Ethiopia: The birthplace of mankind.

After the monotony of East African cuisine, Addis Ababa sent our tastebuds into convulsions. Colourful dollops of spicy wat on top of tangy injera, Spaghetti piled impossibly high, mouth watering pizza dripping in cheese, freshly squeezed mango juice, strong honey wine, served in glass vessels resembling flower vases and piping hot macchiato, available at cafes every 5 steps or less. After months of eating tough boiled meat with tasteless Ugali, Juho and I were in food heaven.

Addis is a chaotic city of more than 2.8 million people, and it seems to be ever expanding, as half the city is under construction. I immediately felt very underdressed as gorgeous specimens strutted past in 10 inch heels, immaculately dressed as if they had stepped straight off the catwalks of Milano.

Beyond the gates of Addis Ababa the country changes dramatically, gone are the flashy clothes, replaced by faded robes, bare feet or cheap plastic sandals, and donkeys laden down with heavy sacks. Three hours into our journey north to Bahir Dar, our bus broke down on the side of a mountain. We sat outside and marvelled at the view over the deep gorge and the Blue Nile River, which snakes through the valleys on its way to the Red sea. This was enjoyable for the first hour, but after 6 hours of sitting in the baking hot sun, not so much.

Eventually the part we needed arrived and we were on our way again in the late afternoon shadows. Creeping down the narrow mountain pass, our bus side swiped a truck and lost the side mirror, leading to another lengthy delay as the bus driver had to report to the police station to file a report.

We arrived in Bahir Dar close to 11pm, and half the bus (including the poor driver) piled exhausted into the closest hotel. Bahir Dar sits on the shores of Lake Tana, which is the source of the Blue Nile River and home to island monasteries from the late 16^th century. Recovering from a bad cold brought on by the cool climate change of Addis, and the traumatic bus journey, Juho and I spent lazy days sitting on the balcony overlooking the wide, palm lines streets that border Lake Tana.

From Bahir Dar we travelled north to the ancient kingdom of Gonder. Bus rides in Ethiopia are something else entirely; winding through fields and villages, surrounded by crumbling rock fences, past shepherds tending to their flocks, and donkeys transporting wares, you can’t help but feel like you have been transported back to another age. In the Ethiopian countryside people live much the same as they have for thousands of years, in the same kind of stone houses; following traditional farming practices, preparing the same injera outside their huts. To top things off buses here blare religious Amharic music at full volume, making us feel as if we are living in a bizarre film clip.

Not only does Ethiopia have its own language (Amharic) complete with a beautiful, baffling script, but they also have their own calendar and concept of time. At 6am it is 12 o’clock, after one hour of sunshine it is 1 o’clock, and when sun sets instead of being 6pm, it is once again 12 o’clock, pretty rational really, but it does make it confusing when finding out what times buses leave. The Ethiopian calendar ( based on the ancient Egyptian Coptic calendar)  puts Ethiopia 7 and a half years behind, so I have been transported back to my early 20’s and lets not even get in to how old Juho is.

Gonder castle, sits on a hill in the centre of the city, behind high stone walls. It has a history to rival the drama of Game of Thrones. Gonder was a place of extreme brutality and endless conspiracy, of queens, kings, ladies, lords and priests all trying to undermine and overthrow each other. From the towers you can see to all corners of the kingdom, and it is easy to imagine armies of horsemen approaching in the distance.

Leaving Gonder took us though the stunning Simien Mountains of jagged peaks, deep valleys and soring eagles. Unfortunately it also took us down and up extremely narrow mountain passes, along unsealed rocky roads, in an ancient bus, packed with people and chickens. We arrived late in a one horse town south of Axum where we bedded down for the night in a flea bag hotel for the grand price of $5.

Aksum, the Queen of Sheba’s capital, dates back to 400 BC and was the centre point of a powerful empire which dominated the sea-borne trade between Africa and Asia. Today Aksum’s secrets remain largely undiscovered, buried in tombs underneath the ground, real Indiana Jones kinda stuff.

