Backpacker Life [iv] - The Transport

A grand total of more than 21,000km travelled on public transport across an entire continent was always going to generate individual journeys that were more momentous than their eventual destination. Here are six of the best, and worst of this African Odyssey...

1: It can't be done,they said. Meh, I said. Hitchhiking 800km in one day from Windhoek to the Okavango Delta through one land border, two deserts and three national parks felt like the ultimate backpacker accomplishment, not least because of the 40c heat and near total absence of traffic. The absolute highlight and a ride committed to transport Valhalla involved crossing the legendary Kalahari Desert in the back of a Ford pick-up truck with three local Batswana bushmen, listening to music from tinny speakers and revelling in the rush of the wind as we sped towards our destination. Blue skies, endless desert and high speeds on an arrow-straight road: here I was, living my Kerouac moment. Possibly the single best day's travelling I have ever experienced.

The only way to travel

2: The behaviour of local people towards the standard of driving is usually a good indicator of the safety of the journey, so the white knuckles, saucer-sized eyes and silent screams of our three co-passengers confirmed that death was indeed imminent. As our shared taxi driver negotiated the treacherously winding mountain roads from Kisoro to Lake Bunyonyi at speeds generally associated with touring car test tracks and with an equal appreciation of both lanes, my travel buddy Alex and I actually considered taking a smiling selfie together so that our friends and family would be left with a positive lasting memory of our lives rather than the charred and mangled remains at the bottom of a Ugandan ravine.

3: What started out as a shared taxi of convenience between five strangers needing to get from Lalibela to Mekele turned into an epic road trip culminating in a traditional Ethiopian dinner at the driver's house. A bright student, two lunatic local women and a jovial chauffeur with a permanent smile were my companions in the unusual luxury of a Toyota Landcruiser. For once the majestic scenery took second stage as eight hours were spent singing to Ethiopian music, swigging honey wine from plastic canisters, an injera food fight, countless roadside coffee stops and trying to prank each other out when sleeping. Saying heartfelt goodbyes as we reached our destination felt like an African travel version of the final scene in The Breakfast Club. A perfect example of Ethiopian hospitality - I paid for nothing other than the ride - and how much fun travelling with strangers can be.

The Landcruiser crew

4: Equating the one hour departure delay in Addis Ababa bus station to an eight position Formula 1 grid penalty, our coach driver to Bahir Dar channelled his inner Lewis Hamilton and proceeded to horn blast goats, pedestrians and all motorized vehicles off the road in a nine hour weaving frenzy to make a Bangladeshi sweat shop worker envious. With each new pothole hit at 80km/h threatening to add us to the International Space Station's dinner guest list, my Ethiopian neighbour's certainty that I was a devout Christian with Tourette's deepened. We arrived on time, but with my nerves as shredded as the front two tyres of the bus and a new personal resolve to never sit in the front row of an African coach again.

5: Driving in six inches of water across a vast salt lake with the pale early morning sun reflecting spectacularly off the crystalline whiteness would generally be enough for a journey to attain travel greatness, but doing so on the roof of a 4x4 singing French 80s rock songs with two backpacking companions ensured transport immortality. For a little over two hours, we enjoyed the otherworldly scenery of Lake Asale in the Danakil Depression from a vantage point so unique that our cheeks threatened to split from our uncontainable delight: when we talked, we smiled; when we sang, we smiled; when we said nothing, we smiled. A rare but winning combination of sleep deprivation and spontaneous decision-making.

"Je rêvais d'un autre monde..."

6: Whilst all previous boda-boda adventures had been exhilarating affairs, none had been in the chaotic evening rush hour traffic of Kampala. Following two near collisions and an actual bump with a car trying to fit into a gap no wider than a broken windshield wiper, the moment came when only a lightning reaction to lift my left leg prevented a premature end to my nascent running career, and its unnecessary transformation into uncanned corned beef. My relief at getting off the motorcycle in one piece was only short-lived as I replaced near-amputation with self-immolation by incinerating my right calf on the the exhaust pipe. I walked everywhere in Kampala after the incident.

Another ride survived...

