Tanzania and Malawi

After arriving back in Tsumeb, we began the onerous task of removing the layers of dust from all of our belongings. On the plus side, the soft beds at Mousebird were a welcome relief after a few days of roughing it in Etosha. While we were excited about moving on from southern Africa, we dreaded the long journey from Tsumeb all the way to Johannesburg, where we had to catch a flight to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania. At Mousebird, we fortuitously met an Israeli couple, Goni and Elad, who were driving their rental car from Tsumeb to Windhoek. Rather than deal with the hassle of hailing a minibus, we joined them for the four hour journey back to Windhoek, the departure point for our bus to Johannesburg. Goni and Elad were great travel partners and the ride went quickly as we conversed on a range of topics. As with any Israeli-American conversation, politics took the forefront and it was illuminating to hear Israeli views of the world. To make matters even easier, they were staying at the Cardboard Box Backpackers as well, so we rolled into Windhoek in the afternoon, checked into the hostel and hung out for the evening. Our bus to Johannesburg was not leaving until late the next afternoon, so we slept late, had breakfast, and then headed into town to have lunch and take care of errands before our long ride.

We arrived at the Windhoek bus station, actually just an empty parking lot, 30 minutes before our scheduled 5:30pm departure. In typical fashion, the bus did not arrive until 7:30pm, but we boarded the bus and were happy to finally be on our way. Frustratingly, the bus moved about 20 feet and then stopped. Fifteen minutes later the bus driver announced that there were mechanical problems and another bus had to be called. Finally, at 9:45pm, we were seated on the new bus and on our way to Upington, South Africa, where we had to change buses to get to Johannesburg. The trip to Upington took about 14 hours, including a stop at the Namibia-South Africa border. Luckily, the bus from Upington to Johannesburg was still at the station, even though we arrived about four hours late. While the seats in the new bus, an Intercape Sleepliner, were very comfortable, it turned out that the air conditioning system was broken. Thus, we spent the next 11 hours traveling in a sweltering bus in the heat of the South African day. It was really rough but we were just glad to make it to the Johannesburg bus station, where we were retrieved by our old friend Willy from the Diamond Diggers Backpackers. Upon our arrival at Diamond Diggers, we greeted Barbara and Jason, who had so kindly cooked us a delicious dinner. We showered up and then headed to bed, totally drained by the long trip from Windhoek. The next day, August 8, we had totally free. We spent a large part of the day watching the Olympic opening ceremonies with the crew and guests at Diamond Diggers. It was certainly the most impressive opening ceremonies I have ever seen and perhaps one of the greatest spectacles, period. Inspired by the events in Beijing, we ordered Chinese food and watched some movies before calling it an early night.

We awoke the next day at once excited and trepidacious about our journey to Dar Es Salaam. We had no idea what to expect of eastern Africa, but were dying to find out. Our flight to Dar was smooth, although the process of going through immigration to obtain our visas was wildly chaotic and inefficient, a harbinger of life in Tanzania. After much haranguing, we caught a taxi to our lodging for the next few days, the Jambo Inn (Jambo means hello in Swahili). Driving into the city, we were struck by how much less developed the city was than in southern Africa. Buildings were run down, traffic was mental, and it was dirty. As the taxi turned down a pretty dicey street, we both internally hoped that we were just taking a shortcut. Alas, we had reached Libya Street, the area in which the Jambo Inn was located. It's pretty hard to describe what it looked like, and we dared not take out our camera, but the word squalor comes to mind.

We pulled into the Jambo Inn and were immediately beset by a crowd of locals offering services and goods of all kind. The most aggressive were the taxi drivers, which was odd since we clearly had just exited a taxi. We made our way through the throng and checked in. Our room left much to be desired, but we were just happy to have a place to call our own for a bit. Being significantly closer to the Equator, it was markedly hotter in Tanzania and we spent most of our time in the city sweating a ton. However, that made the cold (only) shower feel great. We went for a walk around the area trying to find a place to eat. But, being Saturday, not much was open. We walked into a pub that looked promising, but quickly exited when we determined that it was pitch black and NOT a place that catered to white people. We finally settled for the restaurant at the Jambo Inn and got our first lesson in the difficulties of ordering food in East Africa. The menu was quite extensive, a mix of African and Indian food, which was a pleasant surprise. We asked our waitress if all of the items on the menu were available that evening, to which she replied in a snotty voice: "Of course." Of course, indeed. The first four things that we tried to order, she calmly told us were not available, which was odd considering her aggressive stance on the matter not 30 seconds before. In the end, we decided on some gajjar chicken, which seemed to be in plentiful supply. The first meal that arrived was woefully undercooked, so we sent it back and hoped that nobody would spit in our food. In the end, the food turned out delicious and we went to bed satiated and ready to explore the next day.

Over free breakfast the next day (which consisted of one fried egg without the yolk, two pieces of bread, and coffee), we discussed our future plans. After hearing so much about Malawi from the British trio in Swakopmund, we were pretty intrigued to head down there. On the other hand, Tanzania was home to Serengeti National Park and Mount Kilimanjaro. We thought it through and decided that Etosha had been so great that we didn't really feel the need to go on another safari and that Kili was just too expensive. We knew from the Brits that we could hop on a train bound for Mbeya in the west of Tanzania and then venture down to Malawi from there. However, in order to get a first-class cabin, the only "safe" option, we would need to fill all four berths or else we would have to be split up, as the train refuses to put different sexes in the same cabin unless all four "know" each other. This was a wrinkle for sure, as we didn't know anybody else in Dar. It was Sunday morning and the train left on Tuesday, so we didn't have much time to find a couple of people to share our cabin. We resolved to enjoy the day and then spend Monday trying to round up travel partners. To that end, we caught a cab to a nice area on the water called the Slipway. We found a cute little cafe to have lunch, enjoyed a couple of beers at another bar in the area, and shopped in the local market.

Hanging out at the Slipway, a nice respite from the hectic Libya Street area.

Lauren was excited because it was finally warm enough to wear a dress. Isn't she lovely?

When we returned back to the Jambo Inn, we sat our front waiting to talk to the manager so that we could ask him details about the train to Mbeya. In a brilliant stroke of luck, we struck up a conversation with the British couple sitting across from us, who revealed that they had just come from Zanzibar and were planning on heading down to Malawi on Tuesday as well. Perfect! We agreed to share a first-class cabin and just like that our major travel roadblock had been crossed. Our chance meeting of the British couple, Beth and Pete, buoyed our spirits beyond their normally elevated level, especially as we realized how cool and easygoing they were. Parting ways for the evening, we agreed to meet for breakfast on Monday and then head to the train station to purchase our tickets. After another Jambo Inn dinner and a shaky internet session using a pirated wireless signal, we headed to bed ready to finalize our travel arrangements. Breakfast the next morning was the usual affair, which we joked about with Beth and Pete, who we found out were from close to Leicester, had met while working shit jobs, and quit those jobs to travel together. They had come to Dar by way of Kenya and Uganda, so Dar to them was an improvement in facilities and development. We shared a taxi to the train station, where we waited in line for about an hour before purchasing all four berths in a first-class cabin to Mbeya. It felt really good to get that out of the way.

