One particular crossing over the Khwai river had a makeshift wooden-pole-log-bridge-thing floating over it. A broken wooden-pole-log-bridge-thing, may I add. Luke scrounged out some wire and set about attempting to fix this bridge-thing. Half-way across (with still dry testicles), he started wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to simply laugh off fixing the bridge-thing, and simply drive along the river-bed. A split second later, he stepped off the bridge-thing – and disappeared. More than his balls got wet. He didn’t even touch the bottom. A minor panic set it, and suddenly fixing the bridge properly became somewhat more imperative. The other vehicle that was there braved the new bridge first. He made it across dry (ish), but snapped all the wires in the process. After another quick fixing session, and it was the Tortoise’s turn. I had to evacuate the vehicle, my nerves taking over. I could barely watch to direct Luke properly over the flimsy construction – but the good little Tortoise managed to make it across, snapping all the wires and leaving a collection of loose floating poles in her wake. Unfortunately, due to my nerves, we have no photos of this particular crossing – you’ll just have to take our word for it!

Our next notable stop after Moremi was at Tsodilo Hills, which has one of the biggest collections of Bushman paintings in the world. The drawings date back thousands of years and are truly special to see.

After a nights stay at Etosha National Park in Namibia, we headed west into Damaraland. This area is absolutely mind-blowing. The scenary is out of this world and is practically impossible to describe. We came up with three theories on how the bizarre landscape  came into being:

1)      When Mother Earth completed her creation of Southern Africa, she decided to have a wee celebration. We’re not too clear of the actual events that transpired, but word is that she essentially ended up in the Karoo, tripping on some powerful psychedelics. The shapes that formed out of the otherwise baron landscape remained in her memory. Upon waking up the next morning, she thought to herself “Whoah, man, those hallucinations were epic, that landscape needs to exist somewhere”. And proceeded to create Damaraland: the Karoo on acid.

2)      When Mother Earth was near completion of creating Africa, she found she had a whole collection of left over landscape parts. I’m talking rivers, Inselbergs, streams, mountains, desert, hills, rocks, pepples, cliffs – you name it. Water not included. A small area in northern Namibia hadn’t quite been blessed with any significant features. By that stage, she was so over the whole “create the entire world” task, that she simply tossed all the leftovers into this area – and named it Damaraland.

3)      The final theory has a modern twist. Mother Nature must have left a picture of a baron landscape open in Photoshop; along came her earth child, got hold of the mouse and went completely overboard with a random assortment of special effects, and finally, pressed send. And so, Damaraland was completed.

(It is becoming increasingly obvious that the long distance driving was taking its toll on not only our conversation, but our psyche as well).

On arrival at the western coast of Africa, Luke couldn’t resist his excitement at seeing the sea – despite the fact that it was part of the miff Skeleton Coast, pumping wind and freezing Atlantic Ocean. Not quite the white sanded stretches of warm Indian ocean coastline we’ve been loving for the last eight months. Despite the stark difference, he couldnt resist the urge and in he dove, emerging a goose-pimpled, purple version of his former self.

The remainder of our time in Namibia was spent predominantly in sand-dunes: climbing Dune 7, sandboarding in Swakopmund and visiting the overly-touristy red dunes of Sossusvlei. Luke reached a top speed of 69km/hour racing down a dune on a flimsy piece of wood. I semi-succeeded in sandboarding, although when I showered that night I  was covered in more sand than a coloured kid on the beach on New Years Day.

We attempted to drag out our final few weeks. An extra night here, an additional day there. In the end, as hard as we tried, it seemed that there was a force pulling us south. Despite summoning every iota of resistance, we slowly starting being dragged home – quite possibly leaving claw marks in our wake.

Seeing the South African flag at the border post brought a smile to our faces. Home. Although the journey has been epic, our appreciation of this magical country has grown significantly. And, just to make sure we were completely aware that we were home, a regtig gesuipde coloured guy walks up to the Tortoise. After taking a few minutes to focus his vision, he points in the general direction of the eight months worth of crap that has accumulated in the front of the bakkie, and says in that wonderfully unique accent: Mister. Give me ALL of these things.

I love it.

Welcome Back.

Love and Peace

xx

PS – Photos are to follow

a.a. milne certainly had a way with words, and created a little philosopher out of his loveable character, Winnie the Pooh. I came across this quote, by Pooh, somewhere along our journey. Finding it somewhat profound, I passed the wisdom on to Luke. Since that non-descript moment, this simple concept of stepping out of ones comfort zone, has become somewhat of a mantra between us. Whenever and wherever appropriate, being gently reminded to “leave the forest” gives either one of us the push to do the job, make the call or drink the drink – it fits all circumstance.

The most beneficial (and recent) of these moments is when Luke decided to contact a school-friend of his – who he hadn’t spoken to in 10 years. Jason and his girlfriend, Chrystal, own, manage, and live at a lodge in Siavonga, the northern tip of Lake Kariba. We thought we’d pop in, have a brief catch-up over a drink or two and possibly spend the night. We were sorely mistaken.

We were treated to two nights full board and lodging, drinks, plus the obligatory boat trips on Lake Kariba for fishing and wake-boarding: all on the house! The stay there was absolutely awesome and we had to drag ourselves away, planning future trips for longer periods. Leaving the forest was definitely worth the detour!

Wilfred - the sweetest dog. Bulldog cross Boxer!

Our 05h00 departure, a bit bleak about having such a brief stay, caffeine wearing off and slight hypoglycaemia from a lack of brekkie resulted in our combined moods being somewhat edgey.

Enter: roadblock.

Being 06h30, our suspicions were slightly heightened at this post-dawn activity – pretty early for officials of any nationality. A man in the required reflector jacket was manning the makeshift barrier. The taxi ahead of us was waved through without a second glance; we were summoned to stop. The fellow sauntered over to our car, eyes brimming with desire. A brief muttering between us concurred that something wasn’t quite right. A greeting was grunted in our vague direction. Without requesting to see drivers licence (step one of Zambian police protocol, we’ve figured out), he immediately demanded to see our “Siavonga Tax”. Our what? Never heard of it. And, just the day before, we’d passed through the Siavonga customs office to go see the Kariba Dam wall. And gone through other road-blocks within the town of Siavonga, and had the usual inspection. Nothing even vaguely related to this “Siavonga Tax”. We tried to get him to elaborate, to which we were given a simple solution: Go to that office and pay your tax. The office being a deserted shack. No signs, no other “officials” in sight. I think not, bru. Luke, hackles up, put his foot flat, and sped off, leaving sounds of whistling and “EH! STOP!” in our wake.

Needless to say, the next section of the trip was somewhat nerve-racking. Over every rise, we strained our eyes looking for the next road-block, certain that if the bloke was legitimate, he would have radioed ahead and summoned the Zambian police force to detain us. After 60 odd kilometres, we eventually saw it: shiney new cop-car glistening in the morning sun, with an even shinier cop waving us down. We were both nipping.

For nothing.

A friendly chat ensued. Luke attempted to skirt around using the word “Siavonga”, fearing it might give away our identity as the road-block evaders. When eventually it did come up, I watched for a glimmer of recognition across the cops face. Nothing. With a smile and wishes of a safe journey, we were pleasantly dismissed. Another short while later, we encountered a second friendly roadblock, where a similar situation repeated itself. It became more and more apparent: the skebenga had found himself a reflector jacket and was lusting after some brekkie cash. The more we discussed it, the more I had to counter Luke’s urge to turn around and go give the guy a thick ear. Damn tsotsi.

Arriving at the Zambia – Zimbabwe border, we were happy to find it quiet – to the extent that the officials seemed quite inconvenienced by our arrival. We waited around for quite a while for someone to acknowledge our presence and go through the formalities of customs. Eventually someone arrived behind the counter and completed the process, our patience still (amazingly) more or less in tact. This was only a minor taste of what was to come.

The Zimbabwean side had more signs of life – including more commuters. I had the pleasure of dealing with a sour old bat at the customs window. I suspect her job satisfaction is not particularly high. As I handed over the money for road tax, the computer system crashed. The ever-growing crowd failed to realise that, because system was down, no one else could go through the very same procedure. We had to simply wait for the programme to do whatever it needed to do to resume it’s function (insert appropriate IT jargon, if you so please).

Lucky for me, a magnificent specimen of a voluptuous woman found her place behind me. Towering over me, she deemed it appropriate to rest her ample bosom on my shoulders. It’s about 36′C. I’m being crushed against the counter. I can’t move sideways because of mayhem of the “queue”. The final straw: the mama begins coughing. And not just a throat clearing hoes, but a deep-chested, sputum-filled spluttering – sans hand-over-mouth. In retrospect, she probably couldn’t see me from her vantage point, hidden somewhere underneath her enormous breasts. I grip the counter (if I let go, someone will most certainly steal my prime position) and push backwards, enveloping myself in her enormous belly. I succeed: she takes a step backwards. Triumphant in my gain, I step forwards, attempting to return to my now spacious possie.

My glee is shortlived: almost immediately I feel her weight return to my shoulders. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the sweat, maybe it’s her sputum that’s lining my back, but it seems we’re stuck together. I push back again, she steps back with me. As I step forward, she shadows my movement. The whole process repeats itself a number of times, moving backwards and forwards like a concertina. After about 15 minutes of jostling, my lousy receipt gets printed. By now, I’m well lubricated with sweat and saliva (whose, it can’t be certain) and I slide easily out of the crowd: far, far away from the voluptuous bosom. Space issues have never been my strong point.

Thankfully, it was a short drive to our destination for the weekend: Vic Falls Safari Lodge. Not long after settling into our room, reception phoned to inform us that “our guests” had arrived. What a great place to have a reunion with my dad! He was armed with gifts of Woolies biltong and books (much needed) from him, and a huge tupperware of home-made decadently delicious choc-chip biscuits from my mum (wuff wuff). Nothing quite tops parental spoilings!

