No words, just pictures

Addis to Kigali

 We were the lowest people in Africa. Minus 123m in Ethiopia's Danakil Depression. Mount Kenya was tamed with a bunch of rabble rousers and only  We were the highest peoplein Africa. Uganda's Margherita Peak (5109m). I know what you're thinking - we could actually see Kilimanjaro from the top and nobody was on top so it must go down in the record books. We've been across Africa's largest lake and we met a man who owns one ofthe oldest dogsin the world. I saw a photo ofthe dog and it's very convincing. The mightiest ofthe greatapes havebeen tracked and reckoned. I think they liked us.

We're pushing 20 000km on some of Africa's finest public transport and our cause for The Key School is now as urgentas ever. Sing it from the rooftops, turn your wealthy relatives upside down and shake them for all the loos change they are worth. And let no person say your contribution in this great ocean is but a drop. For what is it, if not a multitude of potent, single droplets!

Over and Up!

Here are some of the stats:

Mileage to date: 16444km

Funds raised for the Key School: R40,000

Peaks: 4 - Abuna Josepf (4300m), Mt Kenya (4950m), Mt Stanley (5109m), Mt Gahinga (3600m)

Troughs: 2 - Danakil Depression (-116m), David Cloetes naked arse (sags -1,5m)

Times vomited on while in transit: 2

Times been crapped on by poultry while in transit: 1

Chapatis eaten: >400

Prostitutes encountered in Kenya: 52

Prostitutes hitting on Tough Guys father:  52

Prostitutes hitting on Tough Guy: 0

Journey to The Mountains of the Moon

First Days

The rising sun clears the mist to reveal the Portal Peaks, protectors of the entrance.
Trees, taller than we have ever seen - a canopy of lush, green undergrowth and amazing flowers;
pansies, bluebells and the Rwenzori Rose. Troops of Colobus monkeys entertain as they fly through the canopies, birdsong, magnificent butterflies and a three-horned chameleon all making their way through the exaggerated foliage - leaves, twigs, and roots all far greater than they should be.

Mystical at moments as the path winds its way upwards from Nyabitaba Base Camp, moss-clad boulders, rickety wooden steps built from yesteryear. The Bigo Bog looms ahead with strange tree phantoms and primeval woodland, with its own sense of antiquity. We meet a brown-faced Rwenzori mountain rat. He has the look of Mr. Tittle-mouse and is just out of hibernation for a little snack in the bamboo forest. His thoughts are slow but he is quick to escape down his hatch when we pass through his 'danger perimeter'

It seems that the sprites, fairies and elves of the Rwenzoris, dance to their own spirit, in their own step. The light changes as mist and cloud roll back and forth along mountain peaks and it is as though our ancestral spirits are moving along the valleys. Antiquity and time are merged in this unique and remote piece of paradise and one feels like a minute mortal.

We reach John Matte Hut, perched on a piece of grassland, overlooking the old, unchanged forest - always the sound of water and the call of the Rwenzori Turaco. We are alone in our own silence as we swim in the freezing river.

Climbing

As we climb into the heather zone, slopes of tall Lobelias, watching over the young ones, who are already retaining water deep within, for the season's growth ahead. Ever upwards, we ascend - over 3 000m now - and the path twists and turns. Many gnarled roots of the bearded Hagenia trees block our path. Above us, throngs of Rwenzori roses, pink in colour, with occasional snowdrops peeping through.

As we forge the Upper Bigo Bog the sun reveals the surrounding peaks - Baker and Stanley - stnading in awesome grnadeur and we have our first sight of the Margherita Glacier, sparkling white and incandescent in power and splendour, the very top of the jungles of the hinterland.

Bujuku Lake

Bujuku Lake welcomes us. Dark, high and opaque. Somewhat reminiscent of a remote Loch. That night the plump moon bathes the surrounding peaks in sepia and we gaze up at the giants to come.

On the morrow, a freezing but clear dawn greets us. Deep silence. We are constantly reminded of our smallness and we look up at the saddle separating us from the Congo. Our steep ascent to Elena Hut (4 500m) begins through fields of the everlasting flowers scattered throughout. Ladders are climbed against the rock and we have magnificent views from Omukandeye, 4150m. Our first sighting of Mount Stanley Glacier and a cold thrill hums in us all.

Profound quietness as the air thins out. Everyone conscious of their own breathing and small rests are important. Jagged rock faces are now in view as reach Elena, a ramshackle corrugated iron structure. We begin to understand the Mountains of the Moon.