After that was done, Beth and Pete had to take care of getting Beth a plane ticket back to Nairobi, as she had to fly home for her sister’s wedding after their trip down to Malawi. We had intended to take a boat ride to the Bongoyo Nature Reserve and spend most of the day on the beach, but our taxi driver suggested that we head to the Southern Beaches instead. Rolling the dice, we decided to take his advice. He drove us to and then onto the ferry, which only took about five minutes, and then drove us through the Kigamboni area to a beach resort called Kipepeo. We were glad to take his advice as Kipepeo served us a tasty lunch and then we spent the afternoon swimming in the warm Indian Ocean and relaxing on the beautiful white sandy beach. Samwell, our driver, also spent the day on the beach, so it was a win-win situation for everybody. As the evening approached, we retraced our route back to the Jambo Inn, where we showered up and walked to a Chinese restaurant that Beth and Pete had recommended as being good and cheap. It was both. Tired from our day in the sun, we packed our bags for the next day’s journey, never difficult as we don’t have that much stuff, and read a while before falling asleep.

As Tuesday dawned, a new segment of our trip began. We breakfasted, exchanged some money, bought some books for the journey, and then took a taxi to the train station. It was packed full and the four of us, being white, were in the distinct minority. As opposed to South Africa and Namibia, which have relatively sizeable white populations, Tanzania was the first place where we were always in the extreme minority. It wasn’t a bad feeling, on the contrary it felt like we were truly in the heart of Africa. We had no trouble finding our compartment and settled in for the scheduled 21 hour ride. We were glad to be sharing the tiny space with people with whom we had become familiar and whose company we immediately enjoyed. Shockingly, the train rolled from the station precisely on time. We passed the next few hours in conversation and just as we set out to find the dining car, a porter approached us to take our orders for dinner. Meal service was not a luxury that we were expecting. Three of our meals came an hour later, but there was a mix-up and Lauren’s food was missing. Another hour passed before her meal arrived, much to our collective chagrin. Being the consummate negotiator, she told the porter that she would only pay half-price for the meal because it took twice as long to arrive. The porter was flustered by this deal, but Lauren stood her ground and he finally acquiesced. I think people are not used to a tiny blonde telling them the score, but she is fantastic at bargaining and getting her way, which comes in very handy. After dinner, we conversed some more, had a couple of beers, and then taught Pete and Beth our dice game, Farkel, to which they took an immediate liking. Around midnight, with the movement of the train lulling us to sleep, we settled into our small but comfortable beds and conked out.

Our first-class cabin on the Tazara train from Dar Es Salaam to Mbeya, with Pete and Beth on the right. Instead of a normal light switch in our cabin, we just had two exposed wires that you had to push together to turn on the lights. Fortunately, the current was very light and Lauren was able to operate the switch, as above.

At two in the morning, I awoke, troubled by the conspicuous lack of motion and the massive cacophony of voices surrounding the train. I tried to fall back asleep, but as one hour of dormancy became two, I was worried that we were stuck in some random Tanzanian town. The presence of so many vendors, many of them children, at this ungodly hour also seemed odd. By seven we had still not moved an inch, and Lauren set out to find out what was wrong. One of the porters explained that the train’s brakes had failed and, in an uncharacteristic move, the conductor elected to fix them before we descended an approaching steep hill. The process took two hours, but the train conductor, abusing the little authority he possessed, forced us to stay in the station for another three hours to punish us for not telling him how long we would remain at his station. Annoyed but exhausted, we went back to bed as the train began moving, awaking in time to eat the breakfast that was delivered to our cabin. The rest of the day passed with Farkel, reading, napping, and just hanging out watching the terrain pass. We rode through a host of very basic rural villages and waved to the youths as we passed. At one such village, I went to wave to some kids and accidentally knocked an empty Fanta bottle out of the window, which shattered on the tracks and scared the children. I was mortified to have given these young Africans any reason to hate the mzungus, which is a Swahili word that loosely translates as “white devil,” and is what all of the locals call Caucasians.

One of the villages that we passed on the way to Mbeya. These kids are running for fun, not because I accidentally chucked a glass bottle at them.

After 26 hours on the train, we finally rolled into Mbeya. We disembarked and were immediately met by a bunch of too sharply dressed locals, including an evil looking man in all black with a black leather jacket (more on him later), who offered us spots on a bus across the Malawi border and all the way to our respective destinations of Chitimba and Mzuzu. Fortunately, we had been warned about these cads. The bus operation is a scam whereby you are taken to the border with a promise that a bus will be waiting on the other side and there is no other bus. We noted that six or seven people had already signed up and wished that we could somehow contact them to warm them off, but that was not possible. Instead of falling for the trap, we took a taxi to the New Holiday Lodge, where we checked into our rooms and then met in the restaurant for a very subpar dinner of steak that had the consistency of beef jerky. I was not worried because for some reason, this dive hotel had satellite TV and I finally got to watch some Olympic events. In fact, one of the channels was showing a Reds-Dodgers baseball game. It was a little luxury that went a long way towards helping us forget that the hotel had no toilet paper (we used tissues) or any hot water. I fell into a deep sleep watching Olympic highlights, but was rudely awakened by a mentally retarded rooster, who began cockle-doodle-doing at four in the morning, a full three hours before sunrise. It wasn’t a huge deal, as we had to wake up at 5:30 anyway to eat our promised breakfast before heading next door to catch a minibus to the border. Obviously, no breakfast awaited us, so we boarded the “Stranger Express” minibus and set off for the three hour ride to Songwe, the last town before the border.

Minibus travel is something that has to be experienced to be believed. Minibus operators and their ubiquitous touts pack an incredible amount of people into a barely-together old Toyota van and stop at any point along the route to let people disembark or board. For example, the trip to the border could have taken an hour or so at a normal clip, but it took three because of all of the stops. It is not an efficient mode of travel, but it is cheap and plentiful, so it comes in handy. The four of us were joined on the Stranger Express by another American couple and a British couple, several varieties of fowl and fish, and a lot of locals who eyed us with curiosity.

The Stranger Express. Note the ironic "Luxury Coach" moniker.

The cool thing about minibus travel is that the frequent stops give plentiful opportunities to purchase roadside wares. These range from food to (likely stolen) cellphones to shoes to live chickens to men’s boxer briefs. The variety is impressive. Lacking a proper breakfast, we bought some cheap samosas and something that looked a lot like cooked plaintains. To our dismay, it turned out to be kasava, which tastes like cardboard. After eating, the motion of the bus took over and lulled me into a needed nap. The trouble with falling asleep on a minibus is that when you are awoken at your stop, your disorientation is magnified a hundredfold by the crowd of people screaming at you trying to offer you a ride, some food, or any number of things including a broken pair of blue and orange women’s prescription eyeglasses.

