Guinness on my Compass: May 2000 - "Abidjan - It is what you do, it's not the way you do it"

It is what you do, it's not the way you do it, and that's what gets results. Thus had Tiff and I misquoted Bananarama on the bus from San to Ségou in Mali.  We had come to the conclusion that life's too short to worry excessively about the manner in which you do things: just "get up, get out and do something", as Macy Gray sings on her album, "On How Life Is".  So while I'm still at heart the same guy I was three months ago, some fundamental events have occurred during my time in North and West Africa, which I hope will affect the way I act and think in the future.  There's been a lot of ups and downs.  The following dozen spring to mind in particular:

Leaving Dublin airport; Playing with Barbary monkeys in the Mid-Atlas mountains; The starry night sky and sunrise in the Saharan desert; People watching with Carmen and Mark in Marrakech; The piano bar in Casablanca; Adventures in "Africa Star" with Stéphane; Tabaski and Paddy's Day blues in Ziguinchor; Cycling around the Casamance; Hashing and Red Bull evenings with the Danes and the Dakar posse; Hiking in Dogon Country; Near death with Tiff in Mali; The stained-glass windows of the Basilica in Yamoussoukro.

So how does Africa compare with what I'd expected?  It can be very squalid and nothing seems to be taboo (not even taking a dump in the sea!). It's never boring: in the time I've been here there's been floods in Mozambique, famine in Ethiopia, farm occupations in Zimbabwe, a change of government in Senegal and victory for Cameroon in the African Cup of Nations.  There are plenty of people out there who'll want to rob or cheat you (especially in Morocco) when they see your white face.  But I've also met the most open and friendly people too, locals and expatriates alike, with whom I hope I'll stay in contact and see again someday.  Last, but definitely not least, I've received a swathe of guestbook messages from old friends, ex-colleagues and even from complete strangers.  It's hard to explain how heartening that is when you're travelling alone far from home and from familiar faces.  But now my lonesome wanderings are done.  In 48 hours I will leave the Hotel Repos in Marcory (10,000 CFA a night) and I'll fly over the equator overnight from Côte d'Ivoire to Kenya, where a new journey in East and southern Africa begins.  Myself and my fellow Dragoman travellers, six other lads and 11 lassies (way hey!) are due to leave Nairobi on the 8th of May.  Our scheduled arrival in Capetown will be, inch' Allah, on July 27th.  Maybe I'll still be able to frequently update the homepage. Perhaps I'll be just too busy having fun and being bold with the ladies (I live in hope).  But keep tuned in and continue to send the e-mails and I'll do my best to keep giving you a taste of life on the road in Africa.  And like that, he was gone.

Gav (3 May 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: May 2000 - "Kenya - Nairobi - First Impressions"

Amazingly, I managed to negotiate Abidjan airport without having to pay any bribes, even when I handed my Tuareg knife over t the authorities for safekeeping.  By 21h00, our Kenyan Airways flight was air bound for Doula in Cameroon, where we made a brief stopover.  By midnight, we were up and away again, flying over a spectacular tropical storm, the lighting from which lit up the upper stratosphere with an array of brilliant flashes.  I got talking t my neighbour, a charming Kenyan actress called Winnie, who could do a pretty neat Liverpool accent.  Winnie not only explained the lie of the land of the Kenyan capital to me, but also suggested a cheap and cheerful guesthouse at which I could stay.  As dawn rose over the East African plains, we got a magnificent view of the savannah landscape, which was reminiscent of scenes from "Out of Africa".  Kilimanjaro popped its snow-capped peak above a surprisingly dense layer of white fluffy clouds, which reflected the pink sunlight.  The Kenyan authorities at Jomo Kenyatta airport proved very easy going.  Europeans do not require a visa to enter Kenya, though I was finally asked to produce my Yellow Fever vaccination card.  At the airport Winnie's brother, Philip, and his fiancée, Regina, who is a presenter on Kenyan TV apparently, met us.  They kindly drove me through downtown Nairobi (worryingly called "Nairobbery" by some, to a hill overlooking the city, where the guesthouse was.