From that point on it was all systems go: a jam-packed weekend involving great company, gourmet food (Luke actually ordered two desserts) and exploring Zimbabwean sights and activity. The entire group decided to brave the rapids of the Zambezi. Luke and I went in a separate “self-paddle” boat, where the chances of flipping are greater. The rest of the crew chose the “luxurious” option of being paddled down the river by a guide (a false sense of security, as one can imagine).

Despite Luke falling / jumping out of the boat at each rapid, our boat flipped once – and we both loved the entire experience. A number of the Grade Five rapids have been upgraded to “Grade Five plus”, because the river is so low: Grade 5 being the biggest commercial rapid one can do. The “safer-option” boat flipped twice; much to the dismay – no, the horror – of it’s passengers. Apparently they thought that putting a boat in someone else’s hands was a fullproof way of avoiding swimming through Grade Five rapids. Extreme sports are not for the fainthearted and there’s always a risk involved!

Quite alarmingly, one of the passengers, Harvey, lost function on the right side of his body and needed assistance walking. The guides and porters fashioned a stretcher out of paddles, life jackets and a stretcher board – and carried him up out of the steep gorge in midday heat. By the time they reached the top, they looked as they’d just stepped out of the river: the poor souls were drenched with sweat. What champions, is all I can say. (For those who are interested, the injury was muscular and he received treatment from a physio).

We were treated to a heli-flip over Vic Falls: seeing the falls and the gorge from the air gives the landscape a whole new perspective – even more spectacular, if possible!

Mosi-oa-Tunya

After dinner the final evening, a lady approached me and offered to braid my hair. Having sat through the process before, I knew that it was an impossible task to complete over the time-span of dessert. I quickly palmed her off on to Luke. I’m not sure if it was the wine, the game meat (buffalo and warthog) or the overly touristy environment, but – shockingly out of character – he willingly agreed. Thirty minutes later, I sat laughing at his reaction to his reflection of a fully braided head. They were out by the next morning (leaving behind a natural perm). Luke unsuccessfully tried to prevent me from uploading these photos. There was no way they wouldn’t be puclicised. Neil, perhaps it would be better if you just scrolled straight past them!

Natural Perm

After an awesome two days, we parted company with my dad and co, and mosied on east to Botswana. Thanks, Dad, for a GREAT weekend!

We were absolutely astonished at the rudeness of the Botswanans (of every creed and colour), starting at the border-post and spreading inland. Their demeanour was a stark contrast to the rest of our trip. The attitude of the locals had a seriously negative effect on us. We were struggling to work out the National Parks system – a long story, but the only accommodation we could find had to be reserved in advance through the Botswana Tourism and Wildlife Board – all of which is booked up months in advance. Normally, a quick chat to a local (anyone from a receptionist to a patron at a bar) sheds some clarity on the system and how to go about (or, more often, around) it. So our hunt began for someone to assist us: no one so much as looked at us when talking to them, let alone smiled or attempted to offer advice. The general response from everyone – including the Tourism Office – involved a shrug and a vague “I don’t know”. We were at our wits end. At one stage we actually considered skipping out Bots all together and driving straight into Namibia. After an extremely frustrating (and depressing! No one returned our smiles, not once. It’s draining!) day and a half, we gave ourselves a good talking to: re-group, summon up positive energy and figure out a plan. The plan more or less involved: fuck the system, avoid any Botswanans and do our own things, day by day. To date, this has proved mightily successful and we are actually growing to quite enjoy Bots!

Chobe National Park was amazing. We spent a day prowling along the river – and grew tired of seeing herds of 200plus elephants! While navigating a particularly bumpy section of road, our of our leaf-springs (an additional spring on our back wheels) snapped – not a huge deal, but an inconvenience nonetheless. Courtesy of Murphy, Luke had spent the evening before playing with his tools and for the first time, had not put the box back in the bakkie, leaving us unable to remove these two pieces of steel. The offending items didn’t take too kindly being cable-tied to the suspension, so our last hour in the park was spent making a ridiculous racket of steel clanging on steel as we trundled along. We submissively resigned ourselves to the fact that the noise would scare any game off. Five minutes later, Luke stopped the car: leopard! A magnificent sighting, sprawled out on a log just next to the road – made even better that the game-drive vehicle in front of us drove straight past.

Ele's crossing

Sunset over Chobe River

From Chobe, we moved south-east to the Migkadigkadi salt pans: scenary that is out of this world. We camped at Lekhubu Island, an island of baobabs and African Star Chestnut trees, that juts out of the pan. Although overpriced (the most expensive place we’ve camped, yet it has no facilities), it is spectacular and definitely worth the trip.

Lekhubu Island

Luke is in the FAAAAARRR right corner

At the moment we are at a place called “Plant Baobab”, a rather eccentric, welcoming camp-site. The original plan was to simply “stop over” here, but the mammoth pool is exceptionally inviting: combined with the heat, it’s lured us to stay longer. We’re exceptionally comfy!

At the moment I’m trying to convince Luke that once we hit the Namibian coast we turn right. For lack of funds, my idea isn’t really accepted. Anybody feel like sponsering a West-Africa trip? Sigh. I’m not even finished this mission and already my brain-cogs are churning, planning my ultimate adventure: Cape to Morroco. It’s going to be epic! How I’m ever going to find time for reality is quite perplexing.

For now we send you a neighbourly wave from just next door, across the border. Start chilling the beers, it’s not long now. Within a month we’ll be banging down your door.

Love and Peace

xx

A Big Bull ambling past our tent

250mm Zoom! (In non-photography words, thats f-all zoom!)

A highlight of the time spent in South Luangwa turned out to be our neighbours. A friend of ours from Manguzi, Carla, and her family and friends were camping at the next door lodge, a short walk away. We were welcomed into their little clan with open arms: braai, GnT, much craved biltong (big stukkie which we’ve successfully rationed and still have left over!), South Africanisms and catch-ups. One of the major bonuses of seeing them came the following day: they invited us to join them on a game drive and were issued with a walkie-talkie, part of a three-way system. A simple toy, but one that provided us with much entertainment and sparked a longing for a set in Luke. A great time was had with the crew; meeting up with people from home has been long over-due and we were stoked to spend those few days with them.

Although we only did two trips into the South Luangwa Park, we landed up staying at our camp-site for 6 days. We were both quite content relaxing, watching the hippos, shooting monkeys with Luke’s home-made kettie, and generally savouring the bush. After postponing leaving for a few days, we were eventually forced to depart due to commitments in Lusaka.

Munching a stolen avo

Luke's Revenge

Moonrise over Luangwa River

Moonrise over Luangwa River

Our reason for travelling to Lusaka was to collect a parcel that had been couriered to us from South Africa. Of course, it hadn’t arrived. In fact, it hadn’t even departed.

After being told, very politely, by the woman at Lusaka DHL that my package wasn’t on the system, Luke and I were bleak. We had just dragged ourself away from sheer bliss, to sit in a dusty city campsite. While driving back to our tent, muttering about the incompentencies of couriers, a police woman ushered us off the road. Crap. 75km in a 65 zone. A policeman sauntered over and began referring to Luke as “My Dear”, following which he issued us with a whopping R600 fine. Luke, always the barterer, argued the case. After the required amount of back-and-forth, with a massive grin, the cop relented: “OK, so would you like a receipt or would you like a discount?”. A further discussion ensued about the extent of the discount: Luke won. After not-so-subtlely pocketing the cash, the cop proceeded to question us about our movements over the next few days – and, with an even bigger grin, informed us where exactly the cops are designated to be trapping. You can shake your head in disgust, but you have to admit, it doesn’t get more simple than that.

In terms of my parcel: there’s nothing like the power of a mother to get things working: my mom jumped on the case of DHL and within twenty-four hours, I had my delivery.

Having sorted out the admin in Lusaka, tomorrow we move south to Kariba, potentially to meet up with an old mate of Luke’s, Following that, an unexpected, brief, detour to Zimbabwe to see my dad.

It’s absurd to think it, since we still have two months left of travelling, but we are starting to suffer from “Sunday-night-going-back-to-school syndrome”: that dread that reality is looming, fast. We’ve given ourselves a good talking to, shaken it off (well, most of it) and are going to max the weeks ahead.

Love and Peace

xx

Posted in Zambia ]]> http://tortoisediaries.wordpress.com/2009/09/09/suid-afrikaners-is-plesierig/feed/ 4 tortoisediaries IMG_5688 IMG_5699 IMG_2271 IMG_5621 IMG_5627 IMG_5671 IMG_2250 IMG_5704 http://tortoisediaries.wordpress.com/2009/09/02/writers-block-defeated/ http://tortoisediaries.wordpress.com/2009/09/02/writers-block-defeated/#comments Wed, 02 Sep 2009 10:20:53 +0000 tortoisediaries http://tortoisediaries.wordpress.com/?p=578 ]]>

Heading south out of Uganda, we came to a fork in the road. Option A: a serious detour to the Uganda – Tanzania border. Option B: a significantly shorter option, through Rwanda. The catch being that our car insurance specifically states that it doesn’t include Rwanda. Ah, screw it, we decided. We’ve come this far without any problems, how much worse can driving in Rwanda be? Murphy, as always, twiddled his thumbs.

Rwandan’s drive on the right hand side of the road. Take a minute and ponder this fact. Driving a right-hand drive vehicle on the right side of the road in an East African country. I should also mention that East Africans travel with relative ease between their countries. This means that, within metres, a truck / taxi-driver now has to drive his (also right hand drive) vehicle on a different side of the road. To ease themselves into the new driving system, the first fifty kays or so into the country are driven more or less in the middle of the road. Narrow roads winding around the base of hills, with on-coming traffic driving in on the left, middle and right hand side of the road. It’s so much fun, our adrenal glands nearly shat themselves.