Summit

Mist circles and clears indiscriminately and the mountains jeer us on, throwing down a challenge. Awake at 3:30am in the bowl of light beneath the spires. The team heads off - over and up - into the dimness, their headlamps lighting the way for the 150m ascent to the snowline. Crampon-clad, they breach the Stanley Plateau, the dawn to their right and the waning full moon from the other side.

Margherita and Alexandra Peaks are only left now. A snow storm wheels in from the West as they trudge up 60 degree inclines, scrambling over the strewn rocks that lead the way. They are engulfed now, a constant drizzle of snow soaks them to their marrow. As they finally scramble to the highest point, whiskey is shared on the grounds of the gods - a pat on the back - and they must leave. The altitude is disorienting. No thoughts of conquering the summit are within, only how small they feel now that they are on top.

Descending

Thoughts rush in with increased oxygen. How special to tread a glacier on the equator, in the footsteps of the explorers of yore.

7 days walking in the highest mountain range in Africa. A dream is fulfilled and many more are conceived.

Words: Jan Mallen

Coming Soon...

The Mountains of the Moon; Bwindi Impenetrable Park, Mgahinga volcanoes......

Coming Soon......

Toward the South

Here we are, geographically.

From Gonder to Nanyuki. Over 1000km in southerly direction. This has been our longest stretch in our favourite direction. It fills one with exhilaration and is just the tonic for morale - that tangible sensation that we are nearing the bottom of the continent. Our merry band has been bolstered. James White, Dave Cloete, Lawrence Mallen - all mentalists - have joined us for a gambol up Mount Kenya. McAlpine and I awaited their arrival with relish, deliberately abstaining from merriment on the Friday that they spent in transit in Nairobi. We couldn't wait to make contact with the outside world, and embrace family and friends who really knew us. No such approach for them, they had hardly touched down in East Africa before the Tusker started flowing. James lost his fleece on a grubby dancefloor and now he is very cold. Lawrence, who tripped on a cats eye and landed on his head in Comrades last weekend, arrived wielding a 12 year old single malt. He has made it very clear that we shall share the burden of this most prized possession and that James should rather focus on its safekeeping than his shivering bones.

She leers from the horizon.

A Reasonable Dependant

The dependant's lodgings. With view.

 
 hoped it wouldn’t come to this.Some whisperings in Morocco, a few discreet rustles in Mauritania and some early-morning chittering through the rest of Francophone Africa.  Yesterday, though, I had to pull myself towards myself and put an end to living in denial. And I don’t mean this in a punny sort of way, either. It would be unworkable to live in such a large African river. No, I had to confront something even greater – the thing in my bag. An extended quiet period, intended to catch up on reading and journaling, only allowed the full horror to rustle away, undisturbed by the usual clamour of a rambling life. The thing was wriggling around with such an impressive array of noises that it became unavoidable for me to continue denying that it was, in fact, a thing. And, moreover, that it was animate - very good at being, animate. I haven’t looked at myself for several weeks but this would have been one of those moments, had a mirror been about, of solemn acceptance. In that strangely formal tone – for ensuring clarity - that I reserve for exchanges with myself; it would have played out thus: ‘something has been living in your backpack for a long time now and it’s not going to go away’.

I shall not name this beast. I know people enjoy doing that with their cars and fluffy toys. I suppose it is loveable, in a way. But, it’s probably more for the indulgence of entitlement, that inimitable human faculty to classify things and enjoy all the connotations therein:

“There, bear, your name is now Sir Edward Tedward, or Ted, and you can’t moderate your flattery or run away or consider subterfuge, because you have been titled, identified, nay, defined, by me”.

I should actually check on Ted. He’s been stored in a chimney for the last few years. And, even if he hasn’t enjoyed it he isn’t sanctioned to say so. 

The differentiation here is important; the agitator in my backpack answers to no-one. It has courage - unlawfully occupying a man’s backpack. It has authority – ferreting around at all hours with limited regard for the man’s personal effects. It has cunning – concealing delicious morsels by rearranging everything inside the backpack. The worst outcome would be a baptism of this creature. With a name comes familiarity and, well, that’s enough already. Let it through that tiny opening of acquaintance and, before long, it’s testing the curfew and demanding medals and enfranchisement.

The status quo, though begrudgingly for my part, works. I have compassion, and, more importantly, I allow the thing its dignity. If it does hail from Africa – I hope it does – then its behaviour is understandable. In territory too unforgiving to contain its pitiless human history, where every patch of ground belonged, at some time, to another, where else should the little critter bed down? I am far from enamoured, but I do admire inventiveness. Besides, in the often estranging interludes on such a considerable journey, it’s quite nice to hear the occasional rustle of encouragement. Together, it is not unreasonable to venture, we are more than the sum of our parts.