The ACK Guesthouse, which cost only 1,750 Kenyan Shillings (27 Euro) for full board, is run by the Anglican Church in Kenya, and consequently, no alcohol is permitted on its premises.  Guests are also kindly "requested to make their own beds on Sundays, to allow the Room Stewards to attend church service"!  I even had an interesting conversation with the Most Reverend Robert Okine from Ghana, who is head of the Anglican Church in West Africa.  So now I've rubbed shoulders with the Mayor of Rabat in Morocco, the British Ambassador to Senegal in Dakar and an Anglican Archbishop in Kenya!  After a light sleep to catch up on the jet lag (Kenya is three hours ahead of GMT), I felt sufficiently physically and spiritually refreshed to head to the city centre.  My homing instinct managed to locate an Irish pub, originally named "The Irish Pub".  Strangely they had no Guinness on tap (the litmus test of any drinking establishment's Irishness in my opinion), but they did have live rugby on the telly.  So for the second time on my travels in Africa, I got the rare chance to witness an Irish team beating a French one in France.  This time the game was at Bordeaux, where Munster skilfully overcame Toulouse 31:25.  In good spirits, I negotiated Nairobi's city streets back to the guesthouse.

East Africa seems to be very distinct from the French-speaking third of the continent.  Firstly, East Africans are physically very different from the cousins to the west.  The men here tend to be smaller, otter with receding hairlines, and with far less musculature.  Their bodies resemble those of long distance runners (which they produce in abundance) as opposed to the honed physique of sprinters.  The women also seem less shapely and striking than the sirens of West Africa.  Thank God.  I might now get through the next couple of months with significantly less drooling.  The change to an English-speaking environment is also quite noticeable.  I have to be careful of what I say now.  The Islamic influence, though present, is much less felt in Kenya, which is predominantly Anglican and Roman Catholic.  I had grown used to the early morning cries of the Imam, and oddly enough found the call to prayer of the strangely comforting.  Musically, East Africa seems much more influenced by Western rhythms and styles.  It's as if they haven't been able to hang onto their indigenous culture with the same tenacity of the West Africans. And so far, the cuisine does not overly impress my palate.  In Kenya, the cars are right-hand drive and drive on the left hand side of the road like in Britain.  I'm doing my best not to get run over on one of Nairobi's busy intersections.  The Kenyans seem slightly less shy than the West Africans.  Many shady individuals promoting safaris or bush tours have constantly approached me.  There are also many destitute street kids in Nairobi.  But at least the temperature is cool and there is zero humidity, a blessing after the Ivory Coast.  Of course, these are only my first impressions, which can often be deceptive.

'West Africa for the people, East Africa for the animals,' the old adage goes.  Perhaps this is too simplistic.  Only time will tell.  But I certainly am glad to have traveled solo through the countries of the Sahel, before hitting the safari trail.  My organised tour starts in two hours, when I will hook up with a bunch of Brits and Aussies, with a token Yank, Mexican and a Swiss German.  From then on, I have no idea how many cyber cafés we will stumble across.  But I could do with a break from writing a bit.  And as Tiff hinted, maybe you'll need a break from reading too!  So I'll leave you for the moment and get back in contact after we cross the border into Tanzania.  Till then.

Gav (8 May 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: May 2000 - "Tanzania - You Wanna Be In My Gang, Oh Yeah"