Then there’s the city. If you stop thinking for a mere moment, you will cause a major issue. Take turning a parking lot, for example. Not something that usually requires much conscious thought. Except, instead of going through the motions, you have to remind yourself to turn into what normally is an “exit”. Now you, reader, sitting at home, imagine driving out of Cavendish / Sandton City / Gateway and there some gimp is, facing you head-on. He can’t reverse, its freaking Sandton Drive at rush-hour behind him. You cant reverse, there’s a queue of cars behind you. Lots of swear-words, lots of apologetic waving. Evidently, we know this from experience.

Turning left at a T-junction suddenly needs every miniscule ounce of concentration. It literally goes against every instinct, every inch of muscle memory and every spark of your subconscious. We eventually discovered that if, while driving, we felt comfortable (for either driver and passenger), something was wrong. If car hooters had a limited number of toots, the Tortoise’s wouldn’t have survived past Kigali. Luke hooted at, with no exageration, every car, taxi, truck, cyclist and pedestrian, both in our lane and on-coming. And to frazzle our nerves just that much extra was the lack of car insurance. It was exhausting.

When we made the decision to drive through Rwanda, I insisted that we had to visit the Rwandan Genocide Museum and Memorial. I have done a fair amount of reading on the topic and wanted to experience “the real deal”, a morbid curiosity, I guess. There wasn’t one second out of the four hours that we spent wandering through the museum that either of us were bored. Both Luke (a new-comer to the topic) and myself walked away having learnt plenty about the atrocity. It is undoubtedly one of the best museums I have ever experienced.

The first section dealt with the Rwandan Genocide, explaining the sequence of events and attempting to ask why it ever happened in the first place. The killing rate that exceeded the second world war: a million people killed in six weeks, while the international community turned a blind eye? Not an easy question to answer. The second section gave a descriptive overview of other genocides, ranging from the Herero tribe, Bosnia-Herzgovinia and the most infamous, the Holocaust. The final section was extremely moving and solemn: a memorial to those who were killed. A room containing human bones and possessions, exhumed from some of the hundreds of mass graves scattered around Rwanda. Another room, its walls lined with thousands of family photographs of victims, donated by surviving family members. A final corrider with poster-sized photos of few children, all victims of the genocide. Under every photograph was a plaque with similar personal information for each child: Name, Age (6 months; 10 years), Favourite Food (Chicken; Ice-cream), Favourite Activity (Singing; Playing with my sister), Cause of Death (Machete wound to head; Thrown into mass grave).

Mortifying.

Humbling.

We left drained. There were a myriad of thoughts that I took away with me, many of which have remained with me since. I will mention only the most simple:

There is already so much evil in the world; why do we create our own negativity? Genocide. War. Famine. Poverty. Disease. Very little can compare to these atrocities, experienced by millions, every single day. If we have never faced such devastation, we should have happiness in our hearts. Shake off the petty stuff, face life head on. Smile.

A sombre evening was spent at an overpriced, run-down hotel in Kigali.

Our next port of call was Kilombero Valley, Tanzania, where Luke was needed ASAP for work purposes. The mill is located just to the right of central southern Tanzania. We were in the north western corner, some 1800km of bad Tanzanian roads away. The perimeter of Tanzania is where the majority of its miniscule infrastructure lies. The interior has little to write home about. So I won’t. Three boring days of journey, two questionable motels later, we arrived at the mill.

The highlight of a long, dusty drive: A random cycle pelaton, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Tanzania.

Luke’s face-shaver broke. He didn’t think arriving at the mill with a beard was a great idea. Solution …

 

... quick beard-shave at local road-side barber. All of R5!

The R5 didn't include a haircut.

Thankfully, Luke managed to wrap up the work in just two weeks. The average day went as follows: The men worked. I: slept. Read. Baked the men treats. Took the maid to the market (1 hour away). Had a nap. Watched movies. Ate. Jogged. Watched the clock tick until the men came home from work. Had dinner. Slept. Repeat. I survived. My future career is most certainly not in house-wifery.

After finally managing to escape (and rescuing poor Deon in the process), we spent a night in Dar-es-Salaam and then hot-footed it (over two days) out of East Africa and back into the southern regions of the continent: Malawi. Our main mission for the northern part of Malawi was to visit the family of Henry.

Henry is the Malawian guy who works for Luke’s family. A wonderful character with a huge smile, he was only too excited about us visiting his country and quite chuffed at the prospect that we could potentially meet his family – to which we willingly agreed.

We managed to stumble across the brother of Henry, same huge grin, sitting in his wheelchair and chilling with some friends. To abbreviate what took the better part of the morning, we were eventually directed to the local school. Here, the father of Henry was hauled out of a meeting. He asked us to return to his house, after work, so we could chat properly. .

After parting ways, we headed to the nearest town to buy Henry’s brother some new wheels for his ride (his were less than threadbare). We searched for a live chicken as a gift for his father, to no avail. Typical. Normally chickens are practically thrown in our path, but when we actually want to buy one, none are for sale. Finally, we decided that the wheelchair wheels would have to suffice.

Another long story short, we eventually arrived at the house and met up with Henry’s father. After some polite chit-chat, he called his daughter over. He gave her some instruction in Chichewa, to which she submissively responded with a bewildered look, before pottering off into the garden. Soon the reason behind her reaction became apparent. She had been instructed to catch the prize rooster. Not for dinner. Not as a snack. Nope. To present to us, as a gift – a live one, at that.

We reluctantly agreed, and secretly exchanged silent looks of despair. We knew full well that turning down a gift from an African is cause for serious offence. The awkward, polite conversation continued, interrupted every so often as the rooster came squaking past, followed not-so-closely by the daughter. Eventually the father joined her, giving her instructions on how to catch the bloody cock. A boy was summoned to help. Luke and I sat on our little stools on a mud patio, helplessly watching three people scramble after a very agile fowl, in a fenceless homestead. The reality of the situation began to dawn on us. What the fuck were we going to do with a live rooster? I’d feel too guilty trading it in. Luke wasn’t so keen on beheading it. With the rooster showing no signs of tiring, images began forming in our minds: me holding a ruddy bird on my lap, all the way home; the rooster waking us (and fellow campers) up at dawn. The girl bent over, hands on knees, panting, shouting at the boy to catch up. A safe distance away, the rooster slowed to a trot, peering over it’s shoulder. The situation became all too apparent. We were going to be here all night. We had to intervene. This had to stop.

We caused major offence. Turns out that there is no polite way to refuse a gift, especially across a language barrier. We tried to explain that, while it was extremely generous of him, in our culture it was not necessary to give such a present – particularly when we have two of our own said present, plucked, packaged and frozen in our car-fridge. A very difficult concept to explain.

It probably was selfish of us: our refusal motivated by not knowing what to do with the darn fowl. We drove away, cringeing, racked with guilt. In retrospect, and after much, much discussion, we’re ultimately OK with our decision. Firstly, we would have felt much, much worse, taking this man’s prize rooster, when he needs it more than us; and secondly, we’re glad to be sleeping past sun-up.

We now find ourselves camping on the bank of the Luangwa River, Zambia. For those of you avid blog-followers, the name may ring a bell. This is the river full of fearless hippopotami who wander casually through the camp site. We are staying at a different site this time round, as the original place doesn’t have in-season camping. Our new possie, while still on the banks of the river, with hippo in full view, is some-what more “hippo-proof” (the river bank in front of our tent is at an angle not favourable to these creatures). This, however, doesn’t make our time here less entertaining. We’ve barely been here 24-hours and already there are two stories to tell.

The first story unfolded after we were ambushed by a number of monkeys. After their unsuccessful raid on our open car, Luke cursed himself for not owning a kattie. A number of baboons followed shortly. I should remind you that primates see me as little more than inconvenient obstacle between them and their desired object. I’ve been chased by a monkey for the sugar in my hand. A baboon stole veggies off the chopping board I was busy using, despite me weilding an axe and shouting profanities at it (it honestly looked at me with an amused look, as it slowly took it’s pick of the veggies). Seriously, I’m no threat. Luke, however, steps on the scene, and the thieves scatter. Clearly they can sense his testosterone.

Back to present day. After a baboon knocked over a dustbin, a light-bulb idea struck Luke. He went to the car and fetched his skok-stok (a.k.a taiser gun). For those of you who don’t know what a taiser is, it’s a baton (similar to what police carry) that is charged with 500 000 volts, activated at the push of a button. Since baboons have no boundaries in my presence, Luke decided that it would be absolutely hilarious if I managed to shock one – and rid us of their nuisance. After firing the taiser a few times (at which point the baboons scattered), he figured that it would be better if he held it like a rifle. He forget about the electrodes running along the shaft of the batton, which prevent an attacker from grabbing the stick out of your hands. Away he fired. I heard a groan from somewhere behind the bakkie. Out stepped Luke, no taiser in sight, shaking his arm and laughing hysterically. Yes, somehow the fool managed to taiser himself.

That evening as we were drifting off to snooze we were disturbed by a loud rustling in the tree above us. We both realised, at the same time, that there was an elephant eating from it. We decided we should try sneak out of the tent and seek refuge in the car. As we stood up and looked through the shade-cloth dooor, an elephant stepped into sight. Not within a safe viewing distance, may I add: less than two metres away, having a good sniff around the front of our tent. Separated only by the see-through tent door. We both froze, petrified to make any movement or sound. I could hear my heart beating. I could hear Luke’s heart beating. I could hear the elephant’s low rumbling. After what seemed like an eternity, he sauntered off. We practically collapsed. Too close for comfort!

We have yet to go into the park – at the moment we are quite content relaxing around our site, watching the hippo’s play below, fending off baboons and miming to elephants. We’re here for another four nights, I’m sure many more stories will be unveiled.