The Safari

On the border of Rwanda and Uganda we found ourselves in a place reminiscent of Lake Malawi; Lake Bunyonyi or “Place of many little birds”. We resided in a geodome , an open air bungalow with the front completely open to a big deck facing the lake. Here we spent lazy days watching the birds flit in to visit us from the surrounding jungle and doing little more than eat and read.

Since leaving Zanzibar we have covered a lot of ground. Our first stop was the tiny hill village of Lushoto, where we made the tragic mistake of buying cheese from the nuns of a neighbouring covenant. Consequently the next few days were spent in agony, whimpering in bed while my stomach twisted in pain, completely poisoned. Lesson learnt: DO NOT eat dairy in Africa and NEVER trust a nun.

Another bone splintering bus trip north and we found ourselves in Moshi, nestled at the foot of the cloud shrouded, snow capped, mighty Kilimanjaro Mountain. Choosing to admire her form from afar, over some relaxing beers, rather than pay the exorbitant $1500 climbing fee, we made this our base for negotiating a safari into the Serengeti. 

Having negotiated a very reasonable priced safari with the highly recommended Karibu Adventures the three of us ( Juho, Helen and I)set off for the great Serengeti, via Lake Manyara and Ngorogoro crater. If you dream of doing a safari, this is the place to do it, these places are famous for a reason, all of the iconic African animals are here and in vast numbers. To top it off the landscapes are stunning, and the indigenous Maassai live and heard their cattle in the Ngorogoro conservation area, alongside the zebras and giraffe. Clad in traditional cobalt blue and red robes, carrying sticks, the Maassai live much the same as they always have, moving their cattle across the plains and valleys in search of greener pastures.

We bumped around the Serengetti , happily snapping away at elephant clans , prides of lions, baby leopards,  and an endless sea of migrating wildebeest.  At night hyenas whooped outside our tent and buffalo snuffed at our door, munching on the grass around our tent.  Inside the Ngorogoro crater thousands of pink flamingos covered the lake and baby hippos wallowed in the mud with their mums. A majestic male lion ambled past our truck, before settling into the grass beside us while frightened zebras stood erect, ready to flee if he moved any closer.

In Arusha we farewelled our Canadian pal and headed west for Mwanza, on the shores of Lake Victoria. From here we pushed up north, resting for a day in the backwater port town of Bubuko, because Juho, who had managed to evade the dreaded cheese poisoning, was struck down with a stomach illness of his own.  Despite its small size, Buboko had more churches and mosques than any larger town we had encountered. Groups of men, woman and children gathered in church gardens to sing melodic hymns and the first rays of dawn were accompanied by the haunting strains of a call to prayer.

Crossing the border into Uganda was an excellent example of the frustrating inefficiency that reoccurs throughout East Africa.  After queuing for a considerable amount of time, watching the fat officials inside idly flick through newspapers, file their nails and sip their tea, an officer appeared to announce that someone would now be appointed to record each passenger’s details on a clipboard before admitting them into the immigration office. One by one passengers were permitted to enter the building, to be interrogated, have their fingerprints recorded and eventually their passport stamped: “Exit”, yes this painstakingly long process was simply to allow us to leave Tanzania.

Inside Uganda the air feels fresher and cooler and the bushy landscape gives way to green, rolling hills. After touring around the lakes and hills we are spending our remaining Ugandan days in Kampala, zipping about on motorcycle taxis and eating overpriced Indian food as we are sick to death of the bland local food. Unfortunately President Idi Amin expelled the Indian and Pakistani population of Uganda in 1972, leaving only a smattering of these influences today, luckily for our taste buds this includes garlic Nan and spicy chicken vindaloo.

Zipping up to Zanzibar

We left Nkahata bay feeling sufficiently rejuvenated after a week of lazing in our bungalow hammocks while the water lapped at the rocks beneath us. The feeling didn't last long and soon we were crammed into an overflowing minivan, Juho’s knees wedged up below his chin and buckets of smelly fish sloshing beneath our feet. We travelled north with a British/Spanish family Alfonso and Valarie around my parents age and Martin a little older than me. By nightfall we had reached our destination; The Mushroom Farm, perched high on a mountain side, the chalets and campsites teetering on the side of the cliff and the rift valley and Lake Malawi stretched out below us.

