Hypertravel with Hardie #7: Welcome to East Africa

Welcome to the latest, and seventh, episode of my Hypertravel with Hardie video series, here on YouTube, about all the trips I’ve taken in the last twenty years or so. This trip to East Africa just so happens to perfectly coincide with Chapter Seven of my original Hypertravel book, which I published in 2012, so I’m glad that’s convenient if you’re following along. This came only a few weeks after my Mideast trip, so that’s still in my heart and in my head, with only the Rose Bowl Parade and my girlfriend’s face to define the space between. I could’ve just stayed in London for that interim period, but that’s a decision I had to make. Africa is a bit of a tough nut to crack, after all, so any extra time and space to rest up and catch my breath is more than welcome. Often that happens in TJ, Mexico, actually, even though my wife is in LA, California USA. And this trip is no exception to the ‘Africa is broken’ theme. Because, right off the plane, at 07 am, my hostel driver in Nairobi, Kenya, informs me at the airport that the hostel is full, and the rain is falling, and a no-tell motel won’t tell, BUT..;. My driver’s got a place, though, of course, HIS place, conveniemtly located and ready to rock, all at affordable prices. It’s raining. It’s only for 2-3 nights. So I do it, damn the torpedoes. I’ve got a private bedroom, at least, and a kid that loves me, so who cares if I have to shit and shower in the same place. Welcome to Africa, and don’t forget to spread your legs when you flush! They’re all out partying the first night, of course, they flush with newfound wealth, what once was my wealth. I guess I can’t blame them. ‘The chief’, though, that’s his moniker, is nice enough. I just cant’ help the feeling that this is all a set-up. How would he know the hostel is full at 07 am, after all? This was the year 2010. Internet bookings were new. People come and go every day. This was not a weekend. So, it’s suspicious, but what else would i do? Hire a taxi to the original place? It was raining. At least The Chief took me out to his village, so that was nice. I skipped the parties. This requires full atention. But i got my onward ticket the first day, and assured him that i’d be back. That’ll work. Next stop is Uganda, Kampala by night bus. So, we do the border formalities between the two countries by candle light. Nice. From there it’s only a short hop into the city. And it’s pretty nice there, nicer than most. If I’d known that when I was there, I might’ve stayed longer. I’ve given up on hostel bookings in Africa, though, so I’m going old school again. No, not Lonely planet, older than that. I mean looking around the bus station, as long as it’s central, and finding a nice cheap place there. It works. That’s what i wuold do in the 70’s, long before Lonely Planet. But Kampala reminds me a bit of the old Deep South in the US, the nice part. Kigali, Rwanda, should be so nice. The night ride to there is interesting, especially Mbarara partying all night, but the Customs by canlelight is getting old. It gets worse. If Rwanda is cool and aloof, then, Burundi is downright racist, with calls of ‘Muzungu’ following me around like a bad smell. The views are good, though, these the mountain provinces of the continent. They had a war, of course, rival Tutsis and Hutus, so those feelings may still be a bit hard around the edges. But the strangest thing is the plastic bag policy in Rwanda, which will literally confiscate your plastic ones, and charge you to replace them with paper ones. The cost of an infraction is fifty bucks USD. Ouch. From there I buy a ticket to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. Otherwise, it’s an even longer drive to Malawi, so that’ll come later. There’s only one problem: Tanzania doesn’t allow bus travel at night. There are workarounds, though, or maybe runarounds, better said. Dar es Salaam is nice, enough, too, but hot hot hot. It’s a long run to Lilongwe, Malawi, too, a long frieght run, since the whole bus is packed to the gills with goods. That means long waits at the border crossings, of course, which consumed almost a whole day. The re-pack is even worse, so we’re soon a rolling time bomb. I finally find a backpacker hostel, though, South African tent-camp style, so that’s cool. I always liked it when backpackers were once campers, complete with sleeping bag. But it’s basically pretty boring. Mbeya is better, a crossroads town in southern Tanzania, but only if you like clockwork. Muslims apprently do, along with cats and other fetishes. But here all the mosques are chock full of clocks! So, I catch the ferry to Zanzibar, just in time for the Sauti za Busara music festival. And it’s good, but there’s a problem. The power is off all day. Welcome to Pakistan. Welcome to Nepal. Welcome to that cheap-ass room down the hall. Some people work during the day. Digital nomads do it at home, wherever home happens to be. Prices are twice as high as Dar es Salaam, too. So, I go back and then head north to Kilimanjaro, the most famous mountain in Africa. Arusha is the access point, and it’s pretty nice, too, cooler if not cold, and backpacker central in this part of Africa. It’s a bone-jarring affair from there back to Nairobi, though, but that’s the deal, so I find my own place there this time around and report my previous hostel hijacker ASAP, upon departure. The circle is now complete. Stockhom Syndrome? Ha. No way, Jose’. The flight to Madagascar is rainy but nice, as is Antananarivo itself, the capital city. It may not rival San’aa, Yemen, for beauty, but it comes close. And San’aa has since been largely destroyed, too. These are original Asians, we know, from Indonesia’s islands, so one of the major mysteries of world history. There are others of similar bent. But the interesting thing is that they still occupy the highlands while relegating the lowlands to Africans, not only maintaining a distinct look, but also distinct habits, like rice and noodles. Count me in. They also have dual currency, so that’s fun, constantly doing math in the head. But the Big Thrill in Madagascar comes at the very end; hundreds of joggers on the road to the airport at 04 am. Somehow i feel totally vindicated–about everything. Comoros should take lessons. I don’t know if all French colonies are jerks, or what, but these guys have an attitude, just like Djibouti or Tahiti or Cannes. But it’s okay for a few days, adn then I’m back to madagascar, ready to see some new terrain. But my body won/t allow it. I’ve got a case of gout that will barely let me walk, and certainly not travel. So, I just get homey and cozy and resigned to the signs, the signs of age and physical decay that plague us the boomers and boners and never-go-homers that populate the farther reaches of civilization. There’s no rest for the wicked, though. When money disappears out of my pocket, i trace it back to a collection of kids crowding a thoroughfare to make things tight and then slipping and sliding fingers when the timing is right. It works every time, twenty-five bucks for the little yippers and yappers. Then I realize that this is my 121st country. That’s 11 squared. Did you know that the difference between squared numbers increases by two each time, so that you can could by odd numbers between them? If the squares are 4, 9,16, 25, 36, etc, then the numbers between them are 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, etc. There’s always something to celebrate. This trip is over, just back to LA via London, same ol same ol. I hope you liked the story and the video. It’s all true. So please like and subscribe if you did. I’d really appreciate it. Next week we’ll go to the South Pacific, see you there.