On Lamu and Others

I ran into this piece in the Philadelphia Inquirer about the tiny Swahili island off the Kenyan coast, Lamu. Now, I had the opportunity to visit Lamu twice during my stay in Kenya, and it is hands down one of my favorite places I have ever had the privilege of visiting. Lamu is easily the most unique place I have ever been to. While the Swahili island Zanzibar gets the name recognition and the tourists, Lamu and its culture has luckily been more preserved. No vehicles are allowed on the island, fishing is still the dominant way of life, and the locals are incredibly friendly.

Taking such pseudonyms as "California," "Captain Smiles," and even "Satan," the locals immediately offer to let you into their world. Late night bonfires on the beach, sketchily bought illegal palm wine, drumming five gallon buckets late into the Indian Ocean night--Lamu was one of a kind.

Photo: Me in one of the Lamu dhows

And this is why I suppose that reading the piece in the Philly Inquirer brought mixed emotions. For me, it always feels strange to read about another's travel experience that is similar to one of my own. Rarely do I think the narrator's account is spot-on; rather, I tend to view it in an over-critical eye. These feelings were just magnified when the account was about Lamu: "Oh, he is probably just stayed in an expensive hotel," or "I'm sure that he was just another one of those wazungu tourists who didn't even realize he was getting ripped off in the market every day."

I'm not sure exactly what causes this backwards negativity upon reading others' stories similar to my own--jealousy of the uniqueness of my own memories, unjustified pride in the quality of my own travelling experiences, nostalgia turned against itself--but it really isn't fair.

So here's to Mr. Steve Goldstein's fun times in Lamu. And may everyone else get the chance to enjoy that beautiful little island as well. I highly recommend it.

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Stupidity and Survival in the Savannah: Part III

Last I left off, my and my two friends' roadtrip through Eastern and Southern Africa was a bit stalled. Our vehicle had completely died. It was 4 a.m.-ish. We had a cohort of African truckers surrounding our Isuzu. And just figured out that our alternator was broken (Translation for non-engine-buffs: We were not going to be driving away).

Our original trucker friend, the first one to stop and help us, was the last to stay around as the rest of the would-be-rescuers dispersed as it became clear our situation was hopeless. There was an uncertain and awkward feeling in the air as we stood outside with our lone friend. We had no options; we were even out of cash at this moment (a long story…). There was no buying our way out of this. We plain and simply required some good ol' human good will.

After a bit of dancing around the topic, I mentioned to Joe the Trucker (his real name is written down in my journal, which is conveniently hiding somewhere at the moment…and “Joe” seems to be a trendy brand these days) that maybe he would consider towing us for a few miles until we found a mechanic. “Few” in this context really meant, say, one to two hundred miles, as the next dots on the map were the border towns with Zimbabwe and Zambia.

Joe hesitated, walked over to his cab, climbed in, and re-emerged with a thick rope. After knotting on, we had about ten yards between our Isuzu and the back of the truck. This was a problem. Without power brakes, we had to maintain enough slack behind the truck to not accidentally slam into its back upon a slowing down. Mark, since it was more or less his vehicle, was dubbed the one to stay awake and keep this from happening.

At this moment we were in one of the those giddily resigned states, a mix between “WTF” and “whatever.” The immediate moment was strange enough, and thinking a few steps further ahead caused a psychedelic effect upon the three of us.

As light began to crack and we took an obligatory stop to relieve ourselves, Joe told Mike that a driving force between his sudden pity on our situation was that he was terrified for our sakes that if we had stayed parked overnight where we were originally stranded, chances were that an elephant might have decided to try our Isuzu out as a new plaything.

Basically, Joe was our savior.

We finally pulled up to the border town with Zimbabwe, Pandamatenga, with our vehicle still in one piece. It was the first dot on the map we had arrived at since we began the tow, 100 km before (at about a 40 km/hr pace). Normally, this was where Joe would go north through Zimbabwe, but not during the mess the country has been in lately. Now he had to keep going north to the Zambian border.

