Backpacker Life [iii] - The People

And so it was that the last night of my second African chapter was spent in a Cairo dive bar in the company of a Ghanaian/Egyptian IT technician and a Kuwaiti prostitute. Both were off duty, unfortunately for me as I was rather hoping to get a minor bug fixed on my laptop before flying home. Both were also excellent company though, as Gamal explained how it was none other than Colonel Nasser who convinced his racist grandmother to allow her pale-skinned daughter to marry a West African who was darker than the night itself, and Jenny regaled us with sordid tales of the behind-closed-doors sexual fantasies of Gulf State nobility - real freak sheikh speak, if you will. But tonight's company was no more unusual than most of the people whose paths my own has had the privilege to cross on this trip.

Backpacking for an extended period of time is comparable to flitting between a continuous series of social Venn diagrams, with colliding lives sharing a common experience for but a fleeting moment. As with most things in life, you never forget your first, and this trip's was an unexpected peach. There isn't a significant amount on paper or papyrus that a nineteen year old medical administration student from northern Germany and an unemployed forty-one year old multicultural mongrel salesman would have in common, but Johannes and I formed a solid Cape Town alliance, cruising the downtown grid by day and frequenting rooftop cocktail bars by night in effortlessly enjoyable company. It was a great sign of what and who was to come.

From the French army girls based in Djibouti to the South African cannabis smugglers; from Yasir, the Sudanese government official sourcing passport-making materials to Thor, the twenty-one year old Norwegian fitness centre owner, via bipolar Maria and timid Timo: everyone had a life-enriching story to share and a starring supporting role in the film of my voyage. Helen, the English ophthalmologist about to study a rare eye disease in a rural Ethiopian village, made an excellent city exploration and trail running partner in Addis Ababa. And how could I forget Andrea, the crazy Mexican human rights lawyer living in Switzerland, whom I met in a German resort in Namibia and nearly married in Zanzibar?

And then there was Jeff. I have to admit that I had a soft spot for Jeff. Jeff, the Frenchman from Avignon and his trance-like permanent hand-sculpting of his inseparable walking stick. Choosing the only sensible solution to a troubled life situation in which friendship, love and employment complications had all come to a head simultaneously in a spectacular psychological meltdown, he had decided to follow in Jesus' footsteps - spiritually at least - and disappear into the Ethiopian wilderness for exactly forty days. The candour with which he discussed his evolving state of mind and raw soul-searching, and his burning desire and childlike enthusiasm in embracing all things Ethiopian made him a delight to travel with for six days and provided refreshingly different human interaction from the typical backpacker fare: this was method travelling of the highest order.

A more than special mention must go out to the wretched souls who actually chose to share their travel time with me for more than the cursory dormitory conversation or random night on the tiles. It remains to be seen how easily a friendship with my two longest-serving travel buddies in Africa (Patrick - 18 days; Alex - 10 days) would be cultivated in our normal everyday social circles, but I would join forces with them on the road again without a second's hesitation. It was easy, it was fun, and most importantly we travelled well together - at least once Alex and I agreed to close our gin-infused cricket versus baseball debate. In a solo travel world of ephemeral relationships and frequent solitude, it is a pleasure to occasionally be able to construct a friendship with a little more substance. My Rwandan and Ugandan memories will forever be intricately associated with Alex, as will Ethiopia and Egypt with Patrick, such is the intensity of sharing remarkable experiences with a near complete stranger.

As I prepare for the third and final round of this African odyssey, I cannot help but smile at the thought of all the unsuspecting travellers quietly going about their backpacking completely unaware that their circle is currently moving inexorably towards mine. Whether the collision takes place in a hostel dormitory, on a bus or at a beach bar is yet to be decided; all that matters is that I can look forward to having some more hookers, ophthalmologists and passport-makers in my life very soon.

The very first night, celebratory shot with Johannes and... one of the many that shall forever remain nameless

Alex and I in three countries at once, and conquerors of Mount Sabinyo

Me, Patrick and Jeff: volcanoes, mountains and Ethiopian nightclubs...

The backpacker, the IT technician and the hooker...

Mood song: People Are Strange - The Doors

Mood food: anything and everything...

River Life

It was love at first sight. I had already met her parents and seen both where she was conceived and born; I had stalked her relentlessly for more than 1,800km, following her shapely curves from nearby, though she remained oblivious to my presence. Now, we were finally about to consummate our relationship in the most intimate of manners. At nearly 6,900km in length, the river Nile is not only the world's longest waterway, but its most alluring. Having visited the two lakes in Uganda and Ethiopia from which its White and Blue tributaries originate, and observed their underwhelming confluence in Khartoum, the river has been a defining geographical feature of the last third of my journey. Now in Lower Egypt, where it begins its voyage towards the Mediterranean, I was finally seeing it in all its majesty from the only vantage point to do its beauty true justice: sailing by wind and current on a felucca from Aswan to Luxor.

With the Egyptian tourist industry decimated by years of political unrest and all too recent terrorist attacks, my travel buddy Patrick and I had the pick of the dozen or so feluccas moored riverside in central Aswan's Corniche-an-Nil. As touts vied for our business, the only trade currently in town, we inspected vessels for seaworthiness and vetted skippers for compatibility. In the end, it wasn't the captain's uncanny resemblance with Rimmer from sci-fi comedy Red Dwarf, or even the spotless and spacious nature of his felucca that seduced us into committing to three days of river life, but its name: we would be sailing on a felucca named Bob. On a pier awash with corny African Queens and pretentious Nefertitis, the good ship Bob stood out like a beacon of down-to-earth reliability and unassuming modesty. Bobs don't sink or run aground, Bobs get you to where you want to go to, with minimum fuss and maximum enjoyment.