Whether it was the excitement of being in the company of so many fellow backpackers or the fact that everyone spoke English, I saw fit to spend the first night of the Dragoman trip getting completely ossified.  This resulted the next day in me winning the "Who has the biggest bar tab?" contest and the mother of all hangovers.  It wasn't my fault really. I spotted one of the English girls, Mel, drinking a cool can of draught Guinness and from then on there was no stopping me.  Blame it on the boys at St. James' Gate, I say.  I felt pretty dodgy all during the next day as I crossed into Tanzania with our English drivers, Mark and Jen (aka Beryl), our Kenyan cook, Sam, and my 17 fellow Deragoman Guinea pigs.  I made myself extremely unpopular by not having to pay anything for my tourist visa.  English-speaking Africans must be under the impression that the Irish are all poor potato farmers and who am I to argue.  So while all the others parted with their dollars I sat back and smiled smuggly.  My headache finally subsided with my first beer, a Kilimanjaro, that evening.  Hair of the dog and all that.  A group of us had a great laugh playing darts, a game called "Killer" to be precise.  The girls kicked our asses, the final being fought out between Steph and Ruth, two English lassies with the keen eyes of Eric Bristow and Jockie Wilson.  Fortunately, both are a lot better looking than either Eric Bristow or Jockie Wilson! The next morning we went on a camel ride in the Masai Mara, where we visited a small tribal village.  Some of us crossed our legs as the tribal circumcision ceremony was explained in detail.  Suffice to say, I'm glad I wasn't born a Masai.  Ever since we left Nairobi we had seen the Masai, or the red blanket brigade as we came to call them.  Keen to mingle with the locals, Steph, Ruth and Jamie from Scotland dressed up in their local tribal garb and some decent photos were taken, which no doubt will be used to destroy future careers.  One of the English lads, Chris, unwittingly also had to change clothes when my camel decided to get sick on him.  But given the state of the bizarre Ethipioan trousers he was wearing, it was hard to tell just where the camel had left it's breakfast.  The evening saw some local music and an acrobatic show, where a young Tanzanian boy defied the laws of physics and human biology to contort and squeeze himself through a metal ring no wider than half a metre.  Spurred on by the dancing women Chris got up and painfully did the splits, Jamie performed a forward roll and I did my Michael Flatley impression. It's not easy doing an Irish jig to East African rythms however, so it all degenerated into a group conga.  The late evening saw some of us rolling back the years by playing a game of spin the bottle, which was laden with sexual inuendo, at least when myself, Chris and Rob from Wales were asking the questions. Perhaps "inuendo" is the wrong word, as that implies subtlety.  Maybe "eager desperation" would be closer to the mark.  When Rob and myself finally decided to call it a night, we though we heard a wild boar.  The sound in fact turned out to be the snoring of Jeff, one of the Aussies.  And the following evening one could detect a certain reticence on the part of the Dragoman crew to pitch their tents until the exact whereabouts of Jeff's groundsheet had been established.

After having a cold shower the next morning at 05h45 and scoffing a quick breakfast, we made for the Ngororgoro crater in three jeeps - Jeff, his wife Heather from Adelaide and the ten girls, Ruth, Steph, her sister Laura, Mel and Catherine from Essex, Christina from San Francisco, Denise from Mexico, Sarah from Perth, Jacqui from Brisbane and another Laura (Marcus' Armenian-Aussie girlfriend) in two vehicles and the lads, Rob, Chris, Jamie, Marcus (an Egyptian-Australian), Bruno (Swiss-German) and myself in one.  During the course of the day we saw gazelles, zebra, wilderbeast, vultures, fpelicans, lamingoes, storks, buffaloes, hyenas, warthogs, hippos, black rhinos, baboons and vervet monkeys.  The best however, were a pride of lions which cirlced closely around our jeep and the majestic African elephants.  A mad sweaty evening of "British Bulldogs", "Stuck in the Mud" and "Killer Winker" ensued and we discovered that none of us (apart from jamie that is) are quite as young and fit as we once were.   The next day we made the long drive to Dar Es Salaam via Mount Kilimanjaro and Arusha, where Denise bought enough knic-knacs for the souvenir sellers of the town to take the rest of the week off.  The bumpy journey was filled with games of "Who Am I?" with practically all 18 of us (I somehow got labelled as Gary Glitter - though I still don't see the resemblance) and card games of "400" and "Ri-Ki-Ki" with myself, Rob, Jamie, Bruno, and Catherine, who though she never wins, does occassionally get "fifth last".  Ri-Ki-Ki is a great card game, where one nearly gets more pleasure from shafting others than one does from actually winning. This does not apply to Bruno however, as he is perfectly capable of shafting himself and has yet to achieve the honour of coming fifth last.  Speaking of Bruno, Sunday the 14th of May saw his 32nd birthday. To celebrate, we decided to get him very drunk on slushies, which are basically a cross between slush puppies and potent alco-pops.  Of course, to do this we had to play a couple of excellent drinking games called "21" and "Yee Haw", with the result that it wasn't only Bruno who who ended up in "slushie-land". While the lads created a diversion, Chris and I then surrepticiously filled his tent with sand and upon a given signal, we all carried him shoulder high and dumped him unceremoniuously into the Indian Ocean. The girls all thought this was very immature behaviour on our part and quite frankly, I have to agree.  I think birthdays should be quiet affairs, celebrated solomly without alcohol, silly pranks or getting doused in water.  The fact that I will be turning 28 on May 21st has absolutely no bearing whatsoever to this firmly held opinion of mine.  Though for some reason a certain Swiss gentlemen has an evil glint in his eye and is already planning his revenge (or "rewenge" as they say in Switzerland) when we hit Lake Malawi this Sunday.  I'm now starting to get nervous...

