The Painful Realization of Too Many Things

Back in Nhkarta Bay a Peace Core friend had told me that Livingstonia was a place not to be missed. He informed me that it was a 10 km hike uphill and that it may be wise to drop off my traveling home. This could have easily been a possibility if I had gotten an early start that morning, but of course my sluggish packing habits only had me out of the hostel by 10:00 am.

                I arrived at the road block that signified the turn off to Livingstonia at approximately 3:00 pm. Apparently signs are over rated in Africa making it stressful to get off the bus halfway when I often have no idea where I am. The PPS system is normally the best strategy but do to my quite disgusting and awkward experience with the passengers surrounding me I had to go off what the PCV had told me. Sooner or later I expect that I will find some place in Africa that is not so spectacular but the 1000 m ascent in front of me had me hoping this was not that time.

                Have I mentioned before that my bag is ridiculously over sized and weighs more than the average African. Well it is so I assumed what normally took the average tourist four hours to hike would take me upwards of five hours. There is the option of having the Mushroom Farm transport pick you up but the outrageous cost of forty dollars was not welcome to an already stretched budget. The sun sets between 6:30 and 7:00 pm so I decided not to drop off my enormous back pack and just go for it.

                 After the first km I began to despise myself for this decision. Not only did I have my fifty plus pound bag on my back but I also had a thirty pound bag on my belly that hindered my leg movements. Whatever I’m stubborn young and dumb I can do it. After the third kilometer I was not so sure especially with the locals that were passing me effortlessly with the same sized bags balanced expertly on their heads.

I pushed on finding a way to forget about the weight by thinking of all the ways I would bitch out my Professor Dr. Chad Thatcher for his overkill packing list that I made sure to meticulously follow. I thought maybe I won’t have to say anything and I can just give him a swift kick to the shin and then leave him wondering why.  So after many diabolical scenarios had run through my head on how I could punish him I figured I had made it about halfway. Or at least hoped that I had because the sun was starting to set and my lonely planet guide did not have a good explanation of the location of the hostel.

I made it this far I can make it the rest. At this point I began to think of all the fun times where my stubbornness had got me into painful situations. Times like the lower glaciers of Denali mtn. where my 16 oz arm curls and a pack of cigarettes a day turned out to not be the best training method. Or the random decision to participate with my father in a sprint triathalon when I hadn’t been on a road bike in two years. Surprisingly all these memories gave me a boost because of all that I had overcome.

Two local boys had been quietly walking behind me whispering to themselves which seemed pointless because even if they were shouting I still wouldn’t have known what they were saying. However it was bothering me so I decided to take a break to let them pass. They both stopped with me and began to play charades in front of me which was quite confusing until after I let them dance around for a while and realized they were offering to carry my bag. Have I mentioned that I’m stubborn yet? The idea of having someone else carry my things is not acceptable to me I’m guessing because of me being a guide. Or that I’m from America where the word porter doesn’t exist.

After a smoke and the last of my water I attempted to stand up. My legs were not agreeing with my pride and after multiple embarrassing tries I sunk my head to my chest and agreed to give each porter three dollars to haul my luggage the rest of the way. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so humbled as I was in that moment. I gave up my bag and then watched these locals unceremoniously toss the gargantuan backpack onto their head and begin to almost run up the road as if there was a bluebird on their shoulder. I followed on rubbery legs wondering why I was not strong enough to complete the task at hand. No worries at least I’ll get there.    

We arrived at the turn off to Mushroom Farm shortly there after and I paid the porters and threw the bag on for the last sprint to the hostel. The lodging was beyond all expectations with beautiful rustic grass huts and a very entertaining older English couple that ran the place. I hung up my hammock style home on a ledge that was right on the edge of a large drop where I could hear a waterfall but not see it. As soon as the last piece of my bed had been put together I heard a call for dinner. Life is good I thought and settled in for a fantastic local meal with three other travelers and a sense of accomplishment that will give me boosts to finish tasks long into my life.

Boil Boil Toil Squirt and Slap

So it’s hard to start this off without a small warning that some experiences while adventuring are truly disgusting. Ever since I left the states I had a rock hard little zit in my earlobe. I never thought it was that big of an issue until after I realized that it was growing around Blankyre, Malawai.