 A couple of hours hike further up the hill was the old mission town of Livingstonia , an incredible isolated colonial town, established in the 1800s as a mission base to escape the malaria of the lakeside. Only one very rocky, steep mountain road leads here and very few vehicles travel on it, the only regular one being the Livingstonia ambulance, which ferries people and goods up and down the track. I hate to think how long someone would have to wait if they actually had a medical emergency. After a few days hiking around the countryside, visiting waterfalls and whatnot and marvelling at the views, we had no choice but to hike back down the rocky mountain as no cars appeared to making a trip that day. With our heavy backpacks pressing down on top of us, we arrived covered in sweat and dying of dehydration in the strong midday sun. Once down we gulped down ice cold sprites and pushed on north to the Tanzanian border.

Arriving in Tanzania was something else entirely, after the friendly, relaxed vibe of backwater Malawi we found ourselves being dragged from the bus in Mbeya and pulled in every direction. We spent the night in a flea bag hotel/nightclub with our newly acquired Canadian friend Helen, and an impossible rude and annoying German, (whose name we have chosen to forget). Luck was on our side for once and we scored the last carriage on the 24 hour train to Dar es Salaam. Now this is a train journey that I highly recommend should you get the chance. Opting for first class we spent the evening and following day gazing out of the window as we rolled through villages, countryside and national park. After nearly two months of horrifically overcrowded buses and minivans, stuffed with buckets of smelly fish, live chickens and kids vomiting up cake on our shoulders, to say we were glad to be on a train is an understatement. The train makes this trip from Zambia all the way to Dar Es Salaam just twice a week, and in the sleepy villages and countryside, locals gathered to wave and watch the train go past. Closer to Dar Es Salaam we wound through National park and we craned our necks to catch glimpses of Warthogs, Monkeys, and Gazelles.Congested Dar Es Salaam was a rude awakening after the tranquillity of our train journey. Pulling out of the train station in a cab we were pulled over by officials who ordered us out of the cab and explained that the man driving the cab was known for robbing tourist passengers by gunpoint. Needless to say, by sun up the next day, we were happily on our way to Zanzibar. 

Ah Zanzibar, the very name conjures up the scent of spice, and the vision of palm fringed beaches and ancient bazaars winding down cobbled streets. Surprisingly it maintains that charm even today, despite the hordes of tourists ambling down the laneways of Stone Town, expensive cameras slung carelessly across their shoulders just begging to be pinched. In Stone Town we spent the afternoon in a back alley having some shoes cobbled for me after my flip flops broke. The old man sketched my foot and then began fashioning bits of leather together, while his grandchildren, adorable dressed in bright dresses and white headscarf’s, giggled and took turns poking Juho and pulling faces at us. We returned in the evening to find a beautiful pair of leather sandals, perfectly sculpted to my feet for the bargain price of $12. A couple of hours north of Stonetown, In Nungwi, the Dow building centre of Zanzibar we are enjoying our last sighting of the beach for some time. Blinding white sand, aquamarine water and fresh seafood, I am certain that we will dream of this when we are shivering our way through the harsh Finnish winter.

Zanzibarilla viikon lungittelun jalkee lahettiin jalleen kohti pohjoista. Bussilla Dar Es Salaamista Momboon josta jatko bussilla Lusothoon. Taa on jossain ylangoilla oleva mesta josa on mukavan viileeta. Loydettiin taas Helen taalta ja lahettiin porukalla hakee 3kilsan paasta jostain pappilasta munkkien tekemaa juustoa ja viinia. Oli ihan ok settia. Ei mitaan erikoista euroopan mittarilla, mutta ku ei ollu juustoa saanu pariin kuukauteen nii oli hyvaa. Jhania vahan kyseenalaisti, etta onkohan oikeen jarkevaa syoda juustoa.. Niinhan siina kavi, etta Jhania ja Helen oksenteli ja pasko koko yon ja tama paiva menee sangyn pohjalla. Eipa ollu jarkevaa syoda juustoo. Mun super mahaa ei paljoa kiinnosta onko siela paskaa juustoo vai ei nii joudun sitte toimimaan orjana ja tuomaan mita tytot kaskee. Kuluuhan se aika nainkin.

