Transportation

Time, Walking, Women

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Time, Walking, Women, Waiting, Matatus and Plastic
In Africa these things work together in a synchronous whole says Ryszard Kapuściński in “Shadow Of The Sun.” Rattle-trap matatus-minibuses that serve as public transportation-all seats and the space in between and the space full from floor to ceiling whiz by. What time does the bus leave for it’s destination? The answer is when it fills up. Time for on most of this continent only has meaning in relation to events. If you ask when does the bus leave it makes no sense. The bus will leave when it is full so one must wait…quietly with unseeing eyes…when people are waiting…for this is what they must do before something can happen…they do not react to anything around.

But people are happy to wait for the bus because for eons before this Africa walked-indeed they still walk in the rural areas which is most of African countries and they carry whatever has to be transported on their shoulders or heads. Entire cities and everything in them were carried into the interiors on the heads of the people in the 18th century when there were no roads-only paths.

On this ancient system of paths people walked silently and single file and they still do today even if they are traveling on one of today�s wide roads. And it is the women who do the transporting…they may have to walk several miles every day in one direction for wood and often in another direction for water.

Modern technology has made their lives easier because instead of heavy earthen urns for water they now have red, green and blue plastic buckets. A woman will squat down and place the bucket on her head. Then straightening up she will carefully balance herself. Stepping with an elegant, smooth even gait she walks silently and resolutely down a forest path leading to…a place we will never see. When we pass in the truck she may turn her body slightly and wave. I am immensely impressed. They learn early how to do this…we see a girl about 7 years old walking down a path with a huge heavy bucket of water held up on her head by her tiny neck. When the woman has collected the wood for a fire and the water then she can begin cooking the one meal of the day…

The women carry water, chop wood and work the fields; the armies of men for the most part are unemployed. But they could help the women carry water and wood and work in the fields, we say to each other! But this is Africa and it won’t happen!

The younger men trek from the rural areas to the city in search of work but they find neither jobs nor a roof. They should do something…But what? What should they do with their unutilized energy? With their hidden potential? What is their place in the world? They squat idly on all the larger streets and squares of cities we have been in. In less stable countries, with the promise of shoes or a meal they are recruited by local chieftains when they need to recruit armies, organize coups or foment a civil war.

Dalla-Dallas In Zanzibar

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Transportation
Outlying areas can be reached by taking little numbered pick-ups called dalla-dallas across from the Darajani Market that charge about 30 cents and like the matatus (multicolored buses) are filled literally to the brim with people as they careen crazily along narrow one lane roads. I wondered if this is where the Merry
Pranksters got the idea for Ken Kesey�s bus in the �60�s.

To the Sarangeti

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A week before picking Bob and me and another 3 people up in Nairobi, the WorldWide Adventure Company had taken about 15 others across the Masi Mara into Rwanda to see the Gorillas. Their stories made us sorry we didn’t go…”we were 2 meters away from them…they were so relaxed…and peaceful. The gorillas were completely comfortable with us being there…”

Our first day out the kids were hyper as hell from being stuck in the mud for two days after seeing the gorillas. I threatened to abandon the truck as soon as we got to Dar es Salaam but earplugs got me through. The second day was better…our good natured trip leader talked the kids out of the Michael Jackson tape. Our guide, Rod is South African; the crew-Kenyans. George is a great cook and James-a good driver. The truck is a great way to see Africa because you sit up high and can see all over.The luggage and kitchen stuff is underneath the seats…accessible from outside.

As the truck was moving through the Kenyan/Tanzanian border a young kid wanted $100 American for his little hand-carved giraffes; we all laughed and he yelled up at us “I want to be the Bill Gates of Africa!” then quickly added, “I am just joking!”

Stayed the first night at Namanga Camp where Bob discovered a small pretty Maasai woman named Eunice tending the small camp store. Eunice gave me my Maasai name-Milanoi. We exchanged addresses and she promised to make me a necklace with my Maasai name and send it to my home. (I never got it of course.) She refused to take money for the necklace or the postage so I gave her a silver ring. But in the morning she didn’t give me my 20 shilling change for a Fanta I drank the night before and then the other shoe dropped. She asked me to send her clothes, shoes (size 4) earrings and nail polish and clothes for her 9 year old son. Our expectations of cultural exchanges so different…we hate feeling “used” under the pretenses of friendship. Extend that to our Aid programs world-wide. Who is used by whom?