Having had a similar experience while raft guiding with Adventure Bound River Expeditions, I knew relatively what to do. Leave it alone because I want to snorkel in Lake Malawai. Interesting fact, freshwater lakes that are balanced along the equator are not only unique habitats for incredible diversities of fish, but also bacteria as well. My lobe was never open while in the lake so no worries there. Except for maybe, the skin worms that can eat your brain if you don’t take the right meds!

I was preparing to get  on a Dala Dala (minibus) from Nkhata Bay on the upper northwest section of Lake Malwai and had to go through the difficult “see you later’s” that occur so often when meeting so many interesting people while traveling. It is truly hard to find so many amazing places and then go through packing your bag again. I had to catch a train out of Mbeya, Tanzania by Saturday so I had to move.

The ride was pleasant and uneventful for the first hour or so, until my ear had started to hurt. At that point I had to switch to another bus that became intensely crowded. My seat was in the front row all the way against the right hand side window. Sometimes this is a wonderful place for a tall guy, but this time a new imaginary row was added facing to the back effectively turning a four seat row into an eight seat row. This distracted me from my ear enough to try meeting some of the people I was intimately snuggling with without much of a choice. I was also rather happy about being against a window because then I could check my thumb knuckle sized boil on my right ear lobe.

Well I don’t know if anyone else has had a really annoying zit or ingrown hair and had the irresistible urge to toil with it, but this desire was unquenchable. So after I had met John to my left, Benjamin to the front, and Ungwa (I think) to the back I gave an ever so gentle squeeze. Well that action led to a reaction that could not have happened at a worse time. I was dirty in a very dirty place and now had a large hole in my ear that was draining puss and blood. Yay Africa! I grabbed my ever present toilet paper roll and prepared to drain the boil before I could wash it. The thing about REI travel rolls is that the paper is extremely thin. Hopefully you can’t see what is going to happen next because I’m rather glad that I didn’t.

 I applied pressure to the wound a bit more aggressively and the contents evacuated in response. The small amount of paper was apparently not prepared for the barrage and the disgusting missile took flight completely unknown to me. In claustrophobic spaces accuracy is not something to brag about but due to the contents and the landing zone this is one moment I won’t forget. The majority of the insides of my ear cavity soared through the air and landed directly between and a little above Ungwa’s eyes. Still this was not known to me as I thought I had contained the collateral damage.

I was then surprised by a nonviolent but firm slap that brought with it gifts much different than skin. My fingers ran across my face to assess the now coagulated, dripping wet beard. I found the leftovers of my boil and the horror of the moment was… well I guess you would have to be there. As I whipped my hairy face a glob with the diameter of a dime ended up all over my hand. I can’t imagine what was running through Ungwa’s mind after and during the incident. Out of shear terror I avoided asking suspending any contact after I am so sorry.  My mission still was not yet complete, but I learned to double up on the TP. My ear was successfully drained and now after a good swab of alcohol and a band aid I was off to Livingstonia for a 10 km hike!

P.S. I partially blame Mark Shoberg for the inspiration to blog about this.

Where the PCV's Reign

Nkharta Bay was introduced to me by Peace Core and the large majority of people I met there were Peace Core as well. Being surrounded by Americans was a relief from the grind of solo travel. Many things have been grand since I split with the Mesa State group but they were all shared by me, myself, and I. Although I think I make pretty good company if I hang out with me too long myself kind of turns into a dick.

                This was also the place where I had hoped to catch up to Mark and Annie or Justin. Travel is funny that way though because according to the sign in book Justin had left the day before the Shobergs, and I arrived the day after they left. Well no hurry because I don’t feel like rushing Lake Malawai.

                This ended up being a place where I read a lot and got a bit sick. Good thing two things Peace Core Volunteers have in mass amounts is movies and books. Also there were two rather charming young British women who accompanied me on the few adventures I went on in Nkharta Bay. The place was definitely not lacking adventurous activities, I was just adventured out and needed a reboot.

                A short run in the rain ending in a great European pub for shelter after a very pleasant day chilling on a beach and doing a small amount of snorkeling was the only venture I partook in there. I had at least one of those great memories of nightlife I can’t seem to remember as well.

With the help of my British friends and the local volunteers I was able to plan my route to Livingstonia, and then Mbeya Tanzania to catch a train straight to Dar es Salaam. By reading Marks blog I found that there was a slight chance to catch up to them and I sent them one of those nifty e-mail things. Not Justin though that guy is off and running he’ll be in Russia by the time I reach Zanzibar. Off to Mushroom Farm, just that name makes me think it will be great!

