Entry 14 Happy Solstice! Well, you can call me E.T. if you’d like now. You see, my tourist visa, which is good for 3 months, expires tomorrow, so I had to go into Mombassa to the Immigration Office and renew it. In order to that, I had to first become an alien—replete with fingerprints, stern looking passport photos and a fee that I was told would be 100$ U.S. but ended up being around 36$ CAD! What’s more, it could have been a disaster as early in the week as I was planning when to go and take care of this, I casually looked at the expiry date on my current visa expecting it to be around Dec. 25th give or take a day or two. Imagine my horror when I read that the expiry date was 3 months to the day that the visa was issued in Ottawa—which was on August 3rd! This would have made me 6 weeks past when I was supposed to depart or renew—6 weeks of being illegally in the country. 

Fortunately, immigration looked at the date of entry. The process for actually getting the thing was very archaic, not a computer in sight. In fact, I think I dealt with 4 people at 4 different desks and 3 other people at teller type windows. I was passed back and forth several times, ordered to pick up one form here, fill it in there, submit it somewhere else, get my receipt in another location and then return to the 1st desk to find out where to go next. It really seemed like a rather inefficient way of doing things, but the whole thing was over and done with in less than an hour with smiles all around. Pretty impressive.

One of the odder sights in Mombassa was the Christmas decorations. Santa in a big, red, thick suit lined with fur in this kind of heat and humidity makes me want to pass out just thinking about it…And reindeer? How about antelope? And Evergreens? How about baobabs? Aside from the anomaly of northern hemispheric climatic symbols everywhere, Mombassa has a very strong and very visible Muslim culture. It’s pretty bizarre the juxtaposition. 

A few minutes after arriving home just I was about to leave for the internet joint, a woman pulled up in her car and demanded that I come capture an injured monkey from her property. I politely informed her that I was in no position to do this on my own and that I’d need to contact the managers, but the phones were down (more on that later). She put her mobile in my hand and insisted that I call them. Okay. “You must come get this monkey now,” she kept repeating. “Look I have my car; I can drive you.” “That’s not the point,” I told her. “We have equipment to carry, protocols to follow etc”. "This monkey cannot stay there. You must get him!" I finally got ahold of one of the managers, and he arrived in a few minutes. Off we went to rescue the monkey. When we got there, we were greeted by a pack of dogs of all kinds of shapes and sizes including a St. Bernard I felt really sorry for in the heat. The woman began screaming for her gardener who she had asked to keep an eye on the monkey. She shouted his name repeatedly in a long, whiny cresendo that was rather painful to listen to. When the guy didn’t appear, she started yelling at any and all the other staff who were around, insisting they explain why the gardener had left. Of course, they didn’t answer. She started swearing at them and insulting and demeaning them. It was embarrassing to be standing there. When she started on about ...”these f’íng people,” I walked away. 

Finally after several painful minutes of this, we spotted the monkey. Despite being high up in a palm, he was clearly in distress. Alex successfully darted it with the blow gun on the first shot which was lucky as the light was quickly leaving the sky at this point. Roman and I waited underneath for the drugs to take effect and for the monkey to fall asleep and out of the tree. We waited below with a taut sheet to catch it. To all our relief, it fell rather straightforwardly into our waiting hands. The mass of dogs went into a barking frenzy, but the woman shut them up. She then actually offered to pay for our service, a first for me and a rarity in general. When we got back to the vet clinic, we discovered the monkey had a massive, deep, sharp cut ¾ of the way around his neck, a number of broken fingers and toes, and several other small injuries. We euthanzised it quickly. 

This may have been my last rescue; I'm only at Colobus Trust for another few days before I hit the road for several weeks. Have 3 months really gone by? I have an old friend from high school meeting me in Dar in Tanzania next weekend. Until then, I'm enjoying my final days of swimming, being recognized by the matatu drivers and the touts as I walk down the street as they yell, "Hey Colobus!' , and watching the monkey antics. I'll try to write one more time before I become a traveller once again. One last note. As I mentioned before, the phones haven’t been working. You may be amused and /or shocked to find out why. Apparently, some thieves stole several hundred metres of phone cable that were lying underground. Half of Diani is without phone service. As most people have mobile phones and not land lines, many don’t care. The phone company said the service may be delayed indefinitely as they have to order new cable from Nairobi, and it may not be available even there. Go figure, eh?! Kwa Herini.

