Death in the Delta

Our delta camp...

...and the leopard tracks nearby.

Also, hippo tracks.

Our trail through the delta. We never saw lions, but we heard them at night. 

Chibuku break in Boro Village.

Mushrooms growning out of elephant dung. Every turd is a little ecosystem.

BORO VILLAGE, Botswana - The hippo became the mythical swamp monster emblem of our trip to the Okavango Delta by dugout canoe. Its heavy, four-toed imprint crisscrossed our campsite on arrival and we were warned sternly to steer clear perpetually smiling, obese water horses whenever they lumber onto shore.

When the clear cool delta night descended on our bush camp (population: 3), the tell-tale crash of brush and almost feline growls sounded just steps away from our flimsy tent (and, as the spoor showed the next day, they were).

The hippopotamus is infamous in Africa as the deadliest beast this side of the mosquito. Its roly poly dimensions belie a dangerous aggression in the water and, when grazing on land, a need to trample anything and everything between it and the water.

Upon heading off to camp rough in the delta, the territory of lions, leopards and hyenas, all we heard were the hippo warnings.

These horror stories proved to be true just two days before we set out on the delta: two men drowned after their canoe was capsized by a hippo, not far from our riverside hostel.

But despite the warnings, our proximity to the animals, and the clear evidence of their fondness for our camp we still hadn't caught sight of a hippo nearing the end of our three day journey into the delta.

For the first two days they lurked, they foraged, and they grunted, but they never appeared.

I started imagining a b-list Jaws knock-off starring Lou Diamond Phillips - 'Hippo! Death in the Delta.'

This hippo paranoia (Could they be under the canoe, waiting to tip us?) was made worse by my unfortunate decision to buy our guide, Martin, a Chibuku (the ubiquitous, dangerously cheap fermented sorghum beer of southern Africa). It seems Martin had more of a taste for the sauce than I realized and instead of just stopping at one Chibuku, he took my offer as license to drink on the job as much as he wanted. I even caught him singing, 'Shake, shake, Chibuku,' (the drink's motto) while he made the campfire.

On the plus side, we got to tour his village on our Chibuku run, meet his family, and get bitten by the Boro Village ants (an important cultural experience). The downside was that our guide/poler/protector-from-wild-beasts was from time to time pushing us through croc- and hippo-filled waters with a fresh liter of swill in his belly.

I finally had to draw the line and cut off the booze during the day-time, when we headed away from the camp. He seemed disappointed.

One night, Martin came back from a fishing expedition with five wriggling tilapia and an excited look on his face.

"There are hippos in the hippo pools. Do you want to see?" (Hippos in the hippo pools seems a no-brainer, but we had passed through three times already and seen nothing but lilly pads).

"Is it safe," I asked.

"Exactly," Martin replied.

Martin had a funny way of using "exactly" as a catch-all response. It meant 'yes,' 'good,' 'sort of' and, most confusingly, 'exactly.'

A converstaion would go something like this:

'Has tourism been good for your village?'

'Exactly.'

'But I see a lot of people drinking Chibuku in the morning.'

'Exactly.'

'And how has the government taken care of your people, in terms of drinking water, medical care, that sort of thing?'

'Exactly.'

'And how many people live in Boro Village?'

'600.'

'Exactly?'

'Exactly.'

I took this most recent, hippo-related 'exactly' to mean, 'Well, you're in a dugout canoe in the water with angry one-ton animals, pal, so I can't exactly guarantee anything but, at the same time, I'm not risking my life so a couple of sunburned tourists can tell their friends they canoed with hippos. So are you getting in or not?'

So, under darkening rainy season clouds, we coasted through the water to a wide expanse of water lilies cut out of the reed-choked swamp prairie. As Martin poled us through the open water in our wobbly vessel, I got the same unsettling feeling I get in the ocean – something is beneath me and, because I can’t see it, it is very large.