Mood song: Born To Be Wild - Steppenwolf

Mood food: biltong and popcorn

Cash Converters

24 - 24 - 14 - 24 - 24 -85 - 1.33 - 14 - 949 - 2,907 - 991 -  4,475 - 134 - 29 - 8 - 12*

One of the great masochistic pleasures of multi-country travel lies in the complex intricacies of currency conversion and the arithmetic pitfalls that accompany the process. The frisson of excitement at holding alien notes and coins when entering a new country is equal only to the short-term dementia contracted when attempting to adapt to their monetary value. The above sequence of numbers is the conversion rate of the currency of each of the sixteen countries of my African voyage against the formerly great pound sterling, in the geographical order my route has followed. Apart from the false dawn of the continent's southernmost region, where three of South Africa's five neighbours have tied their currency to the relatively stable rand, the last six months have been a return to the childhood traumas of long division and multiplication tables.

Had I visited Zimbabwe in 2008, at the height of its vertiginous hyperinflation, the 1.33 from the above sequence would have been replaced by a figure beyond the decimal display capacity of all but the Pentagon's most powerful supercomputers. As the government attempted in vain to keep up with the spiralling devaluation of its worthless currency by printing ever larger denomination bills, each successive zero meant fewer slices of bread in the shopping basket. At the one hundred trillion dollar mark ($100,000,000,000,000!), the folly finally stopped and dollarization ensued. Today, as these paper relics of a failed economy are touted as souvenirs to tourists at Victoria Falls, the country has again run out of physical money and is in the grip of a wave of industrial action across all sectors of the economy.

For the humble and cash-conscious backpacker, the downside of dollarization means spending real money. Gone is the casual frittering of tens, hundreds and even thousands of spectacularly-named currencies ("That'll be thirty-two kwacha please...") and with it a carefree attitude to expenditure: every dollar counts. I happily splashed out $65 on a half-day's snorkelling on an everage Mozambican reef with little sealife when I was paying in thousands of meticais, but cried foul play when asked for $10 to visit a world heritage Zimbabwean national park with unique geological features and breath-taking mountain scenery. I am now choosing to walk 2,5km with all my luggage in the midday sun rather than pay $2 for a local taxi, when I couldn't throw enough Monopoly-like shillings at a Nairobi taxi driver to drive me two blocks. Welcome to the absurdity of misguided perceived wealth.

In a welcome display of recognition from the gods of backpacking, however, the months of mental gymnastics and mathematical comparison are about to pay dividends, and in the unlikeliest of locations. I celebrate my return to civilisation after a fortnight of backwater life with a cheeky Nando's in downtown Bulawayo. As I finish picking the last morsels of flesh from what had been a satisfyingly plump poulet, a cursory review of my receipt reveals the equivalent total in the other currrencies accepted as legal tender. The USD 5.00 cost of my quarter peri-peri chicken equates to ZAR 77.52, EUR 4.63, BWP 65.00 and crucially GBP 3.25, a rate of USD 1.54 = GBP 1.00 - when today's official rate is actually a measly USD 1.27 = GBP 1.00. Suddenly my brain whirs into action for the first time in months. It can't be, surely, can it?

My heart skips a beat as I call for the manager in order to ask what I hope will come across as an innocent question borne of simple curiosity. Bingo! International accounting protocol at the world's finest mass rôtisseur dictates that currency rates can only be updated every fortnight, meaning that the GBP value is STILL AT THE PRE-BREXIT RATE and I can get an extra 21% chicken for my pound!!! It is a magical moment and undoubted highlight of the trip. As I march triumphantly back to the till brandishing my debit card like a winning national lottery ticket and accompanied by an imaginary squadron of Red Arrows, the cashier looks at me with both surprise and amusement. "Did you enjoy the chicken, Sir?" "Oh yes, I reply solemnly, but not as much as I will enjoy the next one."

Now where's that abacus again?

"Just the Twix, Sir? That'll be $5,011,050,000 please." 

Life status: winning

Mood food: 1/4 peri-peri chicken, immediately followed by a 1/2 peri-peri chicken (-21% discount)
Mood song: Money For Nothing - Dire Straits

* South African Rand - Namibian Dollar - Botswana Pula - Lesotho Loti - Swazi Lilangeni - Mozambican Metical - US Dollar - Zambian Kwacha - Malawian Kwacha - Tanzanian Shilling - Rwandan Franc - Ugandan Shilling - Kenyan Shilling - Ethiopian Birr - Sudanese Pound - Egyptian Pound

Orange Counting

"Get in, quickly. The convoy is about to leave." As I haul myself up and into the passenger seat of the truck cabin, my excitement at being able to enjoy today's lengthy journey from an unusual vantage point is quickly dampened by the sight of a bullet hole in the windshield, at head height and directly in front of me. "Ah yes", explains Aboubakar, Mozambican long-distance truck driver and saviour of the moment, "We were shot at by the Renamo rebels two weeks ago. Luckily I was alone that day." Lovely. Seeing a chasm-deep frown on my forehead and an instinctive clenching of my day pack tighter to my bosom - cunningly placing both a 762 page Lonely Planet and my laptop between any opportunist bullet and either of my heart's ventricles - he smiles and reassures me unconvincingly that lightning does not strike twice at the same windscreen.