The thing and I with my luggage. I carry.

Fifty Fathoms Below

From Oman, cast a glance westwards, toward the sinking sun. The ‘Empty Quarter’ skirts the Gulf of Aden, on to Eritrea, and adjacent; The Afar Triangle. It occupies the northernmost point of the Great Rift Valley and, one day; it will be the last piece of land to detach as the Horn of Africa drifts from the mainland. Presently, a trinity of tectonic fissures clatter together beneath this ghostly wilderness. Their potent friction hollows out the deepest geological basin in Africa - 155m below the level of the oceans – the Danakil Depression. This is Lucy’s patch of earth. Her tomb of volcanic dregs became a cradle beneath the playing out of the vagaries of the ages. For millennia, mantle plumes would have gushed beneath her, forging potent magma chambers as they approached the surface. It would have been no better above ground, in the unstinting and searing miasma . An ordinary daily temperature of 41°C brands this expanse with the dubious title: ‘The hottest inhabited place on the planet'. 

Hot as Hades. Our convoy rolls several deep; three Afar policemen, brandishing rickety machine guns. A crew of five utility men, sharing driving, cooking and translating from Afar to Amharigna to English. And, of course, twelve faranjis or foreigners, or tourists. Not in the minority anymore; these desert bad lands imbue something foreign in every visitor. All of us alien, shuffling through the uttermost sanctuaries of the cruellest elements.

Sixteen hours of sluggish progress deposits us at the base of Erta Ale – translated plainly: ‘The Smoking Mountain’. Afar insinuations of ‘smoke,’ however, are manifold. “Many Ethiopians believe Hell exists beneath this mountain,” Negasi says diffidently, “and so do I”. Considering the dark mound in the distance, it isn’t difficult to imagine the sulphurous wrath that many may conjure from the same sight. Perhaps there is some progress in people appropriating a physical hell, something real to overcome the theory of an abundant yet unclear inferno, and the menace such thinking disseminates.

We begin our ascent at 6pm. Hot as Hades. It’s a miscellaneous band, tussling with the dense air overhead and the ragged basalt underfoot. Everyone equipped with a torch, lighting their modest yet pioneering path through the blazing darkness. The fossilised lava is frail; it breaks off too easily, the disappointing remnants of its erstwhile, passionate form. The crumbling of the charred fragments release surges of an unsettling sulphuric scent. It is true; a threatening smell provokes the olfactory facilities to supersede all others. The odours mist over the eyes, clamour at the ears and infiltrate the gut, as though they are laying claim to these strange figures that slog towards the smouldering originator. Who, for her part, writhes and seethes beneath, as she has always done. Nonetheless, the only disclosure for those who venture a glance aloft; the coy, crimson afterglow.

48 hours of expectancy and the moment is upon us. Unceremonious, one more flaky footstep – like any other – and, then, that vertiginous jolt through the torso. She requires no flourishing of trumpets, baulks at decorous formalities. The twelve newcomers, on the verge for the first time, are bound only by their silence. Privately, each person’s response is peculiar. Some drift unwittingly from the group, seeming to seek out isolation. Others stand back and advance once more, desperately trying to reconstruct that original tremble. The ones who reach for their cameras appear to be postponing the reality of the encounter. It is as though capturing a version of the turmoil below will quantify it, fortify them for the inevitable, when, barefaced, they must confront the churning chasm. This time, armed onlyw ith tragic empathy for themselves and their own impermanence. 

From where, then, does this half-urge surface, taunting me to take a running leap and bomb-drop right into the middle of Erta Ale. What a grisly confliction of biology; ignoring the determination of all my bodily filaments’ to endure, I just can’t help thinking, ‘what a breath-taking jump that would be’. I ask Manuela, the very sensible Italian, if she harbours a similar craving. She does. We give each other a wide berth, both speculating the other may try it by proxy. I have heard of people experiencing similar impulses on vertical cliffs. I don’t go along with any existential explanation. More likely, it is just some untamed slice of the brain, spoiling for a bit of adrenaline.

We sleep well away from the marauding vapours of carbon dioxide. The forgiving soil. Beside the Afar sentry, who nuzzles his rifle while he fitfully rests, I can only sense the great oozing below us. Erta Ale turns out to be the watchful outlet of something farther down. It is the disorder that frightens us, who know nothing of the contorted beginnings of such substances.  