Equipped with the universally recognised maritime survival essentials of 2kg of fresh fruit, 6 litres of water and 24 bottles of local lager, we tacked slowly out of Aswan harbour shortly after lunchtime. With a total distance of under 70km in a little over two days and with the substantial deck space covered in comfortable mattresses and cushions, it became immediately clear that this was my golden opportunity to do something that had hitherto proven impossible on this trip: sweet nothing at all. As the real reason for our vessel's christening became apparent, with a Jamaican flag hoisted up the mast, the opening bars of I Shot The Sheriff playing on a small set of speakers and Captain Mostafa lighting up a cheroot of herbal relaxation the length of the ship's hull, I lay down and let the world go by in the most complete tranquility.

As minutes, hours and eventually two entire days passed by in a satisfying repetitive panorama of ochre sand dunes occasionally poking their rounded peaks above the riverside fringe of irregularly linear palm trees and attractive whitewashed village houses, I could have been forgiven for focusing my reverie on the shore. But the penultimate leg of the entire voyage was only ever about the river; gone was the uninspiring murkiness of Khartoum's urban river junction, this was an intense dark blue with an almost viscous and impossibly still sheen, one that demanded and obtained attention with the reflections of the rising and setting sun, and every moment in between.

An unfortunate direct comparison with my erstwhile daily commute on South West Trains notwithstanding - I also wanted to throw myself from that method of transport - this was the routine travellers' dreams were made of: drifting in and out of sun-kissed consciousness in between leisurely meals shared with the crew; feeding bonfires of crackling dried palm fronds on shore at nightfall; going through morning ablutions waist-high in crystal waters. All this whilst gazing lazily at the most beautiful fluvial expanse I had ever seen with a crisp lager within arm's reach: life was simple, life was good.

If the multiple interminable motorised journeys throughout Africa had thrown up a number of unexpectedly profound musings on life (what am I really to do with it?) and miniature epiphanies (preferably lie in a hammock with a continuous flow of piña coladas, forever), then the soothing flapping of sails and seemingly aimless drifting achieved quite the opposite. For forty-eight abnormally peaceful hours, I thought of absolutely nothing as body and brain worked together in unaccustomed partnership, understanding and appreciating the importance of the context. I lay on my back, again, with a mind as empty as I had ever known it, its only preoccupation trying to remember to sip my cold beer every so often. How beautiful denial was.

Sail away, sail away, sail away...

The real Nile blue

The struggle is real

 Well played Nile, well played...

Not Upper Halliford station

Bob - a boat you can trust

Mood song: Could You Be Loved - Bob Marley
Mood food: Mussad's stew, pasta and salad

Jewel On The Nile

Salvation came in the shape of a cattle truck today. I had just gone over the critical half an hour mark with my thumb in the air standing by the roadside in the middle of the Nubian Desert, the point when frustration at not having been granted immediate deliverance slowly turns into disillusion and doubt. Most of the vehicles that had gone past were either buses that were full, private cars with female passengers or heavy goods vehicles with multiple trailers thundering past. It was 11:30am and although my water supply was ample, the sun was almost directly above me and my legs were no longer being offered respite from the 40c+ temperature by the shadow of my upright backpack.

 Yes, here will do, please drop me off in the middle of the desert...

Just me, my backpack and some pyramids lost in the sand

 As the cattle truck approached, I changed tactics and joined my hands in silent and desperate supplication. To my great surprise, the ploy worked and the truck stopped alongside me. As the driver moved to the back, ostensibly to fold down the tailgate and allow me into the straw-floored enclosure, he looked at me and scolded me in a mildly reproachful tone: "The desert is a dangerous place, you know. Here, have a cold bottle of water." I smiled in agreement and jumped into the back with all my luggage. I don't even know why I was surprised, this was the Sudan, after all.

The real cattle class...

Despite only staying in the country for seven days, I have lost count of the number of random acts of generosity I have been fortunate to experience in this wonderful country: bus fares paid for me by complete strangers unable even to understand my thank you of appreciation; bottles of water, fruit and sweets offered to me by street sellers and market traders; even the omnipresent security police smile when returning my passport and wish me a pleasant stay, after ascertaining that my travel permit is in order, of course. If Ethiopia has the favourite country accolade nailed on, then the Sudanese are making a late, great bid for the friendliest people in Africa.

In an all too rare but wonderfully welcome change to stereotypical global perceptions, it helps to be British in this country. The majority of Sudan's industrial infrastructure was conceived and implemented by colonial Blighty, including the entire railway network; the tax and salary systems are of the same origin, although they apparently work in Sudan; even the country's largest market and source of employment for thousands, Omdurman Souq, was built by Great Britain. As news filters down the market aisles that one of Queenie's subjects is in the 'hood, I am treated to the fruit and vegetable world's equivalent of a tickertape open top bus cup-winning parade. As each successive stallholder waves hello or shakes my hand, I can only offer a regal wave in return and comment on the superior quality of British girders and rivets.

