own devices in a strange city - certainly my clients aren't. If people want to do their own thing from their hotel I advise them to chat with the concierge. If there are places that one should not go (And let's face it, they exist in almost every city in the world except maybe Singapore where the greatest crime is to take a durien into your hotel room.) the concierge will advise you.
In any case the bulk of your African safari will take place in wilderness areas where you are probably safer from attack than in your own home. In thirty five years of travel through Africa I have never witnessed, must less be a victim of a violent crime. I once lost some money from a hotel room safe, but that was a case of petty theft that could have occurred anywhere. I get very frustrated with some South African expats living in Australia. They seem to compete with each other to see who can come up with the most horrific experience they had when they lived there. I know bad things happen, I'm not that naive, but there is a huge difference between visiting a country as a tourist and living there. It's a shame that so many expats are prepared to bag their own country. It's as though they feel that they have to justify themselves for abandoning the nation once the apartheid system collapsed.
It's also quite amazing how many people think that Africa is just one country. Africa is a vast continent made up of over fifty nations. Deciding not to go to Botswana because there is a problem in Egypt is like not going to Disneyland because there's a street demonstration in Buenos Aires. Ridiculous, most people would agree, but that's they way some of us think unfortunately.
In the end it would be a tragedy to miss out on an uplifting and life-changing experience like an African safari because of a few unfounded fears. Africans are kind, warm and generous of spirit. They are anxious to please, proud of whatever country they are from and want to show you that country in the best possible light.
We are all subject to certain fears when overseas, including myself. I once took a short cut along a lonely bush track from Victoria Falls to the township. I was about halfway there when a large African man appeared in front of me. As he approached, he reached into his jacket and I thought, Oh God! Here we go, I'm about to be mugged at knife point. I watched as his hand slowly withdrew from his jacket clutching...............a large ebony elephant. "Wanna buy it?" He said. I shook my head numbly and was rewarded with a huge white smile. "No problem sir." He said, and loped off towards the falls in search of someone more appreciative of his handiwork.
Most Aussie tourists in Africa are met at the airport by reputable ground operators contracted by Australian companies. They are driven by cheerful, pleasant drivers safely to their hotels and are picked up from that hotel by their tour operators. They are not left to their own devices in a strange city - certainly my clients aren't. If people want to do their own thing from their hotel I advise them to chat with the concierge. If there are places that one should not go (And let's face it, they exist in almost every city in the world except maybe Singapore where the greatest crime is to take a durien into your hotel room.) the concierge will advise you.
In any case the bulk of your African safari will take place in wilderness areas where you are probably safer from attack than in your own home. In thirty five years of travel through Africa I have never witnessed, must less be a victim of a violent crime. I once lost some money from a hotel room safe, but that was a case of petty theft that could have occurred anywhere. I get very frustrated with some South African expats living in Australia. They seem to compete with each other to see who can come up with the most horrific experience they had when they lived there. I know bad things happen, I'm not that naive, but there is a huge difference between visiting a country as a tourist and living there. It's a shame that so many expats are prepared to bag their own country. It's as though they feel that they have to justify themselves for abandoning the nation once the apartheid system collapsed.
It's also quite amazing how many people think that Africa is just one country. Africa is a vast continent made up of over fifty nations. Deciding not to go to Botswana because there is a problem in Egypt is like not going to Disneyland because there's a street demonstration in Buenos Aires. Ridiculous, most people would agree, but that's they way some of us think unfortunately.
In the end it would be a tragedy to miss out on an uplifting and life-changing experience like an African safari because of a few unfounded fears. Africans are kind, warm and generous of spirit. They are anxious to please, proud of whatever country they are from and want to show you that country in the best possible light.
We are all subject to certain fears when overseas, including myself. I once took a short cut along a lonely bush track from Victoria Falls to the township. I was about halfway there when a large African man appeared in front of me. As he approached, he reached into his jacket and I thought, Oh God! Here we go, I'm about to be mugged at knife point. I watched as his hand slowly withdrew from his jacket clutching...............a large ebony elephant. "Wanna buy it?" He said. I shook my head numbly and was rewarded with a huge white smile. "No problem sir." He said, and loped off towards the falls in search of someone more appreciative of his handiwork.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Palace of the Lost City
You're into the last few days of your African honeymoon and you've just flown into Johannesburg from Victoria Falls. You collect your bags, clear customs and immigration and in no time you emerge into the very impressive arrival hall. You've organised a private car transfer to Sun City and there standing in front of you is a broadly smiling African clutching a board with your names on it. It's always a relief to see your driver waiting for you when you arrive in a strange city, but by now you are no longer surprised by the efficiency of African tourism operators.