Yet, we are mindful of the ground. It is solid. This is necessary. So that we may stand on something, name it, live off it; the smelted sap must run deep. It bleeds through the strata, coaxing the very nerves of the earth. The bodies around me, longing for sleep, reach out for fugitive threads of oxygen. There is a harmony in their respiring, hopeful cadences. Clusters of the firmament are drawn downwards, through their lungs, and continue, passing through the legion ruptures of the land. From their high place they plunge into the acrid innards of the old orb. ‘This is how things are arranged’ – their unyielding concession.

The Return of the Fleas

                                              Of blood bereft, they scuttled great lengths,

          to crouch, disguised, in nooks and clefts.

          From sandy pits did most appear

          The rest: they were already there

          Holding a vigil in their Sunday best.

          And, when their host assumed a state of rest

          A high-ranking member, from his fabric lair,

          did reach

          with restless legs into the air and performed

          a ghastly, yet moving, flea-speech.

          In short: “Graze!” – was his instruction.

          But, hark, who goes there!

          Tagging along in my underwear.

          With all your grace, I beg!

          Watch over my waist.

          For who better to thwart my tormentors

          Than a ladybird. Beautiful annihilator.

The midriff and wrists: battered.

She sits to the left of the tag

  

Undesirables

Claire McAlpine; sister of David, daughter of Helen, answers to nobody: write for the blog.

Her experiences with us in Ghana make for some mesmerising non-fiction. Enjoy.

When Scott first approached me to write a guest blog about my brief foray to Ghana, I had carefully considered how best I might go about this. I am an Anthropology student at the University of Edinburgh; I thought perhaps I could tie my studies in to what I experienced: maybe I could display my academic know-how and discuss such concerns as the gender divide in Africa, the symbolic structures of Christianity within Ghana or (a personal favourite) the implications of tribal heterogeneity on African politics. After all, I thought, this is my area of expertise. I am sure I could make numerous anthropological references and create a sterling and robust essay in the vein of what I am likely to submit at the end of term.

However, when Scott messaged me, I realised what he wanted was something slightly less obtuse, and a lot less dignified.  “Offer still stands for a guest article on my blog f you have time after exams.” he began. “I think the subject matter you created out there should work well.”

Now, the “subject matter I created” could only reference one thing, since I didn’t really create much of it. Scott and my brother David had already been through North and West Africa and I more or less refrained from altering their plans or decisions -they were now more adept at negotiating the area than I. So I hung back, I ate what I was given- mostly yams, beans, assorted stews packed with chilli, all off the side of the road. I stood back as they got their elbows out to bargain for tro-tros. I didn’t even yell at people when they started clinging onto my arm, insisting, “abroni, abroni, I give you good deal, 10 cedis taxi to airport. Abroni! Are you from America?” Yes indeed, since my holiday was so brief and I had to return to Edinburgh for exams, I largely left the nitty gritty to the two hairy tanned men that I trailed after. So the “subject matter I created” could only have been one particular incident: one that completely, and very publicly, decimated any dignity I may have had; and undoubtedly one of the most embarrassing incidents of my entire life. I implore you to read on at your peril, preferably if you do not know me.

Now, as you may have inferred from the above description of a typical Ghanaian menu: the food is unkind to western stomachs. Particularly one that has been pampered with reams of nanny-state British fair: organic this, obsessively sanitised that. The onslaught of tropical vegetables, stews and chilli dishes, mostly lovingly prepared next to open sewerage, can well be imagined to have disagreed with a stomach largely adjusted to a student diet of muesli and fish fingers. But the timing was my greatest downfall.

As I sheepishly smoked a cigarette outside the ladies’ toilet while I waited for a long tro-tro journey from Hohoe to Accra, I realised that my stomach was growling uncomfortably from the Ghanaian cuisine of the previous night. I then realised that this toilet would now serve a purpose other than shielding me from the castigation of the fiercely anti-smoking locals. Nipping in vacantly, I noticed it wasn’t a “toilet” per se- as much as a room without a roof, and with a small step leading down into two drains. I knew this was not an ideal place to expel the wache stew from last night, but realising my cramps were not amenable to a 5 hour tro-tro journey, I decided to go ahead anyways. A toilet, I thought, was a toilet.

I have since learned that this is not the case.

I then returned to the tro-tro and briefly told my two travel companions that I had possibly made a mistake in assuming that all toilets serve a dual purpose, to which they laughed but didn’t really show much concern. I then took out a book in the seat behind Scott as my brother went off rummaging for some more banku and beans. About 20 minutes later, an enraged face appeared at Scott’s window. Sweat dripping from his massive biceps, pectorals bulging through his purple wifebeater, he bellowed, “Your sistah take shit in the urinal.”