Despite having officially given up any political hope of seizing power after the Mozambique civil war ceasefire more than two decades ago, some of the more militant factions had not given up their weapons and were still popping up sporadically with a shooting here and a kidnapping there. Capitalising on my visit and unintentional magnetism for civil unrest and minor revolutionary activity, Renamo had recently taken control of a swathe of land in Sofalo Province, including a 100km stretch of the very traffic artery that was to expedite me towards the Zimbabwean border. With the only reputable bus company suspending services indefinitely, my only option other than a five day detour back down and across into South Africa was to hitch a lift with one of the fifty heavy goods vehicles in a convoy allowed safe passage through the lawless strip every day at 9am by virtue of a heavily armed military escort.

Aboubakar had descended from his driver's seat to buy some fruit for the journey just as I was alighting from my hostel tuk-tuk at 5:20am, and had immediately agreed to give me a lift. As a Muslim still fasting despite Ramadan having ended, I clearly understood that he had to eat enough in the forty minutes before daybreak to keep him awake and vigilant during the 12 hour drive he had to Beira; but unless Mozambican citrus fruit was periodically laced with amphetamines, I was at a loss to explain his bulk purchase of twenty-six oranges. Once we are settled inside the cabin, he proceeds to line them all on the dashboard, creating two neat lines of imperfect, gnarly oranges on the inside of the windscreen. Unable to hide my consternation any longer, he answers the unspoken question with a rueful smile and a curt "You will see."

As the convoy prepares to start its journey, a military jeep pulls alongside us and the soldier in the passenger seat stands up to engage Aboubakar in conversation. Picking up the words proteção and contribuição from the short exchange, I am not surprised to see a one hundred meticais note ($1.30) dexterously pass from driver wallet to soldier pocket in a sleight of hand manoeuvre worthy of David Copperfield. When this action is followed up by the removal and transfer of three oranges from the dashboard to the soldier's eager hands, the penny finally drops. With the protection racket secured, the jeep slots in ahead of us and leads the way into the rebel-held area. "Actually, I would rather they didn't drive in front of us, the rebels are more likely to shoot if they see soldiers. The soldiers are useless anyway. But we had no choice", Aboubakar hisses with undisguised contempt. This is brilliant: we have actually offered bribery money and fruit to a corrupt and underpaid military squad that is giving us a higher chance of getting targeted by their mere presence.

Three oranges and a buck thirty do not buy you much, however, and our escort pulls away after ten minutes in search of the next contribution to their five-a-day. So much for protection, I think, but good riddance to them anyway. As my sleep-deprived brain struggles to compute what has just happened, a new jeep appears to our right, overtakes our vehicle and flags us to pull over in the exact middle of the rebel-controlled strip of highway. My face registers absolute disbelief and Aboubakar's glum resignation as a carbon copy of the first bribery exchange takes place once, twice, three more times over the course of the disputed 100km. That we get through the danger zone without any incident is almost of no consequence with the corruption charade that has played itself out. Even my tub of Mentos chewing gum is sacrificed for the cause as one soldier spots it in the drinks holder, viva la revoluciòn!

During the remaining four hours to Inchope, where Aboubakar is to drop me off before heading back towards the coast, we are stopped a further eight times by both transport and regular police, bringing to an incredible total of twelve the number of extortion attempts on our vehicle in the last six and a half hours. A truck windscreen that was practically vitrified vitamin C when we left Pambara now has one single mangy orange sitting in its recess. Just as I prepare to bid Aboubakar farewell and express my sincere gratitude for providing both a ride and a spectacular insight into the absurd underworld of local officialdom, he takes the last orange and peels it, passing me alternate segments as they are freed. We share the fruit in silence, a nutritious symbol of our eternal bond and righteous consecration of the absurd gangster parody we have just experienced.

 Bullet In The Head

 My ride: a truck towing a car trailer with two dudes on the roof

Hard currency on show

Mood song: Orange Crush - R.E.M.
Mood food: orange segments, what else?