For all the kindness of the Sudanese people, though, the country's travel conditions are unforgivingly brutal. Long gone are the pleasantly sunny days and cool nights of the Ethiopian highlands, it seems I have now taken temporary residence in the world's largest live-in incinerator. With all the country's ancient historic sites situated slap bang in the middle of hostile desert wilderness  and only seven days to play with until the weekly ferry across Lake Nasser to Abu Simbel in Egypt, I must move fast, far and ridiculously early every day if I want to see everything this country has to offer.

With mid-morning temperatures already exceeding 40c in May, only a dawn wake-up call will allow two hours of archaeological exploration in mild overheated discomfort rather than feeling like a walking funeral pyre. To add to the fun, single night stays in each locality mean that backpack, daypack and kit bag must accompany me everywhere - across desert flats and up, down and around every single scorching dune. Once my daily two hour dose of self-imposed Marathon Des Sables is over, I am able to spend the rest of the day on public transport reflecting on my decision to take five black t-shirts out of a packing quota of seven, and to second-guess what Rorschach patterns their salt stains will deliver each evening.

Is it a duck or an ice cream cone?

The reward for my masochistic endeavours and near-certain death by perspiration comes in having an entire country's 4,000 years of history all to myself. Even as I laboured across the two kilometres of desert from the road where my bus had dropped me off to the incredible site of Meroitic tombs at Bejriwaya, over sand and stone, and under the relentless desert sun; even as I cursed myself, every Nubian and Egyptian god, and even the poor camel skeleton I nearly tripped over; even then my smile and enthusiasm did not waver, for I could see the perfect soft apricot-coloured dunes a short distance away, indented into a misshapen Toblerone bar silhouette by one hundred majestic pyramids sprouting into the sky. Waiting for me to take temporary but exclusive ownership. How could I possibly get annoyed or frustrated in this wonderfully unexpected jewel of a country? Especially when you can be sure that salvation is just around the next bend.

 Those Meroites were certainly very handy with trowel and plaster...

How fertile is the Nile?

Mine, all mine...

Ruin with a view...

Mood song: A Horse With No Name - America
Mood food: falafel and fuul

Bufala Soldier

Lady Luck has many ways of manifesting her formidable presence. For some, it is an unexpected slice of chance that occurs following a somewhat obscure series of events mostly of one's own doing - this is self-made luck; for others, it is a simple set of numbers that tumble into sequence against the most improbable of mathematical odds, often a literal lottery - this is blind luck; the ultimate manifestation, however, is when an opportunity presents itself on a silver platter in a perfectly crosshaired alignment of the space/time continuum, in other words being in the right place at the right time - this is the luck of the lucky bastard.

Walking out of my hostel on the evening of my first full day in Khartoum to head to a restaurant recommended to me only that afternoon, I followed Google Maps down a road that curved around an enormous walled compound when I suddenly but unmistakably heard the opening bars of Italian 1980s crooner Toto Cotugno's cheesy nationalistic classic 'L'Italiano' being covered by a live band. In Khartoum, Sudan. Confused and amused, I recognised the omen of impending good fortune and walked quickly around the wall to the main driveway. As I had hoped and suspected, the familiar tricolore and national coat of arms confirmed that this was indeed the Italian Embassy. All right, ragazzo, I thought, how are you going to play this one?

"Buona sera!"Casual, confident and looking directly at the two uniformed guards manning the gate as I walked towards them. "Buona sera, prego Signore..." they replied, motioning me inside, into the gardens of what appeared immediately to be a luxurious estate far removed from my own $3.50/night lodgings. As I ambled towards the source of what was clearly merriment of Italian volume, I was stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of a dozen or so people in black tie dress code. Quickly assessing my flip-flop, punk band t-shirt and safari shorts ensemble as perhaps not reaching the necessary sartorial standard, I made to turn back towards the gate only to bump into a jovial looking gentleman in tweed jacket and jeans. Having been staying in the right part of town, on the right day, and left to go to dinner at the right time, I then met exactly the right person for the mission to be successful.

As I explained my travelling background and fortuitous timing with an inhibition very unbecoming of a supposed conman backpacker attempting to blag a free feed, Taha El-Roubi, owner and head DJ of Khartoum's only exclusively western radio station, looked at me very simply. "Are you Italian?" he asked. "Yes, I am", I replied, telling only three quarters of a lie (bless my Sicilian grandmother, how she would have loved this). "In that case, you are home. Come inside." Inside turned out to be a stunning two storey villa with underlit pool, marquee bar and gala dinner outside table setting with bandstand stage and dance floor, and this was a charity event for the Sudanese Diabetic Society hosted by His Excellency, the Ambassador of Italy, and sponsored by an Italian pasta producer - naturally - who had flown both food and celebrity chef over for the occasion.

It seemed as though Taha was well connected, judging by the number of people who came to greet him enthusiastically, and it wasn't long before most of the gathering had the story of the wandering Italian hobo who had chanced his luck and crashed the party, so much did Taha enjoy telling it. "How perfectly Italian!", he would repeat with great gusto. "Ey, izza watta we do!" I would reply in my Ferrero Rocher advert faux-Italian English. Just as I was about to excuse myself in an attempt to get out of the spotlight (and head to the bar), he delivered the cherry on the torta. "Fabrizio, Fabrizio! Come, there is someone I want you to meet!" As a suave and clearly Italian gentleman came over smiling, as if used to Taha's theatrical geniality, it was clear to me where this was going.