Gav (15 May 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: May 2000 - "Zanzibar - Coconapples and Pure Shores"

Eager to see, after much fantasising, if the Womens' Triangular Scandinavian Beach Volleyball Round Robin Competition was actually taking place on Zanzibar, we speedily made for the famous Islamic spice island the next day.  After overnighting in the Karibu Inn (8,000 TSch or 10 Euro a night) in the quaint capital of Stonetown, which has a definite Arabian feel to it, we went on the Spice Tour the following day, which cost only 8,000 Tanzanian Schillings (10 Euro).  Our Zanzibari guides, Hamim and Ali, told us about the history of Zanzibar and it's union with mainland Tangyanika (together which form the United Republic of Tanzania), and took us to the an old Portuguese fort, the forner seat of Omani and British power in the House of Wonders, the former slave market, the remains of the Sultan's Harem (and when I say "Sultan" I don't mean Chris), and to the famous spice plantations. There we tasted papaya, passion fruits, avocadoes, cardamon, soursap, nutmeg, tumeric, ginger, pepper, vanilla, cinamon and fruit from a tree which produced what looked like furry strawberries, the seeds from which, Ali explained, can be used as lipstick to "make women look more beautiful".  "Excellent" quipped Rob, "We'll take four tress!"  I get the distinct impression that neither Rob nor I will make it to Harare alive if we provoke the girls much more.  So we ate aphrodisiac spices and fruit to help indigestion (i.e. stop farting), though we unfortunately couldn't find a herb to help to improve conversational skills - but hey, two out of three ain't bad.  One of the local lads shimmied up a tall palm tree to pick a few coconuts and by the time he had landed on terra firma again, he had practically weaved a basket to put them in from palm leaves.  Rob and I were also pretty chuffed with cross breeding a pineapple and a coconut to create the world's first coconapple.

After lunch in Hamim's house, Jen led us to the north coast to the Safina bungalows in Nungwi, where we were to spend two idyllic nights.  We all rushed headlong into the amazingly clear aquamarine sea and played some beach volleyball.  Ah, it's a tough life on the road. I hit the Gin and Tonic trail with Jamie, who asked Jen if normally on Dragoman trips people would have paired off by this stage.  I helped her out by clarifying that what he meant by his question was "When will we get laid, Beryl!?!"  She then hit me for calling her Beryl again.  The next day Ruth caused some commotion after she stepped on a spiky sea urchin and was dragged out of the sea by Catherine.  She had to have her foot covered in papaya and kerosene and a local guy sucked out most if the black spikes. Propping up the "Fat Fish" bar in the evening, despite having the eyes of the Dragoman posse on me and Marcus' quips about me leaving my toupe on the beach, I made the bold move of striking up a conversation with three English girls, Kathryn, Eve and Sabine. Things weren't going too bad until Jamie chipped in with the worst chat up line I have heard since "Jambo, I have a nine inch tongue and can breathe through my ears!"  Yes indeed, "How old are you?" was his opening salvo.  Obviously this Gary Glitter fixation has got to stop.  He might have well have asked her weight while he was at it! Fortunately, Catherine, the kind-hearted soul, came over to rescue us and make us not look like a total pair of nerds.  In the end, the three English ladies (they were all 19 by the way Jamie had now established) invited the two of us and Rob, who had till this point been vainly pretending to be shy and sentitive, to "Chollo's bar" further down the beach.