~~So, Alicia, what is it like being back in Canada after 10 months in Africa, the last 4 of which have been on the road?

Well, let me tell you, people here sure are pale! And they dress so immodestly. I've never seen so much flesh...It's a bit disconcerting! And the grass, it's so green, lush, thick and long. And the streets are spotless! And the buses are so empty. And the toilet paper is so soft and thick. And the chocolate is so good! And the cyclists wear helmets! And the rain is so cold.

~~What were your last days in Kenya like?

Saying goodbye to the kids was hard, really hard, but fortunately I was able to maintain some control this time and not become nearly hysterical. The first time I left them was truly awful; this time was just very difficult. We had a great week together, and I got to take them swimming again--and no near drownings this time. The little ones all waited their turns for me to take them around, and I got to actually show some of the bigger ones how to kick and paddle etc. And of course, I sewed more buttons on shirts and uniforms, and we played lots of games and just held hands...It was a beautiful, warm, welcoming, loving visit.

And it was great to catch up with the people at Colobus Trust and see what had become of some of the monkeys. A small group of vervets were released into the home troop since I left with amusing yet predictable results--they barely leave the outskirts of the cage they were once housed in. Now they just sit on top of it and wait for the little ones inside to be fed; then they launch an all out attack on whatever poor volunteer happens to be on feeding duty that day...They are completely without fear of humans and invade the house regularly.

I also had a last lovely swim in the Indian Ocean and ate my last apple mango. I also saw the newborn twins of friends of mine there. How they'll manage is anyone's guess.

~~How was the Masai wedding you mentioned?

Long, very, very long. The bride's father is a preacher (or pastor) and the marriage of his daughter to a well-known and fairly prominent man in their community (my friend Moses) gave him free reign to wax on not so poetically. One of his "sermons" was about how a woman should shower daily so her husband would not come home and find her undesirable and so be tempted to turn to another woman! After about 6 hours of speeches, prayers, songs, hymns and more speeches, I left, along with the other 7 wzungu. (And we heard that the ceremony went on for another 2-3 hours after we left.) This was only after we each had to get up in front of the entire church full of people and introduce ourselves and say where we had come from and how we knew Moses etc. It was a little embarrassing. There were so many people; some were hanging through the windows.

~~What did you end up buying them as a wedding present?

When I realised bringing a cow would be impossible, I settled on a teapot and matching cups! My friend Alex, however, who I went with, did decide to bring a goat. And after we ruled out the possibilty of the poor critter sitting on my lap (even if we could figure out how to diaper the thing), we trussed it up and threw it on the back seat. It was not too happy. Probably realised it was about to become lunch.

~~And how was your flight home?

Thankfully, completely uneventful. Other than the fact that I forgot to remove my Swiss army knife from my hand luggage...I had one night in London where I stayed with a friend's sister and arrived back in Vancouver safe and sound. I must say though, it's pretty weird to be "home" without having an actual home to return to. I'm couch surfing and house sitting for the summer til I find a place. Interestingly, my old apartment that I was in for 10 years is being totally redone; it looks great. New everything. And it's empty...If it weren't for the crazy neighbour next door, I might consider going back.

~~So what now?

I have to re-acclimatize, find a place to live, get my stuff out of storage, reconnect with my friends, eat some crow and buy a mobile phone, get in touch with Revenue Canada, get checked for some tropical diseases, pay off my debt, think about what I'm going to teach in a few weeks, and hopefully enjoy the rest of a Vancouver summer--swimming, hiking, camping and whatnot.

~~Anything you'd like to say to your readers?

Definitely--thank you dear readers for all your encouragement, support, and comments. You made the rough going easier and the easier parts breezier. Thanks.

~~Any final thoughts?