"Gianmarco, this is Fabrizio, the Italian Ambassador in Sudan. Fabrizio, this is Gianmarco, an Italian who just gatecrashed your party." As the story was recounted for the fiftieth time, a smile spread across the Ambassador's face. He made polite conversation, assured me I was more than welcome, and invited me to the Italian national celebrations on June 2nd, before shaking my hand warmly. "A pleasure to meet you Gianmarco, enjoy the rest of your travels. And enjoy the food here tonight." "Grazie mille!" I responded automatically, without immediately understanding the true implication of his sentence. Enjoy the food. The food? I had forgotten all about the Italian food!!!

As I turned to discover the buffet for the first time, there it was staring at me: an oasis of some of the world's finest cuisine after a desert of African backpacker culinary poverty. Fearing a mirage, I pinched myself with the tiramisù tongs before ploughing giddily into too much goodness to even attempt to list, for the following two hours. "Have another Chianti!" Taha would say whenever we bumped into each other. "Va bene, Taha, iffa you saya so!" And so I ate for all the hungry backpackers in Africa, and drank for all the thirsty ex-pats in teetotal Sudan. It was the least I could do: one must share one's good fortune, after all.





My buddy Fabrizio the Ambassador bottom right...

 Helloooo buffet!

Free bar by a pool? Yes please...

You're really spoiling us, Mr. Ambassador...

More Chianti and vitello tonnato?



Mood song: L'Italiano - Toto Cotugno
Mood food: all of it, the entire bloody buffet porca troia!

The Great Depression

The natural born pyromaniac in me edges closer still, despite the increasingly unbearable heat emanating from the pit directly in front of me. If it feels as though I am a willing co-voyager on Jules Verne's Journey To The Centre Of The Earth, about to descend deep into the earth's bowels, then it is probably because I am as close to experiencing life in the planet's core as I ever will be. I am standing on the very edge of the world's longest-existing permanent lava lake, drawn like a moth to an incandescent pool of bubbling magma. An unwitting smile spreads across my face as my immediate unconscious reaction is to think of the first company to offer me gainful employment: once a lava lover, always a lava lover.

 The Danakil Depression in Ethiopia's northern Afar province contains some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet and justifiably earns the accolade of hottest place on earth, but it is also home to two of its most astonishing geological features: Erta' Ale volcano and the Dallol sulphur springs. In a mixed eight vehicle convoy of intrepid adventurers, experienced guides and armed guards to deter potential bandit attacks near the disputed Eritrean border, I set out to visit what every single backpacker encountered in this stupendous country has enthusiastically and convincingly described as the highlight of their Ethiopian trip. They were not wrong.

Given the somewhat unconventional nature of our destination and the potential security hazards involved (hello voided travel insurance policy!), it is no surprise to note that the vast majority of the group are fellow battle-hardened travel veterans: a French couple in their sixties whose first trip in 1971 was to drive a 2CV from Paris to Afghanistan; a German retiree who set off for Africa from Munich in his Landrover four years ago and is still bouncing around the continent after thirty-five countries and sixteen broken gearboxes; a veritable plethora of long-term round-the-world backpackers; and yours truly, the self-styled lucky bastard escaping the clutches of the real world for as long as possible. The four hour nightfall hike to the volcano summit passes by in a flurry of excitable exchanges of travel anecdotes, but as a subtle orange glow finally comes into view in the dark somewhere in front and slightly above us, so does the conversation fade into an expectant hush.

Whilst there are a number of active volcanoes globally plying their molten trade, Erta' Ale is the only active lava lake this ridiculously accessible. Cresting the ridge in what is now full darkness, we pause to catch our breath and allow the stragglers to catch up and anticipate what we are about to witness. If the lookout above the crater plane with a glowing lake in its centre were in the United Kingdom, this is where we would remain: behind a barrier one hundred and fifty metres from the bubbling crater and with only a faint glow and barely discernible eruptions to appreciate. With Ethiopian health and safety regulations being as non-existent as its reliable WiFi, we descend into the pit and walk the short distance across the Quaver-like crunchy texture of a fresh lava field to the very edge of the volcano.

As the amateur and professional photographers within the group prepare tripods and time-lapse settings, we mere mortals stare disbelievingly at a scene we are unlikely to ever see again. Random pockets of angry red cracks split through the soft black caldera surface and burst into spectacular sporadic eruptions of lava. It is as mesmerising as it is cauldron-hot, as beautiful as it is unpredictable. Every so often, a particularly violent spit of liquid fire casts furious embers close to the circle of excited onlookers, pushing us back temporarily in a burst of fireworks worthy of the 4th of July. But we quickly return, aware of the limited time we have here. When we are finally gently cajoled away from the spectacle by our patient guide, back towards our mattresses under the stars not one hundred metres away, it is only with great reluctance that we consent.

The following morning, we return to see the sun rise over the volcano pool. The ever-brightening dawn light brings new contrasts and photographic angles, but the same cooings of delight. Again the temperature is skin-crispingly intense, a wall of searing heat of such proximity that it defies and fries the senses. With the stellar combined travel CV of our group, it is testimony to what we are witnessing that we are all in agreement: this is awe-inspiring in the most literal sense of the meaning. Rising in the sky with a hint of potential jealousy, the desert sun quickly reminds us of its own potency and it is time for the long walk back down the volcano, but with more than one last longing look over our shoulders.

Let the show begin...