Hand on heart I don't think I have been more content as a single man than I was in Chollo's bar.  Set just back from the waters edge, under palm tress from which hammocks lazily hung, the bar was lit by candles and a central fire, around which groups of backpackers were huddled.  Some were drinking, some were smoking, others were just staring at the starry southern sky or listening to the sound of the waves from the Indian Ocean lapping the shore.  Excellent reggae and dance music resonated from the bar's speakers and as we got stuck into some double G&Ts. Rob, Jamie and I (the Celtic fringe of the Dragoman trip) just couldn't believe our luck.  Often you can look back at different experiences with a certain nostalgia, but it is very rare to find a true moment of perfection and realised how great is is while it's actually happening.  We must have used up half a roll of film in the bar alone.  Someome suggested beach volleyball, which under the moonlight was akin to watching GoranIvanisevic at Wimbledon; you just couldn't see the  ball.  So we settled for some British Bulldogs (aka Red Rover for those Aussies out there), during which Jamie twice managed to clothesline himself by running headlong into the volleyball net!  After some skinny dipping (the Indian Ocean is thakfully a lot warmer and cleaner than the Irish Sea), we headed back to the bar, where the owner treated us to a free round of G&Ts and B52s!  It just doesn't get any better than this.  I didn't want the night to end, but by three am we were beginning to doze off so we left Chollo's behind.  I felt like Adam leaving the Garden of Eden. Some of the group had headed off dolphin spotting the next day on the south coast, while the rest of us returned to Stonetown, where I got to witness Arsenal losing the UEFA Cup Final to Galatasary on penalties. Shades of Valencia in 1980.  But even this unwelcome defeat of the Gooners at the hands of the Turks couldn't dampen my spirits for long.  We are now back in Dar Es Salaam, waiting for Mark and Sam to fetch a new gearbox from the airport to put in "Oscar", our bus/coach/truck.  In the morning we'll be heading south towards Malawi, when I'll no doubt have an aquatic date with destiny.  Suffice to say that if year 28 is as good as year 27, I'll be a happy camper.  I probably won't hit another cyber cafe till Victoria Falls in two weeks (at present we are still due to go to Zimbabwe, though obviously we'll be steering clear of farming areas and political demonstrations in Harare).  But keep the e-mails and guestbook signings coming and I'll try to get back to you eventually, though I have promised to take it easier on Pierre-Yves regarding the volume of e-traffic. "Hakuna Matata" (No Worries) as they say in Swahili.

Gav (19 May 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: May 2000 - "Malawi - Melancholy Moments on Malawi Gin"

My 28th birthday will prove a memorable one as time inexorably marches on.  For starters, my passport bears witness to the fact that on May 21, 2000 I crossed the border between Tanzania and Malawi. Traversing international frontiers in sub-Saharan Africa is not something I often do, let alone on my birthday.  Secondly, getting hauled over a beach and dumped unceremoniously into the waters of Lake Malawi (or onto the wet sand bordering the shoreline at least) was also a first for me.  So revenge was had by Bruno, the "Muff Meister."  I neglected to mention in my earlier update that the surname of our Swiss companion is indeed "Muff", a fact that has provided us with countless hours of jokes and innuendo.  The comments about going diving with Bruno have been coming thick and fast.  But perhaps the time has now come to put an end to our childish puns and say "A Muff is enough!"  Anyway, on this evening in question we even played Twister, something I haven't done in many a year.  I even thought it wise to perform a "Half Monty" at one stage and was lucky to escape with my jocks intact!  It's amazing what one can convince oneself is a sagacious thing to do after copious amounts of Red Bull and vodka.  With hindsight, losing my shorts in a bar in Chitimba was probably not the cleverest idea I ever had.but at the time it seemed somehow appropriate.to me in any case.  All in all it was a pretty blinding birthday.