It's a hot afternoon, but your car is new and air-conditioned. The journey is comfortable and scenic and in under three hours you are pulling up at the main entrance of The Palace of the Lost City. You wanted to stay at one of the cheaper hotels there - Cascades, The Sun City Hotel or the Cabanas. (Not because you're tight fisted but.......Okay then maybe your are a little.) However your travel agent persuaded you to spend your two nights at The Palace. Now you can see why he recommended that if you're going to the trouble of driving to Sun City you have to stay at The Palace. You make a mental note to buy him a bottle of Penfolds Grange when you get back to Australia. The building glows with an inner golden light in the late afternoon sun and the it's many green domes stand out against the tawny hills behind. At the centre of a roundabout in front of the entrance is a magnificent copper sculpture. A pair of cheetahs are chasing a herd of leaping impala across a shallow pool of reflective water.
You are relieved of your luggage by a smartly uniformed porter and you tip your driver generously. The romance is really getting to you. You follow the porter into the reception hall and stand aghast at the towering dome above you decorated by a da Vinci-esque fresco, while the polished marble floor beneath your feet is covered with African animal scenes. Everywhere you look is opulence. In Las Vegas it would be tacky, but here somehow because of the quality of the art it is simply delightful. As you are shown to your room you pass more stunning works of art. There are sculptures, statues, paintings and frescoes - all depicting African scenes and wildlife. Your room, although the most reasonably priced is huge with what seems like a tennis court sized bathroom. There's a huge king sized bed and a double spa bath. That'll come in handy you both think. That evening after a relaxing bath you take a walk in the gardens. Looking back at the The Palace you are amazed to see flames from huge torches at the top of each domed tower. It's eerily atmospheric, like something straight out of an Indiana Jones movie.
The next morning is beautiful, warm and sunny, cloudless and low humidity. After the most sumptuous breakfast you've ever had (and you've had a few) you decide to have a good look around the gardens in daylight. Here you find a precipitous waterslide and "The Valley of the Waves" - an enormous wave pool with a real sand beach. You spend most of the afternoon here, alternately relaxing in the sun and cooling off in the pool. You think next time you'll bring your golf clubs and have a bash around one or both of the two golf courses which have real Nile crocodiles in the water hazards. Now that's what I call a hazard!
That evening you visit the casino where you break even - about the best you can expect in a casino, but it was fun anyway. You also see a show and have a wonderful meal before strolling back hand in hand to the Palace through the fragrant garden with the awesome shape of the Palace of the Lost City with it's flaming towers as a backdrop.
The following morning after yet another tummy tingling breakfast you are transferred by private car to Madikwe Hills Lodge in Madikwe Private Game Reserve. You have never been game viewing in Africa before and have no idea what to expect. Your travel agent recommended this particular lodge and before your stay is over you have decided to upgrade his gift from a bottle of Penfold Grange to a full carton.
The lodge is set on a kopje (hill) of house sized boulders and the rooms are enormous. Nights here can be chilly and there is a real log fire in your room that is always miraculously blazing when you return to your room after dinner. In the morning, when it is even chillier you are more than happy to discover that there is underfloor heating to keep your bare feet nice and toasty.
Your first game drive is the evening you arrive. You wander up to the restaurant and are met there by the other guests, your ranger and your tracker. They run through the safety procedures - a few dos and don'ts and then you climb into the open four wheel drive vehicle. You are amazed to see that the African tracker sits on a seat bolted to the bull-bar. You are even more amazed at how close you get to the animals and at how still and cool the tracker remains as a large lioness sniffs his boots. Before the end of the first game drive you have already seen the "Big Five" - elephants, lions, buffalo, a pride of lions and later as you drive back to the lodge in the dark with the tracker wielding a spotlight, you see a leopard.