Dhows heading out to fish on Zanzibar.

Shoe shop, Stonetown style.

The real gold of Malawi

Juho and I have spent many lazy days on Lake Malawi. Cape Maclear at the southern end of the lake was filled with local life, and despite being “one of Africa’s legendary backpacker hangouts”, we often felt like the only Muzungos (whities) there. The lake plays such a pivotal role in everyday life for locals, it is where their dinner comes from, where they wash their clothes, where their drinking, cooking and washing water comes from, and where the kiddies spend endless hours playing. Everywhere we went kids called out greetings, followed us, clutched our hands and wanted to play. Malawians are notoriously friendlily, and evidently this starts at a young age. Being the well worn travellers that we are it is hard to get used to the fact that many Malawians just want to chat without a catch, although if they are carrying a sheaf of paintings, it’s easier to return the greeting and keep on walking.

Deciding to break up our trip to the northern end of the lake, I picked a place at random form the map ‘Nkhotakota’’, thinking there we would find another cosy lakeside bungalow or lodge to stay a night or two. What we found was a dusty, market town devoid of any other Muzungos. We stayed in an awesomely cheap and tacky roadside motel with faded pink façade, and drank some beer in a local dive bar, much to the delight of the drunken locals gathered there.

Transport in Malawi, especially around the lake, is painfully slow, and we waited at least 5 hours in the hot sun for our bus the following day, nobody knew when the bus was due to arrive, like all transport, it just turns up when it does.

Nkhata bay on the far north of the lake has a completely different feel to the southern end, green and lush with deep water and rocky headlands. We are staying in what is without a doubt the nicest place we have stayed on our entire trip thus far. Mayoka Village, an eco-lodge complete with organic vegie garden and composting toilet. Our bungalow sits on a rocky headland right on the water, our four poster bed, draped with mosquito net, faces the lake and we catch a glimpse of sunrise each morning before dozing off for a few more hours. The lodge provides free boat trips, use of their canoes and snorkelling gear and we are making the most of it. I feel this may be our holiday within our African journey. Staying within this idyllic bubble it is easy to forget that Malawi has a much bleaker side, the life expectancy here is a mere 43 years, largely due to Aids (12%) and malaria. We visited an isolated beach yesterday and all the kids from the local village swarmed onto the beach. Most of these kids had bloated bellies, reflecting the statistics that around half the population are chronically malnourished. They fought over the empty water bottles we had, a scene not unlike that in “The Gods Must Be Crazy”. Many people argue that foreign aid has done more to harm countries like Malawi that help, creating dependency, apathy and a lack of self sufficiency. I am trying to keep an open mind at this stage, but it is a topic I would like to research further during our grand African Safari.[1]

---

[1] Safari is a Swahili word meaning Journey. 

Lake Malawi and Juho's birthday

 Blantyre was soggy and rainy. We hibernated in our cabana, watching Californication and dreaming of sunshine. The day we left for Monkey bay, a few hundred kms up north on the edge of Lake Malawi, the mud was so thick that walking a few meters to the bus stop was almost impossible.

A homeless man lay shivering in his faded rags and bare feet, barely sheltered by the run down bus station. We dug through Juho’s bag for his airplane blanket and covered him, another local man watching on thanked us “Your time will come sister”, hopefully he meant a time when someone does something nice for us, not that we will one day also be homeless and shivering at a rundown bus station in the far south of Malawi.