Lauren at Tukuyu, one of the many stops that we made on our way to the Malawi border.

Thankful that our bags were still on the roof of the bus, the eight of us grabbed our packs amid the throng of people and walked in the direction of the border. Many attempted to be “helpful” by offering to carry our bags for an absurd price. When we finally convinced them that we didn’t need a taxi or a porter to the border, the group responded almost violently, with a couple screaming, “Thanks for nothing!” as we walked away. It was about a two kilometer jaunt to the border, which passed quite easily despite the heat of midday. The immigration exit from Tanzania was smooth and soon we were walking across the Songwe River into Malawi, known as “The Warm Heart of Africa.” The entry visa process for Malawi was a snap and free to boot, which helps. After securing entry into Malawi, we said goodbye to our temporary travel partners and the four of us then caught a cab to Karonga, where we stopped off at an ATM to load up on cash, as there are very few ATMs in all of Malawi. We then sorted out seats on a bus that would take us to Chitimba and Beth and Pete onto Mzuzu. Thankfully, this bus was normal, with the occupancy limited to the amount of seats. The on-board DVD system was blaring Swahili gospel music at maximum volume, but other than that it was cool. After an hour and a half, we arrived at the Chitimba checkpoint and disembarked, wishing Pete and Beth a safe journey until we reconvened in Nkhata Bay.

Knowing that we had an arduous hike ahead of us, we decided to have lunch at a roadside restaurant in Chitimba run by a friendly Rasta named Elijah. He fed us a hearty meal of rice, beans, veggies, and eggs, which we washed down with cold Coca-Colas. Well-fortified, we strapped on our packs and began walking up the road to our destination, the Mushroom Farm outside of Livingstonia. In hindsight, I have no idea what we were thinking. The Mushroom Farm is located 10km (6.2miles) up a long and winding mountain road and by this point of the day, 2pm, we had already been traveling for eight hours. Adding to the equation was the scorching sun and our general lack of cardiovascular fitness. Still, we trekked onward, hoping that a passing car would show mercy and offer us a lift. No bones about it, this was a rough hike. We began cursing every item in our packs for weighing so much. After 45 minutes of walking, the bells of heaven, disguised as a diesel engine, rang in our ears. A truck turned the corner and our hearts leaped as we noted that there was plenty of room for us. It slowed down, flashed its lights, and just as it was about stopped, sped up and raced away. Oh, the cruelty!!!!!! That was a blow, but we marched onwards, vowing not to let the jerk ruin our resolve. At about an hour and a half into the hike, we figured we were still less than halfway there. We were pouring sweat and Lauren’s face and eyes had taken on an alarming shade of red. There was still sunlight coming down, but dusk was rapidly approaching and we were in the middle of a mountain road in the midst of the Malawian jungle. It was a tough spot. Again, we heard the magical sound of an approaching truck and became cautiously optimistic. As the truck rounded the corner, we took in the scene. It was a sizeable flatbed truck, the back loaded with provisions and then stacked with about 20 locals. It stopped and we asked for a ride. They told us we would have to pay 20 kwacha each (around 15 cents), which we gladly accepted. If they told us it was 2,000 kwacha, we probably still would have paid, given our situation. Once we were “safely” on board and rolling towards the Mushroom Farm, the games began. We were ready to give the driver a 50 kwacha note, but two of the men on board began demanding that we pay 200 kwacha each. Extortion and lying do not truck well with us, and we held our ground, explaining that our cost upon embarkment was only 20 kwacha. In some sort of Twilight Zone bargaining scheme, they then demanded that we pay 400 kwacha each. This was getting ridiculous, especially since we knew that the daily wage in this part of Malawi was 200 kwacha and there was no way that these locals were paying their day’s pay just to get home from work. We held firm, telling them that we would pay 50 kwacha upon arrival. Neither side was pleased, although we were definitely happy to not be walking, especially as we had been driving a long distance by this point. Finally, we reached the Mushroom Farm and the two men began screaming at us to pay 400 kwacha. We knew we were in the right, as the three teenage guys on board handed us our packs and told us not to worry. True to our word, we paid them 50 kwacha and jumped off the truck, the two men cursing us in CheChewa as it sped off.

Lauren at the entrance to the Mushroom Farm, after a tough trek up the mountain. That pack weighs about 35 pounds, which makes the hike all the more amazing considering she weighs little more than 90 pounds.

Feeling very accomplished, we walked down the path to the Mushroom Farm compound. With the sun setting over the lake far, far below, the Mushroom Farm was cast in a warm orange glow. The entry path led us first to the bar area, where we were greeted by Brett, the manager. From the moment he opened his mouth and his distinctive Durban patois flowed forth, we knew that we would like him. Brett showed us to our digs, the Copper House, and then encouraged us to return for a beer once we were showered and settled. The Mushroom Farm moniker is odd as there are no mushrooms about, nor is there a farm in any real sense. It is just a mix of huts and campsites set on the precipice of a cliff overlooking Lake Malawi. There is no electricity, with the lights being powered by car batteries. A natural spring provides the water and solar panels provide the heat for the showers. Much of the produce is grown organically on site, with pigs providing the fertilizer. A band of hens provides eggs for the menu, which is completely vegetarian given the dearth of meat of acceptable quality in the area. After setting our packs down in the Copper House, we headed to the outdoor showers to rinse off the day’s exertion. As promised, the shower was hot and the water flowed forcefully, a rare luxury in Africa, especially in such a remote location.

The view of the Copper House walking up the path from the bar.

The Copper House, as viewed from the shower. The hut derives its name from the (duh!) copper roof. You can just barely see the solar panel on the roof.

Lauren swinging on one of the support beams at the front of the Copper House.

The interior of the Copper House, with the very necessary mosquito net and some sort of hairy beast.Lauren peeking out of one of the two showers at the Mushroom Farm.

Refreshed from our shower, we joined Brett and his wife Claire for beers and conversation. We were joined by a British couple and a trio: one English/Italian girl, an English girl, and a Kiwi guy. Soon, Claire announced that dinner was ready and we settled in for a tasty veggie curry and friendly banter. All exhausted by the day, the crew headed to bed around eleven.

Over the next two days, we did very little but relax and enjoy our tranquil surroundings. The food was a huge bonus, with the highlight being the divine banana pancakes. We did a lot of reading and writing, most of it on the hammocks that skirted the edge of the cliff. We also went on two hikes, both to waterfalls about a half hour away. At night, we enjoyed the varied conversation unique to such dens for young travelers, usually around the firepit. On the second day, the British couple that we had crossed the border with arrived. It was a coincidence, but by that point we were accustomed to meeting the same people at different points along the trail.

I spent a lot of time reading and writing in this hammock.