At first we saw nothing. We scanned the water for any sign – a twitching ear, a barely visible pair of eyes – but nothing. I was okay with this, as by this time I had gone over and over in my head the unpleasantness of a hippo-caused death. The gnashing of massive teeth, the water filling the lungs, the awesome story I would not live to tell.

Then,100 meters away, a mighty spray, like a whale surfacing, but still actual hippo. I was getting a little nervous.

“Do they see us, Martin?”

“Exactly.”

So Martin did exactly what I didn’t want him to do. He pounded the water with his pole to agitate them enough to surface.

A massive set of jaws came out of the water, then nearby a set of eyes, the two beasts grunted, blew anther cloud of vapor skywards, and sunk back into the depths.

Swamp monster spotted, get the hell back to camp.

A hitch in our plans

They weren't kidding.

We skipped this ride. Must be getting soft.

Smugglers of some sort racing away from the ferry from Zambia to Botswana after throwing their jerry cans onboard without paying.

KAZUNGULA BORDER POST, Botswana – Much of Botswana is one long, lonely road cut through an endless expanse of flat, unpeopled scrub land, where elephants outnumber cars and potholes outnumber people. Distances are vast, towns are few, and the dusty earth shimmers in the mean afternoon sun.

In other words, a bad place to be without a ride.

After crossing the Zambezi River from Zambia on a rickety pontoon ferry, we found out we had missed the last (only) bus out of the frontier. We still had about 650 km to go, so it was time to stick our thumbs out and escape the heat. It didn’t take long before two construction workers picked us up. Hitchhiking, or ‘hiking,’ as everyone in Southern Africa calls it, is so common there’s a nearly formalized system in Botswana.

The only stops we made for the next 300 km were for elephants, who would nonchalantly saunter out of the bush, loiter in the road, and slowly shove off. We were dropped at the ‘town’ of Nata, essentially a gas station, Chibuku bar, and a herd of cows at northern Botswana’s main road junction and 30 minutes later were in the cab of a soda truck, rocking out to South African pop two truckers were blasting to stay awake after a brutally long day on the road.

At sunset we arrived in Maun, at the edge of the Okavango Delta. Two rides, 650 km - our drivers even stopped to let us gape at the elephants.

The tally 2

Day 64. Maputo, Mozambique. Our trip by the numbers so far.

Miles traveled: 6,700

Countries visited: 8

Miles logged on anything other than local transport: rented a car in Namibia for about 1,500 km, then got back to Windhoek and took the bus to Cape Town.

Times we high-centered the rental in the Abu Huab river bed: 2

Longest bus ride: 25 hours

Vomiting bus passengers: 1

Miles hitchhiked: 900

Modes of transport: Bus, death-trap mini-bus, shared taxi, motorcycle, ferry, train

Angry bus church sermons: 1

Days at sea: 3

Nights in the tent: 25

Days on safari: 2

Wild animals spotted: lions, elephants, cape buffalo, giraffes, warthogs, impala, baboons, vervet monkeys, one dung beetle + dung, one overly friendly chameleon, and countless incredible birds, including the African fish eagle and lilac-breasted roller.

Deadly snakes/scorpions seen on hikes: 2

Robberies: 1

Scams attempted: 1

Scams thwarted: 1

Bribes solicited: 1

Bribes paid: 0

Arrests: 0

Cell phones lost/broken: 2

Bug bites: lost count

Times I have violated Aunt Goldie’s plea to avoid street food: more than I care to tell Goldie

Serious intestinal problems: incredibly, 0

Link to map of our journey:

http://www.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=Dar+es+salaam,+tanzania&daddr=arusha,+tanzania+to:mbeya,+tanzania+to:Nkhata+Bay,+Malawi+to:Monkey+Bay,+Malawi+to:Lilongwe,+Malawi+to:Livingstone,+Zambia+to:Maun,+Botswana+to:Windhoek,+Namibia+to:Etosha+National+Park,+Ombika,+Kunene,+Namibia+to:Swakopmund,+namibia+to:Sesriem,+Hardap,+Namibia+to:Windhoek,+Khomas,+Namibia+to:cape+town,+south+africa+to:Durban,+KwaZulu-Natal,+South+Africa+to:Swaziland+to:Maputo,+Maputo+City,+Mozambique&hl=en&geocode=Fffjl_8dHTVXAinx1psWrktcGDHdoYagJmsPlA%3BFWOkzP8dkpsvAilBGd3Lihw3GDGKgznyBUH_Ng%3BFWAyeP8dEGj-ASnNmRNxHqAAGTGlIx91P_USQA%3BFZjiTv8diEcLAilvyhKV-GgdGTHhgM_CNlr0bQ%3BFfsaKf8dO8kUAikzoI00KLzfGDFY-Nm0p-4hiA%3BFZuhKv8dJX4DAikFmCn8H9MhGTH5P6Agn-u3BA%3BFUmD7_4dkpGKASlvNVhZm_BPGTFqKDfWpxQiSA%3BFcfpzv4dIFZlASmZAghMBU1UGTFLL4LtJcF8rQ%3BFUjHp_4dcagEASntAQyzXBsLHDE7XUTMQEm45A%3BFYkK2f4d2TrzACmJ8zPM2A2NGzGBwLkyVPdHiw%3BFUsFpv4dYK3dACmP10QL71h2HDFMPDjDOwSe3g%3BFdZciv4dOBvxAClNUR84iopyHDGJTOfB_Q4fAw%3BFUjHp_4dcagEASntAQyzXBsLHDE7XUTMQEm45A%3BFfxY-v0d9yAZASnX7iaID1DMHTGHqigo_OF_aA%3BFaxnOP4dfXHZASm3YbwBAKr3HjGBbqrERlWnzA%3BFXlMa_4diiHgASkHDzJH4c7oHjFpcA0YL8Y9wQ%3BFbXHc_4dpS7xASlV2ma2I5fmHjFCtGuaV39JQg&mra=ls&sll=-6.102645,36.218085&sspn=10.211651,28.081055&ie=UTF8&ll=-21.943046,16.699219&spn=28.303698,160.136719&z=3

Vic Falls

The falls.

And again.

Eighty-year-old theater in downtown Livingstone, now empty because the owner didn't pay rent.

Downtown Livingstone.

Ouch.

LIVINGSTONE, Zambia – Zambia was a fairly quick drive-through with a few days a Victoria Falls, which is, shockingly, very beautiful. Livingstone is a laid-back town with some beautiful colonial buildings and Connie survived a robbery attempt by a thieving baboon. Other than that, I’ll leave it to photos.

The humanitarian

Plagiarism note: Anyone who has read Paul Theroux’s brilliant, curmudgeonly book, “Dark Star Safari” (if you haven’t, you should) will notice a similarity with his account of border problems in Malawi. It’s purely coincidence, though his account actually helped guide me in my dealings with the border agent.

MALAWI-ZAMBIA BORDER – For a country that hasn’t fought a war, there’s a curious number of police and military checkpoints in Malawi. If you’re on a tour or in a rental car, you’ll probably just be waved through and think little of it, but riding the local mini-buses I noticed an odd pattern. We were almost always stopped and after a brief conversation between the bus conductor and the cops, the fuzz would get on.

Sometimes they would even boot the passengers from the front to get the prime seats (also the deadliest, I imagined, but I don’t think they were thinking that far ahead). They never paid.

So I started looking closely at the checkpoint goings on and saw that the conductors would walk with one hand behind their back, a wad of Kwacha (Malawian money) in their palm and return empty-handed. These bus operators weren’t making a killing - $4 a pop for a five to six hour ride – and not only did they have to bribe these guys, they often had to give them a free ride.

Malawi has many charms – a deeply hospitable vibe, lush forests, a massive azure lake dotted with fishing villages – but under the surface there’s an ugly corruption made uglier by the poverty of the people made to pony up to the greedy bureaucrats.

University, even secondary school, is a pipe dream for many without government connections, let alone a good job.