There won’t be as long a gap until the next entry, I promise!

Love and Peace

xx

With the crack in our defence highly evident, one tout in particular was relentless. He attempted to help me fill in the Kenyan Departure Card. He described what should be filled in at each designated block: Name, Surname, Passport Number, etc. Apparently he thought I was illiterate. I shrugged him off, until he saw what I had written under “Nationality” and “Country of Residence”. Silly me for writing “RSA”. From that point onwards, each window at which there was some menial fee or form to be completed, he proudly announced “They’re from Russia!”. Each time, I corrected him, my politeness waning with each declaration of my new-found nationality. When the border officials started listening to him, and actually writing down “Russia” next to my passport number (because listening to a tout is much, much easier than actually looking at the front of a passport book), I bellowed “South Africa” in his direction, one final time. He finally took the hint and sauntered off (to pester Luke), and left me with my original nationality in tact.

In retrospect, this particular border post, from Kenya to Uganda, was actually one of the tamer crossings we’ve encountered. However, it contrasted starkly to the previous six weeks of clinical first-world borders we experienced. Our manner of dealing with all things third world have improved drastically since this event.

A short time after leaving the border, we came across a strange phenomenon. In fact, I would go so far as to say, this was (and still is) the most bizarre thing we have yet to encounter. A simple creature with an extraordinary feature. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you, the Ugandan Cow.

This is not an isolated bovine that we spotted. The majority of the herds that graze alongside the road consist of a number of these ridiculously long horned cows. Their bodies are simply dwarfed by their fine head-gear. We couldn’t help but slow down and gawp every single time we saw a herd, with numerous pincers sticking out in the air. We asked a number of locals about this phenomenen. The general consensus was that of confusion: Huh? Their horns are so long? Seriously, no one understood what the issue was. I enquired about the the value of one of these animals; cattle being a symbol of wealth in African culture. Get this – the shorter horned variety are actually worth more than their longer horned cousins. Somewhere, hundreds of mafuta Zulu Nduna are salavating.

After 12 hours on the road, border-crossing included, we found ourselves on the outskirts of Kampala, traffic mounting. The GPS, always completely reliable until havoc reigns supreme, decided to take us on an interesting route. Through the city centre, on a Friday evening, 5pm. Of course, since the development of the GPS maps and present date, someone decided to build barriers in the middle of the roads – no right turns. Then, just to add spice to the tension-mounting situation, it decided to direct us past a taxi-rank combined with a market. Let’s recap: Friday evening, city centre, taxi-rank, 12 hours of straight driving plus one times border post. A dismal situation. Three hours of playing chicken with a thousand taxis, we finally made it the 5km to the very average backpackers and scrambled into our tent.

The main dilemma which we had to face in Uganda was the decision as to whether we should go track the Mountain Gorillas. These endangered primates are in high demand, and ticket sales are reputed to be booked up months in advance. The price is exhorbitant – way over what any sane person would spend. We decided to leave it up to fate: arrive at the Ugandan Wildlife Office, see if they have tickets for the upcoming week. If not, so be it. If yes, we kak en betaal and never speak of the cost again.

They had two tickets for August, that Tuesday. We had one huge kak.

This left us with very limited time before heading south to the forest. One more night in Kampala (which granted us the opportunity to watch some rugby) and the next morning we missioned west to the crater lakes. We had no expectations for this region, and were completely blown away. There are about 45 crater lakes, all nestled between green, foresty hills. The simple camp sites are either perched on the rim of a crater or wedged onto the side of the slope. Simple facilites, friendly locals and amazing views: paradise! We were quite disappointed we could only spend one night here. There are a number of hikes and waterfalls in the area, which we were really keen to do. If anyone ever visits this region they should definitely plan a longer stay.

One of the Crater Lakes

A black and white Angolan colobus monkey (not a sloth, Baby Graham)

Playing soccer with a local football - a plastic packet stuffed with plastic packets.

Fishing Anyone?

 Our next destination took us to Bwindi Impenatrable Reserve, home of the endangered Mountain Gorilla (and the forest dwelling Pygmy tribe). Early Tuesday morning, we were chomping at the bit to start the trek. Sitting in our shorts and takkies, we observed the tourists arriving at HQ, equipped to the max. One particular devotee was doing tracking for the third day in a row. His long pants clipped over his shoes, hiding his shoelaces. He was very quick to advise us to change into “long pants and long sleeves”, and “tuck in our shoelaces”, because the “tracking is quite hardcore through the forest, there are no paths”. We were also advised to hire a porter to carry our single backpack and cameras, which weighed a maximum of 4kg, because “climbing through the jungle with a backpack is just not feasible”, and “there’s no ways you’ll take photos, there’s just no time while navigating the bushes”. A porter, for a small fee of $25. We politely declined, and hoisted the backpack onto Luke’s back.

This little incident made us realise that South African’s must be born with relatively thick skins, literally and figuratively. While the hiking wasn’t exactly on a clear path, there was some semblance of a track, be it through a muddy swamp or over fallen stumps. The guide also had a machete, with which opened up the way a bit more – think of an animal path in the Knysna Forest. A number of people in our group of eight took a bit of strain – whereas we bounded along, scratching our legs, stumbling in mud, losing in our shoes in elephant spoor – all without a care in the world.

Not a Pygmy ... we're standing on level ground ... seriously.

After bumbling through the undergrowth for two hours, the group was instructed to get their cameras from the porters: the gorillas had been located. We dumped our backpack amongst the porters (who, by the way, outnumbered the tourists) and eased our way in the direction of the gorillas.

What an amazing experience. The sheer size of a silverback is mind-blowing. The bulk of their forearms and hands is excessive. Their grunting (and farting) fills the forest. Despite their enormous bodies, they manoevure through the dense bush with ease – something we discovered after I was charged by a black back (apparently. I just hopped up on the mound behind me as he hurtled past, thinking I was in his way. Luke’s hysterics at the incident revealed a different story). Despite this isolated, minor show of aggression, it was quite amazing how relaxed they are. They slowly make their way through the bushes, stopping and munching leaves the majority of the time. Just as I thought we’d taken enough photos, an “infant” climbed his way up a vine. Twirling and swinging and hanging upside down, then falling off, he repeated his entertaining show numerous times. What struck me the most is how aware this tiny creature (and his extended family) was of our presence – and weren’t too phased, either.

Silverback

Now that's a big boy

The baby begins his acrobatics ...

My favourite pic

The contact time with the gorillas is limited to an hour, to protect their health. Very strict rules and regulations govern tracking the gorillas – to the extent that someone with a simple cold isn’t allowed on a trek. Despite being over-priced, we are both exceptionally glad we had the experience – the creatures are truly majestic. We can only hope that all the noble efforts to preserve the sanctity of the mountain gorillas will have noticeable results.

A glimpse at the progress of Luke's hair growth

We spent our last night in Uganda at Lake Bunyunisi. There were two other groups of people at the campsite. Immediately, we heard the distinguishable accent float our way. South Africans! Amazingly, these were two other SA couples (independent of each other), doing the exact same route as us (although one in the opposite direction). It was very interesting to compare notes, pass on tips and more importantly, get advice for our long trip back home. By the sounds of it, it’s going to be wicked!

Love and Peace

xx

PS: We’ve officially driven “Cape to Equator” …

We recovered from our travels in Nairobi, again thanks to the fabulous hospitality of Roger and Daisy. Just as we managed to fight off the jetlag, Roger threw himself an awesome Sahara-themed birthday party. Luke’s punch was a hit and the only movement the next day was between the room and the couch.

Finally we managed to sneak out of Nairobi, after overstaying our welcome completely, settling in properly and meeting some great people. Thanks to all who made us feel so at home there – watch your backs, because we’ll most definately be back! Again, Roger and Daisy, you are absolute legends, thank-you, thank-you, thank-you, for giving us a home! If any of you Kenyan’s are ever in South Africa, we expect a phone call!

Our final destination in Kenya was the Masai Mara, Kenya’s version of the Serengeti. Literally. A colonial border is all that separates the two pieces of land.  This time of year is the annual Wildebeest and Zebra migration, where over 1.3 million animals move from Tanzania to fresh pastures, across a river or two, in the Mara. Due to some havoc that Mother Nature (Global Warming?) played with the rains this year, these bleeting masses of animals decided to move back south earlier than normal – right when we decided to visit. I was overly excited: the migration and more specifically, “The Crossing”, has been on my “To-Do/See” list for as long as I can remember.

The sightings were spectacular; to the extent that I shan’t dare put too many words down. Rather, we’ve decided to upload a whole lot of pictures to attempt to depict what we saw. Captions will explain what’s going on. Even if you’re not a nature lover, it’s worth a squiz – there are some phenomal shots!

Masai goods for sale, on the escarpment overlooking the Rift Valley

View from our "camp-site": a piece of land owned by a Kenyan friend of ours - overlooking the Mara!

First Crossing we saw. Not a huge number of animals by any means, but still a crossing of the Mara River, nonetheless.

The last few Zebra chicken out. A mother and her calf got separated (calf seen here) and they called to each other for a good 15 minutes, from opposite sides of the river.

Maternal instinct trumps fear. The mother swims back across the river to fetch her calf.

The calf now swimming across the river. Note the “v” in the water a few metres behind it.

The croc narrowly misses the calf, and turns on the unsuspecting Zebra following closely behind

Nabbed

 

In case you were wondering, the croc on the left is over 5metres long.

Mmm... innards

Sitting, Waiting, Wishing for a crossing

Think he felt a nibble?

A good end to a great day

And so ends our gallery of the Masai Mara. These photos are the best of the myriads – over 3GB between the two of us, in just two days!

Tomorrow we drive north east into what was once Idi Amin’s territory: Uganda.

Farewell Kenya – best you believe, we will be back!