Vacation from Holiday

My second overnight ferry was a two night three day journey offering very few options other than books, beers, blogs, and bed. This at first was challenging, but the excitement of the last few days had caught up to me and I went comatossed do to sea sickness and exhaustion.

                After a few boat rides in the turbulent waters of Tofo Mozambique, I had not expected the glassy waters of a lake to cause nausea. With the absence of stabilizers the sixty year old Illala ferry was a rollercoaster ride that kept my tummy swimming for the beginning of the first day. Thankfully I had heard of an old sailors remedy to tempered seas, it involves drinking whiskey. I thought that was a pretty good idea and saddle up for some local brew. Not only did this solution help the ache of the last few days, but it also put me to sleep like a baby.   

                I was reading the new Dan Brown book the Lost Symbol so the second day flew by rather quickly. The baking hot sun reacted with the Doxicycline molaria medication and my skin burnt in minutes even with spf 30 sunscreen. Thank God for shade! The food was expensive and the water double mainland price which kept me kicking myself as I had done no shopping for the duration of the trip. Oh well, if I could remember all the lessons I’ve learned along the way I wouldn’t be able to fit anything else in my head. Yay journals and blogs.

                During the last night and into the final morning we experienced some heavy lightning, wind, and rain storms that demolished the shade/rain cover and turned first class into no class. The first class section of the Illala Ferry is completely exposed to the elements from all sides and on the uppermost deck. I had set up a tent for the first two nights but had taken it down because our arrival time was as early as 5:30 am. After the storms began to rock the unstabalised boat I found the use of the extra Tipo Tinto rum I had brought from Tofo. After three quarters of a bottle was down the hatch the storm became a lot of fun. Surrounded by Malawain military that reminded me a lot of hanging out with Marines I was out in the middle of the deck cheersing the storm and partying all by myself. I don’t know how insane I looked, but tell me where the fun is in sanity.

Well I guess the storm wasn’t impressed with the defiant young man and decided to give me a rude awakening after I had uncerimoniously passed out wherever the Tipo decided.  Early morning I was konked and opened my eyes after a small drop had hit my face. My eyes still blurry I saw a large mass moving towards me. Gurgle gurgle was all that came out of my mouth as I had opened my mouth to shout. With the tent cover above shredded the rain water had been allowed to collect in mass amounts. With a whip from the wind of an oncoming storm the contents of the resevoir broke loose directly on to my chest and face. Whelp, there’s my shower for the next three days.  It was also the way I met Gregg from the Malawai Peace Core who was more than happy to help me around Nhkarta Bay.

               

A Childlike Pickup Line

I woke up to an invigorating Lake Malawai breeze and looked on the surroundings of Venice Beach where my hammock style tent had provided me with a relieving rest after my Mongochi experience. I packed my bags, ate a tasty omelet, and prepared to head off on the 2 km, 70 lb portage to the Illala Ferry. The walk was tiring enough to help me despise the fact that I was carrying around 20-25 lbs of gear that I wouldn’t get to use on Mt. Kilomanjaro. I got to the toll booth and was relieved to set my bag down as I paid for my boarding pass. The process went smoothly and I now had a ticket for two nights to Nkhata Bay. Procrastinating putting my leviathan gear bag on I hung out with the local craftsman and bought a few souvenirs. In about the middle of the bartering a young three year old boy came up to me called me by name and then grabbed on to my hand. I’ve had a soft spot for children ever since the mud huts in Mwandi Zambia that I built with my group so I thought it was pretty cute. But even after I had to play the twister style game of paying the street vendors the child would still not let go of my hand. At this point I was rather confused so I asked my friends what was happening. Apparently this youngling was supposed to accompany me to the ferry while his mother did some shopping. Heh, what the hell? Once again the strength of the youth of Africa surprised me as the little guy’s vice hold would not give. I gave in and headed for the boat. Along the way I had all sorts of interesting questions like, “Is that your son”? or, “How old is your child”? were asked of me. This is the part where you say is this guy dense? The answer is yes because I trudged on, boy in hand. I made it to the very old boat and said hi to few friends I met in Cape Maclear and tried to explain to them why I now had a very cute African child attached to me. A peace officer began to come around and check passports and as he came to me you can only imagination what my story would be to explain my new found companion. I guess you don’t have to be Angolina Jolie to procure an African child. The crew began to search for the mother and an audible sound that manifested itself was a lot like kidnap. Oh shit!!! As I was being escorted off the boat, and the child I learned was called Roland was crying on the deck behind me, we eventually ran into the mother who was oh so kind to tell the policeman what was going on. After I thankfully was allowed to return to the boat the mother explained to me that she was shopping and that a good way to meet men was to send her child. All is well, I am not a kidnapper and her pickup line failed miserably. Nothing left to do but soak in the sun for two days. Phew!