For most of my time in Malawi I saw the graft flash by, dream-like. It was dirty and disappointing but it didn’t involve me.

On our tenth day in Malawi, we arrived at the Zambian border. We walked up to the Malawian counter all smiles, ready to leave the country and start the next adventure. The sour-faced border agent was not smiling. As he flipped through our passports, he shook his head.

‘There is a problem,’ he said grimly.

‘What’s the problem, sir,’ I asked, puzzled.

‘She has overstayed her visa,’ he said, not even making an attempt to look Connie’s way.

He showed us our passports, mineshowing a 30-day stamp (the maximum allowed for a free tourist visa), Connie’s showing a seven-day stamp. It was odd, indeed, as we had handed in our passports together and asked for the same amount of time.

The scam clicked in my head immediately – stamp short on one end in hopes of a bribe opportunity on the other – and I thought to myself, ‘This son-of-a-bitch will get nothing.’

‘There is a problem,’ I said. ‘It appears your man made a mistake at the Tanzanian border.’

‘He did not make a mistake, look at the stamp,’ the bureaucrat retorted with distinctly uncreative circular logic. ‘There are laws in Malawi and they must be respected…(blah, blah, blah).” He waved the fraudulent stamp, and gave a long-winded speech about respect for the law.

He got frustrated when we wouldn’t play his game and hauled us into his office to intimidate us.

‘You will have to go to Lilongwe and pay ($35) to get an extension,’ he said, still not talking to Connie, the person with the visa problem. Lilongwe was five hours away. This was pure bullshit.

‘No, we’re going to Zambia today,’ I said.

Connie, understandably upset by the situation, then did two things that helped our caused. First she said to the dithering officer, ‘Look, I don’t want to go to jail.’ I felt a sympathy synapse twitch in the man’s small brain.

Then, more presciently, ‘Well, why don’t you call the Tanzanian border to clear this up.’

‘But it’s Sunday,’ he sputtered.

‘Surely the phones work on Sunday,’ I said.

He changed the subject. ‘What if I just let you walk to Zambia?’ still not making eye-contact with Connie. The unfinished end of the sentence, of course, was ‘What is that worth to you?’

‘That’s exactly what we want,’ I said. ‘I know what you want, but you won’t get it. I think we need to speak to your boss.’

The reptilian thief hauled us around front and launched into another lecture on the law. I knew we had won and just needed to keep quiet while he saved face.

‘I am stamping her through on humanitarian grounds,’ he said with a straight face, again looking at me.

We walked across, apparently refugees fleeing to Zambia.

Get me off this rollercoaster

A lovely view from the mini-bus, but difficult to enjoy when focused on thoughts of fiery death.

KARONGA, Malawi – When the fuel smugglers crammed full jerry cans of their black market goods under our collapsing seat, I should have called it a ride, got out, and hitched from wherever the hell we were. Instead I gritted my teeth and did the same thing I always do – hoped for the best, promised myself I’ll never do anything like this again and then promptly broke the promise.

Connie and I were in the most wrecked mini-bus we had seen, which is akin to saying, “I just ate at the worst Arby’s I’ve ever seen” – a high bar indeed. What used to be a Toyota van looked as if a small nuclear explosion had gutted it, leaving only bits of seat foam attached to twisted metal. There were 25 people inside a creaking disaster made for 12.

Malawi is a stunning, mountainous country rotten with destroyed roads that cut through dizzying terrain with suicide corners that drop off into scenic jungle far below. “Perhaps a tree will catch us before we fall too far,” I thought as our insane driver squealed around corners on what must have been bald tires. He had been stuck behind a sluggish truck for a few minutes and seemed to be trying to make up time.

My neighbor, a Malawian, turned to me with grim resignation. “He seems to be going faster now.”

I envisioned the crash, the explosion, and the few survivors scrambling to exit what was left of the burning van. I thought of the great deal the ride was – a six hour hop for about $4 – and what a cheap moron I was.