Just wow...

As spectacular a sunrise as one can get...

Not where lava lamps come from...

Feeling the heat...

Mood song: Ring Of Fire - Johnny Cash
Mood food: boiled rice with peas and pineapple, midnight volcano summit camping fare

Screw The Destination, Give Me The Journey...

I may be a little odd. You see, I really rather enjoy spending upwards of twelve hours at a time going nowhere fast in cramped, hot and often unhygienic conditions on third world public transport systems. Sometimes I even wonder if I don't actually prefer it to reaching the destination itself. Despite knowing that I will be visiting awe-inspiring wonders of both human and natural making on my longitudinal schlep across the African continent, the reality is that my primary source of enjoyment was always going to come from the travelling itself.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when the mere thought of spending more than a couple of idle hours on a plane, train or automobile would fill me with a dread that often bordered on anguish and despair. My great Australasian trip of 2000-2001 was filled with never-ending journeys, veritable beasts of double digit hourage that I struggled to endure despite the spectacular scenery that unfurled itself before me. I particularly remember a thirty-seven hour bus journey in Western Australia that left me so horrifically scarred for a number of days that I briefly considered... Never. Travelling. Again. How the thought makes me chuckle today.

Looking back, I can actually recall the exact moment I made my peace with, and embraced wholeheartedly a universe that is totally unavoidable when one is infected with terminal wanderlust. The great Trans-Siberian adventure of 2007 went a long way towards curing me of my transportation neurosis, as it proved once and for all that onward motion and personal enjoyment were not mutually exclusive. It wasn't until the Balkan escapade of summer 2008, however, and a seemingly innocuous Albanian minivan journey from Tirana to the Ottoman town of Berat that I conquered my fears and learned to master the art of travel.

I was feeling the habitual tedium and annoyance at another frustratingly arduous plod over unsealed roads in rural backwaters when I happened to look out of the window and actually comprehend what I was seeing: idyllic mountain countryside in stunning summer weather, there simply waiting for me to appreciate. At that very moment, a song played on my iPod that made the moment perfect. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders and enjoyed the following two hours as I had never done before. This was my travel epiphany. For a person as impatient as I am, and with nervous energy as potent as my attention span is short, I had finally found my inner sanctum of peace and serenity. I have not looked back since and and can now only ever look forward to the next interminable journey witnessing breathtaking scenery with unbridled delight.

And nowhere has this masochistic love of long-distance commuting and infinite rolling landscape been better requited than here, in Ethiopia. Despite my original excitement for the country having been tempered by an unexpectedly lengthy stay in the capital, it only takes two hours of mountainous country roads and the jaw-droppingly winding descent into the Blue Nile Gorge to rekindle the bonfire of expectation: this is the big country of endless skies and wide open spaces that I have been waiting for on this entire trip.

With each successive journey superseding the previous, I realise that I am running out of Thesaurus-sourced superlatives to describe what I am witnessing: if the Grand Canyon were a country, this would be it. The landscape is so scandalously dramatic that all other countries should throw in the towel, immediately, and it is all I can do stop myself from blaspheming, swearing and even drooling at the window as we wind up, around and down bucolic mountain villages with children in traditional Amhara dress waving us by. Never before have I looked forward to leaving a place as soon as I have arrived, only to be able to keep on feeding my senses with a panoramic drama mini-series on a seemingly continuous loop.

The clear and definite reality of the situation, whatever day or location it happens to fall on, is that I can commit these snapshots of aesthetic perfection to my physical memory only, rather than digital. It is a relief, and perhaps the explanation for my pure, unadulterated enjoyment of these prolonged labours of love, that all I can do is immerse myself in the moment, for hours on end. I had been concerned about the time spent travelling between each Ethiopian point of interest, but I needn't have worried: this is a land that is made to be travelled overland, not despite but because of the vast distances. A land made for me.

Addis Ababa - Bahir Dar, up in the clouds... 

 Bahir Dar - Gashena

 Lalibela - Woldia

Sugar cane: the messiest travel snack in town...

 Blue Nile Gorge*

Blue Nile Gorge*

Mood song: Wide Open Space - Mansun
Mood food: fresh, hot broad beans and sugar cane sticks

* Images 'borrowed' online as mine do the subject no justice

Capital Punishment

One of the absolute privileges of travelling in Europe is discovering its majestic capital cities. London, Paris, Rome, Athens, Berlin, to name but a few, are all names that evoke enchanting days spent admiring superlative architecture and immersing oneself in millennia of history and culture. In Africa, the complete opposite holds true: after three months of travel, I am yet to find a single capital that warrants more than 48 hours' stay. Whilst Dar es Salaam, Nairobi and Windhoek may all sound wonderfully exotic, the harsh reality is that these urban centres of congestion chaos and pollution serve principally as unavoidable transport hubs and a quick fix of modern amenities after many weeks of backwater travel.

Having looked forward to exploring Ethiopia's historic mountain sites perhaps more than any other destination on this trip, it was with great dismay that I discovered that a combination of the vagaries of the country's bizarre calendar and the Great Sudanese Visa Quest meant that I would have to spend six nights in Addis Ababa. Bloody annoyed but unbowed, I decided to dedicate this time to finding two of life's great pleasures that had proven so elusive in the rest of the continent: good cuisine and even better coffee. With a comprehensive list of my target eateries and coffee houses in my pocket and a contrived enthusiasm for exploring a city imposed on me, I set out to conquer the capital of Africa's only country to escape full colonisation.