A Simple Prayer An Extraordinary Answer

       As I left off before I mentioned my next challenge was getting to Mongochi, Malawai to get to a bank before the Illala ferry left from Monkey Bay. I had just spent three wonderful days in Cape Maclear and found a cheap ride into Monkey Bay late on the third day. I arrived around 4:00 pm and new that I had to make it to Mongochi and back that night if I wanted to catch the ferry the next morning. I grabbed my gargantuan bags and headed off on a sweltering 1.5 km hike to Venice Beach Backpackers. After a quick drop of everything but basic travel essentials I turned straight back around hoping to still catch a ride. Africa has no shortage of escorts and tour guides but through this experience I found many only tell you what you want to hear which is often no where near reality. This guide convinced me that my ride that was leaving at 5:00 pm would be back to Monkey Bay by the latest of 7:00. NOT! On my ride the first foreboding realization was watching the sun slowly set and knowing transport ends when darkness falls. At this point I turned to the money man and asked whether getting back to Monkey Bay was realistic. His response was a cackling that brought no hope to an already bleake chance. With nothing but a torch, med kit, and rain gear the idea of staying the night was not a welcome one. In my own head I began to laugh and think of how much fun it was going to be wandering around a town I've never been to and trying to find a bank in the dark. I was feeling very nervous and began to pray. It was calming and confidence began to grow the closer I got to Mongochi. After arriving I used the People Positioning System (PPS) to find the nearest bank and found that it was nearly a km away down an ominously dark road. Trust is hard when someone directs you into the dark. I got a couple of second opinions not wanting to wander into oblivion and then went for it. The road was full of bells unseen and reckless objects careening past creating a gauntlet of unlit cars, bikes, and baskets precariously balanced on the heads of locals. Ducking, jumping, strafeing, and limboing down the road a beacon of light appeared in the distance. Around me I saw there were lodges so it was a comfort knowing I could have a roof over my head even if it meant not catching the boat. Successfully dodging my way down the street I made it to the bank not looking forward to reversing the process with pockets full of cash. Then the extraordinary happened. While in a line of about fifteen men under a partially lit ATM a man began to talk with me. It was the basic greeting, hello, welcome, my name is, where are you headed? He seemed like a nice man and I told him I was stranded in Mongochi for the night. After a little more small talk he told me that he was a priest in town and might know a friend that could help me get back to my lodging that night. I didn't have my hopes too high but after I had finished my money grabbing he told me to get in his car and he would take care of me. Heh, I was still pretty nervous about this whether he was a priest or not. After we drove out of the bank he took me to a little hole in the wall bar where he shared the knews that he had a ride to Monkey Bay for me and that this was the spot we were meeting the driver. A simple prayer an extraodinary answer! After sharing a couple of beers his friend came and the priest Israel, the ambulance driver Gabriel, and the travelor Michael met and laughed about God being good all the time. The ride was free and very comfortable in a Toyota Hilux. Ha the universe really is on your side if you are after your dreams.

Small Explanation

Hello Readers!
         After some helpfull feedback from some family and friends I thought that I would clear a couple of things up. One I was asked why I called my long hikes through towns and cities called "death marches" and also why my poem sounded so Dr. Seusian?
         The Death March: I began using this term when I was separated from the group. At times the main reason to not go out into an unknown town is because I am alone. This at the beginning was a deathly fear comparable to droping into grade 5+  rapids or shooting for a crux move with a big fall out if you miss while climbing. In all situations you just have to commit and go for it. The second reason is because I am always moving or marching which leaves me dead tired at the end of the day.

          The Seusian Poem:  One of the greatest and best experiences I have had was reading Cat In the Hat and One Fish Two Fish to children and then playing football. The ryhme schemes are simple and playful making it stick in your head as well as fun to play with.
           Another post will be coming soon, i'll be in touch.