Nairobi to Cape Town Overland

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May 5, 2002
We left for the 4000 mile seven week trip in a Mercedes Benz truck overland from Nairobi to Capetown. As Bob suspected there would be, there are 17 kids all under the age of 30 on this truck-very cheeky Aussies and Kiwis and half a dozen ball-busting Britains. Overland trucks are the cheapest way to travel Africa so the trucks are always full of kids-guess we will be content with being the token elders.

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The master of African roads is the truck driver-cars cannot manage the ruts and potholes. The truck can go almost anywhere with its powerful engine and wide tires. James understands the power under his control. We are dumbfounded by his ability to wedge the truck into the smallest path, narrowest driveway, around the sharpest corner! Drivers are extraverted and have tremendous confidence-an almost regal bearing. I read this on my blog to James and he whooped and hollered and jumped up and down…Yes! Yes! That’s me! That’s me! First instruction from Rod: it’s a TRUCK and not a bus! Every time someone calls it a bus we are supposed to buy Rod a drink-I’m the biggest offender. I just laugh.

We are all divided into four groups that rotate daily-cooks helper, dish washing, security and “dog’s-body.” Security has to stay with the truck when are parked in the towns. Dogs-bodies are the go-fers. They fill up the water jugs at the camps and set up the folding seats. They set up the folding table for food preparation and put up George’s tent. (George is the Kenyan cook.) They also periodically sweep out all the dust and mud out from under the seats and the aisle of the truck. Dish washers make up three tubs of water-one soapy, one with disinfectant and one rinse. They set up two plastic pans for hand washing-one with soap and one with disinfectant for rinse. They dry the dishes by swinging them in the air.

George makes a fire on the ground with the charcoal he has purchased along the road and sets a big grate over the top.

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The charcoals much softer than ours…coals are red and coffee-water hot in just a couple minutes. Cooks helpers peel veges and generally do whatever George wants them to do while they try and keep out of his way. George has pretty fixed and definite ideas about how he wants things to go.

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For breakfast we have had eggs all different ways, French Toast, pancakes, dry cereal made with reconstituted dried milk, toast, wieners, bacon, canned spaghetti, beans. Lunch is grated carrots, sliced tomatoes, grated cheese, green or red peppers, sliced meat and bread for sandwiches. I ask Claire if this is always going to be lunch and she says yes, but to shut up and don’t complain because it’s the only fresh veges we get! So I don’t say a word! George usually puts out the leftovers from the night before too. Pineapple or bananas or dessert.

Dinner usually is served with creamed soup first and then African stew with mashed potatoes or rice, steak and baked potatoes, chicken and rice with good spices, spaghetti with interesting sauces…and many more good things like that. We sit on little camp stools to eat. A couple times George has fixed the African staple, maize, for us-a kind of fine white corn meal. You dip your fingers into it and form a little ball with which you then dip into a spicy meat stew and eat. When it is dark and getting colder and we want to sit awhile around the campfire we put a few coals on the ground underneath each folding canvas seat…works nicely.

The truck has padlocked compartments all the way around with doors that fold down. George has the keys on a shoelace that he wears around his neck. I get tired trying 14 keys to find the one that unlocks the compartment where our baggage is so I paint the key with someone’s nail polish. George just laughs.

The truck periodically pulls over for “toilet stops.” We scatter…boys on one side of the truck and girls on the other. On one stop I was one of the last to get off and after walking down a small bank I looked to the left and saw 6-7 shiny white butts all in a row. I yelled to the girls that I wished I had my camera-you can imagine the hullabaloo! Our hands get sprayed with disinfectant before we get back on the truck.

There are two heavy plastic drops on each side in place of windows that are rolled up during the day so we get lots of fresh air and can see out. It also gives us accessibility to people standing around the truck when we are parked at border crossings and supply stops for those who choose to stay on the truck. If everyone gets out we put the drops down because local kids are known to jump up and grab things off the seats. If we are in a camp the drops come down to keep the monkeys and baboons out of the truck.

The other riders on the truck ranging from early twenties to early thirties are bright and sassy. Besides Bob and I there are two other couples, Damian and Melissa from Melbourne Australia and Tim and Belinda from New Zealand-the rest are single-Heather and Fiona are sisters from New Zealand, Nikki from New Zealand but had been working as a nanny in London, Michelle, Claire, Sarah and Lorelle traveling together from England. Adrian is from Australia with a Canadian passport who lives and works in London and Pete is a New Zealander. In Victoria we will pick up Michael from Johannesburg South Africa and lose everyone else except Nikki, Fiona, Heather, Sarah, Michelle, Adrian and us. Heather, who was working as a nanny in London had a friend who knew Mick Jagger”s nanny (hope this is right, Heather!)