Love and Peace

xx

Our initial impression of New Zealand was, well … as you may know, there wasn’t exactly a parade celebrating our arrival. We emerged from the airport unscathed but slightly peeved and made our way, in the dark, to Bay of Islands. The next few days consisted of watching rain drops and trying to restrain the ever-building cabin fever. A little secret: the reason New Zealand is renound for it’s incredible scenery, is not because they’re fortunate with beautiful flora, but because it rains. Consistently. A cactus would become luscious if it ever were to find itself in New Zealand. I’m still puzzling over the country’s nickname, Land of the Big White Cloud… Big Grey Cloud, or Tiny, Green, Wet Islands would be more appropriate.

As mentioned in the previous post, we decided to make the most of the Kiwi winter and head to the south island, renound for extreme sports: bungee jumping, jet-boating, black-water rafting and, most importantly, ski-slopes. These activities are contrasted to the overly regulated environment in which the average New Zealander lives. We developed a theory.

Could it be, that the reason that the abundance of these activities is to over-compensate for the controlled lifestyle? New Zealand is incredibly beautiful but is so calm and peaceful that it almost makes one nervous. There are some way-out measures in place to contribute to the controlled society, many of which include alcohol consumption, and many of which we have found extremely bizarre. These include:

• The legal drinking age is 18 years. Everybody that “looks under the age of 25” has to get asked for ID. Considering I look about 12, I’m forced to permanantly carry my passport with me.

• Any establishments with a liquor license have signs which read “Alcohol will not be sold to intoxicated persons”. If the barman decides you’ve had one too many, he can refuse to fill your glass. People have been issued with water, instead of their drink of choice, after being particularly jovial, despite not having had a single drink – because the barman thinks their big grins equal inebriation. Slightly extreme, me thinks.

• My personal favourite is the anti-drinking advert campaigns. I concede that some are very effective, there is one particular TV advert that is just down-right absurd. The slogan: Dont Drink and Fry. Yes, that’s right. Dont drink and cook. According to the ad, 15% of housefires are caused by people “falling asleep” (the diplomatic term for passing out) while cooking. Come on! How much do you have to drink to pass out while cooking dinner!? If you’re so blotto that you’re borderline passing out, I would imagine that you’d have such extreme munchies that cooking would be out of the question: it would prolong the time to stuffing your face. BP pie!

So, as I was saying, becaues of the miserable outdoors in the North, the snowy mountains on the South Island quickly became our desired destination. Luke’s littlest sister, Amy, is currently working and travelling next door, in Australia. Very soon after throwing the “snowboarding” bait her way, we found ourselves picking her up at Christchurch airport. After a drink or two that first night, we stumbled across Wade, a random chap in need of a lift to Wanaka, an hour north of Queenstown. Out of the blue, Amy offered him a lift with us. He jumped at the opportunity and joined us on our freezing, early morning start.

Over the next 6 hours, without actually trying to, Wade persuaded us to stay in Wanaka. When compared to Queenstown, it seemed that there was less of a commercial vibe, with quieter slopes, a cheaper town and more of a personal vibe. The anticipation grew as we began searching for our first glimpses of snowy mountain ranges.

When driving down south, a number of people warned us about “The Pass”. Adjectives such as “black ice”, “extremely slippery” and “heavy snowfall” were thrown around. Little me, a virgin to all things snow related, felt a twinge of excitement. What better way to experience a winter wonderland for the first time, then going over a mountain pass while surrounded by white fluffy stuff for as far as you can see!? Nope. I was sorely disappointed.

In true, over-protective, Kiwi style, “The Pass” was, in fact, not a pass. Instead, we meandered along a simple road that gently curved at the foot of some very small, very brown (not white) hills. Every so often a hill would have a sprinkling of whiteness. In the distance, we could just make out snow-covered mountains. Not exactly the death-defying, white, sheer cliffs I had imagined. The drive was scenic, nonetheless, and left us hankering after decent snow.

We stopped in Wanaka for a quick bite and to try sort out accommodation. During this little interval, light snow started to fall. My excitement was short lived as I watched each snowflake melt as soon as it hit anything solid. We decided to mission up to the Treble Cone, a ski slope, to meet up with Wade’s mate.

Treble Cone (TC) is about a 30 minute drive from Wanaka. As we began driving, the skies opened up – hold on, is that the correct terminology for snow-fall? Anyway, as our hitchhiker friend put it, the sky began “puking snow”. This was now for real, and within minutes, a thin white blanket covered the ground. This was finally starting to look like what everyone describes. Driving into falling snow is mesmerising, hypnotising and therapeutic!

At the base of the road up to TC, it is required to put snowchains on the tyres, giving more grip on slippery roads. Within metres, the gradient of the road changed and soon we were climbing up the side of a white mountain on – dare I say it – a pass! This was more like it! Sheer white cliffs, white views, white fluff falling all around. About half way up we turned a corner and there were four cars face-planted in a ditch on the side of the mountain. We figured someone had been driving like an ass and continued our slow trek. Further up, with snow coming down harder than before, the car started feeling a bit strange. A quick check revealed a broken chain. Problem. Half way up a mountain on a barrier-less pass, covered in snow and ice, with only one snowchain and no four-wheel drive.

At that moment, an official “TC” vehicle came zooming past (4×4, lucky bastard). The driver informed us that a grader would be coming down “any moment” and instructed us to wait for it to pass before following it down – the road had become impassable.

The grader did not come down “any moment”. Since we had spent a good majority of the day confined to the car, it was necessary to brave the cold and wander around outside. True to form, Amy whipped out a bottle of tequila – much to driver Luke’s jealousy. And so, that was my first real impression of snow: shivering, half way up a mountain with hazy views, good company and Jose Cuervo warming up my insides. A good first memory!

Natural Freezer

The primary mission of the next day was warmth. Since all of three of us have been travelling in relatively warm climates, our “winter clothes” consisted of a pair of jeans and a jersey or two. It was imperitive to attempt to increase our body temperatures because it was freaking freezing. Since thermals are a necessity in New Zealand winter, the few shops in Wanaka that stock them have a captive market and therefor give the garments exorbitant prices. We’re talking R250 for one vest. Ludicrous. We managed to avoid the scam and instead buy the cheapest, barest essentials: stockings, gloves, beanies. Luke battled to find affordable men’s thermal pants and resorted to buying some womens wooly tights – an incredibly amusing sight, might I add. For the next week, our outfits barely varied. The bonus of winter-dressing is that you can actually wear the same outer layer for a week straight, because there are so many layers of vests, tights and t-shirts underneath that your jeans and jersey don’t become too rancid (too rancid, being the opperative phrase). However, stylish winter-dressing is a whole new topic.

To be a stylish winter-dresser is an achievement. With all of my layers and beanies and scarves and gloves, I land up looking like an obese snowman. My hands barely touch my sides and the layers impede any attempts of bending arms. Put gloves on my hands and watch my gripping function fail dismally. Simple tasks – zipping up my jacket or picking something up – become impossible. Basically I wonder around looking ridiculous, completely unstylish, puffy and useless. On top of this, my nose runs constantly. Runny nose + gloves = crusty face + snotty sleeves. On top of this, I still look like I’m freezing (I am). Then a stylish winter-dresser glides past, looking impossibly beautiful with all of one, thin layer.. Boots and tights and skirts, with a trendy overcoat. Rosy cheeks from the cool air. No snot in sight – and they look warm. I attempted it one night, the stylish winter-dressing, but just ended up miserable, shivering and snottier. How its done is a mystery.

Thankfully, looking sleek and stylish on the slopes is not too important (the baggier, the trendier). We headed up to TC and got kitted out with a discount, thanks to old Wade. After much deliberation, it was decided that I should have a lesson, since my board-skills are negligable (if anyone has ever seen my attempt to ride a skate board, you’ll be chuckling right now). Amy played on the baby slope for all of five seconds before realising she still had mad skills, and disappeared up the lift. Luke decided he’d join me for my lesson, since it’d had been a few years since he played in snow. I was quite surprised at how quickly I caught onto the basics; basics being standing and sliding down what can barely be called a slope. After the afternoon play time was over, before the sun had finished it’s days work, we found ourselves all tucked up in bed, savouring the warmth. With much encouragement, we managed to bundle ourselves up and down the street for dinner, followed by a drink or two.

This was pretty much how the remainder of our time snowboardng was spent. Luke and Amy are not exactly shy of a challenge, particularly if any adrenalin is involved, and disappeared down the blue (advanced) slopes. I played on the beginner, and eventually the green, big people slopes. Not flying, by any means, but generally going in the desired direction, down a slope, interrupted by numerous falls. By the last day, I was even passing a few people, even though most of them only stepped out of the womb a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, because I played by myself, stories of the other two are few – although I have it on good authority that both Amy and Luke got a bit of air under their boards!

My overall impression of snowboarding? The mornings and evenings are challenging. Lactic acid seeps into every muscle fibre in your body – parts you wouldn’t think would be involved. Mysterious bruises appear in bizarre places, and joints start creaking prematurely. Clip into a snowboard, however, go skating towards the ski-lift and all the pain disappears. Before this experience, I had very little desire to go play in snow. The thought of spending a holiday in the cold was just mortifying and was never able to quite wrap my head around it. Now I am properly addicted. I’m fairly certain that many missions ahead of me are going to entail a snowboard (or a duneboard in Namibia!) I am so, so, so grateful for this opportunity – don’t think I ever would have experienced it had it not been for this detour!