A seemingly fortuitous but potentially premeditated encounter with two English-speaking students led to an enquiry regarding my plans for the day and an offer of a guided tour of the city. Conscious of the numerous global city scams involving tours, tea ceremonies and unexpectedly costly dance shows, I made it clear that I would not be releasing any funds for the tour, but that they were welcome to accompany me should they wish to continue our Premier League conversation.

They followed me to Menelik's Palace; to the Holy Trinity Cathedral, where the local faithful were celebrating Easter en masse in the beautiful gardens; to the famous old railway station; and finally to the statue of the Lion of Judah - emblem of the country's illustrious royal dynasties. Their contextual information had been very helpful, and their company and conversation enjoyable; so when asked whether I wanted to try some of their mother's home cooking and some other Ethiopian traditions - at a cost clearly to be defined and approved - I accepted and followed them into a maze of ramshackle huts reminiscent of Africa's poorest townships.

After negotiating several open sewer alleyways that would not have been out of place in Soweto's worst slum, we entered the corrugated iron hut that was to be my home for the next four hours. At no more than 8' x 5' and with two low cloth-covered benches either side of a small cooking area, and a floor covered in green straw, this clearly wasn't the Sheraton. Only three posters of Cristiano Ronaldo, Angel di Maria and Steven Gerrard added a touch of colour to an otherwise drab interior. If this was a scam, it wasn't upmarket. My fears were quickly allayed, however, as the first waft of injera and wat reached my excited nostrils: this is what I had been waiting for since the day I had booked my flight to Cape Town.

As the large round dish appeared from behind a curtain, my holy culinary trinity of eyes, taste buds and stomach did a collective somersault of delight: my first taste of Ethiopia's national dish looked sensational; a steaming mound of spicy mincemeat lay atop the injera, a giant edible tablecloth of sour-fermented pancake dough. It was almost with childlike excitement and no small amount of uncoordination that I attempted to pincer dough and meat together with my right hand only -  the food tasted as good as it looked. When asked whether I wanted to witness a coffee ceremony after the food, I nearly lifted the roof off the hut with my yelping acquiescence. Seeing raw coffee beans roasted in an iron bowl before being ground by hand and transformed into the blackest liquid pleasure I had had for more than three months continued the foodie ecstasy.

After my fifth coffee, a further group of friends arrived bearing plastic bags filled with what appeared to be twigs of garden shrubbery. From my guide book, I knew what was coming: it was time to chat. The leaves of Catha Edulis, a plant endemic to the Horn of Africa and known commonly as chat or khat, induce mild euphoria and excitement when chewed slowly between gum and cheek, and render any user more talkative. Good luck guys, I thought, as I was asked what my all-time all-star football starting eleven was. As each successive bushel was dispatched by the six human ruminants, so the conversation increased in intensity. How could I not include Messi? Who the hell was Paul McGrath? And why was I wearing flip-flops in the middle of the Ethiopian rainy season?

When the moment came to ask for the bill, I braced myself for the worst and received an itemised list in what even to my untrained eye appeared to be appalling Amharic handwriting. At a grand total of $30, my suspicions of a subtle low-level scam were partly confirmed, but the reality was that the cost of feeding three stomachs and frying six brains for more than four hours was decidedly respectable, particularly when factoring in a three hour walking tour. I shook hands warmly, thanked sincerely, and bade them farewell. Beginning the long walk home to my hostel with a spring in my step and a warm fuzzy glow in my mind, I attempted to decide whether the latter was due to the coffee, chat or the warm authentic experience I had just enjoyed. Either way, I didn't really care. Well played Addis Ababa, well played.

 Praying on Good Friday

 The Lion of Judah - symbol of Rastafarianism

Come to papa, sweet injera... 

Chewing the chat...

Mood song: Buffalo Soldier - Bob Marley

Mood food: injera, injera, injera...

Backpacker Life [ii] - The Accommodation

Hostel Life:
If the backpack is the raison d'être of the budget traveller, then the backpacker hostel is his/her lifeblood. It is both the glue the binds a sequence of travel experiences and the source of social interaction that can often help to define an entire trip. The hostel's primary function, as indicated by its very name, is to provide a safe haven to recover from interminable bus journeys or day-long hikes, a welcoming oasis of warmth and comfort to be appreciated after the rigours of third world travel. Once this function has been fulfilled, however, it progresses to its secondary and more complex role: providing the opportunities for social stimulation.

Social Interaction:
Simply put, anything goes in the melting pot of international culture that is the modern-day backpacker hostel. Doors to myriad social adventures are opened at the drop of a simple "Hello..." and any sentiment of social inadequacy goes out of the window in this most unforgiving of environments. Introverts, extroverts, party animals, loners and sociopaths are thrown together to create a heady cocktail of contrasting personalities in the already intense context of shoestring travel. Connections are made and discarded in an instant, based on immediate like or dislike. Encounters are paradoxically superficial and profound, the brevity of any relationship being offset by its intensity. Just as I will probably never see Nick and Vivian again, neither will I ever forget the disarming candour with which we spoke of our life hopes and experiences on the rooftop of the Hilton in Windhoek - an evening that would categorically not have happened had we not exchanged the briefest of dormitory greetings.