Most are already well-traveled-the four girls from England spent a year traveling together after “uni” (university) and Michelle and Nikki have done overland trips before-Nikki amazingly did a 6 month overland trip in the year 2000 on the old “hippie trail” from England to Kathmandu via Iran, Pakistan and the Karakoram highway. Both Michelle and Nikki are gunning for a job in the overland business and will remain in Africa at the end of the trip.

It’s fun listening to the British, Aussie and Kiwi accents but they insist Bob and I are the ones with the accent! I am starved for conversation and want to discuss the linguistic, cultural and political differences among the English speakers but I sense they don’t like it…that maybe they assume I am being critical of them…the arrogant American…little do they know how critical I am of my own popular culture and the foreign policies of my government.

There is a library (big box of tattered paperbacks) ranging from slut novels to the Autobiography of Nelson Mandela on the truck for long travel days. There is a cassette deck with speakers at the front and the back. The smokers have to sit in the back-always Michelle in her funky little hat under which you can barely see her sparkly eyes and Rod the tour leader. At the very front of the truck there are two steps up to a section of four seats on each side where the Brits usually sit facing each other so they can chatter. The rest of the seats face forward. There is a cooler for drinks.

We have lucked out with a really nice group that is very compatible and everyone enjoys each other. Tim from New Zealand says he couldn’t imagine his mom doing an overland trip-makes me feel good. Rod has confiscated the Michael Jackson tape but the rest of the music blaring all day on the truck stereo is ungodly as you might imagine. We would prefer to remain steeped in images of Africa…the sounds of the local dialects in soft voices…he sound of children’s laughter…the look of the bright wide smiles…the sounds of the daily village activity and of the animals in the parks, the sight of the incredible red clay soil reflected in the morning and evening light, the mind blowing brightness of the stars at night…the breathtaking red sun while it is setting down on the Zambezi…we have left home partly in an effort to get away from the abrasiveness of western popular culture…but James says the other riders are young-this is their time to enjoy…

Bob and I don’t sit together…24 hours a day since February is more than enough togetherness. The truck is not full and many of us get two seats to ourselves. In July and August we are told the truck will be filled to capacity-36 people! I can’t even imagine it! It is good to be traveling now.

St. Peter’s House

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The Vatican City, one of the most sacred places in Christendom, attests to a great history and a formidable spiritual venture. A unique collection of artistic and architectural masterpieces lie within the boundaries of this small state. At its centre is St Peter’s Basilica, with its double colonnade and a circular piazza in front and bordered by palaces and gardens. The basilica, erected over the tomb of St Peter the Apostle, is the largest religious building in the world, the fruit of the combined genius of Bramante, Raphael, Michelangelo, Bernini and Maderna. It is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

In 1965 I had missed seeing the Vatican because I refused to stand in line three hours. So we took the Metro across the Tiber River to the stop near the Vatican and noticed that the trains in Rome are completely covered-every square inch-in graffiti-so much so that Bob thought that the local government had commissioned it! Not!

After 23 years of Catholic education for Bob and 16 for me, we approached the Vatican in complete ignorance-we knew next to nothing about the Vatican or the Pope-probably says something about being Catholic…or Polish. The Polish never did like being told what to do-and neither did Bob’s ancestors-German immigrants to the Ukraine.

We learned that the Vatican occupies 108 and one half acres within the confines of Rome. It is a separate city with it’s own postal service and does a brisk business selling its postcards and stamps that must be mailed in their own mailboxes. Seeing this made it hard to picture the Catholic church that once wheeled and dealed as the mightiest power in Europe.

St. Peter’s Basilica and the Cupula
St. Peter’s is called planning for the “long term. Planning for the short term is Oregon’s Governor Barbara Roberts being given a hard time because she wants to put a nice rug and some cherry wood furniture in the Archives building! I said as much to a Canadian standing next to me at the top of the Cupula (the dome on the top of the basilica) after climbing 350 stairs and suffering claustrophobia from the slanted walls. I told my Canadian friend that I thought the world was trying to tell us that our values are in the wrong place. His answer brought me up short “Yes, we are so practical yet because we are such a young society. We are still developing and building. Other ancient societies have already had their chance to learn what is important in life.” So now, while we name buildings after politicians and businessmen, Rome names it’s airport after Leonardo da Vinci!