The rest of our time in New Zealand was spent missioning around for work purposes. This enabled us to see quite a bit of the country: all green, all wet, all beautiful. We reached our most southern destination, 46deg S. A number of days were spent in Auckland and while Luke worked, I explored a lot of the city, which has quite a few similarities to Cape Town. I met up with Warrick, a friend whom I haven’t seen in years – while reminiscing about good old Stellenbosch rowing days, we managed to make quite a dent in his alcohol supplies. A major highlight of Auckland was the Cirque du Soleil: Dralion. For those of you who don’t know, Cirque du Soleil is the most incredible circus. It has extreme acrobatics: some of these individuals could probably tie themselves in knots, if they so desired. I cannot single out my favourite act, as each was completely different yet equally as mind-blowing as the next. I’m not exagarrating when I say we spent the majority of the show with our mouth open in awe. The set engineering and costume design is absolutely spectacular. It leaves you feeling like your little body is seriously inadequate in comparison. If you ever have the opportunity to see it, don’t even consider not going – it is probably the greatest human spectacle that one can see! If you still have no idea what it is, YouTube or Google it!

A brief stop-over for another meeting in Malaysia and now we find ourselves in transit in Dubai airport. At 40ZAR a cup of coffee – its going to be a looonnng ten hours! We’ll be back on the mother continent at 19h05 tonight, Nairobi time. I cannot wait to walk barefoot on African soil!

Our little detour has been amazing. It has opened our eyes to new cultures, countries and activities that we probably wouldn’t have experienced in the next few decades, if ever. I can only hope that the work that will potentially come from this trip will be as rewarding as our awesome experiences. Again, thank you, thank you, thank you Multisaw (and Murray’s) for this incredible, enchanting, memorable adventure!

Peace and Love

xx

PS: Check out the Mapped Route section above for new maps of our trip

11h00 We disembarked from the 10 hour flight and while wondering through arrivals, eagerly began planning the day ahead. First on the agenda: head to the shops in Auckland and stock up on some flannels! One pair of jeans (mine full of holes) and a jersey each just won’t cut the New Zealand winter chill. A quick exploration of the city and, following that, head the 250km north to Bay of Islands, where our accommodation had already been booked. Chatting away, we reached the front of the Immigration queue and our documents were handed over. The instant our passports were scanned, the little minion behind the desk called a chubby fellow over. “These are the two you wanted” was all he said. Our passports were handed over to the tuckbox, and the next person summoned over.

“Follow me” Chubbs said, and off he trotted.

Without another word, we were deposited in a room, where two other travellers sat waiting. The room consisted of a water cooler, a tv and a number of security cameras. Officials rushed in and out of the room through a number of doors, clutching passports and papers and making a big show of just how important they are. After comparing notes with the other guys in the room, we realised we were all in the same boat. No communication, no indication of what was going on, all just instructed to sit and wait. A somewhat dehydrated Luke took full of advantage of the water cooler. This may seem like a random fact but will contain some significance as the story continues.

11h30 A staunch woman came through a door holding, amongst other things, our passports, and ushered us along a corridor into a small room. The interrogation began: What was our main purpose in New Zealand? Main purpose? Holiday. Other purpose? Meetings. Why didn’t Luke have a work visa? Because, despite the meetings, there won’t be a transfer of funds – i.e. not actually defined as work. Why did I put my profession down as “Dietician”, when I am actually unemployed? Because that is my profession, douche, even if I’m not currently working – you didn’t ask about my employment status. How much money do we have? Not much, and what money we do have is cash, in a safe in Kenya, for our African travels. Why do we have so much luggage? We’re well below the baggage weight limit, you silly git, and anyway, when one travels, one accumulates stuff. Why don’t you have a return ticket? How long do you intend on staying? Who’s paying for accommodation? So the questions continued, in this format and repeated, “cleverly disguised” in other forms.

After incessant repetition of question after question, trying to weed out any secret information we were withholding, she finally came out and revealed the issue: because we didn’t have a return ticket booked, they thought we were trying to get into the country on a holiday permit, were planning on trying to find work and stay in New Zealand. Ah, the irony. Anybody who knows me, will know that I have absolutely no intention of immigrating – don’t make me give you a proudly South African speech again. She wasn’t particularly interested that our car, filled with our possessions, was sitting in Nairobi waiting for our return. Finally, she “gave us permission to stay for one month”, but made it clear that we knew that “we are on the system” and “she’ll be watching us to make sure we leave within the month”. Oooh, you make me tremble in my boots, you silly git.

12h15 We waited around for them to finish the paper work that would, ever so kindly, grant us permission to enter their precious country. Off to find our bags, with images of our sad little pieces of luggage, alone on the carousel, circulating for eternity. No no. Now an hour and a half since our flight had landed, there was no indication as to which of the myriad of carousels had been designated to our flight and we wondered aimlessly through baggage claim. Finally, to our suprise, we stumbled across our belongings, stacked neatly in a corner.

12h30 Having a minor chuckle over this event, we proceeded to customs. A bit nervous about some wooden carvings in our possession, and not wanting to pay the exhorbitant fine, we wandered down the “Goods to Declare” aisle. I had noticed a large code that the silly immigration git had scribbled across our arrivals form. A personality-less man examined the soles of Luke’s shoes (God forbid he walk a seed into the country), and on spotting the enscription, directed us not ahead, to the normal tables where you reveal your questionable items, but rather around a pre-fab wall. A clinical space greeted us, rows of long stainless steel with latex-gloved officials milling about. Haggered looking tourists sat alongside the respective tables and watched helplessly as the innards of their bags were strewn about and rummaged through. Another personality-less fool directed us to the “seating area” where we waited for our invasion of privacy.

During the wait, the water that Luke had previously consumed starting knocking at his bladder’s door. He wandered over to the previously mentioned personality-less fool and asked to use the loo. He was promptly directed back to his seat. Of course, you cannot use the loo while waiting in customs, lest you poo out narcotics that you have previously ingested.

12h50 A young woman directed us to our own clinical table. A long, very formal speech followed and we were asked to declare any items in our possession, including any items purchased on our travels, narcotics, drug paraphenalia and weapons. Our list looked something like this:

1 x medium wooden carving

3 x little wooden carvings

1 x Buddha

1 x surf leash

Watch out, customs, you’ve got your hands full with this lot.

After handing our list over, she added “Any prescription medications?” Ah yes, obviously we have a medical kit – we are travelling.

“Contents?”

“Um, some antibiotics, valium, ointments, plasters. But I don’t have any prescriptions for any of the items”.

Oh my. The horror. I think I even glimpsed a sparkle of joy in her eyes – there was going to be some excitement going down in customs today! You would think that we had just smuggled in a shipment of A Grade Heroin.

“Valium? Why do you have Valium? Where’s the prescription? How many pills do you have? How many have you taken? What do you use it for? Where did you get it from? How much did it cost?”.

Calmly, I explained that in Kenya, you can buy Valium over the counter and that we’ve only used one or two as (very effective) sleeping pills for flights.

The inane, standard questions continued. Who packed your bags? Are your personal items in individual bags? Do you trust your partner to have packed one of the bags? Can you take responsibility for the contents of all of the bags? Are you sure there are no other items which you wish to declare? Blah, blah, blah.

13h15 The contents of our bags was unpacked in front of us. I’ll tell you something, watch a stranger unpack your belongings and a) you’ll be glad you just did a load of washing, and b) man alive, you’ll realise how much crap you’re lugging around with you.

Even though we knew we hadn’t done anything wrong, there’s still a bit of nervousness that bubbles up inside of you. You never know just what might be in your bags (a pack of Risla, for example), and what these highly strung officials deem as “illegal”. Hubbly bubblies (or Hookah/Water pipes), for example, are deemed as “drug paraphenalia”, because “they can be used for smoking drugs”. Um, if that’s the case, then almost anything can be “drug paraphenalia”. There are some very creative bongs out there: plastic bottles, plumbing pipes, apples, you name it. Bottle necks? Light bulbs? The list is endless.

She continued to ask questions in the same vein as the silly git from immigration. Luckily, this particular lady turned out to be a fairly decent (albeit simple) human being. Luke, mistaking her interrogation tactics for friendliness, took the bait, and started talking. Combined with the nerves, he didn’t stop talking for over an hour. He even told her about the debauchery of Diani Rules. It was mortifying. He still hadn’t been allowed to go to the loo and, out of desparation of trying to hold his bladder shut, started to squirm in his seat. This jittery behaviour and incessant chatting made him look incredibly nervous and somewhat guilty. The searching continued.

14h30 Out came the swobs. Everything, and I mean everything, was swobbed. Shoes, toiletries, clothes, bags. The swob is then inserted into a little machine, which detects ions that may belong to illegal substances. Clearly not the most accurate of methods, as swobs of our belongings revealed morphine particles.

14h45 The empty bags and all “suspicious items” (i.e. carvings) were whisked off to an x-ray machine for further examination. It was around this time that she began dealing with the “Valium Issue”. Our bill of rights were read and the police were called. The valium was confiscated. The cop, highly amused at the whole scene, had to issue a written warning for “Possession of Class C Narcotics”. As he handed over my copy of the warning, he whispered “This copy is for you, you can show it to your grandkids”. He pissed himself laughing at my reply, “I’ll put it up on my blog”.

The Written Warning

A whole debarcle then followed – where was proof of our flight to New Zealand. To? Um, how else did we get here? We didn’t any proof apart from our boarding card stubs – but this wasn’t good enough. There was a long mission of trying to get access to our email, which wasn’t successful, before they eventually found out that we were “grounded” – i.e. allowed access to the country.

15h35 Four and a half hours later, we were given permission to re-pack our bags. Thanks, you douche bags, for unpacking absolutely everything, scattering it all over the length of a table, and then leaving us to re-wrap and re-pack it all. Our belongings were stuffed into our bags and we made a dash for it, now extremely over the country and its procedures and beaurocracy.

Four and a half hours of man hour, for what, exactly? We went from illegal immigrants to suspected narcotics smugglers during this time period. Yes, this kind of system needs to be in place, but the entire manner in which it was handled doesn’t all add up. How were we singled out before we even set foot in the country? Why didn’t anyone actually explain any issues upfront? Why weren’t we we patted down or scanned with a metal detector? Who cares about a few tablets of Valium?!