Our more or less tacit agreement was that Joe would let us off here, at this first point of civilization. However, Pandamatenga was not really a town. It was not really anything. We did find a “mechanic”—a couple who lived in the middle of a junk yard with scattered bush vehicles lying around. They saw our white skin and began to noticeable salivate. Rule number one in negotiating prices is to be able to walk out, and we had no such option; we would have been at their mercy. Plus, we still had no cash. We would have to find a place that accepted credit card.

We needed Joe to take us another 100 kilometres north to the Zambian border, or else things were going to go from bad to worse very quickly.

And so the tale continues...

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Lonely Planet’s ’09 Tips Coming Soon

Reuters and Times both have sneak peeks at Lonely Planet’s recommendations for 2009, and from the look of things, good ol’ LP is advising everyone to be a little more adventurous. My first thoughts for 2009 would be that things are going to be cheap in places flattened by the economic crisis, like Iceland. Or Beijing where it seems post Olympic bargains must abound. But these are both comparatively dull to what LP advises, and I give the stuff old tour book company points for that.

Here are their top 10 countries for 2009 from Reuters:

1. Algeria
2. Bangladesh
3. Canada
4. Georgia
5. Greenland
6. Kyrgyzstan
7. Oman
8. Peru
9. Rwanda
10. Sierra Leone

And the top 10 destinations from the Times:

1. Bay of Fires - Tasmania
2. Basque Country - France & Spain
3. Chiloe - Chile
4. Ko Tao - Thailand
5. Languedoc - France
6. Nam Ha - Laos
7. The Big Island - Hawaii
8. San Andres & Providencia - Colombia
9. Svalbard - Norway
10. Yunnan - China

There are some predictable classics on both lists, but seeing a country with ongoing conflict (Georgia), 3 African countries, and a high-mountain Southeast Asian jungle on the lists gets my mind racing on places I want to explore next year.

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Stupidity and Survival in the Savannah: Part II

The much-maligned Isuzu by the time it limped backed to Nairobi

Continued from Part I. As a quick rewind, my two friends and I are stranded at 4 am in a Botswanan game area after our vehicle died. We are at least 100 km from any village.

We sat in silence for a few seconds. Having been on the Sub-Saharan roads for 20-some days at this point, we had been through our share of unwelcome surprises so far. Wearily discussing our options, it was clear our only real hope of moving anytime soon was to wave down another vehicle that could give the Isuzu another jump start.

Mike, the third companion on the trip, grabbed a pillow (I have no idea why) and a flashlight and stood on the side of the road. Now, “waving down a passing vehicle” in this context was not exactly a simple task. No other personal cars are dumb enough to drive through these parts of Africa that late at night; our savior would have to be a trucker.

Forturnately, the first trucker who came by halted and opened his door. Only later did he tell us that in fact the only reason he had stopped was due to the perception that Mike was pointing a gun at him underneath the pillow. (Mike, it should be noted, is a massive 280 pound, six-foot five half-Kenyan rugby player—our gut instinct that Mike as half-black would get a better reception than either of us two wazungu was in hindsight probably a bit shortsighted.)

After convincing the trucker that he was not brandishing a gun, Mike then succeeded in pleading the trucker not to drive away the minute he realized he was not in fact in dire harm. Unfortunately, the trucker did not have any jumper cables. Luckily, though, our new-found-friend agreed to help us wave down the next truck that rolled by.

With the first truck parked on the side of the road, we had no problem getting the next batch of trucks to stop as well. Eventually, we had a group of seven or eight African truckers huddled around our SUV. Trial and error soon proved that jump-starting was not the solution.

Although half of the group were looking under the hood of the car and discussing amongst themselves, the other half were rather apprehensively shining flashlights all around the surrounding bush terrain. I asked them what they were looking out for. “Lions,” was the reply. “They attack all around this region. We never walk outside our trucks in this area.”

I took that as my cue to climb back in the Isuzu and courageously observe the proceedings through the windshield.

Eventually, the truckers came to a conclusion: the alternator was broken. The battery was dead as was not going to recharge. We weren’t going to be driving anywhere anytime soon.

Part III coming shortly...

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