Here I'm just hanging out, having a beer, and playing Farkel while waiting for dinner to be served.

We hiked up to and then behind a waterfall to a cave where locals used to hide from slave traders. It was eerie to be close to such ignominious history.

We had originally booked four nights at the Mushroom Farm, but instead stayed only three. It was nothing against the place, we were just anxious to get down to Nkhata Bay, having heard only wonderful things. Additionally, there was not a ton going on at the Mushroom Farm, which was fine for a couple of days, but we needed some more social interaction. Thus, we awoke the morning of August 17, had some banana pancakes, put on our packs, and began the long trek down the mountain to Chitimba. This time, we were able to take full advantage of the shortcuts in the road that had been blazed by the locals. They were steep and treacherous at times, but they cut out a ton of time and distance. We definitely could not have walked up them, but in two hours we had walked all the way to the bottom.

With good timing, we had to wait only ten minutes before boarding an AXA bus bound for Mzuzu. This bus ride, though at three and a half hours certainly not the longest, was arguably the worst. The AXA bus was a regular single-level coach with approximately 80 seats. Paying no heed to comfort or safety, the operators packed at least 110 people (this is a low estimate, no exaggeration) on board, plus innumerable chickens, fish, and bags of rice. It was a total shitshow. Lauren sat on my lap and had an angry and possibly diseased chicken flapping in her face for most of the ride, while my face was pushed firmly against the buttocks of a large local woman. Our bags were fortunately within our sight, but were crushed by people, poultry, and packages of grain. To make matters more uncomfortable, the people around us spent the ride pointing at us, whispering, and snickering. That was when they were not expelling snot at a prodigious rate or coughing up phlegm everywhere. Given all this, we were actually considered fortunate, as we were not puked or lactated upon, both of which happened to many travelers we met in Malawi.

Now, Malawi is one of the poorest countries on Earth, so we acknowledge that certain allowances have to be made, but it was quite an adventure being on the road there. It is a beautiful country and its people are renowned as some of the friendliest in Africa, which with certain conspicuous exceptions held true in our experience. It is just fascinating how brutally inefficient and downright idiotic things can be at times. But, I will reserve the social commentary except to highly recommend Martin Meredith’s “The Fate of Africa.” It is a brilliantly well-done book on the history of Africa and what that history means for its future.

Stepping out of the bus in Mzuzu, we hailed a taxi to the highly-recommended Mzoozoozoo hostel. Its reputation was well-deserved, with friendly staff, nice beds, and great food. Indeed, the pork chop special we had for dinner was a great welcome back to the carnivorous world after our sojourn at the veggie-only Mushroom Farm. We ate and then spent a couple of hours talking to a group of Canadian volunteers before conking out.

The next day dawned cloudy, which was something that we had avoided almost completely in our time in Africa, having only three days of rain in three months. We headed to the bank to withdraw more cash, as Nkhata Bay had no ATMs and credit cards are not accepted anywhere in Malawi, nor anywhere we frequented in Tanzania. Of course, in a strip of banks with nine ATMs, not a single one was functioning. So, we took care of some errands and Interneting and hoped that the ATMs would be working in a couple of hours. Luckily, they did. Carrying cash in Malawi is pretty funny, as the largest denomination is the 500 kwacha bill, which is worth about $3.50 and the bill itself is too large to carry in a wallet. Having to take out enough money for the next week or so, we left the ATM with our pockets bulging, hoping that we wouldn’t get robbed. Luckily, we didn’t.

With everything sorted, we were ready for the 50km journey to Nkhata Bay. At this point, we were so sick of dealing with hassle, that we elected to pay slightly more and take a taxi instead of a minibus. Lauren bargained one driver down to a good price and we agreed that he would take us straight to Nkhata Bay with only one other passenger in the sedan, as soon as we grabbed some refreshments from a nearby stand. When we returned five minutes later, the Toyota Camry we were to take already had four passengers in it, leaving us two to squeeze into the remaining slot. Clearly, the taxi driver had no respect for the agreement and Lauren let him know this in no uncertain terms. Like all drivers, confidence men, and their ilk, he played dumb as to the extent of his folly, but we were seasoned enough to call his bluff. I wish I had a camera to document the scene that unfolded. Picture 5’0” Lauren surrounded by ten large local men, all yelling at once, thinking that they are going to cajole her into thinking that riding squished into a packed taxi is the same as relaxing in a spacious back seat. She took none of it, and gave each of them a piece of her mind, scaring them all a little in the process. It was a phenomenon that we experienced often, with one guy feeding us a load of bull and then several of his friends thinking that if they just talk loud enough directly in our faces, idiocy would turn into wisdom as water turns to wine.

In any event, the taxi driver ended up kicking out all but the agreed upon passenger, and we cruised in an hour to the front entrance of Mayoka Village in Nkhata Bay, Malawi. Descending the steep steps to the bar/restaurant/reception area, a warm sense of welcome washed over us. The descriptions we had heard on the road were accurate: this was a backpacker’s paradise. We had originally booked seven nights there, but after being shown to our chalet and having a look around, we immediately booked another eight nights. Looking out the window of our chalet, which fronted Lake Malawi, we were elated to see Pete and Beth on the private beach in front of their chalet immediately next door. We joined them on the beach for an afternoon Kuche Kuche, the local beer, and resumed our easy friendship. It being August 18, my brother’s birthday, we then set off to find Kathryn, the owner, to see if it was possible to make a call to the States. Kathryn was a wonderful and gracious proprietress and let us use her cellphone with our calling card. It was great to be able to wish Dane a Happy Birthday from such a remote location.

Soon, it was dinner time. Every night at Mayoka they have a buffet with a different theme, with Tuesday being a free meal of hearty Irish stew. That first night was a heaping portion of meatballs, one of my favorite foods. We were off to a good start. While we already had two friends there, we also ran into the British couple from our first night at the Mushroom Farm. As I said, we were used to such coincidences, particularly as the backpacking circuit in Malawi isn’t that extensive. The restaurant was buzzing with young, and some old, travelers, all of whom were enjoying themselves immensely. The staff at Mayoka was very lively as well, if often daft. In a somewhat corny twist, they had all given themselves silly names. There was a Special (ironically, he was the only one that wasn’t “special”), a Chicken Pizza, a Junior Banana, a Simple, a Black Rose, and two Gifts, among others. Other dinners of note were a tasty chicken curry, a fish fry, and a barbecue night with delicious honey garlic chicken and beef skewers.