Our driver pressed the pedal ever lower, nearly hopping the silver coffin over steep rises, careening down steep grades, and passing as if to dare other potential drivers coming the opposite direction to take the same blind curve. A boulder-strewn river raged far below.

I looked over at Connie. She gripped the seat in front of her tightly. Her face was etched with fear, but she remained much calmer than could be reasonably expected from any sane human being with a survival instinct. Perhaps it was the wrong time for a joke.

“Well, I think we’re either going to die or get their early,” I said.

I was wrong on both counts. Late by a half-hour (but what’s late really, when you’re taking go-when-we-fill-up mini-buses?), we pulled in very much alive, exhaled, and got onto the next mini-bus.

Drink Diaries Vol. 1:

Mmm, chunky. Note the disgusted look on Connie's face.

“Wow,” I thought. “Malawians sure like their dairy products.”

 Everywhere, groups of young men sat around drinking from white and blue milk cartons, looking to be in calcified, strong-boned good spirits.

Upon closer inspection, I realized they were drinking the southern African beer of the people: Chibuku (shake shake). Though referred to locally as a beer, you will be in for an unhappy surprise is you sip it expecting golden, hoppy refreshment.

Chibuku is a thick, gritty, sour amalgam of fermented maize, sorghum and yeast the color of dirty milk. At 3.5 percent alcohol, it makes up for strength in quantity, being sold in flimsy one liter milk cartons for about 50 cents a pop. It’s an acquired taste and one quite a few locals have acquired a bit too much.

Southern Africa is no haven for fine booze (with the glaring exception of South Africa’s wine region), but I’ve managed to sample an array of local drink, ranging from awful firewater to delicious craft beer.

Having a national beer is like having a national airline, and like the latter, no country lets lack of quality  or safety get in the way of this point of pride.

In Tanzania there are several local lager but the king, both in strength and taste, is Safari, a malty, slightly sweet and extremely drinkable lager. Cheaper, and much better for cauterizing wounds, is Konyagi, the local sugar cane fire water.

Malawians are very proud of their 3.5 percent alcohol Kuche Kuche - I was told by several Malawians that it translates roughly to “drink until the morning,” and you would have to in order to loosen up. Their motto is “Mowa Watu Watu,” which means “A beer of our own” and it’s brewed, of course, by Carlsberg of Denmark. The watered down malt liquorish beverage’s main attraction is its cheapness, followed closely by the fact that it is, indeed, beer.

The real gem in Malawi was the generic Malawi brand liquors, though. At less than a dollar for a 200 ml bottle, the brandy, gin, and vodka line is dangerously cheap, and surprisingly okay. The sweet brandy improved a few rough days at sea.

Botswana’s St. Louis Export – the strangest name for a local beer – is your typical national lager: inoffensive and Budweiserish.

In formerly German Namibia, the beer scene improves, and you can even find thoroughly decent craft beer brewed by Camelthorn Brewing in the capital, Windhoek. They make a great German-style hefeweizen and my favorite, an American-style red ale, balanced and slightly bitter. Even the old stand-by, Windhoek Lager is a cut above its neighboring national beer rivals, though the cheaper Tafel is not worth the 30 cents savings. The main commercial brewer, Namibian Brewing, even has a tasty seasonal bock beer, made only in winter for those frosty 70-degree days.

If you really want to drink southern Africa, though, it’s all about the Chibuku. Even the smallest one-road outpost has a Chibuku shack that never closes, where locals sit on rough-hewn wooden benches and dance the afternoon away to ear-splitting reggae. ‘Shake shake’ is the drink’s motto and nickname, referring both to drinking instructions and the effect it has on the consumer.

 The ‘international beer’ is gulped, not sipped, perhaps because it tastes a bit like milk that’s gone a couple weeks past it’s sell-by date or maybe because no one drinks it to stay sober. One thing’s for sure: the only thing that makes Chibuku taste better is more Chibuku.

 I met a Zimbabwean in Botswana whose father used to work for Chibuku. He was very proud of his father’s work and he himself helped pay for college by working for Chibuku. He drinks Windhoek.