Amenities & Facilities:
The three most important things to consider when rating a hostel are WiFi, WiFi and WiFi; closely followed by the quality of the free breakfast. The walls could be covered in bloodstains and the shower smell like an open sewer in Mumbai, but if a backpacker can stream Season 6 of Game of Thrones and make uninterrupted WhatsApp calls on reliable 4G bandwidth, and have three types of fruit jam, the hostel is a winner. Despite its traditional image as a low budget form of travelling for poor students and permahippies, backpacking is a big and profitable business: the more ways a hostel has to make a backpacker part with his/her cash, the more lucrative the stay. Bar, kitchen, tour desk, laundry, taxi service - these are all services a backpacker will use if available, particularly if the outside world is out of bounds after dark. My dormitory bed may have only been $12 a night, but my total bill for a recent three night stay came to $150 (Editor's note: not all at the bar). Multiply that by eight beds and you have a highly profitable room.

Resident Hierarchy:
Social ranking in the backpacking world is based on occupancy duration, with stays of one or two nights rarely eliciting more than the customary politeness reserved for paying guests. For longer or more memorable stays, a hostel can start to acquire the lofty status of home away from home. Thus, at the Fat Cat in Kampala, I am bestowed senior status on day three and am always greeted by name by owner, receptionist and cleaner. On the morning I am due to leave after a five day residency, I am handsomely rewarded for the longevity of my service by being exempt the $0,50 towel charge and the allocation of an extra pancake at breakfast. This is the backpacker world equivalent of elevation to silver status on British Airways' Executive Club.

Backpacker Nirvana:
Every so often, the right mixture of all of the above elements will combine to create a hostel experience that is so close to perfection that it is admitted to the pantheon of phenomenal travel memories. With its beautiful pool and siesta-inducing cabanas, vibrant bar and surprisingly good kitchen, and most importantly a perfect combination of fantastic staff and fellow travellers, South Coast Backpackers in Kenya has ensured that I will be the first person to visit Diani Beach for three days without actually ever seeing the beach. Esther, Ali and Paul's supreme standards of hospitality coupled with the midnight psychoanalysis sessions of the newly formed Failed Romance Club and a fantastic night pool party mean that my only experience of Kenya on this occasion will not involve animals or national parks but the gated compound of the best backpacker hostel of the trip.

And the winner is...

South Coast Backpackers, Diani Beach

Its beautiful swimming pool...

Its cosy cabana nests...

 Its deep and meaningful conversations...

Its not so deep and meaningful behaviour...

Mood song: Good Vibrations - Beach Boys

Mood food: Chef's remarkably good spaghetti carbonara

Big In Korea

The whispers began to circulate before the plane had even taken off from Beijing airport, but it was not until dinner on our first night in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea that the rumour was confirmed: for the first time in the history of the event, the 29th edition of the Pyongyang Marathon would not start and finish in the 50,000 capacity Kim Il-Sung Stadium due to renovation, but in the Rungrado 1st of May Stadium. Almost as an afterthought we are also informed that this happens to be the world's largest stadium and that we can expect more than half of its 150,000 capacity to be filled for our guest appearance.

There is more than enough to distract us from any thoughts of impending athletic glory during our visit of the North Korean capital over the following 36 hours, but there is a clearly discernible buzz amongst the runners. Like many of the other sports fanatics who have made the journey to this hermit state, I cannot help but relive one thousand childhood dreams of FA Cup Final appearances or leading any of my many countries of origin out onto the sporting field. And why not? Every dog has his day, after all, though in Korea this is more likely to be in the shape of a gourmet appetiser for a high-ranking military official.

An acclimatisation visit to the 1st of May Stadium on the eve of the race partly confirms some of our hopes and expectations: the stadium is an absolute beast, a colossal internal bowl of 150,000 seats flanked by sixteen stunning magnolia blossom shaped external arches, and for a second I wish I could attend the Mass Games for which the country is famed. It isn't until the following morning, however, when we are led into the athletes' preparation area and field access passage deep within the bowels of this gargantuan sporting arena, that we realise that something very special is about to happen. For once, the light at the end of the tunnel is very much literal rather than figurative, and all eyes and cameras are on the man holding the sign that announces my group as 'Amateur 1'. He is all that stands between us and North Korean stardom.

Then the moment arrives, a few minutes before the opening ceremony is due to start at 9am. Our bannerman moves forward and we walk out of the tunnel semi-darkness and onto an athletics track to the truly unforgettable, once-in-a-lifetime sight of 90,000 North Koreans warmly welcoming us into the world's biggest stadium to a background of rousing marching music. As athletes. The mass anticipation and nervous excitement from the tunnel are immediately replaced by collective shock, awe, disbelief and wonder as our jaws drop in the face of such extraordinary scenes. We gasp, we wave, we photograph. I drink in every single moment, aware as it is happening that I will never experience this feeling again in my lifetime. Words fail me completely and utterly.

We troop slowly around the track and onto the field in carbon copy choreography of an Olympic Games athlete nations' entrance parade, lining up behind our respective banners. To the right of the field, facing the DPRK top government and military officials, are the elite athletes: an Ethiopian, a Kenyan and two Zimbabweans representing the sport's traditional powerhouses; a predictably sizeable contingent from China and Russia; and the remainder and bulk of the professional athletes from the home nation. To the left of the field, theoretically facing the same local hierarchy but too busy committing this astonishing situation to digital posterity: a motley crew of one thousand international amateurs experiencing their fifteen minutes of sporting fame.