 My heart sank. My face went red. And I briefly considered racing to the front and frantically stomping on the accelerator until, several flat goats later, we were somewhere far from Hohoe. But alas, I just sat there, frozen with shame, wishing the rips in the dusty leather seats were just that much bigger so I could be swallowed up by the foam, even though it had been saturated with untold quantities of groin sweat.

Scott, though visibly flummoxed, responded calmly. “What?”

“Your sistah,” he repeated. “Take shit in the urinal.”

I must have been a vivid hue of scarlet by this stage. Not only did I just deposit a grim delight on the floor of some poor person’s bog, but now Scott was taking the hit.

In my shame I decided to start shouting French at the man. “Parlez vou Francais? Monseur! Oui, oui”!” I thought this was very clever. I will pretend I don’t speak English, I thought. It worked for Scott and Dave at the Mauritanian border so maybe it will work here! Realising I had now shouted the sum total of my French at this man, I switched to Spanish, shouting whatever nonsense came to mind. “Si! Senor! No hablo Ingles! Donde esta el Stacion?” Eventually realising I didn’t know much of that either and then began speaking Afrikaans.

When David returned, he found half the village engulfing the tro-tro, whilst the man with the purple wifebeater had clambered over to the door and was threatening to punch Scott in the jaw whilst I yelled periodically in a colourful array of languages. The man was bellowing to everyone in earshot, in English and Ghanaian, that this cowering abroni had deposited an unhygienic souvenir on top of his drain. David was swiftly enlightened as to what had transpired as he calmly dined on Ghana’s finest street food.

“Hey,” he said to this man, who was now foaming at the mouth. “There is no need to be so nasty to tourists, we bring money into your country and this is how you treat us?”

“Fuck you!” he replied.

“What?”

“Fuck you!”

“No, I’m not dealing with this man anymore, please take him away!”

At the insistence of an old man who had been accompanying the butch hell raiser, a group of his cronies ushered away this quivering wreck of a man, leaving behind the bearded grandpa with a twinkle in his eye.

“You talk to me, we sort this out,” he said to David.

No one had really addressed me at this point, which I was happy with. I congratulated my rudimentary selection of bastard languages. He sighed and obliged, disappearing with this wiley silver fox behind the tro-tro. When he returned, he informed me he was now 2 cedis (about 80p, or R10) poorer. The old man had essentially bribed us to clean up the crudely erected stall in which I had chosen to do the deed.

“Now,” he said when he got back, and repeated endlessly for the rest of the trip, “please learn the difference between a long drop and a urinal before you completely impoverish us.”

Highlands of Ethiopia

Ethiopia is very high. The terrain is rough, with sharp projections.  All the would-be Abyssinian occupiers, through the ages, have found these two things very challenging.  The third, and insurmountable peril for any imperialist: people. Unfortunately, and, not only in glossy guidebooks, the solitary history of the Ethiopian people takes expression in ghastly clichés: unique, defiant, single-minded. Let it simply be said, if people had designs on subjugation, Ethiopians were quick to stich them up. They even sent the gun-wielding spags packing with only a ragtag horde of camels and highland mules. And, yes, there is a feeling of being surrounded by a populace (80 million) who are not particularly interested in you. Conversation can be found, help can be sought, but no gratuitous smiling, zero empathy for the clearly bamboozled traveller. Ideal conditions.

So: Lalibela. Formerly, Roha. There are another two towns in the region – Gonder and Shire. Tolkien devotees, seems your man wasn’t so original after all. And, once more, were it not for the overly treacherous landscape, Ethiopia would have trounced New Zealand as a film location for the Trilogy.   

But, Lalibela. In the 12^th century, King Lalibela, named for some bees that swarmed him as a child, was at the apex of his power. He had the astonishing idea to hew churches from rock. This meant finding a monstrous rock and sculpting a church out of it – including a finely chiselled interior. Occasionally, I could picture Lalibela strolling the brownish highlands, actually seeing the finished product inside some giant boulder and delivering the order to his long suffering subject: “start chipping.” Regarding these logistics, science and culture diverge at this point. There is still a strong religious and cultural opinion for some kind of divine intervention in the rendering of these fiercely intricate structures. Academics put the workforce required, allegedly in 23 years, for such a project to be upwards of 40 000. As history has shown, the great feats of construction towered skywards on the shoulders of slaves. But there is one element that confounds when surveying the churches: craftsmanship. Symmetry, intricacy of interior design, the knowledge that one inch of error at the beginning would derail the entire structure on completion. And, no going back. Once, four walls are carved over years and you find out the doorframe doesn’t quite match up – no going back. And, there is simply no evidence of any error. The whole operation is flawless; surely confirming that this was the work of many and diversely skilled people. Not your average makeup of a band of slaves.