Life at Mayoka passed as if in a dream. A large portion of each day was spent waiting for and eating the wonderful food. We did a lot of writing, reading, swimming, playing Farkel, snorkeling, and lounging, all in the company of our new and not as new friends. Our chalet was incredible, with a four poster bed, carved wooden furniture, and plenty of space. It was nice to fully unpack instead of living out of our backpacks, as was the usual. Our balcony, though not huge, had two comfortable chairs and a great view of the lake. Each evening, as the sun began to set, we would congregate on the balcony with a beer or a Fanta and soak in the peaceful transition to night before showering off the day in preparation for dinner. The communal outdoor shower was the nicest I have ever seen, built out of local stone with a waterfall showerhead, hot water fueled by a roaring fire, and a perfect view of the lake. While having a lot of outdoor time, even in the shower, was wonderful, it did have one main drawback: bugs. We bought some mosquito coils to attempt to keep those infernal pests at bay and were always caked in a protective layer of bug spray. The shore of Lake Malawi, and Nkhata Bay in particular, is a high-risk malaria zone. The snails of Lake Malawi also lead to a high prevalence of bilharzia, which is caused by a parasite that lays eggs that hatch and infest your intestines. Pleasant.

The front view of our chalet at Mayoka Village. You can see the small balcony on the left and the big set of bay windows on the right. The shower and compost toilet facilities were in the building behind our chalet.

I took this picture of our chalet (it's the one in the middle) from the raft that was anchored out in Nkhata Bay. Every day that we were in residence at Mayoka Village, I would swim to this raft and take in the tranquility and the view. Because of its long anchor line, the raft movd a lot and some days the swim was much more taxing than others.Yet another view of our chalet, this time from the beach that fronted the lake. In the near distance, under the hut, are the two hammocks in which we spent considerable time.
Lauren dressed and ready for dinner after our first sunset at Mayoka Village.
Lauren trying to escape the infernal mosquito net on our bed at Mayoka Village.

Some days, we would walk into town to buy popcorn or other necessary supplies. On one trip, we noticed a row of tailors in the market. We inquired about their services and Lauren ended up getting a dress and a skirt made from locally sourced fabric by a guy named Happy. Other days we wouldn’t leave the confines of Mayoka, which suited us just fine as well. On our third day, we went on a free boat trip to an allegedly deserted beach an approximate 30-minute boat ride away. As it turned out, the beach wasn’t actually deserted at all. A host of local fisherman was plying their trade in the bay, using a massive net that took eight people to operate. Watching them fish was really cool. Less cool were the local kids, who tried to steal everything that wasn’t nailed down, including our flip-flops and the hair clip straight out of Lauren’s hair. The kids are super cute, but you can’t trust them at all.

As we motored past on our way to the "deserted" beach, this fish eagle (dubbed "Condi Rice" by the locals) swooped down from a tree high above the lake and flew away with a fish between its talons.

Lauren caught me in mid-jump off one of the cliffs skirting the bay we visited on the free boat trip.

The cliffs look close, but it was a deceptively long swim to shore, and I was beat as I exited the water.

Every so often, the night’s dinner would be accompanied by entertainment from local musicians, many of whom travel up and down the lake weekly plying their trade. Gaspar Nali played a massive guitar of his own creation while singing/chanting native songs. Our favorite was Michael Mountain, a singer/songwriter whose piece de resistance was a song entitled “My Sister.” In our lengthy stay at Mayoka, we ended up hearing this song three times. The song is so catchy and unintentionally comic that I am convinced that it could rise to the top of the iTunes chart with no problem. With apologies to Mr. Mountain for any errors in my memory of the lyrics, the chorus goes something like this: “My sister is a virgin/She doesn’t like to be called a prostitute/All she wants is a faithful man/What she wants is to get married.” There are other great lines, but they currently escape me.

Gaspar Nali with his huge homemade guitar in front of the bar at Mayoka Village. He strummed the one long string with one hand and played notes by using a Carlsberg bottle as a slide.

Beth, Pete, me, and Lauren posing in the middle of one of our many Farkel games.

After three days of hanging out with Pete and Beth, they had to take off for Lilongwe, where Beth was catching her flight to Nairobi. It was sad to see Beth go, but Pete was headed back up to Mayoka after dropping her at the airport. We had the wonderful luxury of time and enjoyed meeting the rotating cast of characters that rolled through Mayoka. Chief among them were the two Bens, one an Aussie from Melbourne and one an American from New York. In a crazy statistical anomaly, during our stay at Mayoka, there were seven Bens in residency, not counting the locals Benji and Benson. American Ben was a 38-year-old attorney who had been on the road for three years with no plans to stop any time soon. His age and experience made him an incredible fount of wisdom and I am confident that we will remain in touch.

American Ben on the left, Lauren in the middle, and Pete on the right at dinner one evening.

Pete and I lounging with the Mayoka Village bar in the background.

Although we missed Beth terribly, we had a great time with Pete on his return. It is great when you meet kindred spirits from a completely different background. He was only going to stay an additional few days, but ended up staying almost another week. On one of his last days, the three of us headed across the bay to Aqua Africa to go SCUBA diving with a wonderful divemaster named Kate. Lake Malawi is a great place to dive given its unique evolutionary environment, which is featured prominently in the amazing documentary Planet Earth. After getting our equipment prepared, we boarded a skiff for a short ride to our dive site, Playground Point. Everything was so close together that we could easily see our chalet from the site. It had only been about three months since our last dive, so everything was relatively familiar, but it is always a cool experience to be breathing underwater. We saw an amazing array of colorful cichlids and also had the good fortune to spot the “upside-down” fish, so named because they spend their whole lives swimming upside-down. We also passed through some tight swim-throughs, which was a big step for me, given my claustrophobia. Owing to the amount of oxygen that I consumed while mentally preparing myself for the swim-throughs, my tank did not last as long as I would have hoped, but we still had a great time. Lauren and Pete were awesome dive buddies.

The view of Lake Malawi from our balcony. Our dive site, Playground Point, was just in front of the closest spit of land.

Soon it was time to bid Pete good-bye, as he was headed down to Mozambique and South Africa before reuniting with Beth in Thailand. The remainder of our stay was characterized by its serenity, as we were firmly in the groove of the relaxed life. Our second to last night was a big one, devolving into a late night around the pool table with American Ben and new friends Amal and Will. After a total of 18 nights, the time came to bid Mayoka farewell. It was a place that we will always remember fondly and highly recommend to anybody headed to Africa. While we were excited for new adventures, it was daunting to know that we faced a long journey overland back to Dar.

It was hard not to be incredibly relaxed all the time at Mayoka Village. Here we are, comfortable as always.

Lauren and her cute hippie dress in the lounge before dinner.

Lauren swimming in front of our chalet. Although there were beach areas at Mayoka Village, entering the water was an often treacherous task, especially if the wind was blowing and the waves were up. You had to pick your way slowly down a bunch of slippery rocks before you could get to an entry point.

Of all of the relaxing spots at Mayoka Village, none compared to the seats on our balcony. Many a Farkel game was rolled on the table in the foreground.