The most striking thing that occurred during this entire waste of a day is just how boring this story is. No little anecdotes. No laughter. No little facts. Jokes and small talk don’t go down well in customs – trust me. Small talk is frowned upon. Once we had been told to pack up our belongings, after, you know, everything had been thoroughly searched and swobbed and scanned, I asked the lady how often they get big drug busts. Big mistake. She stopped scribbling her notes, looked up at me with wide eyes and asked “Why, do you have anything else to confess?”. No, you simple fool, I’m just making small talk, trying to find some entertainment in an otherwise incredibly boring day.

Boring. While driving to our accommodation, in the dark, in the rain, in the cold, after a wasted day, with no warm clothes, we discussed exactly how boring and frustrating the whole experience was. There was a significant difference between how the day was handled here and how it would’ve unfolded at an African border post.

There was one conclusion:

We are third world children.

Give me a dusty, desolate border crossing where the officials will, at the very least, greet you with a smile, welcome you to their country, and go through procedures at an extremely slow place. Officials that, should there be any errors with documentation, will explain the dilemma. In Africa, “Rules are Rules”, and either access would have been flat-out denied, or one would have had to “make a plan”. The Kiwi’s could’ve just insisted we buy a return ticket – but no, they had to waste the day. Give me smiling, hassling locals that, although wanting to make a quick buck, will entertain you while you wait for formalities. Give me a culture that would actually bother to laugh and chat back, instead of staring you down with soul-less eyes. Give me grinning, bustling chaos over solemn, boring order.

Give me Third World.

I miss the mother continent. I think that when I get back, I’m going to hug the first black person I see (Cath, Kb, Shorts – if one of you could meet me at Nairobi airport in a few weeks, so that I don’t have to hug a random airport worker, that’d be great, thanks).

(Oops, sorry, my mind ran away with another “Proudly African” speech.)

Our second impression of New Zealand (our first being the whole airport issue) is that it is very wet and very green. So wet that the cows are fluffy (seriously). The food is pretty damn good. Interestingly, there is a huge movement towards organic and “intolerance-free” foods: most restaurants and supermarkets supply an abundance of gluten-free, dairy-free and soy-free products – everything from breads to cakes to pasta. It is so impressive, in fact, that this little culinary interest earned New Zealand it’s first “tick” in our books. The only thing we’ve yet to find is gluten-free pizza, but our search will not cease!

After Luke has a few meetings, we’re going to turn the bad weather to our advantage and head to the South Island. Here we’ll meet up with Amy (Luke’s littlest sister) and attempt some snowboarding. This will be the first time I’ve seen proper, thick snow and am super amped (and slightly nervous!).

A final note: just to add insult to injury, jetlag has knocked us out, one – love. Unable to sleep, this blog was written between 3 and 5am. The kicker? Valium would be the perfect solution to a good nights sleep and knocking the jetlag out of our systems. Instead, some customs official is now either the most chilled he’s ever been, or klapping a moerse vet dos* behind a closed door at the airport. Kiwi bastards.

Love and Peace

xx

* English: Hitting a Fat Snooze; Catching some Z’s; Having a Nap.

To get to the Gili’s, you need to catch a ferry or boat from Bangsol. The Lonely Planet has an extensive section called “Surviving Bangsol”. The place is swarming with con-artists who will do anything to get money from tourists, with no regard to how it affects the tourism industry. They lie about prices, lie about departure times of other boats, lie about where it’ll take you – all to make a quick buck. After reading the warning, we psyched ourselves up: prevent a united front; remain calm; don’t give in to the the panic the touts will inevitably try induce; use Afrikaans as a means of internal communication; stay strong, and most importantly, conquer the fuckers.

Our plan had one major flaw: we arrived after 17h00 and didn’t have much time to weigh up other options. The taxi deposited us in the heart of the touts, and we were quickly ushered into a shack. The united front began negotiations. Confident, cocky and stood our ground. For all of 30 seconds. Somehow the front cracked.

“If you buy an open, return ticket, when you come back to the mainland, we’ll include a taxi that will take you anywhere on Lombok”. This was the fateful line that chipped at our sturdy exterior. The chip turned into a crack that spread rapidly spilling the innards of our united front. We should have listened to the alarm-bells when they insisted on writing a return destination on our “open” ticket – but we didn’t. We should have bought a one way ticket – but we didn’t. We should have re-grouped – but we didnt. And so, we forked out the cash and bought “Open, return tickets”, on which the return destination was written “Kuta, Lombok”. We held on to some faith that maybe these guys would rise above the rest of their dodgey comrades. Rookie error, united front. With that, we boarded the boat, suspicions hanging heavily in the air, and headed to Gili Meno, the most chilled of the three islands.

After a very expensive horse-and-cart ride searching for vacancies, we stumbled across a gem of accommodation: a 2 story house overlooking the sea with two double beds on the upstairs veranda. After a war of shotgun, with neither couple willing to step down, all four of us settled on sharing the open stoep. The swell was non-existent on the island, and the time there was filled with eating, drinking, beaching and snorkling.

On the beach are a number of low covered, platforms on which is a small table and pillows. Whoever designed these little architectural masterpieces deserves a monumental noddy badge. Here we sat, day in, day out, crosslegged and comfy, consuming ridiculously cheap, delicious seafood and plenty Bintang beer. The snorkling was beautiful, the highlight being turtles (although this sighting is still questionable as they were only seen by the Murray siblings).

Chilling on a deck

Amazing Pansies!

Sunset @ Gili Meno

Along our journey, we have encountered many strange creatures. Tame hippopotami, rat-dogs, donkey-bras, dogs minus a layer of skin (still alive), shouting gheckos (seriously – they screech GHE – KO so loudly you can hear them through walls). But nothing has been quite as mystical as the Lombok cats. These felines all have tails that vary in length. They resemble anything from the docked tail of a Jack Russel to the long tail of a house cat, and every length in between. At first, Pea warned us not to eat any hot-dogs while in Indo – she was convinced that the viennas were, in fact, cats tails. Soon the hypothesis swung to that of docking – surely someone chops the tails off at birth. Finally someone proposed the theory that maybe, just maybe, they are born like that. After some thorough research, asking locals all over the island “Why do your cats have such weird tails?”, we found the answer. “They’re born like that!”. This is disturbing for two reasons. Firstly, for cats to be born sans-tail can only mean that the inbreeding has reached epic proportions (perhaps Lombok should look into sterilising their creatures?) Secondly, the misfortunate critters can’t balance. How quickly do you think they use up their lives?

Despite the idyllic surroundings, three days of no swell got the better of the boys. Girls are more than content with a beautiful island, but with a lack of activity, boys get bored and antsy and grumpy. Dre (by this stage he was known as Fundre Van Der Merwe) turned to comfort eating to ease his frustration. One breakfast of particular note included two extra thick banana pancakes, a banana, half a pineapple, half a papaya, half a mango, two large mixed fruit smoothies and some coffee. Horrified that he might explode at the seam, due to a combination of super-sized meal after super-sized meal and our sedentary lifestyle, it was quickly agreed that we should go in-search of swell. After some debate, our next destination was decided: Desert Point.

With suprising ease, our return tickets took us back to the mainland with no problem. When we arrived back ashore in Bangsol, however, our former friends who had sold us the tickets immediately said “Kuta, Lombok?” – implying that that was our decided destination. “No, no. Bangko Bangko (closest town to Desert Point)”, was our quick response. They refused, saying our return ticket said “Kuta”, and anyway, they didn’t travel to Bangko Bangko. Wrong tourists to try screw over, guy.

A very long, very heated argument ensued. A cop sauntered over, got involved and immediately sided with Luke. Eventually someone agreed to take us to Bangko Bangko, for a small additional buck, of course. The original salesmen were highly unimpressed that we got our way; one in particular was quite peeved after Luke called him a criminal. Despite this small victory, the once-united front was even more unimpressed for being suckered. This is a lesson to all fellow travellers over there: take your time, don’t let the bastards rush you, and most of all, trust your gut!!

The name “Desert Point” is not an ironic one. Many Indonesians, including many in Bangko Bangko, haven’t even heard of it. The more one drives, the more the lush, tropical forests disappear, along with any signs of tourism. Eventually, our taxi driver was completely clueless as to where to drop us off. Since we’d reached a peninsula, we figured that we must be in the right area, but hadn’t seen any accommodation and the road became impassable in the taxi. Try explain (in English) to your taxi driver (who speaks minimal English) to ask a pedestrian (who speaks no English) where any accommodation close to the allusive Desert Point is. When the pedestrian answers to the taxi driver, reverse the translation from Indonesian back down to minimal English. When you’re in the middle of nowhere, three-way-broken-language-cross-culture-telephone is a frustrating game to play.

To cut a long story short, with the help of a self-appointed guide Saliman, two rooms and two bikes were organised. Fundre was now chomping at the bit and hurried us along to the beach.

Desert Point is supposed to be the surfing spot. I’m talking number one or two in the world. We’ve yet to see why – there were bigger waves on Lake Malawi. It was flat, flat, flat. So flat, you can’t even begin to imagine where the break would be. It was also shallow, shallow, shallow; this Fundre found this out when he grazed his chest after floating over some reef. Local surfers raise their eyebrows with super impressed looks when he proudly announces he got his methylated chestwound from Desert Point – not a lie by anymeans, but far from the big wave surfing injury that it implies.

Big Breaks @ Desert Point

Disappointed with the lack of swell, the decision was made to spend only one night at Desert Point and spend the last two nights in Bali (with the obvious hope of finding some last few waves). An early morning taxi was organised to take us to Lombok airport. 07H30 we climbed into the minibus. 07H35 the driver switched on his radio and turned up the volume – to full: Venga Boys. On tape. At 07h35. Oh. My. God.