Once we arrived at the campsite in Chitimba in northern Malawi, most of the gang went off to play beach volleyball.  Wary of the proximity of the volleyball court to the waters of the lake, I remained in Oscar, our trusty bus/coach/truck.  Jen and Mark were impressed by my apparent will to remain alert and sober, ever vigilant to possible pranks and danger. Oh if this were only so!  Instead I got stuck into the Smirnoff and the very delectable Malawi Gin.  My logic was that no matter what skullduggery and fiendish schemes my co-travelers had planned for me, at least I could thus guarantee myself a couple of hours of safe partying.  The consequence of my sadly deluded actions was the most spectacular case of premature inebriation witnessed since one George Best was introduced to the BBC bar several hours before appearing on the Terry Wogan TV show.  I vaguely recall Rob slapping on a Pogues cassette and before you could yell "Riverpants", I was jigging away and singing my head off.  Plus ça change..  I then went through my various stages of drunkenness: giddiness followed by elation followed by soppiness followed by the blues.  I had several D&Ms (Deep and Meaningfuls) I was told the next day.  Rob's remark was a classic.  He declared, "We also had a deep and meaningful conversation.  You poured your heart out and I said 'Cheer up you miserable bugger!'"  Catherine reminded me of my state of utter chaos when I found myself locked out of basically everything, including my head.  Apparently (and I take no responsibility for this as I was completely mashed at the time) I proclaimed "I've lost my three keys tonight - the key to my tent, the key to the truck and.(wait for it).the key to my heart."  Yes indeed, that moment of melancholy misty-eyed madness has haunted me ever since on the Dragoman trip.  But alas, such pithy sayings and life commentaries were not alone.  While conversing with Jamie about the dual benefits of Scottish nationalism and European integration, I was overheard supposedly announcing that "European politics is the one thing I get more passionate about than sex!"  What can I say.In vino veritas.  So having crossed the alcoholic Rubicon of embarrassment, stripping down to my underpants and hugging the life out of practically everyone, announcing my undying love for my fellow travelers seemed like a logical conclusion to the events of the evening.

The following morning I realised painfully that I was now indeed 28 and no longer 19, as a long day of dizziness, fogginess and worrying about catching Bilharzia lingered around my hungovered self.  So no, I'm probably not any wiser or any more mature and I haven't fallen head over heels for any of the Dragoman posse (except when playing Twister that is).  But I've made some excellent friendships, laughed a lot, got loaded under the starry Milky Way and got hauled kicking and screaming into a lake for my troubles. And I realise that I am a lucky bugger.  It will be a long time before the gang allows me to forget this birthday.  And do you know what?  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Gav (23 May 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: May 2000 - "Malawi - It's A Long Way To Lilongwe"

Everybody on this trip seems to be writing daily diaries and paying great attention to detail.  Having done this for three months in West Africa, I now feel less inclined to give a day by day, blow by blow account of the Dragoman trip.  Instead, I'll try to draw on certain snapshots, particular moments that I have found special.  Besides, I don't want to write anything defamatory about the other passengers.  This is not a novel after all.

One of these moments came on top of Oscar, the Drago bus/coach/truck.  We were leaving behind Salima Bay in the south of Malawi heading for Lilongwe, capital and souvenir central of Malawi.  Salima Bay had seen the third birthday on the trip so far, as Rob turned 25 and we played rounders on the beach, tried our hand at some African dancing with the locals and embarrassed Mr. Hughes greatly with a certain risqué birthday card.  After Bruno's birthday in Macadi Beach in Dar Es Salaam, mine in Chitimba and now the Welshman's, I think perhaps many livers needed some time off.  I know mine did.  So after loading Oscar with all the Malawi chairs, tables, statues, masks and giant wooden heads that Denise and Chris had purchased, we decided to ride shotgun on the roof of Oscar.  Sitting on top of the truck, the wind blowing in my hair, the warm sun on my face, Fela on the Discman and waving at all the friendly Malawians by the roadside, life felt very sweet indeed.  The Malawians (and the Zambians too as I would later discover) have got incredibly friendly smiles and to see not only the kids, but the adults too, running after the truck waving and beaming, really warmed our hearts.  I'm gonna try to do two things when I return to Europe.  Firstly, I'll see if I can haggle for lower prices (I know this won't work, but it should prove fun).  Secondly, I am going to wave at strangers on the road a lot more and gauge their reaction.  For travelling through beautifully harsh countryside surrounded by amiable locals en route is, as we say in Ireland, "the bee's knees".