In the few moments of reflection that I have while my mind recovers from an unprecented bout of extreme sensory overload and before the race begins, I realise with great delight that these are memories that I will be able to relive and share, unusually. I may have been travelling around Africa by myself, but one of my oldest and dearest friends has flown from London to join me on this short escapade; three of my Antarctic co-adventurers have also made the journey, needing only the vaguest of suggestions on my part to reform our successful partnership. I am already looking forward to revisiting these very special moments at our next encounter, wherever that may be. With the marathon returning to the other stadium next year, we will bask in the knowledge that no other foreign athlete will ever have this experience,  In the meantime, however, the sound of a starter pistol means that I have four hours of running ahead of me...

WATCH: The Guardian's 50 second video of the marathon start

WATCH: My crappy video of our triumphant entrance into the stadium

Well hello, big boy...

Pre-race team photo

Waiting nervously in the tunnel

Waving to our adoring fans...

Lining up next to the elite athletes

4 hours later...

Mood song: Heroes - David Bowie

Mood food: raspberry energy gels

Swiss Timing

The traffic is snarling, that really is the only way to describe this pre-dawn suburban Nairobi logistical catastrophe. Our coach is currently stranded in an ocean of vehicles facing so many different directions as they attempt to find an escape route that it seems as though the world's largest magnet has drawn them unexpectedly to this epicentre of metallic chaos. Both my British queuing sensibilities and my Swiss need for order and punctuality are being stripped from me, layer by layer. We have not moved in ninety minutes and word has just drifted from the carbon monoxide airwaves that a petrol tanker has overturned six kilometres ahead. That the previously uninterrupted cacophony of minibus, boda-boda and car horns has stopped like a mutually agreed ceasefire in the early morning traffic hostilities bodes no better than the fact that most coaches have disgorged their bored passengers onto the fractured asphalt to stretch their weary legs. We are going to be here for a while.

As comfortable as I am initially, safely ensconced in my faux-mahogany and leather VIP class armchair seat and with a combined total of seventeen US TV series seasons on my laptop, my travel-planning muscles nevertheless start to twitch a little as the clock minute hand ticks closer to 5am. If it takes us more than an hour and a half to reach Nairobi central bus station, as there can be no doubt it will, then I will miss my onward connection to Dar es Salaam. As unexcited I am at the prospect of a further eighteen hours on a coach, missing this bus will almost certainly mean missing my flights to Abu Dhabi, Beijing and my final destination of Pyongyang in North Korea. I silently curse myself for making the only rule of this trip that no air travel is permissible within Africa.

Having shared my concern with the three members of the coach crew on two previous occasions, they can almost sense the heightened pitch in my voice even before I speak to them. "Sir, we think you must now take a boda-boda." The solution suggested had been swirling through my mind since the germination of my first seed of worry, but I was supremely reluctant to take my favourite form of East African transport for two very important reasons. Riding pillion on a motorbike with a total stranger, laden with three backpacks and daypacks, might seem a deranged idea at the best of times, but doing so at 4:30am in a city affectionately nicknamed 'Nairobbery' by locals and visitors alike would enter the realms of the terminally insane.

"Sir, come now, we have a boda-boda." He is right, I have no choice. As I step off the bus, I feel as though I should cast a final wave over my shoulder to my fellow passengers. Au revoir mes amis, and into the breach. My spontaneous travel agent has stopped the first motorcyclist riding alone, a young fellow with a face that is neither reassuring nor intimidating. As I move to launch the backpack onto my shoulders in an arc-like motion by now as fluid as a golfer's swing, so rehearsed is it, I am surprised to feel it being grabbed from me. Putting it over his back, the coach driver smiles at me: "No Sir, I cannot let you go alone. I will be your escort, for safety."

And so we drive off on the bumpy hard shoulder, between the never-ending rows of cars and through any gap available: the boda-boda driver with my running kit bag wedged between his thighs; me with my daypack strapped to my chest and a bottle of water in hand; and the coach driver behind me with my backpack on his back - a human double airbag transforming me into a pre-dawn Kenyan motorbike sandwich. Progress is slow initially as we weave in and out of traffic like a motorized ski slope slalom circus act, but once we pass the overturned tanker he opens the throttle and we shoot forward into the new day and Nairobi proper. Any boda-boda ride is an exhilarating affair, an adventure into the unknown, but a boda-boda ride against the clock and in such unconventional circumstances is simply magical.

We make it to the bus station with ten minutes to spare and I high five my crew with sheer, undisguised relief. Only then do I remember the second reason I did not want to resort to this course of action: with both my bank cards having been rejected by the last four ATM machines, I have not a single cent to my name. As the boda-boda driver looks at me expectantly, I take off my watch without hesitation and offer it to him with the gritty but fair stare of a spaghetti western anti-hero. But he is confused and I worry that he will not go for the deal, an outcome that would pose both a real and moral dilemma as I have no intention of parting with iPod, phone or camera - the next upgrades in the bartering order of ascendant value.

Again, the coach driver saves the day. "Swatch?", he asks knowledgeably. I acquiesce. He takes the timepiece from my hand and gives the driver the KYS 500, or $5, that he is owed for his prestation. "I like it." We both smile and shake hands solemnly as I board my next bus. Another day, another adventure.

Mood song: Connection - Elastica
Mood food: roadside stand rich tea biscuits