On the morning of September 5, we got an early taxi to Mzuzu, where we hoped to catch the dreaded AXA bus back up to Karonga. Unfortunately, the schedule we were given was very inaccurate and the bus had already left. Lacking enough time in the day to ride the slow minibus to Karonga, we were forced to pay extra and take a taxi all the way there. There, we got another taxi bound for the border and some eggs for breakfast that we were told were hard-boiled. Famished, I cracked into one, only to discover that it was actually raw. Although pissed and covered in egg, I could only laugh at the situation. The term OIA came to mind: Only In Africa. This mantra, along with its counterpart of “African Time,” are coping mechanisms that help travelers deal with the frustration inherent in African travel.

The taxi deposited us just short of the Malawi border. As we exited the cab, we had to get stern with two guys trying to blatantly swipe our backpacks. Fending off would-be “helpers,” we cleared immigration easily and walked back across the Songwe River into Tanzania. Fortunately, we had already paid the $100 fee each for our multiple-entry visas upon our arrival in Dar, so the process was much smoother this time. We walked in the direction of the minibus stand 2km away, but on the way were able to talk a taxi driver into driving us to Mbeya for only a dollar more than a minibus would cost. Obviously, this deal was too good to be true. We had explicitly agreed on the price and that we would leave immediately for Mbeya, as we wanted to get there before dark. We put our bags in the trunk and hopped in the backseat. But, instead of making forward progress, the driver moved backwards a few feet and then stopped. He got out and made no effort towards explanation. We were understandably confused and when we asked him what the deal was, he played the old coy trick, explaining that we had agreed to wait for three more people to share the taxi. Not only was this clearly erroneous, but it was a pipe dream to think that anybody would be coming across the border anytime soon. Wanting to be somewhat equitable but still pissed at his deception, we then agreed to wait ten minutes and then he would take us to Mbeya. After fifteen minutes and no sign of more passengers, we had had enough. We demanded our bags out of the trunk, which prompted the driver’s buddies to get aggressive and try to block our access to the packs. The situation was deteriorating fast, but my controlled anger took over and I pushed them aside, made sure Lauren was okay, and grabbed the packs. Obviously, Lauren was completely fine, if looking more than murderous. We were slightly worried for our safety, but we hoofed it at high speed up the hill to the minibus stand, the calls of “Thanks for Nothing!” trailing in our wake. If that scene was bad, the scene at the minibus stand was worse.

After walking 2km to the road on which the stand was located, we turned the corner and were blindsided by a horde of minibus touts. Being the only white people in sight, we were literally mobbed by twenty or so guys, who surrounded us, tugged on our packs, shirts, and arms, and were screaming directly in our faces, so close that I could see specks of food on their back molars. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and we feared for the safety of our belongings, if not ourselves. Each was trying incredibly hard to get us to pick their respective minibus, but their tactics went way beyond the bounds of salesmanship, even for Africa. Finally, we both screamed at the top of our lungs for them to shut up and had to slap their hands away so we could get a decent perimeter. We tried to step aside so we could get our bearings and conference to make a decision. Some of the most aggressive touts tried to bother us at this point and we almost came to blows. Finally, we picked the sturdiest looking minibus and hoped for the best. Our bags were out of sight as we crammed onto the bus. Because of all the stops that minibuses make, it is beyond worrisome to not be able to see your bags, which could easily be lifted by any number of people at any point along the journey. You can never truly relax, not that relaxation would be possible anyway when you are packed into a seat with room that would make a sardine claustrophobic.

After four hours on the road, we finally made it to the bus station in Mbeya. For reasons of scheduling, we had decided to skip the train ride back to Dar and take a coach bus instead. Before finding lodging, we went to the Scandinavia Bus Lines office to book seats on the bus leaving the following morning. Even though the ride was going to be long, at least we would have our own seats on a bus whose occupancy was limited to the manufacturer’s recommendation. At the office, we met a friendly employee named Jack, who told us about a deal that the company had with the New Millennium Inn. As we were already planning on staying there, given its location right across from the bus office, we followed Jack to the hotel, which turned out to be really helpful, since the proprietor’s English was not great.

While remaining wary of Jack, we nevertheless asked him to recommend a restaurant and he led us to a nice spot a few doors down, then bid us good-bye and encouraged us to seek him out if we needed any help. As we were waiting for our food, which we ordered without benefit of a menu, who happened to sit down at our table but the evil looking man in the black leather jacket that had tried to sell us bogus bus tickets when we arrived in Mbeya the last time. Of course, he did not remember us but there was no mistaking him. He tried to chat us up, but we gave him short shrift, knowing that he was trying to set us up for the fall. Lauren did notice that he walked over to the kitchen and talked to the cook, but at the time, we couldn’t detect any malfeasance. After a nondescript dinner, the bill came, we paid, and went back to our hotel to rest up before rising early the next day to get on the bus. A half hour later, we got a message from the manager that we had a visitor. I went out front to see who could possibly want us and it turned out to be Jack. He asked me how much we paid for dinner and when I told him, he got upset and informed me that we had been ripped off, paying the mzungu price (white people often get charged more if the restaurant thinks they can get away with it) instead of what it should have cost. The difference only amounted to a few dollars, but Jack was adamant that we get our money back as he felt bad for recommending the place that ripped us off. I went with him back to the restaurant and after a heated discussion between Jack and the cook in Swahili, Jack informed me that Black Leather Jacket Man was behind the scam. Surprise, surprise. We walked next door and confronted Black Leather Jacket Man, who feigned ignorance. But his evil smirk told all. After a long and acrimonious talk, with Black Leather Jacket Man still refusing to concede his involvement, he nevertheless returned the money that he had stolen.

Vindicated, I returned to Lauren at the hotel and filled her in on the details. Then we read for a bit before retiring. The next morning we purchased street breakfast from the various vendors at the bus station, watched as the bus porters struggled to load both the passenger’s luggage and a large amount of agricultural products into the cargo holds, and then assumed our seats for the ride to Dar. Although we had been told that the bus trip would take “no more than 10 hours,” we factored in African Time and were prepared to be on the bus for around 16 hours. After a few hours, we were glad we did this new calculation, as the bus repeatedly stopped for no discernible reason, in addition to stops at police/army checkpoints and the regularly-scheduled stops. At one early stop, a gaggle of rambunctious elementary school students boarded. Children of that age are simply not meant for long bus journeys, as their attention spans cannot handle it. Being unattended, the kids quickly became a handful, but although we were annoyed, our soft spots for kids gave them tremendous leeway. Other than a stop for lunch at a massively packed rest stop, the rest of the trip was uneventful. In the end, it only took 14 hours, so we were happy. We split a cab to the Libya Street area with the only other mzungus on the bus, a Dutch couple, and checked into our old haunt, the Jambo Inn. The owner was happy to see us again and gave us an air-conditioned room for the price of a regular room, which was a great luxury. We walked around for a bit to stretch our legs and then had dinner at the Chef’s Pride with the Dutch couple, both medical students. The next day, we were finally able to find a good and relatively inexpensive telephone connection, which allowed Lauren to call and wish her dad a Happy Birthday.