Then, when I thought life couldn't get any sweeter, I started to read "Fever Pitch" by Nick Hornby.  Having already enjoyed his novel "High Fidelity", I was keen to get around to his earlier work.  This is a great book if you are a football fan.  It's also an intriguing read if you are a girl, who knows nothing about football and fails to understand why many men blindly follow certain football teams.  But if you're a lifelong supporter of Arsenal, like I am, then "Fever Pitch" is a mind-blowingly brilliant walk down memory lane.  Alan Sunderland's winner against Manchester Uniter in '79, Michael Thomas' last gasp winner against Liverpool in '89, the Championship victory in '91, Charlie George, Liam Brady, Dave O'Leary, Charlie Nicholas, Tony Adams - they are all here.  Makes me happy to be a "gooner".  Galatasary me arse!

Gav (26 May 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: May 2000 - "Zambia - Crossing the Rubicon"

Here's another article I wrote for Irish Emigrant Publications in the utopian hope that they might eventually give me a job if I hassle them enough! Enjoy.

Almost four months have passed since I left Europe. The southern winter will soon be approaching and nine African countries are already behind me.  Since my plane left the tarmac at Heathrow Airport, I have not seen, met or conversed with one Irish person, apart from via e-mail or the occasional brief phone call home.  I have met a large number of continental Europeans, traveled with other English-speakers from the four corners of the globe, and I have discussed international events with Africans from a myriad of countries.  However, to date, the Irishness of my travelling experience has been limited to catching the occasional rugby match featuring Munster or the national side, bottled Guinness and listening to Christy Moore and the Sawdoctors on my walkman.  I know this is bound to change as I head further south towards Capetown and then on down under.  Both South Africa and Australia are awash with Irish pubs, homesick emigrants and wide-eyed young Celtic backpackers.  Plenty of opportunities to belt out ballads and bang the bodhrán will no doubt present themselves in due course.  Being Irish will become less special, more run of the mill.  So I've enjoyed today a lot as out of the blue it presented one of those reminders that being Irish makes one that little bit different.

Border crossings on the African continent are rarely straightforward ho-hum affairs.  We arrived at the frontier between Malawi and Zambia in the late afternoon, by which stage the temperature had fortunately began to drop to a tolerable level.  Our earlier crossing from Kenya to Tanzania had already resulted in a decrease in my popularity among my fellow travelers.  While the British and American among us were asked by the customs officials, some gruff, some remarkable chatty, to fork out US $50, and the mix of other nationalities in our group had to pay lesser amounts, I waltzed across the border gratis. Grumblings of discontent were audible, but I tried my best to hide my satisfaction.

However, today, when the Zambian border guards asked all of our party, bar me, to dole out amounts varying from US $10 up to US $60 in order to enter their country, I couldn't suppress my laughter.  Why, after all, should a Swiss man pay $60 to enter Malawi or an Aussie $35 to enter Zimbabwe?  Why must a Mexican cough up $40 to pass into Kenya or a Briton $50 to pass into Tanzania, while I can proceed Scot free through all of East and southern Africa?  This question was repeatedly thrown in my direction on the Zambian border by the other westerners.  So I bluffed.  Obviously it was due, I surmised, to the fact that not only was Ireland never a great world power, but furthermore, our country was colonised by an invading force.  Hence we shared in the anti-colonial struggles of the African and the Asian.  Consequently, there is an enormous well of goodwill in the developing world towards the Irish.  The fact that any African, who knows where Ireland actually is, probably believes that we are all still poor potato farmers can't hurt either.  The most likely reason, however, for our passe-partout existence, is in all likelihood neither as revolutionary nor as quaint as the above. Pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland just didn't have sufficient amounts of work to attract enough immigrants from the developing world.  Therefore, the boys in an Roinn Oideachais got away with lax immigration laws and visa requirements.  And obviously they haven't got around to strengthening the border controls just yet, or if they have, then nobody told the customs officials of sub-Saharan Africa.