And so over the next couple of days you settle in to the gentle, hypnotic routine of life in a really good game lodge. At five-thirty in the morning there's a wake up call and you wander up to the main building for coffee and biscuits before heading out on your morning game drive. Then after a couple of hours you stop in a particularly scenic spot for coffee and muffins before continuing for a further hour or so. By ten you're back at the lodge for a huge brunch. Then the rest of the day is yours to swim, read, have a massage or do whatever people do on their honeymoon.
At about three-thirty in the afternoon you return to the main building for high tea. Sandwiches, quiche, samosas and cakes and then you're off on your afternoon game drive. Right on sunset your ranger pulls up and he and the tracker break out the drinks for a sundowner. You sip your excellent chardonnay and chew your biltong as you hold hands and gaze at yet another breathtaking African sunset. Then it's more game viewing and finally back to the lodge for a magnificent gourmet dinner of equal or greater quality than you would expect from any top notch city restaurant.
So after three days of this you are transferred by your ranger out to the Madikwe airstrip, seeing more game on the way. You waddle to the eight seater aircraft wondering how long it will take you to lose the weight you've gained in the last three days but not regretting a single gram of it. Then as the plane climbs away towards Johannesburg and your international flight back to Australia you see a herd of elephants trundling towards a waterhole, kicking up little clouds of dust as they go. To your surprise a tear springs to your eye and at that moment you know for sure that you will both return.
It's a hot afternoon, but your car is new and air-conditioned. The journey is comfortable and scenic and in under three hours you are pulling up at the main entrance of The Palace of the Lost City. You wanted to stay at one of the cheaper hotels there - Cascades, The Sun City Hotel or the Cabanas. (Not because you're tight fisted but.......Okay then maybe your are a little.) However your travel agent persuaded you to spend your two nights at The Palace. Now you can see why he recommended that if you're going to the trouble of driving to Sun City you have to stay at The Palace. You make a mental note to buy him a bottle of Penfolds Grange when you get back to Australia. The building glows with an inner golden light in the late afternoon sun and the it's many green domes stand out against the tawny hills behind. At the centre of a roundabout in front of the entrance is a magnificent copper sculpture. A pair of cheetahs are chasing a herd of leaping impala across a shallow pool of reflective water.
You are relieved of your luggage by a smartly uniformed porter and you tip your driver generously. The romance is really getting to you. You follow the porter into the reception hall and stand aghast at the towering dome above you decorated by a da Vinci-esque fresco, while the polished marble floor beneath your feet is covered with African animal scenes. Everywhere you look is opulence. In Las Vegas it would be tacky, but here somehow because of the quality of the art it is simply delightful. As you are shown to your room you pass more stunning works of art. There are sculptures, statues, paintings and frescoes - all depicting African scenes and wildlife. Your room, although the most reasonably priced is huge with what seems like a tennis court sized bathroom. There's a huge king sized bed and a double spa bath. That'll come in handy you both think. That evening after a relaxing bath you take a walk in the gardens. Looking back at the The Palace you are amazed to see flames from huge torches at the top of each domed tower. It's eerily atmospheric, like something straight out of an Indiana Jones movie.
The next morning is beautiful, warm and sunny, cloudless and low humidity. After the most sumptuous breakfast you've ever had (and you've had a few) you decide to have a good look around the gardens in daylight. Here you find a precipitous waterslide and "The Valley of the Waves" - an enormous wave pool with a real sand beach. You spend most of the afternoon here, alternately relaxing in the sun and cooling off in the pool. You think next time you'll bring your golf clubs and have a bash around one or both of the two golf courses which have real Nile crocodiles in the water hazards. Now that's what I call a hazard!
That evening you visit the casino where you break even - about the best you can expect in a casino, but it was fun anyway. You also see a show and have a wonderful meal before strolling back hand in hand to the Palace through the fragrant garden with the awesome shape of the Palace of the Lost City with it's flaming towers as a backdrop.
The following morning after yet another tummy tingling breakfast you are transferred by private car to Madikwe Hills Lodge in Madikwe Private Game Reserve. You have never been game viewing in Africa before and have no idea what to expect. Your travel agent recommended this particular lodge and before your stay is over you have decided to upgrade his gift from a bottle of Penfold Grange to a full carton.