Yeah, I think I'll have to go back. I'll spend the next year trying to figure out how I can make that happen and if it makes sense to do so. I want to make this last year count for something and not just fade into pleasant memory. It's hard to put into any kind of meaningful words what the last 10 months have been like; it's been so many things at once. Now I have to make a place for all of that here in Vancouver. And maybe continue to write a bit about it.

~~Well, thanks Alicia for an entertaining series of blog entries. Will you continue?

Maybe. I've nearly filled 2 journals in addition to writing these blog entries. I guess it's a question of finding the time and prioritising.

~~There you have it. The potentially final written thoughts of Alicia the adventurer in Africa. If you wish to reach her, you can email her at alicia.martin@lycos.com.
Thanks for reading.

Entry 32

This will be less of an adventure and more of a reflection but here goes...

I'm back on familiar ground and enjoying the vague sense of homecoming immensely. (I wonder if this is presient of my real home return soon to come.) Despite the filth, stench, decay, overcrowded and chaotic streets that are Mombasa, it's a city I know fairly well and enjoy spending time in. I spent an extra day there rather than returning straight to Diani Beach and thoroughly enjoyed the sights and sounds and smells (!) of this colourful island. Here one can watch fruit sellers hawking their mangos, pawpaws (papayas), coconuts and pineapples; elderly blind parents being led around by their seeing children seeking a few shillings from passersby; Muslim women covered from head to toe in their black bui buis--faces covered too but still sporting fashionable sunglasses; young men selling mobile phones, talk time, cheap watches and rubber stamps; shoeless, dusty street kids begging for food and/or money from tourists; Masai warriors in their red shukas and beaded belts from which their spears and knives and clubs dangle alongside their phones; and street vendors trying to make a sale of their clothes, stoves, pots and pans, flip flops or cheap plastic items. It's a hectic yet somehow attractive cacophony of sensorial experiences.

From Mombasa, I came back to Diani where my adventures started nearly 10 months ago. I returned to say goodbye to Colobus Trust and wish its various primates (of both the human and nonhuman variety) some fond farewells. I'm here to swim in the Indian Ocean for the last time. I'm here to watch the palm trees sway and smell the frangipani and other tropical flowers once more. I'm here to let the starry skies mesmorise once again. And I'm here to reflect on what I've learned, gained, and/or contributed. (Apparently I'm also here to watch some of the World Cup on large screen TV's too!)

I'll share with you some of my thoughts as I laid them down in my journal recently.

In his book Dark Star Safari--From Cairo to Capetown, Paul Theroux writes about revisiting Africa where he lived and taught in the 60's and hadn't been since, as well as the long road journey he makes from Egypt to South Africa. Reading his book while travelling along sections of the very same journey he writes about has been a delight; I've ridden some of the same buses, sat on some of the same matatus and slept on some of the same trains. Many critics have dismissed his writing for being too heavy and pessimistic. After having spent a bit of time on this continent and seeing a wee bit of what Africa is, I'm inclined to agree with many of his keen observations and carefully thought out evaluations of Africa and her struggles.

Theroux describes seeing many decrepit, run-down, virtually empty schools, with bare classrooms, unpaid staff, crumbling buildings and bookless libraries. This (among several other experiences) leads him to the epiphany that it is Africans themselves who must "fix" Africa. All the donor aid & volunteers, ngo's & charitable organizations, and the like have been working here for some 40 years or so to help change/stop the poverty, hunger, thirst, disease, illiteracy and other challenges that have plagued African countries for decades. Equipment gets sent over from well-intentioned people and breaks down and rusts by the sides of roads. This leaves villagers and townfolk now dependent on non-functioning technology. Skills are lost, training is stopped and unemployment rises. Another problem arises when projects get started, changing communities and ways of life, and then the funding dries up or the work has been deemed a success or the volunteers go home, so the project is ended, leaving communities and individuals often only slightly better off than before.

There have been several books written about how entire economies are based on aid money. They discuss how governments and many ngo's themselves (and the ubiquitous UN projects) actually benefit from keeping the poor, the hungry, and the sick dependent on donor systems.