For apart from having to hand over $12 to the Malian authorities, I have traveled unhindered and without having to put my hand in my pocket through a plethora of North, West, East and southern African countries. One cheeky Ivorian official was prepared to charge me $50 to enter the Ivory Coast, until I diplomatically explained that Dublin was not actually in Northern Ireland, and thus I was let off the hook.  So for the moment I'll bask in my financially advantageous situation, and annoy my fellow travelers unlucky enough not to have been born Irish.  The craic, the céilís, the nights on draught stout can wait just a bit longer.  For the time being I'm having fun.  The last of the wandering spud farmers.  Long may the myth continue.

Gav (28 May 2000)

Guinness on my Compass: May 2000 - "Zambia - Hunting for the Small Five"

The merry month of May and warm evenings were drawing to a close as we arrived in Zambia.  We had to leave Marcus behind in Malawi as he had unfortunately received some distressing news from home and was obliged to return to Australia.  I think it made us all aware of the fact that while we are gallivanting around the globe, anything could happen to our loved ones back home.  But there's absolutely no point in worrying about such eventualities as they are out of your control.  And I suppose that at least we have had the opportunity to say fond and meaningful farewells to our friends and families as we left our respective airports.  On the brighter side, Chris and Christina have decided to accompany us all the way down to Capetown, so our numbers should stay roughly the same till we hit South Africa.  Today was our turn as cook group, so Bruno, Laura and I stocked up on food in the excellent Shoprite supermarket in Chipata.  So far our culinary efforts have had a very Italian flavour, with bruschetta, spaghetti and penne all making an appearance.  And yes Andy, I have been careful not to overcook the pasta.  So far the cook groups on this trip have been excellent.  We have eaten lasagne, sweet and sour chicken, barbecued steak, risotto and many other global victual delights.  So the departure of Sam (our cook in Kenya and Tanzania) has not resulted in any of us going hungry.  Quite the opposite in fact.

We made the bumpy journey from Chipata to the fine brand new Flatdogs campsite in South Luangwa National Park in eastern Zambia in good time.  After doing some washing (okay, what I mean is after paying one of the local ladies US $2 to do my washing) we spent an evening playing pool.  But it was early to bed as we had a pre-dawn departure on safari the next morning. Our guide was actually called "Safari", which led to some initial confusion.  "Excuse me, what is your name?"  Reply: "Safari."  "Yes, we know we are going on safari, but what is your name?"  Reply: "Safari". Aaaaaarrrgggghhh!  But at least it was an easy name to remember in the end.  The day safari in South Luangwa was a bit disappointing.  On the plus side we were in open jeeps which gives you a much greater appreciation of the size of some of the larger beasts, especially the mighty elephants (hephalums).  But having seen so many animals up close in the Ngorogoro Crater in Tanzania, I felt a bit vexed at not seeing any large carnivores.  The search for the ever-elusive leopards and cheetahs still proves inconclusive.

Nevertheless, we set off on the evening safari still upbeat.  Seeing a sunset in the bush is truly beautiful, but nothing can quite prepare you for the magnificence of the southern sky at night.  I saw the constellations of Orion (on its side as opposed to being upright as in the northern hemisphere) and Ursa Major with a clarity I have never before witnessed, and once again, the Southern Cross was there to lead the way to the Antipodes.  Although we spied the occasional hippo, impala, kudu and elephant, the big cats once again did a no show.  What we did see were a flock of Guinea fowl, a family of badgers, three porcupines, a couple of mongooses and a bunny rabbit! We have now christened these "the Small Five" as opposed to the Big Five (lion, elephant, buffalo, leopard and rhino).  It was quite hilarious actually. You would probably see more wildlife in your back garden!  Upon returning to the campsite, Rob, Catherine, Sarah, Mel and I stayed up till the wee hours chatting and gossiping in one our now regular tent sessions.  Despite Rob and my best efforts, the conversations have become less flippant with time.  We have certainly progressed a long way since playing the "beaker of truth".  There was another Drago crew in the campsite, who made a lot of noise by the campfire and were just quite obnoxious in general.  But I suppose we have had our rowdy moments too and it doesn't take a vivid imagination to understand why overlanders the world over have earned the reputation for being more than a little uncouth and boisterous. We finally called it a night and fell asleep to the hypnotic sounds of hippos mating and Jeff's snoring, which gradually became indistinguishable.

Gav (31 May 2000)