The confessional area was lined with priests hearing confessions in many languages. Bob tried to find out if it was customary to give an offering. I asked him if he was planning on going…he said he didn’t need it at which I shot him the big poof of air that the French taught me how to do.

Meanwhile, Bob was watching the sun coming in one of the windows high in the nave magically illuminating all of one particular statue-the one of St. Helen. He wondered aloud if St. Helen “had something to say” to him-probably, he said brightly, “to keep up the good work!”

Sistine Chapel
Would take weeks or months to absorb everything in the Vatican museum and all the rooms of art (Bob was pretty energized by the modern religious art). In the half hour we were in the Sistine Chapel, Vatican monitors shushed us every 2-3 minutes which really raised Bob’s hackles! He said it reminded him of Sister Mary Barbara! But I said I thought the noise may be damaging to the art. Besides, I told him it shouldn’t be a circus in there. I just got a harumph in reply.

Before taking the Metro back to the hotel we stopped at a small cafeteria run by three energetic young guys who served up pizza, rice stuffed tomatoes in a great pomodoro sauce with those tiny noodles and a veal dish with another kind of pomodoro sauce at our streetside table. Either we were very hungry or this was the best food in Italy!

Cinque Terre

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Took a train to the Cinque Terre (Five Lands..or villages) area on the northern Italian Riviera.

The Ligurian coast between Cinque Terre and Portovenere is a cultural landscape of great scenic and cultural value. The layout and disposition of the small towns and the shaping of the surrounding landscape, overcoming the disadvantages of a steep, uneven terrain, encapsulate the continuous history of human settlement in this region over the past millennium. The area is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The towns, jutting out into the Mediterranean and straight up the hills on the coast are connected by walking trails through eighteen kilometers of sheer rocky coastline with terraced hills and vineyards sloping steeply down to the sea. The five little villages are built into the rocks between the beach and the hills. You can hike, swim, drink red wine, and watch blazing Mediterranean sunsets far away from the tourist throngs in the Italian cities and the French Riviera. Centuries old footpaths and mule tracks wind about 500 to 1,000 feet above the sea, leading through olive groves and vineyards, orchards and chestnut woods.

Each village has its own character, they are a few minutes apart by train. The main railway between Rome and Paris runs along the coast, mainly in tunnels. Bob compares the trail to the Nepali Trail on the island of Kauai in Hawaii. Extremely picturesque and very charming.

Vernazza is many peoples favorite village, dominated by the Round Tower and by the ruins of the medieval fortifications. It has a small harbor next to the village square.

Monterosso is pretty split into two by the tunnel and the mountains. If you are walking down from Vernazza, the old town is the first beached section and is well worth a walk around as it is loaded with lots of small, character-filled streets.

Famous for its vineyards and olive groves, Corniglia stands on the principal road over a rocky cliff dropping to the sea; it is the only village far from the sea but it can be reached by some steps.

Founded during the 12th century, Manarola probably is the most characteristic village of the Cinque Terre; the old church of San Lorenzo is in baroque style.

From Manarola starts the picturesque trail called ” Via dell’ Amore “, carved out of the rock above the sea, that joins Manarola to Riomaggiore. We stayed in Riomaggiore…the least touristed of the towns. Bob keeps calling it Rigamoroni!

The local internet was owned by a family that also rents out rooms. The woman was an American married to an Italian whose family has lived in the town for over a hundred years. I asked her how these towns supported
themselves before tourism. She said that tourism has actually been pretty good for about 30 years but not to the extent that it is now (especially since Rick Steves has reported that it is one of the off-the-beaten-track areas of Europe!!)

Years ago the men would leave on ships for months at a time-dealing in contraband-which they apparently could get away with due to its geographic isolation from the rest of the country. We continued talking-about my trip to Europe in 1965 and that the countries were very poor-even found dirt floors in rural France. She said that yes, after WWII the US pumped a lot of money into the Marshall Plan to reconstruct Europe but it took another 20-30 years for it all to trickle down and affect the living standards of the people generally.

We stayed in a private apartment owned by a nice old gentleman who “selected” us at the train station. The apartment hung on the side of a hill about 600 feet above the Mediterranean-couldn’t take your eyes off the view!