The rest of our time in Dar was very pleasant. After traveling through Tanzania and Malawi, the shock that we initially experienced upon our arrival in Dar from South Africa had given way to a nuanced appreciation of the city’s well-hidden charms. Over the next few days, we took care of some errands and caught up with people via the Internet. We went to the Swiss Air office to change our flight to Casablanca to two days earlier in order to give us a little more time in Morocco and stocked up on supplies that were not available in the more rural parts of our travels. As it turned out, our air-conditioned room also had a satellite TV, which somehow received HBO and ESPN. Imagine my surprise when I turned on the TV in Tanzania and it was showing the Bears-Colts game, albeit on Monday morning, immediately followed by the American version of Sportscenter. Seeing football highlights was an unexpected pleasure.

Having budgeted a lot of time to getting our plane tickets changed and errands done, we ended up having two free days before our flight. Thus, we headed back out to the Kigamboni beaches, where we stayed two nights at the lovely South Beach Resort in a thatched hut in the camping area. It being the middle of the week and Ramadan to boot, we were the only guests in the sprawling complex. We had a great, relaxing time swimming in the Indian Ocean, sitting on the beach, swimming in the pool, and working on our billiards game. Even being the only guests, the huge staff was completely inept, which by this point surprised us very little.

On Thursday, September 11, not the most auspicious of days for air travel, we caught a taxi to the airport. The ride took forever in heavy traffic, which was caused by the corrupt traffic police artificially holding up traffic on the main road in order to earn kickbacks from the legion of street vendors that swarm the cars. Between the traffic delay and the incompetent airport staff, we were happy that we had given ourselves plenty of time before our flight. The agent at the check-in desk was adamant that we had not changed our tickets, even though we had the printout in our hands. It took a lot of arguing on Lauren’s part to get the matter resolved and we finally cleared through passport control to await our flight. It being Africa, there was one last hiccup. Since we had some leftover shillings that would be worthless once we boarded the flight, we asked the two women at the second security gate right before the flight entrance if it was okay to buy bottled water and bring it through, as we had seen several other people do. They assured us repeatedly that it was fine, so we bought two big bottles of water and then as we went through the gate, they yelled us for bringing water through and confiscated them. I thought Lauren was going to have a coronary. It felt incredibly good to sit in our seats knowing we were leaving the frustrations of East Africa behind, even if we were treated to the smelly and unsanitary scene of a local woman changing her baby in the seat across the aisle. It was time for a new adventure in Morocco, which we eagerly anticipated.

In writing this summation of our Tanzania and Malawi experience, I recognize that a lot of the text concerns the headaches experienced on our travels in the region. This is partially because these stories are funny to us (in hindsight) and partially because these travails do not really lend themselves to pictorial depiction. I also think that part of the appeal of writing about the hard times is that it gives us a sense of accomplishment knowing that we survived some pretty silly things no worse for the wear. In truth, the vast majority of our time in the area was spent in blissful relaxation in Nkhata Bay and other beautiful spots, experiences that are hopefully well-documented in the pictures and which would be pretty boring to read about. Without a doubt, we loved our time in Tanzania and Malawi and will treasure all of the moments, both good and bad.

Etosha National Park

From the quasi-European confines of Swakopmund, we set out for points north/east in Namibia to get a view of the interior and to go on our second safari of the trip. We considered venturing across the border to Botswana, but the difficulties and expense of traveling to the Okavango Delta convinced us to stay in Namibia. It was definitely the right decision, especially since Namibia is home to one of the premiere game-viewing parks in the world: Etosha National Park.

In Africa most of the adventure lies in getting to the various incredible destinations. This trip was no different. While in Swakopmund, we consulted our map and the train schedule and determined that we needed to buy a ticket on the train bound for Tsumeb. When we got to the train station to purchase our tickets, we were informed that the train no longer serviced Tsumeb, it only went as far as Otjiwarango. Undeterred, we bought two tickets on the Trans-Namib Railway to Otjiwarongo and figured we could get to Tsumeb on our own. When the train arrived, only 15 minutes late, we were sort of confused. As it turned out, the train was actually a freight train that had one car for passengers. To make matters slightly more precarious, the passenger car was right in front of two petroleum tanker cars. Undaunted, we boarded and secured a sleeper compartment to ourselves. It was decently comfortable, if a little frigid. While we tried to sleep through the night, peaceful slumber was impossible as every so often the train would lurch violently. We never did determine the cause of these shudders, but they were scary insofar as we were ten feet away from the highly flammable gas tanks. Obviously, you know that we made it out safely because I am writing this blog post, which sort of ruins the suspense, but you can imagine that things were slightly tense for a bit.

We finally arrived in Otjiwarongo at 6:3o in the morning. Even though the ostensible eight hour trip took thirteen hours, we were actually relieved because it meant that we didn't have to navigate a strange town in the middle of the night. We caught a small taxi into the town proper and then endeavored to find a minibus to take us to Tsumeb. Unfortunately, the Otjiwarango-Tsumeb traffic was apparently light that day and minibuses will not leave until full. And, not even full as we understand it, like five people to a sedan...African full. This was a problem, as it was getting hot and we were tired and wanted to get to Tsumeb and check into our hostel. Finally, after some wrangling, we convinced a driver to take us and two other locals to Tsumeb in an old-school teal green Volkswagen Golf. It was quite a scene. We were packed tightly into the tiny car with three complete strangers as a mixture of unintelligible African rap and terrible American '80s pop blasted in our ears, threatening the viability of our eardrums and the car's overloaded speakers. At one point, one of our fellow travelers wiped his snot-covered hands all over Lauren's bag as he attempted to get something out of the trunk. This was after Lauren was forced to sit next to a vomiting woman on the taxi from the train station to the minibus departure point. It is times like those that really make you think about what the hell you are doing. And then, speeding along a highway that looks like it could be at home, you see a bunch of baboons clowning around on the road and you realize how lucky you are to be out seeing the world, warts and all.

The two hour drive passed quickly and we were soon walking into the front door of the Mousebird Backpackers. We had heard that they ran great safaris into Etosha from Mousebird, but were dismayed to find that the safari leaving the second day after our arrival was fully booked. We were resigned to doing another self-guided safari when the wonderful German (surprise!) proprietor, Monika, told us that she would make room for us. After resting and exploring Tsumeb for a day and a half, we awoke early and met our fellow safari-goers and our guide, Coco. Coco was a native Namibian from the Damara tribe and a super easy-going guy. For those of you that have seen the show, he looks a ton like Big from "Rob & Big." Rounding out our crew were four German medical students, a German geographer, and an older couple, one of whom was British and the other Dutch. There was a lot of German spoken on the safari, which was wonderful for Lauren. She is too modest to admit it, but every single German that we meet is very, very impressed with her language skills. Most refuse to believe that she is American. Of course, I am the proud husband, a role which I never would have guessed would suit me but is one that I now cherish.