The bus scheduled to depart at 9am, departed just past midday, meaning that we arrived in Monkey bay just as night was starting to fall. As we pulled up, a man leapt onto the bus, asking where we wanted to go and promising to assist us, I was wary, but Juho not so much and shortly after we were wandering off into a field, escorted by 3 large Malawian men.  My female sense of safety kicked in and I demanded that Juho stop and that we find some other form of transport. We took what was available: Bicycle taxis. And so there we were, pelting down a dark, dirt road, on the back of rusty retro bicycles, teenaged boys cycling as fast as they could.  Looking over our shoulder s we could see the 3 Malawian men, also on bicycle taxis in hot pursuit. 

It turned out Isaac, Austin, and the other guy (whose name escapes us) were just local men desperate for some tourist business. Being wet season and being Africa (a continent that gets such a bad rapt, many tourists are scared off) it could be many months in-between business transactions and these men were determined not to let their catch get away. After Juho bought the men each a beer, we allowed ourselves to be talked into a snorkeling, boat trip, on the condition that it was not raining the next day. Well someone must have prayed to the anti-rain gods, because when we awoke the next morning, the sun was shining and the men were eagerly waiting outside. We set off for town where they collected food, firewood, a cooking pan, a large fish, a knife and eventually a boat to take us to a nearby island for snorkeling.  It was a really nice day, snorkeling amongst the  schools of blue fish, and squealing as they nibbled our feet. The guys cooked up a feast on an open fire, presenting us with heaped plates and insisting that we eat the whole fish. After much protest that we were beyond full, and could eat no more, they hungrily polished off the remaining food.

Juho is always insisting on trying the local beer, but even he was not a fan of the local “shake-shake “ beer. The warm ‘beer’ is brewed within a carton, not dissimilar to a milk carton, and has a watery consistency, filled with chunks of god knows what. Awful stuff. Apparently it becomes stronger the longer you leave it, so after a week the potency is so strong, you will be knocked off your feet after a few swigs.  

The next day the fellas popped up again to help us organize and bargain some transport to Cape Maclear. They were so thankful for our business it broke my heart. We had given them less than we would spend on a restaurant meal and a bottle of wine. We told them that we would much rather support the local community than some foreign owned tourist venture and that really struck a chord with them. 

We bumped across the mountain on the back of motorcycle taxis to Cape Maclear, I’m sure the young boys would have taken us on their bicycles, but it was time for an upgrade.  After checking into our simple bamboo hut, a mere meter or two from the water, we wandered up the beach.  Bumping into a couple we knew from Monkey bay, we sat down on a balcony, overlooking the lake for a beer. Shortly after, some local kids, sensing a business opportunity set up on the sand below and launched into their musical act. Four young boys, a homemade drum, guitar like instrument fashioned out of  a plastic container and some very enthusiastic hip grinding  “West Life Boys” ( yep, that was their band name, painted onto their instruments) performed such hits as “Who let the dogs out” and Shakira’s “Wakka-Wakka”. Pure gold. Today is Juho’s birthday, and in absence of any decent gifts available for purchase , I have hand washed all of his dirty clothes. In Africa it is the small things that count.

Juho’s words

It rained for 7 days and 7 nights, but still no sight of Noa nor his boat. The magic stick of Moses would have been really handy to keep our feet dry. Anyway we made our way up north to Monkey Bay and Cape Maclear at the shore of Lake Malawi and it’s shining here. Lack of transport makes it bit different to travel. Busses go only between the main cities and after that you just have to use your imagination. There is still always ways to go: Mini-busses, utes, taxis, motorbikes, bicycles or just walk. Now we have reached Cape Maclear, it’s one of the main backpacker destinations in Malawi. Although we’re traveling in the off season so it’s basically empty. There seems to be few other travelers with their cars. We decided to chill here for a week and celebrate my birthday by having a pizza and using internet. Pretty simple but at least it’s not freezing like back home.

Shake - Shake, The most disgusting beer ever, but it's cheap.