As I traveled around Kenya, Tanzania, Malawi and Zambia, I saw first hand the benefits of water pumps brought into remote villages, community schools built for those too far/poor to attend regular schools, homes for orphans etc. Of course, these endeavors provide a better way of life, but how many people have I heard complain about how the money sent to staff those schools, maintain those water pumps and run those homes simply lines the pockets of corrupt officials and managers along the way? And for those organizations which manage to thwart corruption along the lines, how much money is lost to administrative, staffing and security costs?

It leaves me to wonder about the nature of charities, donations and volunteering in the "third world." I'm glad I chose to volunteer with projects initiated by Kenyans, but I'm not really sure if it was my money or my time and energy that was of greater import. And it makes me think that maybe the adages, "the lord provides for those who provide for themselves" and "give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish and he'll eat for a lifetime" need to be retaught. Not that many of the ngo's aren't already in the business of teaching Africans how to fend for themselves, but maybe Africans have to take the full initiative themselves. There's surely a place for western aid, but not along many of the avenues where it currently resides.

To reiterate Theroux, maybe all the western doctors and teachers and engineers and so on should just up and leave, and then we'll all see what happens. If the local communities want to continue the work started by these generous souls, so be it. That or let them burn the clinics and schools to the ground and plant maize and beans instead and at least reclaim the land it as their own. Even cash crops aren't being supported by local governments, making it unviable for growers to be anything other than subsistance farmers.

It seems that Africa has been forced to figure out in a few short decades what the west had over a century to do. Maybe she has to learn by her own mistakes as did we in the "developed" world. It's like many African countries are in their teen years, and we all know/remember that teens have to make their own decisions and learn how to stand on their own 2 feet. We can only provide guidance and support and hope for the best.

When I see people throwing their plastic bottles and food wrappings outside the bus windows as we speed past villages, farmland, bush and even national parks, I cringe every time. But isn't concern for the environment the privelege of us in the west who aren't living from hand to mouth and can take care of our surroundings as well as our families? I guess it's a choice that Kenyans, Tanzanians, Zambians and Malawians need to make for themselves. Why so many don't seem to give a hoot is hard to my Canadian eyes, but some have, and it's not for me to judge.

Anyway, these are just a few of my thoughts. Forgive my wandering wonderings. And please disagree.

In the remaining couple weeks I have left here, I shall have the pleasure of attending a traditional Masai wedding, revisiting the giraffe centre and elephant orphanage in Nairobi, seeing a few friends and saying goodbye, and returning to Kakamega to see the kids at the orphanage there once more. (Not to mention catching a few more World Cup matches.) Farewell readers and soccer/football fans.

Entry 31

Let me describe 3 adrenaline filled moments that I've had in the last little while that couldn't have been more different.

Victoria Falls is much like Niagra Falls in that there's a wealth of activities around the torrent of water to keep even the most adventurous happy and the most sedate content. All these options, of course, cost money, lots of money, so one has to pick and choose carefully.

One choice I opted for was a walking safari in Mosi-oa-Tunya (the local name for the falls -- meaning "the smoke that thunders") Park. This is the small national park that borders the falls. Unfortunately, nearly all the game had been hunted or poached out of there, but in recent years, giraffes, wildebeast, and rhinos among others have all been reintroduced with varying degrees of success.

The walk was really pleasant. The morning started off in a deep, cold fog (yes, you read that right), but it burned off fairly quickly, allowing us to see small herds of zebras and gnus (wildebeast) and larger herds of impala. (An aside--Did you know that a male impala has the dubious pleasure of being the sole "keeper" of a harem of females in his territory which may number over a hundred? The male spends all his time keeping his girls safe and fed and free of any other male interference so much so that he himself doesn't eat and soon ends up so exhausted and weak that he can only last a short time before some young buck comes and challenges him for dominance. Doesn't sound like the most efficient of Mother Nature's reproductive angles, does it?)