We rolled down the highway on the 15okm journey to our campsite in Etosha, getting to know each other and expressing our excitement for the three-day safari that lay ahead. Within moments of crossing into the park boundary, we began to see herds of animals everywhere, especially at the watering holes. Our timing was great because it was the dry season and in such times of low water, all of the animals congregate around the watering holes to drink, making the game-watcher's job much easier. Still, there is a great amount of luck involved and we were fortunate to have a great guide like Coco who always seemed to know where the animals would be. I will save specifics of the safari for the captions below, but in general, it was one of the coolest things that we have ever done. The campsite at which we stayed, Halali, was actually quite luxurious as campgrounds go. The shower facilities were immaculate, the campsite had a great braai, and there was a pool! To this day, that is the only pool in which we have swam on the entire trip. It was so unexpected that the luxury of a pool would be found in the middle of the Namibian bush.

Halali was also wonderful because there was a watering hole on the grounds. At night, it would be illuminated and you could see all sorts of animals coming and going. We saw a lioness drinking by herself the first night, a group of endangered black rhinos, a showdown between a pack of hyenas and an elephant, and all sorts of birds. However, because of the darkness, we don't have any pictures of these nocturnal events. Fortunately, we also saw a ton of animals during the day. In fact, in Etosha we rounded out our view of what is known as The Big Five, which are the most sought after animals in African game viewing: the African elephant, the lion, the leopard, the Cape buffalo (which we saw in South Africa), and the black rhinoceros. In four days (including our self-safari at Pilanesburg in South Africa), we had managed to spot the animals that most people wait their whole lives to see.

Pictures cannot do the experience justice, but they are all that we have to share with you. We hope that you enjoy.

The happy couple in the back seat of the Mousebird safari van, in our view the prime game-spotting location.
The Mousebird van, loaded down with the supply trailer and all of our gear.
We saw animals large and small, including this diminutive dik dik. Note the reflection of Coco in the sideview mirror.
An impala gallops past our van as we travel down the road to Halali.
You don't realize how big elephants are until you see them up close.
This elephant wanted us to see its better side.
This mama elephant got a little antsy with us. She started stomping her feet and looking generally like she wanted to crush our van. Wisely, we moved on.
Giraffes are really cool animals. They move like horses but look almost prehistoric. These two welcomed us by signaling V for Voboril.
Although most of the giraffes that we saw were docile creatures, these two apparently had some beef. After grunting at each other for a bit, they began attacking each other, using their long necks and heads as weapons. I never thought I would see the day when I saw a giraffe headbutt another giraffe, but I guess that is what this trip is all about.
A herd of zebras approaches a watering hole, with some kudu in the background.

Here we are at our base camp in Halali, with our meal table on the right. Meals were a great time to revisit the highlights of the past few hours over tasty morsels. We were treated to kudu steaks and lamb on the braai on our first night. Kudu are sort of an African version of the elk and a delicious version at that. Certainly, having seen them in the wild during the day made eating them slightly tough, but our carnivorous side won over in the end.

It was great to be sleeping in tents under the gorgeous star-lit skies, even if everything we brought with us was caked in dust by the end of the safari.
Lauren in our trusty safari van. The bumpy roads and sparsely padded seats made for sore bodies at night, but it was certainly worth it.
The endangered black rhinoceros, captured in between sips from the watering hole.
Sunset over Etosha.
For me, it is a tossup between the black rhinoceros and this animal, the oryx (or gemsbok), for which is my favorite African animal. The rhino are way more rare, but there is something about the oryx that I find irresistible. The Namibians apparently agree, placing the oryx on their 100 dollar bill.
This lone oryx accompanied a massive herd of springbok. Given my predilection for the oryx, I started feeling slightly guilty for having an oryx steak in Swakopmund the week before. However, it was so tender and scrumptious that I couldn't help myself.
I still cannot figure out why the dainty springbok is the mascot of the supposedly macho and rugged South African rugby team. At least the blue wildebeest in the background has some meat on its bones. We wondered why they were called springboks up until we saw a herd of them jumping around a field like pogo sticks.
We had watched a pride of lions in the far distance, disappointed that they were out of good viewing range when all of a sudden, a lone lioness stalked out of the bush and came right by our van.
The female lion on a mission. She moved with a rare combination of power and grace. We were awestruck.
This is me checking out the scene at the Halali watering hole. If you look closely, you can see the remnants of my Mohawk.
Some views are more picturesque than others.
In a safari loaded with memorable moments, one of the best came during the evening of our second day. After getting back from a late afternoon game drive, we decided to venture over to Halali's watering hole to see what animals may be lurking. To our amazement, we saw a herd of 30 elephants at the hole, with the sun setting in the background. We watched the elephants drink, blow water on each other, poop, trumpet, and generally mess around. The most hilarious part of this hour-long scene was when one of the elephants let loose a thundering series of farts that brought raucous laughter from the normally silent crowd gathered at the hole.
We were so close to the elephants that we could hear each breath they took and any small sounds that they made.
No, that is not snow, it's ash floating up from our braai. Many a delicious meal was cooked on this grill. Being a desert environment, the heat of the day gave way to really cold nights, thereby necessitating the scarf.
We woke up at 5a.m. on our last day in order to visit the Halali watering hole before the morning's game drive. If you know Lauren, then you know that convincing her to wake up at that ungodly hour can be challenging. But, she was up and eager and we wrapped ourselves in blankets as we waited patiently by the watering hole. Not a single animal made an appearance; our early rise had been for nought. We set out on the game drive, feeling that it would be impossible to top the previous day's onslaught of animals. We saw the "usual" zebras, giraffes, elephants, cheetah, springboks, etc. on this last drive. It's funny how animals that you have never seen before in your life can become so commonplace after only a few days. Then, the amazing happened. As we were cruising at 40kph back to camp, one of the German medical students yelled for Coco to stop. I don't know how she spotted it, but hidden in the brush was a leopard, the last of The Big Five and Lauren's favorite animal. She had asked Coco about their habits and he said that they were very, very elusive and only came out during the night. Against all odds, there was a leopard sitting under a tree in the middle of the day, just hanging out. We were floored. It didn't move at all, but the moment will etched in our minds forever.
A closer view of the graceful feline.
Directly after seeing the leopard, we spotted a solitary male lion walking across the vast expanse of the Etosha Pan, a dry lakebed that gets somewhat filled in the rainy season.
As it turned out, this was an elderly male that had likely been booted out of the pride by a younger, stronger male. He walked with a noticeable limp in his right hind leg, probably due to injuries sustained in his battle with the usurper. He may have been old, but he sure had a hell of a roar.
Elderly or not, he was still a beautiful creature.

After tracking this lion for a while, we made the decision to have lunch and then depart for Tsumeb. Our eyes were exhausted from constantly being on the lookout for game and it would have been impossible to top the experience we had in Etosha.