The Atlas Mountains

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We took an excursion trip south and east past incredible green terraced fields and old Berber kasbahs (ancient Moroccan self-contained communities made out of the rust colored mud of the countryside)-seemingly idyllic-to the Atlas Mountains.

Our group consisted of Bob and I, a young couple from New Zealand in their thirties-one a computer/internet analyst and his partner a pharmacist, another couple about our age from Boston. He had been the president of a University in Iran before the Shah was deposed and she obviously was also well educated. He was able to escape and she soon after. He now teaches theoretical physics at a University in Boston. The fourth couple was young-he a music major at a California school. The last two were a couple of great guys from Italy that we called �The Italians! who gave us some menu items we could order when we got to Italy.

On the way to the Sahara we passed over the Atlas Mountains (about 12,000 feet) and through the towns of Tinerhir and Boumalne. The first night we slept in a small Berber Hotel that was in the process of being renovated at the head of the Dades Gorge. The room was cold with a concrete floor but offered
several very thick heavy blankets-like the blankets used on the camels. The evening included a walk up an incredibly beautiful gorge and a dinner of Chicken Tangine. Oddly there were only two small pieces of chicken for every four people but otherwise it was very good. In the morning we had a breakfast of rolls, coffee, butter and jam before continuing on to Erfoud and then to Merzouga. We stopped in Kassah for lunch. (The cafes with the best toilettes get the most tourist business!) We all had beef kabobs and moroccan salad (tomatoes, cucumber, olives, onions) and water.

In the afternoon we walked through a Berber kasbah. We took a trail through the fields to learn about tribal farming; then walked through the kasbah and into a building where some women weavers presented their carpets. Bob was a sitting duck by this time and we are now the proud owners of a small Berber carpet.

By evening we reached an area where we were put astride camels that walked single file for a couple hours at sunset through the largest sand dunes in the world (the Al-chabbi sand dunes) to a Berber tent camp. One rides a camel on a big thick blanket just behind the camel�s hump with the pubic bone rocking back and forth against the hump. I told Bob to be careful or I�d trade him in for a camel! The Berber guy leading the trek cautioned the men to be careful of their ‘iggs.”

The encampment consisted of cloth tents joined together with heavy blankets and pads on the ground. Two good looking young Berber men cooked delicious Tagine with beef, carrots, onions and potatoes which we ate sitting in a circle on the ground with bread and our hands in groups of four. They served orange slices sprinkled with cinnamon and mint tea for dessert. Afterward the boys played Berber beats on the drums. Roosters from a nearby encampment woke us up at a breathtaking sunrise over the dunes.

The next day offered an eleven hour brutal van ride back to Marrakech with a short stop to eat lunch on a terrace at a small restaurant in Tirhan. We both ordered a �hamburger� that turned out to be a stew of tiny meatballs in tomato, onion, eggplant mixture. It surprised the heck out of us but was very good.

A few hours out of Marrakech we were pretty nervous about the narrow and curvy mountain road and we begged the driver to stop and take a break-which he did. The roadside stand had fresh Tangine, soup mint tea, coffee and soft drinks. The very friendly older man standing behind the food bench was offering me a small bowl of soup for 1.5 euros when I heard the driver in a scolding voice tell the food seller to charge 5 euros.

In Marakech that night the Ali Hotel was full because there was a holiday that weekend (we never did figure out what it was.) There also was an international meeting of some kind in the city during this time. So we stayed in the Hotel Eddakhla-a pretty basic hotel on a pretty rough street with a lot of beggars, no lift-just stairs-very deep and steep and narrow and on top of that the WC and shower was down on the first floor. The room had a sink and bidet but was very stuffy with no window to the outside. Bob bristled when a young man at the desk demanded his passport �for the police,� Bob of course thinking he wanted to take the passport which would violate rule number one: never give up your passport to anyone for any reason!

Ate dinner at one of the hundreds of eating stalls set up in the square every night that serve harira, kabobs and fish stews. Some of the stalls specialized in goat head meat-complete with whole goat heads set up in a row for viewing-that was patronized almost entirely by the locals. However, we sat at a stall that was probably set up to attract the tourists. We had beef kebobs peppers, spinach, fish, moroccan salad olives and mint tea. It was the worst meal in Morocco and Bob was very offended when the waiter slammed a small tin plate down on the table and demanded a tip. There goes those filters again!

How people experience a country seems almost accidental at times!