So, there seem to have been some wilful participants in this grand operation. In the name and for the lofty service of the Lord, perhaps; to fashion a legacy that really would stand for centuries; or maybe, spurred by that great human distinguisher, curiosity. Maybe Lalibela just wanted to see if it could be done. And, so artful and improbable was the doing, that Saint George himself – a frequent visitor – blurted out: “Majestic, Lalibela, majestic. But, where is mine”.

And today, if you finish the day with the Southern cluster of churches, you will come to a large flat rock on the edge of the valley. As furrow upon furrow of the misty blue highlands break free before you, there is a strangely symmetrical chasm. A good eighty metres in length and breadth and hollowed out to a depth of eleven metres. And, inside, you will behold Bet Giorgyis (House of George), the remaining rock that has actually been moulded into the shape of a crucifix, inside and out. Gazing down, and, in spite of myself, I had to agree with the guidebook: were these rock churches hewn in some other, more accessible tract of the earth, they would surely be one of the great wonders and famous the world over. Thank goodness they weren’t. Although, I couldn’t help but feel in a state of wonder for most of my time, deep in these stone furrows. Apart from the honour, St. George must have had a twinge of envy. And, who wouldn’t, for so many secrets are yet to be carved from the boulders of Lalibela. Yet, the people carry on, above, like everything is just fine. Occasionally, though, the elderly will hold your gaze for what feels a moment too long. Knowingly.

West Africa Roundup

So: that's it. Seventeen weeks ago, we gingerly stepped out of the
Casablanca train station into some dismal rain. Tonight, reluctant salvoes
of thunder sound over Accra and the rain struggles through the thick air
onto our Salvation Army dormitory. I think it may have rained twice in
between these two outpourings. I used to believe in portentous things, but,
no longer. This is probably just a sign that we didn't choose the rainy
season to traverse one of the hottest regions on earth. Some memories will
crystallise, others may alter entirely.

The days will put a distance between us; West Africa and I. For the most part, she has reminded me how much I have forgotten; French, dealing kindly but firmly with harlots,
reconciling the lottery of different peoples' lot in life. What I can say I
will take with me is the skill of brevity. Not because it is abundant,
rather because it is the one thing needed. From the grandest overtures to
the lowliest chores, let them be brief in Africa. For, how else can we hope
to extract the real feelings of things if they are anything more than
fleeting..

As she did not mark our arrival, so shall she be similarly aloof as we take
our leave. Yet, somewhere in the midst of the wailing, tinkering landscape,
there may be someone who is smiling, as they remember the antics of two le
blancs on their southern foray.

And, for my part, that is more than I could
hope to leave with those who dwell in these lands of the setting sun.

Below is the motion version of the West Africa leg! Max volume suggested. Pass on to anyone and everyone!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yl6Qay9NTJI
                                                                            THE WAY

Some Numbers

Monies raised to date: R20,100

Mileage: 10,148kms

Time on the road: 17 weeks

Modes of transport used: 13 (Car, Bus, Sept plus taxi, train, minibus, bush taxi, donkey cart, horse cart, cattle cart, pirogue, camel, bicycle, moped)

Countries visited: 6. Morocco, Mauritania, Senegal, Mali, Burkina Faso, Ghana.

Occupied territories visited: 1. Western Sahara.

Countries in rebel hands on our departure: 1. Mali

Countries hanging in the balance despite our departure: 5

Names called: My friend, toubab, toubaboo, le blanc, le blanche, playboy, French military, Tellem, Texan, obruni, yova, asshole

Evangelicals accosted by: 6

Known convertees: 1

Proficiency of handling local transport:

a)      Before arrival of our mothers: 91%

b)      After arrival of our mothers: 17%

Guest article from a visitor

Observations of women along  on Ghana’s southern coast

‘The blood inherited from the mother is the signifier of the family’

If you need directions to a trotro (taxi) rank, ask a woman. She will provide a direct and clear route forwards.

If you need guidance inside the trotro,; considered and measured advice is conveyed on the skills of other 

the driver, other drivers and responsible behaviour for pedestrians and passengers.

Advice provided for surviving the Cape Coast market, a hustling, bustling place of humidity and energy, is authoritative. It is also somewhat aggressive and, at times, forced on one in an overpowering and loud manner. This is merely a pretext for communicating – woman to woman. No gossip allowed.