We, however, had a mission. We were on the search for the park's 2 remaining resident rhinos. We had been walking for several hours following a lead on where they were last seen, but instead we were left spotting bird life, medicinal plants, tracks and dung. We walked on and on until we missed the pick up point and time. We were just about to give up when one of our 2 guides (we were 2 tourists, 2 guides and an armed guard) picked up a trail. We separated briefly, so he could follow the tracks and then rejoined him a few minutes later.

And there they were. I was thinking--Wow! How cool to be only about 40 metres away from 2 such enormous, potentially dangerous creatures--and snapped a few shots. Then the rhinos apparently decided that the grass was indeed greener on the other side so came trotting along to within 5 metres of us! All that separated us was a log lying across the front of the 5 of us at waist level. It was incredible. I could hear them munching and breathing. I could look at their little, poorly sighted eyes and practically see my reflection! I was tempted to reach over and pat them. They are well-habituated to human presence (obviously) as they're constantly being monitored by rangers (an anti-poaching measure as much as a way to make sure the tourists get their money's worth). I've never been so close to a wild animal so huge and so mythical. It was a beautiful and thrilling moment.

My second (somewhat expensive) rush of adrenaline that week came when I boarded a microlight plane and spent 15 incredible minutes soaring in the air with nothing more than a seat belt keeping me from freefalling to the ground and my death some 300 metres below. Flying over the falls like that really gave me a sense of the geologic history that the falls have created and the force that they continue to be, and I could clearly see where the next set of falls will rush down from in the next millenium (or 2 or 3). The feeling of sitting behind a pilot using only a bar to steer, while in the open air under a small set of wings, flying above rainbows, mist, hippos, impala and one elephant which seemed to be mired in the muck was truly amazing. I want to fly!

The 3rd heart stopping moment was of a totally different kind. I was mugged--sort of. I was walking down Cairo Road in downtown Lusaka at midday with a Welsh/French woman I'd befriended at the hostel. She'd told me earlier that morning that a friend of hers had been mugged on that street the day before, and I replied that I'd walked down that road a dozen times and felt pretty safe. Then, there we were when 3 or 4 men swarmed me. One guy cut in front of me, blocking my way as if he was trying to get past me onto the street. Meanwhile, a crony or two started grabbing my bag while another started going through my pockets and running his hands over me to see where my hidden money was. I screamed at them, "Hey! What are you doing? Cut it out! Stop it! What do you think you're doing?" A large circle of people formed. They all just stopped and stared. I guess my yelling and my fuss was the right reaction because the guys just took off and unbelievably, they got nothing! My pocket had a small wallet in it with a fair bit of cash in it, but they didn't get it. Whew.

Needless to say, I was trembling and rather freaked out. I had to lean against a nearby building as I thought my shaking legs might give way. The woman I was with was in as much shock as I was and kept apologizing for not coming to my rescue. She was worried they might have a knife: a very valid concern. The thought never even crossed my mind. I just got angry. A kind man invited me into a nearby business to calm down and stayed and talked with us for awhile. Another man also approached to make sure I was ok. I was.

I heard from several people afterwards that the stretch of road we were on was notorious for pickpockets and muggers. Also that this gang is well-known to police and locals alike, but they just keep targeting tourists and are pretty unstoppable as their crimes are considered too petty (and too much of a bother and probable expense) to pursue in courts. And, of course, even if they were charged and jailed, they'd be back on the streets in very little time. It was scary, but I must say I was surprised and impressed/pleased by my own reaction (you never know how you'll react in such a situation until it happens). Perhaps it may have been a bit foolhardy, but clearly it worked to my advantage. I now walk as I did when I first landed in Nairobi, clutching my bag tightly and always being aware of everyone around me.

The day after the attempted mugging, I boarded a train back to Tanzania. I'm now in the hilly southern region known for its tea and rice and good trekking/hiking. I'll be here a few days before making my way back across the country to Kenya. It'll be exactly a month from today that I'll be travelling back to Vancouver. I find that I'm already looking at things here with a bit of a lamentful, nostalgic feeling.