The lodge is set on a kopje (hill) of house sized boulders and the rooms are enormous. Nights here can be chilly and there is a real log fire in your room that is always miraculously blazing when you return to your room after dinner. In the morning, when it is even chillier you are more than happy to discover that there is underfloor heating to keep your bare feet nice and toasty.
Your first game drive is the evening you arrive. You wander up to the restaurant and are met there by the other guests, your ranger and your tracker. They run through the safety procedures - a few dos and don'ts and then you climb into the open four wheel drive vehicle. You are amazed to see that the African tracker sits on a seat bolted to the bull-bar. You are even more amazed at how close you get to the animals and at how still and cool the tracker remains as a large lioness sniffs his boots. Before the end of the first game drive you have already seen the "Big Five" - elephants, lions, buffalo, a pride of lions and later as you drive back to the lodge in the dark with the tracker wielding a spotlight, you see a leopard.
And so over the next couple of days you settle in to the gentle, hypnotic routine of life in a really good game lodge. At five-thirty in the morning there's a wake up call and you wander up to the main building for coffee and biscuits before heading out on your morning game drive. Then after a couple of hours you stop in a particularly scenic spot for coffee and muffins before continuing for a further hour or so. By ten you're back at the lodge for a huge brunch. Then the rest of the day is yours to swim, read, have a massage or do whatever people do on their honeymoon.
At about three-thirty in the afternoon you return to the main building for high tea. Sandwiches, quiche, samosas and cakes and then you're off on your afternoon game drive. Right on sunset your ranger pulls up and he and the tracker break out the drinks for a sundowner. You sip your excellent chardonnay and chew your biltong as you hold hands and gaze at yet another breathtaking African sunset. Then it's more game viewing and finally back to the lodge for a magnificent gourmet dinner of equal or greater quality than you would expect from any top notch city restaurant.
So after three days of this you are transferred by your ranger out to the Madikwe airstrip, seeing more game on the way. You waddle to the eight seater aircraft wondering how long it will take you to lose the weight you've gained in the last three days but not regretting a single gram of it. Then as the plane climbs away towards Johannesburg and your international flight back to Australia you see a herd of elephants trundling towards a waterhole, kicking up little clouds of dust as they go. To your surprise a tear springs to your eye and at that moment you know for sure that you will both return.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
An African Honeymoon Part Two
You're on honeymoon in Africa - Cape Town to be exact, and you're having a wonderful, romantic time, apart from that little incident where you appeared naked at your hotel window in front of several dozen people innocently enjoying their breakfast. The police were very good about it all in the end. Quite understanding, and you were released on a good behaviour bond.
Next stop is Victoria Falls - "The Smoke That Thunders." There are few more romantic places in the entire world. An early flight from Cape Town, a quick change of planes in Johannesburg and before you know it you're descending into Victoria Falls airport, the spray from the falls themselves easily visible in the hazy middle distance. It does indeed look like grey smoke against the blue sky. You check into your room at the Victoria Falls Safari Lodge which has great views across the bush to the waterhole and beyond. You've arrived in time for a sunset cruise on the Zambezi River yet another highlight. Once again on the boat you toast each other with a glass of wine while you watch a small herd of elephants bathing in the shallows on one side of the river and a pod of hippos grunting and yawning threat displays on the other. Meanwhile the entire scene is washed by a blood orange sunset, and again, closer this time there is a tower of spray from the falls.
That night back at the lodge you dine at the Boma - an African themed restaurant attached to the Victoria Falls Safari Lodge. There's a great buffet meal and some wonderful cultural entertainment with African dancers and some superb drummers. There's also a little market, a traditional story teller who roams from table to table and a fortune teller You even pluck up the courage to eat a mopani worm which is a little like a witchety grub. They give you a certificate for doing this and you deserve it.
The next day is busy. You start off with an early elephant back safari. You have an early transfer to the venue where you meet your elephant and your mahout. There's plenty of time to interact with your ellie before you set off on a very scenic ride through the bush. More romance as you share an elephant. When you return you get to give your elephant his breakfast before sitting down to consume your own - cooked out there in the bush. It's a lovely thing to do.