On a Sunday morning, women are beautifully attired in traditional cloth and design. The local street filled with noise and vigour, could be a modelling ramp of unique and colourful fashion, enriched by the odd goat, who, in their purposeful way: “bleh, bleh”.

The stature of these women is of great natural poise. Able to carry whatever is required on their heads as they walk their journey with grace and strength.

Stern disciplinarians to all, from small children to the itinerant drunkard. Purposefully making things happen – they are the matriarchal link – the substance of what life is about.

They live their lives sometimes obscured, waiting for this blaring world to clear for a new season of beginnings.

GOAT

Consider the goat. Do it soon. People like you, and me, have been under the consideration of the goat for many moons. So: forget what you thought you knew, beware of the myopia of entitlement, and, think how appearances may have deceived you before. And while you do this, again – it cannot be overstated – consider the goat.

History is written by the winners; glib, but true. The cliche comes from the kernel of truth in a phrase. Apart from some, of course. There’s never fire with smoke. People love making smoke. Some are even professionals at making smoke that looks like fire to back up their original smoke.  Wait for the fire, I say. And while you wait – consider the goat. There’s no smoke with goats, no blustering about. If pressed, you will notice there isn’t any fire, either. Goats have dodged the idiom with agility and grace. And, therein, their talent. The losers didn’t make it, and only a handful of winners did; cowering in advisory roles so that they may scribble their account of History. Where are all the survivors, then?  They are outside my tent right now, chewing a handkerchief. They are a little way down the road, eating and sleeping in cement. They are headbutting a greedy pigeon, just because it deserved it. They are those who learned how to dodge the conflict in its entirety, pronking past all skirmishes to a life of mediocrity. They are goats.

Domesticated, owned and kept, yet still free? Why not. We’re all a bit domesticated in these times, behind every boss is another boss and those who think themselves truly free are either wrong, or no-good hippies. The thing that goats have mastered is how to find liberty in shackles. You can tie a goat to the roof of a bus or you can throw one in the hold underneath. The only uncertainty for them: will I be eating chassis or roof-rack.  In both outcomes, fate will decide if your canvas backpack becomes a delicate digestif. Moreover, they are not wasting time in the pursuit of advancement. It is not a priority, for a goat, to ensure it leaves the world a better place for its kids. They’d like to, as much as you and I would like to. But, their pragmatism leads them down a different path. They take hardships on the chin, make something out of nothing and out of a little, make more.

So as they shun idealism and progress with their hoofs firmly on the ground, they free up a few moments to really enjoy things, to really have a look at the world. Instead of mindlessly chomping on whatever their ancestors chomped on, they will try a discarded fan belt. And the calories and minerals from the fan belt allows them enough free time later in the day to lock horns with their friends, or climb a tree or just have a lie down in the shade.

So next time those seemingly vacant eyes roll over you, consider them. Look back with intent. Just stare at one eye, it’s impossible to look into both. And, when you see what looks like your reflection in that unflinching iris, remember that it’s not. It is what you look like in the mind’s eye of that goat. I don’t think there is reason for alarm, but I don’t think it wants to be your friend, either. It’s just a goat, putting off its tomorrows.

Arise, the saviours of Africa.

Observations from an elderly, visiting goat in Ghana

The times they are a-changing…

But, are they? Some Observations of children from the southern tip of Ghana:

At dawn, they are out. Collecting the residue of life. Washed up overnight on a remote beach.

Gathering and counting containers, to be used again in the community.

At sunrise, out fishing, helping with the hand nets in the bay. No school today.

Rich pickings in the ocean require the whole community’s attention.

Anyway, the Cape Three Points school has empty classrooms, no resources and goats in the playground.

What is learning here? The ABC and the abacus in the steamy heat of the morning; are we not imposing our understanding of the acquisition of literacy and numeracy on the rich fabric of both simplicity and strength, of what is still real in village life.

Have the neglected old-school buildings and teachers that come and go, with chalk and chalkboard, changed anything?

Perhaps the children of the dawn and the sunrise already have the elements of self-sufficiency and resilience that we have lost in our frantic obsession to constantly change.

An Afterthought

The Cape Three Points School for goats. 

No resources required. 

Goat Headmistress advises: apply timeously to avoid disappointment. 

Ghanaian Conversation

Speakeasy in Kumasi

“Hello. How are you? I am fine? Coming from where?”

“We are from South Africa”

“HOH? But, you are white!”

“Yes.”

“Hmmmm.. I am a Doubting Thomas.”

“What if people thought, because you are black, you must be from, say… Nigeria.”

“Hmmm.. Still. I am a Doubting Thomas.”

(later… )

May I ask you a question?

Sure.