Yes, I'm tired of being on the road and living out of a backpack. And yes, what I wouldn't give for a big glass of chocolate soy milk, some real cheese on a fresh baguette and a huge salad with lots of veggies, sunflower seeds, olives, feta and dressing. And yes, how I'll never take a washing machine for granted again. And yes, how riding a long distance bus with a matching number of seats and people will be a delight. And yes, how much I'll appreciate living somewhere where there are vehicle emission controls. And yes, the pleasure will be great to know that a set time means just that...But oh, my life of freedom, learning, adventure, eye-opening and mind- boggling experiences will soon end, and I'll return to routine and responsibiltiies with a mixture of feelings. But all good things must come to an end, so they say. That and Visa may soon ask for my first born child as payment.

A la prochaine.

Entry 30

Guess it's been a couple weeks and one traumatic border crossing since I last wrote. Although I'm tempted to simply record all that I've seen since my last entry, I'll spare you the list and focus on a couple highlights.

First of all, let me tell you that I'm writing this from Livingstone, a few kilometres from the magnificent Victoria Falls. "The smoke that thunders" is worthy of its placement among the world's 7 greatest wonders. The falls are truly amazing, and to be here when the river level is at its highest is simply awesome. So much water! So many rainbows! So much mist! And best of all, so few tourists!

I spent one day just wandering around the trails and viewing spots near the falls and walked across the bridge that separates Zambia from Zimbabwe. Although the bungee jumping here did tempt me a bit, I opted to let others do the screaming for me. Because I didn't have the cash to cross over to "Zim" and back again, I only saw the falls from this one side. Some people say the Zim side is better as it's facing the falls from across the way whereas the Zambian view is from the same side. Well, I can't imagine being more impressed anyway, so seeing them from only one vantage point was quite alright.

Vic Falls ranks up there with Ngorongoro Crater and Olduvai Gorge in the list of places long dreamt of and those dreams being surpassed. And let me tell you, after the effort it took to get here, this is very good thing.

After spending nearly a day and a half in Lilongwe, Malawi, figuring out the details of how to get to Zambia, I finally left in the company of a young Dutch couple I met at the hostel there. We left at about 5 AM to catch the first mini bus going to near the border, from where we proceeded to immigration by taxi. After getting our exit stamps from the Malawi side, we crossed into the tiny Zambian office, handed over our passports and awaited our entry stamps.

The immigration official turned to both my Dutch companions and told them they had to pay 25$ U.S. each and then turned to me and said my visa would be 55$ U.S. I nearly choked. Nowhere had I read or been told that it was more for Canadians than other nationalities. I only had about 30 U.S. on me, and my new friends only had exactly what they needed too. My only alternative (other than returning to Lilongwe) was to find the black market money changing guys and change back the Zambian kwacha I had just changed from Malwai kwacha into American dollars. I knew I was going to get screwed on the exchange but had no choice. Fine, so after a bit of searching around, I found someone with American cash and got another 20$.

I went back to the desk and proffered my 2 20's and 2 10's. The kind man behind the counter informed me quite considerately that he wouldn't accept one of the 10's because it was an older bill with a small head, and he could only accept newer bills with bigger heads. I begged, pleaded, cajoled but to no avail. Ok. So I went back to the black market guys and tried to find someone to exchange bills with; of course, they too had a thing for big heads, so no go. At this point, you might imagine, I began to lose my temper a wee bit. My travel companions were waiting patiently, but I felt bad for holding them up; the bus we wanted to catch was still a 20 k. taxi ride away and leaving shortly; and the officer behind the counter seemed to be napping. It didn't help that I'd had very little sleep the night before and had had to wake so early, and my 1st stop of the morning was to an ATM that wouldn't accept my card --hence my lack of cash--and that the minibus ride here was one of the most uncomfortable I'd endured to date.

Alright. I borrowed cash from the Dutch guy, changed it into dollars (this time at an even worse rate) and went back once more. I now handed him 2 20$ bills with big heads, the one good 10 dollar note and 5 ones. Guess what? They don't accept one dollar bills at the border. It was about then that I began to really hate Africa, and seriously considered screaming a grand f-you to the nice offical and risking life in a Zambian jail. I was livid. I asked the man to help me; he ignored me.