West Life Boys, That singer had better moves than Mick Jagger

Up to Malawi-A Finnish perspective

When we were chilled enough we decided to head up to Malawi.  We were mentally ready for few days bus journey.  The idea is to take it as an experience and so it was.  Alarm clock rang at 02.30. The bus was leaving at 04.00 We had a lift for the bus station and found easily the right bus as it was the only one.  After push starting it we were ready to leave and we did for few minutes until there was a cop patrol a kilometer in front of us and in Mozambique it’s illegal to drive at the night time at least with a bus. We had to wait in front of the patrol about an hour until it was getting a  bit brighter and so we went. The bus was as normal really shit and completely full as always. For the next 10 hours we spend in the bus until we arrived to Inchope where we had to change to a chapas. Easy done and only 1 hour till  our overnight resting place. Finally in Chimoio which was like a big bus station and really boring looking place. We went to a local restaurant and had some chicken dish with some weird porridge stuff. Really local stuff we read from somewhere.  It didn't really taste like anything, but really filling it was. Good enough. In the evening we had a few beers and bit of a  chitchat with another traveler couple. Who made us change  our plans quite a bit, but that will be another post. Early to a bed as it was early wake up again. Next morning wake up at 0300 bus leaves in an hour. Same shit, bus was traditionally really crap and full. We had 2 spots in the last row and in the middle. It’s going to be really fucking nice 6 hours on front of us.. When we finally got to Tete, we had to take quick take away brunch and find the  next chapas. We found it after bit of a walk. The driver was some old dude and the coworker was reading a bible on the front seat. Not really promising. It was the slowest driver we've ever had. We were already making a plans to stay overnight in some of the border towns. But then the blessing of some god happened. Gearbox broke down and everyone out. Jhania stacked her thumb up and 24 seconds later next chapas picked us up, that driver was closer to Ari Vatanen and we had again a chance to get to the border on time. The border was the easiest border what I've seen so far. Only minus was that there is 8km between the check out and check in. Plenty of taxis and bikes were offering us a ride. We jumped in the first one. It didn’t really start up and the driver jumped under the hood. He put some petrol straight in the carburetor and had another try. I remember doing the same stuff when we were kids with our forest car and thinking that this would never work in real life. But anyway almost got it, but still didn’t work. After few tries we gave one more chance otherwise we’d take the bikes. 3 time always works and we got to Malawi side. Getting in was easy “Do you have money?” “Yes, 10k $” Do you mean us dollars?” “Yes” and stamp. Ready to go. Last minibus to Blantyre and we’re done. Finally. We rewarded our self with a lasagna, Burger and a local beer. We were so done..

Ferry ride

Jhanias Words

It is a relief to arrive in Malawi after a somewhat hellish journey through central Mozambique. Two days of 2:30 am wakeups, dangerously overcrowded buses, no legroom, and worst of all no headrests (pretty awful after NO sleep). The roads through this part of Mozambique heading up towards Tete are atrocious, filled with massive potholes, and clogged with giant trucks ( log trucks and mining trucks). Rio Tinto is currently raping the countryside around Tete, bringing jobs ( albeit lowly paid ones), prostitution ( where dollars go, so do the whores), and roads that locals (joke?) are only built to last as long as it takes for the mining giants to rip what they want form the ground.

From Tete towards the border post of Zobue the countryside becomes more fertile, although the roads are still awful. Young boys, having filled selected potholes with mud, ran towards the Chapas trying to extort a fee from the drivers for their handiwork. From the border on its a beautiful drive through the green rolling hills of Malawi towards Blantyre, farmers in the fields, kids playing games, people everywhere: walking, talking, and just hanging out to greet the passing vehicles.

It is time to slow down the pace; tonight we celebrate a new phase of our trip: the slow days. Having procured a bottle of South African wine we are off to an Ethiopian restaurant, after all its Friday night and date night even in Malawi. 