Do you know this David Cameron of the Great Britain?

We know of him.

First and foremost. Why on this earth would he now say he is comfortable for one man to go into the bed of another man….

(At this stage we bolted. It was about to become trickier than an Al Qaeda red zone)

Green Turtle Lodge

Consider the scene. Two South Africans, a Dane, a British couple. Drinking beers, playing board games on a palm-fringed beach, chatting idly about nothing in particular. Enter a lady. With a hat. A whitened face from sun block and a one-piece swimming suit from the past.

“Mey Ai Ahsk all ov yoo a question?” (Experience counts for nothing, it seems)

Together: Sure. Go ahead. Why not. Of course

“Vot did you learn about ze Holocaust?”

Dumbfounded. The Dane, quite rightly, turned tail and was on the horizon soon after. I followed him very quickly. The British. Long live the consensus-seeking, gracious, self-deprecating British! They stuck it out to the end. McAlpine stayed to watch. This was a scenario fit for a farcical script. Whoda thunk  it actually plays out in West Africa.

Longdrops near Cape Coast

Reagan!? (American. North Montana, at a guess)

Yoh! (Lowness of the pitch suggests Reagan is male, also Stateside)

There’s a bigass fuckin cockroach in here (suggests Reagan is outside, guarding the cubicle entrance!?)

Shut Up!

Seriously, it’s frickin bigger than the one in my bed last night.

Well, don’t stink the place out too much, I wanna have a look.

I’m literally standing on the toilet right now.

Well, don’t freak out.

You know what I’m really looking forward to about home.

Real toilets?

Nah. Real toilet paper.

Ahhh Yeah.. Angelsoft!

Reagan!?

Yoh!

I didn’t wipe too good cos of this frickin cockroach.

*I have only included all this ghastly detail as a testament to its credibility. In the depths of depravity I can’t even imagine concocting something like this. It was gruesome enough hearing it. There was also a cockroach in my cubicle. I bowed my head to it. I hoped to both acknowledge its thankless station in the world, and thank it for colluding in whatever its friend was up to next door.

Fort St. Antonio, Axim, at 500 years the second-oldest slave fort in Ghana.

Seth Quayson, son of Kingsley, is the keeper of the keys at this most harrowing of places.As palm-nut vultures encircle the ramparts and sweat droplets gather as we stand in the dim, mildewed ‘waiting pens,’ Seth conjectures thus:

‘On the day that Ghana achieved her independence, a great whale died and washed up on the beach right behind Fort St. Antonio. It was too big to move. After many months the decomposition was finished and this bone was rescued. This bone, from Independence Whale, is as old as Ghana. That is why I have placed it here close to this tomb for the Dutch Governor who fell from those stairs above us that lead to his bedroom. He had not seen his wife in such a long time that when her ship was sighted on the horizon, he grabbed his telescope to look. He suddenly felt so near to her that he decided to take a big step onto the boat but of course he fell to his death. This is very sad but also a good learning experience for when the British claimed this fort sometime later they installed these stair rails. It was about that time that the island over there got its name – “Beaten by the Dwarfs.” You see, they are amongst us, but Christianity has chased them away to the edges, to the islands. Everyone thinks the dwarfs are here for mischief or bad luck but, in fact, what they are doing is a kind of a test. They are happy to be your friend and share their power if you are willing to play with them and not to just be so serious about life. They are just what you imagine and there are some powerful people in this village who are just relaxed. There are women who are wlaking on water and a man who helped to rescue his friends outboard motor that sank. He spent two hours underwater, but he found it. But when you don’t believe, or you are resistant to play with them they will just beat you. With sticks. People who don’t believe in ghosts will go to a graveyard and they won’t see anything. People who do believe, I don’t think they will go to the graveyard. So I have conducted an experiment. I have left a bottle of Coke at the Point of No Return and the dwarfs have come in the night and enjoyed some of the Coke without removing the top. And let me now show you what I mean when I say the Point of No Return.’

Seth led us through the tiny male and female holding pens that would hold 200 ‘souls.’ Each chamber then narrowed into a passageway where the slaves would be assembled and informed their day of reckoning had arrived and they could finally embark on a journey to a better life.  ‘These passages are inhabited by bats now,’ they won’t harm you, ‘it is because of all the old souls that you will have that feeling of being heavy.’

Eventually, a ladder leads into the dark tunnel that would lead the souls straight onto the waiting ship, concealed behind the island. ‘When the last of the souls climbed down this ladder they would remove it and so they either climb on the ship or stay forever in the darkened tunnel below, and this is what we mean when we say this place is The Point of No Return.