WARNING FOUL LANGUAGE FOLLOWING: I stormed out of the office, back to the black marketeers once again and made a total arse out of myself. I stood there yelling at no one in particular "I'm fucked. Absolutely fcuked. Just fucked. Why are they fucking with me?" I think I scared a couple of the guys with my momentary craziness, but one of them ventured near enough to say he'd help me if I helped him. Oh oh.

So, I got another big headed 10, went back to immigration, handed him 60$ and was given a nice, crisp, big headed, 5 dollar note, and was welcomed to Zambia. Then I went back to the one black market guy who had been willing to help me despite my obvious insanity and handed him my remaining ones.

I can laugh now. I should have laughed then. But we made the bus, and the ticket guy even let me ride the whole 12 hours on the mere promise of payment once we reached Lusaka.

Now I'm here canoeing on the mighty Zambezi amid crocs and hippos and swimming elephants. I've been hanging out on a tiny sand island in the middle of the river where only an intrepid few dare to travel. And I'm loving it. Despite the fact that it's friggin cold here; it went down to 7 degrees the other night (that's celcius to my American friends)! And it's bloody expensive here too; the dollar is being devalued, and the kwacha is stronger than ever. Prices are ridiculous. But I'm "making do" and having a great time.

As is probably obvious, I was able to change my plane ticket home until mid July. I'm still unsure if I'll make it to Mozambique or not, but Africa is my oyster. And her treasures are vast. OK enough of the bad metaphors. More from who knows where...

Entry 29

In Lake Malawi, there is a unique population of fish called cichlids. The females of this species are largely mouth breeders. That is that after being suitably impressed by some lucky male, a female will lay an egg and then promptly "swallow" it in her mouth. She does this repeatedly and keeps the fertilized eggs there until they hatch. Then when the babies are born, the mother continues to use her mouth as a safe haven for the babies to escape to should any danger arise. They're brightly coloured, beautiful looking fish, and there are some sub-species endemic only to certain parts of this lake. The lake is famous for its diving in large part because of these special fish. There may not be a coral reef, but the lake offers much to see nonetheless. It's also one of the cheapest places in the world to learn how to dive, so it was because of these reasons that I came here.

Diving has long been a draw for me, so I'm not really sure why it's taken me so long to try. I was going to do it in other countries on other trips, but problems always arose. Day 1 of the course essentially involved my reading a text book on topics like buoyancy, water pressure, decompression illness, currents etc. and doing some self evaluations. On day 2, we went over the material from the text, watched it all again on video (I got 100% on my quizzes!) and then put some of the skills into practice. This meant learning how to set up the equipment and gearing up and getting into the water, in this case a small swimming pool.

Those first few minutes of breathing underwater are indeed unforgettable: scary, surreal, unnerving...And for a technophobe like me, trusting my equipment to keep me breathing and afloat was a challenge I hadn't anticipated. Most students follow up their pool sessions with their first dive, but my anxiety level had me needing a bit more time with each skill than most others do, so we waited until the next day.

On day 3, we returned to the pool to practice the 2nd set of skills, but unfortunately, I just couldn't get used to filling my mask up with water, removing and replacing it, and then clearing it. I even had a bit of a panicked reaction, and so we decided to take a break until the afternoon. After lunch, we headed out to small Kande Island across the way from the beach for my first dive. This was meant to be just a fun dive--no skills to practice. But again, a problem struck. I couldn't equalise my ears, probably due to that flu I had 2 weeks ago. The discomfort increased with every metre we descended, so when the discomfort became pain at only 5 metres, we had to abort the dive. I was so disappointed. It was hard not to see it as some kind of failing on my part.

Day 4 I decided to give it one more go. After a relaxing morning, I headed into the pool once again. I concentrated on my breathing as if my life depended on it (ha!) and kept reminding myself that I didn't need a mask to breathe. With complete calm and focus, I completed the skill with barely a second's trouble. I'm sure the whole camp heard my cheer as I surfaced excitedly.