How to explain Venga Boys … lets see. The Venga Boys are a group from the mid 90′s, who kind of jumped on the rave movement but tried to give it a “pop” edge. Think trancey/ravey/doof-doof music with a high-pitched voice (it may even be computerised) singing unbelievably cheesy lyrics. Lyrics so cheesy that you actually want to die inside. Song titles include: “The Venga Bus is Coming”, “We’re Going to Ibiza, We’re Going to Have a Party”, “We Like to Party, We Like, We Like to Party” and my personal favourite “Boom Boom Boom Boom, I Want You In My Room”. The background music is pretty much the same track for all of the songs and since it was on a (possibly stretched) tape, the singing voice was just that much higher.

Bearing in mind that all four of us are fans of the “alternative music scene”, this pop-rave-crap is the type of noise that eats at our souls. It was ever so slightly entertaining for the first two minutes, as we all flashed back to being 12 years old and dancing at discos. Our initial amusment and pretending to dance to the tunes must have spurred the driver on: it was cranked up to max volume. He also spoke zero English: asking him to turn it down “because we had Bintang headaches” resulted in him stopping outside a kiosk and gesturing towards the Bintangs (at 08h00). Eventually Fundre cracked, took out his iPod and entered his own world of serenity and calm, leaving the three of us to endure the torture of an entire Venga Boys tape (side one AND two), for over an hour. The songs remained in our heads until we parted ways, three days later. (I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Dre for sending us an sms over a week after this particular event. The sms had a single line: “The Venga boys are coming”. For the rest of the day, Fundre, Luke and I were humming that ridiculous tune. Thanks dude, much appreciated.)

Somehow our sanity managed to stay in tact (just), and with only slightly shattered nerves, made it to the airport. After some back and forth between companies, we were saying goodbye to Lombok from the air. A blink of an eye later we were back in Bali. We found the cheapest room possible, dumped our excess luggage there, hopped on scooters and missioned south.

The search for swell eventually took us to Uluwato. While some decent waves were starting to appear, the number of surfers in the water was initially enough to keep the boys on dry land. After bouncing between surf spots (and some beautiful beaches) a few times, it suddenly dawned on them that their Indo time was limited. With that, they sucked up the “solitary” surf mission idea and paddled in. To be fair, the number of surfers in the water was ridiculous. At one point, Pea counted 74 surfers in the water – not ideal! With that number of people, you can only imagine the amount of “dropping in” that took place (“dropping in” is basically when a surfer steals a wave that another surfer is already on). While this was quite entertaining to watch from the rocks, you could practically see the chirps being thrown around in the backline, let alone watch directly in front on the shore. BUT, at least a bit of swell appeared for the last two days; no more comfort eating, no more bleakness.

Only a section of the surfers - packed!

Dropping In

Sick Photie!

Dre

Finally it was time to drag ourselves back to Kuta. Thankfully, Pea and Dre’s return flight to SA was late in the evening (I forget the time, Pea and Dre, what time was it?). This meant a final full day, surfing, eating, drinking, with only a faint hint of morbidity in the air.

Murray Lovin’

On the scooter back to Kuta, I shamefully confessed a secret through my helmet to Luke. To my suprise, he shared my sentiment: we both had tiny slithers of jealousy that the other two were going home. A completely ridiculous notion, I know, but true nonetheless. Even though our trip is incredible and we’re both absolutely loving it, after four months, it’s reached that stage where every now and then, a part of me yearns for the familiarity of loved ones. For the most part there’s been negligible communication – I miss the simplicity of making a phone call! Saying goodbye to Pea and Dre struck chords twice: farewell to friends/family, and sending them home, to friends and family.

 With that note, a ginormous “Thank You” needs to be extended to Pea and Dre. Shot dudes, for letting us crash your mission. It was freaking AWESOME to see you guys and jam in Indo, of all places. It was, without question, the major highlight of our entire trip; completely unexpected and an insane mission. The timing was perfect, giving us a very short dose of love and reminders of home. The memories are epic. Love, love, love to you both Xxx PS – Start chilling the beer/tequila and preparing the missions for our homecoming

To everyone reading this: drop us a line, whoever you are, whichever way you like. Leave a comment, send an sms, write an email, post a message on Facebook. Tell us your stories. We’re online and would love to be in touch.

Peace, Love and Miss You All.

Xx

After a 30 minute drive through the tropics, we arrived at Mawi Beach and the boys disappear into the surf. Pea and I climbed up on some rocks to watch the waves and chat and take photos. Next thing, Christian (a friend of P and Dre’s) walked out the water with blood streaming down his face. Turns out his forehead collided with his girlfriend’s board, and decided to split all the way open, right down to his skull. Not good. Not good at all.

A big crowd quickly gathered, everyone with their own opinion on how to treat the injury. At one stage an old Indonesian oupa appeared and started sprinkling leaves of unknown-origin into the wound – much to the predominantly Westernized crowds horror. For all we know, this traditional medicine may have been a miracle cure, but he was hurriedly shoo-ed away by some Aussie with his own opinion. Thankfully someone had a car and whisked Christian and Pea off to find the nearest clinic. We followed as quickly as our scooters would allow us.

Lombok, Indonesia is probably as third world as it gets, so there was concern about the clinic (and staff) being of questionable standards. Forced to switch to a “working holiday”, Pea was able to throw the “I’m Dr. Leah, Medical Practioner, at your service” card (ok, she might not have used those exact words). This magic little sentence allowed her entry to get to watch and assist the nurse and the stitches and the sterility – quite a comfort for Christian and his girlfriend, knowing that Pea could step in if, at any time, the procedure didn’t seem too kosher.

The rest of us got chased outside the room to hover. It turns out that Indo’s grapevine works just as well as any other, and a group of locals joined us in peering through the windows to catch a glimpse of blood or skull or a clamp or a stitch. The wound was pretty serious, needing a number of stitches. Apart from the myriads of flies that were swarming in the room, the whole procedure was apparently quite well performed. Christian took the whole thing amazingly well – one hardcore dude! The pictures may be a bit gruesome for some, scroll past quick quick if you feel queasy!

In the rush and thrill of the emergency, Christian’s scooter got left behind at the beach. Due to the combination of his mild head trauma and high doses of pain-killers, he couldn’t possibly fetch and drive it back. Off our little group zoomed, back to the beach to maximise the remainder of the sunshine, to catch some late arvie waves and finally, drive back the bike with Pea as designated driver.

After a very brief lesson and three metre test run under the supervision of Luke and Dre, Pea felt comfortable enough to brave the journey home. I jumped onto the back of the scooter to begin our drive. The sudden appearance of some swell drew the boys into the water, gave us ample opportunity to putt-putt home at a comfortable, novice speed, without them pressurising us. Pea’s pull off was impressive and we turned the corner looking like pro’s. Thankfully, turning that corner provided us with some much-needed invisibility.

Scooting is not easy. The brake doesn’t react quite as you think it will and the accelerator responds too much. There were a few incidents, just around the corner, where we didn’t exactly stay on the road, one where I had to physically pull the bike back on track. No need for concern though: the speedometer needle was mostly stagnant (it may have jumped up to 4km/hour, very briefly); the track was grassy and sandy, and we were both poised to jump off at any twitch of danger. Not exactly a high-speed death situation. After a few mishaps and a lot of laughter (mostly nervous giggles), Pea got properly into the swing of things and we were cruising home (cruising may be quite a bold exagerration, but we were moving in straight lines and going up and down hills and around corners).

On a flat, straight section, Pea suggested I give it a go. I was dead-keen. To our right was a local soccer game, with plenty of spectators. Off Pea climbed, I scooched forward to the drivers seat and scooted away.I’m a natural! So chuffed with myself, I have a fleeting moment of contemplation – do I stop, wait for Pea to catch up and climb on, or do I do a U-turn and drive back and fetch her, valliantly picking her up and saving her from the small crowd of children that had appeared.

Definitely do a U-ey, I decide. Let me interject now and warn you: driving 100m in a straight line on a flat road without testing out the breaks, does not mean you have scooting skills. Half way through the U-turn I realised I had underestimated the little bastard vehicles turning circle. I tried the left brake – it didnt respond. I tried the right brake – and at the same time, in order to press the break, tilted my wrist ever so slightly. My wrist that’s attached to my hand that’s attached to the accelerator. The force of the accelerator overrode the force of the brake, and the scooter leapt off the road into a bushy ditch – me sitting proudly on top.

Pea is in hysterics. I’m mortified. Somehow I had managed to leap off before the crash landing. I slink over to pathetic thing and decide to try to redeem myself. I switch it back on (the engine died in the collision) and try to push it out of the ditch. Scooters are freaking heavy, so I give it some juice, underestimating the speed at which it accelerates relative to the speed of my pushing pace alongside it. It literally flies out of my hands and lands in a crumpled heap about 3m in front of me. P can no longer breathe she’s laughing so much. The small crowd of children find the whole scenario just as amusing – don’t forget they’ve been cruising Indo in scooter gangs since they developed gross motor function.

A pre-pubescent child eventually climbed on, rode it out of the ditch and turned the thing to face in the correct direction. Shamefully, tail firmly between my legs, I climb back onto the passenger seat and let Pea take over. I can safely say I left a lot of pride in that bush, and am fairly certain that I’ve embedded myself into Lombok’s history – those kids’ grandchildren will hear the story of this ridiculous white girl who couldn’t drive a scooter and crashed it twice in under 30seconds.

After our first day, the swell dropped and the waves disappeared – much to Dre’s horror. After missioning around searching for breaks, reality sunk in and he eventually admitted defeat. This meant we were given permission to further explore Lombok, to places not known for their surfing potential. Next mission: “the Gili’s”, three small islands off of Lombok.

To be continued … the second part to this tale will be uploaded in a few days … stay posted.

Love and Peace

xx