In the late afternoon as the sun is dropping and the heat of the day is waning you are again collected from the lodge and taken to the Lion Encounter venue. This is really special. You walk through the bush with a couple of half grown lion cubs and several men who are there to control them if they become too playful. You can stroke them (the lions, not the men) as much as you like and they (the men, not the lions) will take some wonderful photos for you. It is a tremendous thrill and is soooo much better than Thailand's tiger temples. For one thing these lions are being rehabilitated for being returned to the wild. Human contact is gradually reduced until they are ready to go their own way. The Lion Encounter programme helps to fund this work.
The following morning you a have a guided tour of Victoria Falls. You stroll around the formed paths holding hands while your guide points out the many interesting features, though at times you can hardly hear him for the thunder of the water crashing over the falls. It's a dizzying sight peering down into the gorge and you find the sheer scale absolutely breathtaking. Something else you find breathtaking is the stupidity of the lunatics throwing themselves off the Victoria Falls bridge attached to a rubber band. You stand and watch several of these fruitcakes do their thing and wonder how much they are being paid to do it.
That evening you take a helicopter flight over the falls - "Flight of Angels" as it is known. This is truly incredible. You're hundreds of feet above the great falls with the Zambezi River stretching away into the distance and "The Smoke That Thunders" boiling into the gorge far below. You can clearly see well into four countries from here. Zimbabwe, Zambia, Botswana and Namibia and this makes you keen for more African adventures. Later that morning you fly to Johannesburg to begin the last week of your African honeymoon.
To be continued.
Next stop is Victoria Falls - "The Smoke That Thunders." There are few more romantic places in the entire world. An early flight from Cape Town, a quick change of planes in Johannesburg and before you know it you're descending into Victoria Falls airport, the spray from the falls themselves easily visible in the hazy middle distance. It does indeed look like grey smoke against the blue sky. You check into your room at the Victoria Falls Safari Lodge which has great views across the bush to the waterhole and beyond. You've arrived in time for a sunset cruise on the Zambezi River yet another highlight. Once again on the boat you toast each other with a glass of wine while you watch a small herd of elephants bathing in the shallows on one side of the river and a pod of hippos grunting and yawning threat displays on the other. Meanwhile the entire scene is washed by a blood orange sunset, and again, closer this time there is a tower of spray from the falls.
That night back at the lodge you dine at the Boma - an African themed restaurant attached to the Victoria Falls Safari Lodge. There's a great buffet meal and some wonderful cultural entertainment with African dancers and some superb drummers. There's also a little market, a traditional story teller who roams from table to table and a fortune teller You even pluck up the courage to eat a mopani worm which is a little like a witchety grub. They give you a certificate for doing this and you deserve it.
The next day is busy. You start off with an early elephant back safari. You have an early transfer to the venue where you meet your elephant and your mahout. There's plenty of time to interact with your ellie before you set off on a very scenic ride through the bush. More romance as you share an elephant. When you return you get to give your elephant his breakfast before sitting down to consume your own - cooked out there in the bush. It's a lovely thing to do.
In the late afternoon as the sun is dropping and the heat of the day is waning you are again collected from the lodge and taken to the Lion Encounter venue. This is really special. You walk through the bush with a couple of half grown lion cubs and several men who are there to control them if they become too playful. You can stroke them (the lions, not the men) as much as you like and they (the men, not the lions) will take some wonderful photos for you. It is a tremendous thrill and is soooo much better than Thailand's tiger temples. For one thing these lions are being rehabilitated for being returned to the wild. Human contact is gradually reduced until they are ready to go their own way. The Lion Encounter programme helps to fund this work.
The following morning you a have a guided tour of Victoria Falls. You stroll around the formed paths holding hands while your guide points out the many interesting features, though at times you can hardly hear him for the thunder of the water crashing over the falls. It's a dizzying sight peering down into the gorge and you find the sheer scale absolutely breathtaking. Something else you find breathtaking is the stupidity of the lunatics throwing themselves off the Victoria Falls bridge attached to a rubber band. You stand and watch several of these fruitcakes do their thing and wonder how much they are being paid to do it.
That evening you take a helicopter flight over the falls - "Flight of Angels" as it is known. This is truly incredible. You're hundreds of feet above the great falls with the Zambezi River stretching away into the distance and "The Smoke That Thunders" boiling into the gorge far below. You can clearly see well into four countries from here. Zimbabwe, Zambia, Botswana and Namibia and this makes you keen for more African adventures. Later that morning you fly to Johannesburg to begin the last week of your African honeymoon.
To be continued.
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