That afternoon I went out on my second dive attempt. I was quite nervous, but to my surprise (and that of my instructor I think) I made it to the bottom--10 metres down. I was a little too freaked out to actually enjoy this first underwater experience, but it was pretty cool nonetheless.

On the last day, I joined a small group of fellow students to complete the 3rd set of skils which we did about 5 metres down on the lake bottom. It was easy and fun, and I began to think I could definitely get the hang of this. I looked forward to our next dive with great anticpation. In the afternoon, we suited up once again (there is really no graceful or easy way to get into a wet suit!) and headed out to the island once more. I made it down the chain with nary a bit of hesitation and found myself actually enjoying doing the skills and looking around as I waited for the others to do theirs. We went on a bit of an exploratory dive around the island and saw a huge cat fish and many cichlids; we even saw a mother quickly swallow her brood as we approached. It was a fait accompli, and I'm now proud and pleased to say that I'm a certified scuba diver. I think this was one of the biggest challenges I've put myself through in a very long time.

If I'm successful tomorrow at the British Airways office and can change my plane ticket, I may head to Mozambique's highly regarded coast to put my new skills into practice. If not, I'll be home too soon.

Entry 28

This will be fairly brief as internet access in Malawi, at least northern Malawi, is bloody expensive. The train ride from Dar to Mbeya near the border was supposed to be around 20 hours long. The 3 hour delay before we even boarded, plus the 6 hour delay in the middle of the night, along with another 6 hour delay the next afternoon meant we didn't arrive into Mbeya until 5 in the morning, about 16 hours late. I heard derailment, fuel problem, electrical problem and accident as all possible explanations. This wouldn't have been too much of a concern if my Tanzanian visa hadn't expired at midnight. Surprisingly and fortunately, the immigration official the next morning was quite understanding.

When I got off the train, tired, feverish, dizzy, and freaked out (because of the visa thing), 2 guys presented themselves as an answer to my problem. I wouldn't have to wait in the dark by myself at the train station or the bus depot. They'd take me straight to the bus which would leave in an hour to the border. From there, another bus would continue the journey south to whatver destination in Malawi I wanted.

I got into a taxi with them (stupid) and off we went to the bus. I got my seat, paid my fare and waited. And waited. Africa is a lesson in waiting. Waiting to use the ATM. Waiting to mail a letter. Waiting for a bus to leave. Waiting to get an answer. Waiting to make a phone call. It's an exercise in patience. And when feeling sick, I fear I come very close to failing that test.

Finally the bus left. We got to the Tanzanain border, and as I already wrote, my worry was unfounded (for once). I walked to the Malawi side and discovered, surprise, surprise, that I'd paid for a bus ticket for a bus that didn't exist. I was conned--again. I thought after all these months here, I'd be a bit smarter than that but apparently not. So I lost about 18$ CAD and had to take a mini bus. Which got pulled over by the cops for being overcrowded--hah! That's just a wee bit of an understatement.

Anyway, after a few days of feeling sick as a dog, I finally had the thought to look in my guide book under malaria. I matched many of the symptons, so I got myself off my butt and to the local clinic. It was closed. I was told it was a holiday, so the doctor was probably at home and given his address. Off I went. No doctor and apparently no one who spoke English or Swahili. Just some rather uncomfortable greetings in which various family members came in one by one, and got down on their knees to greet me, including a very eldery woman who had difficulty rising again. I didn't know if to offer an arm would be insult or not. I had no idea what the polite thing to do or say was and was quite startled by this "guest of honour" type treatment.

Eventually someone told me the doctor was still at the clinic and arranged for someone to take me back there. Fine. The doctor was very kind, but his lab technician was on vacation so no blood tests could be done. Of course.

So the next morning I took a bus to Mzuzu (where I am now) and went straight to the hospital. The test came up negative for parasites. This probably means I have no malaria, but it could mean the parasites are few and not showing up or I've developed a resistence. I'm pretty sure it means I have the flu.

I've decided to head to the lake for a few days to recuperate. More from somewhere where internet access is a bit more reasonably priced.