Our hut in Vilanculos

Low tide in Vilanculos

Cheek to cheek in Mozambique

Tofo

We crossed the border into Mozambique at 5am on Saturday morning, the lines were long, but the process swift, and before the sun fully rose we were inside the green, fertile lands of Mozambique. Maputo, with its wide, tree lined streets and absence of traffic, felt too quiet to be the country’s capital. We sat outside a local café and simply pointed at the strange Portuguese words and waited for our mystery meals to arrive.  Before long we discovered the most scrumptious Portuguese tarts, and mouthwatering chocolate croissants, washed down with strong espresso, from tiny white porcelain cups. The pace felt lazy in Maputo, kids played in the streets, old men gathered to drink espresso, and puff on cigars. The Mediterranean style building, all the more charming for their decay and neglect, vines clinging to the sides and unruly trees, bursting with flowers, strangling the gardens.

We awoke at 4am, after a restless night’s sleep of plus 30 and overwhelming humidity, to begin our journey north to the coastal village of Tofo. Our bus was over an hour late, and shortly after picking us up, stopped at the main bus station, refusing to leave until all seats were filled by a paying customer.  At the break of day, the bus station was chaotic; hundreds of people being pushed onto buses, by the men, whose job it was to fill the seats. Buses overflowed with people, and all kinds of things were strapped to the rooftops, cupboards, wardrobes, it seemed entire houses were moving north.

The 8 hour bum achingly long journey took us through flood soaked plains, over a bridge, which judging from the crowd of workmen and locals shaking their heads was about to be washed away (we learnt later that it did in fact wash away, less than an hour after we crossed). Finally we arrived in Tofo, a charming beachside village, long sandy beaches, rustic bungalows, and incredible fresh seafood washed down with the local beer “2M”.

We are staying at “John’s place” a hidden gem, which I read about on someone else’s blog, and 10 times cheaper than any of the places listed in the increasingly irrelevant Lonely Planet.  John’s place is not even called “John’s place” it is sign posted as “ A street bar named desire” , although the locals all know it as “John’s place”. Run by John, an aging hippy, complete with grey beard, reminiscent of the ZZ Top, the bar is a tribute to the music of the 60’s and 70’s. I am sitting in the bar right now, with the faces of all the old rock legends staring down at me, while Janis Joplin crows in the background.

It is the off season, and for the first two days, rain poured down, lightning flashed, and the power was off for 72 hours. The bar was our refuge, complete with candles in beer bottles, and ice cold 2m, pretty decent beer for 1.50$.

The sun is out now, and each morning we wake up and have a lengthy morning swim, followed by a hearty breakfast of Preggo Rolls ( garlic steak rolls), a bit of a walk and some serious hammock time on the beach, before our afternoon swim and then our elaborate seafood feast for dinner. Life is good for us. Not so good for the skinny kids, with their bare feet and thread bare shirts, who follow us relentlessly, trying desperately to sell their hand made bracelets: “Please sister, just buy one and then it is finished”. Eyeing off the pen and notebook in my hand, one small boy said “Please give me pen, tomorrow I go to school”.

Juho’s words

Vasta vajaan parin tuhannen kilsan jalkeen ollaan jo huomattu kuin paljon aikaa tuo paikasta toiseen meneminen vie. Penkit on kaikkea muuta ku mukavat ja bussit on ihan varmasti survottu tayteen. 400 kilsan patka vie helposti 8 tuntia + 3 tuntia odottelua, etta se bussi saadaan liikkeelle ja bussithan lahtee aina todella mukavaan aikaa, 4am tuntuu olevan aika normi aikataulu. Ollaan vahan miteskelty plania. Halutaanko nahda monta paikkaa vai chillailla mestoilla vaha pitempaa ja talla hetkella nayttas aikalailla silta, etta otettas rennosti mukavissa paikoissa jonka jalkee sitte pitkia bussi matkoja. Eipahan tarvi herata joka aamu nii perkeleen aikasi. Uganda ollaan jo pyyhitty kartalta ajan puutteen takia pois ja joisaki maisa ei ole mahdollisuutta olla ku se pari viikkoo. Joudutaan lentaan Keniasta Etiopiaan ku rajan ylitys ei oo tarpeeksi turvallinen.