The Vuvuzela Diaries

On leaving the Fells in Accra, we headed for the Ghana/Benin border via Lake Volta. Our border crossing strategy has by this stage become fairly standard – head to a smallish border, get there with plenty of time to spare before night-fall and be sure to dress appropriately for the day (soccer or Madiba t-shirts are preferable). We spent the night prior to the border crossing at the ‘Mountain Paradise Lodge’, north of Ho. It was a pretty spot amongst the Biakpa hills and we were lulled to sleep by the staccato beat of drums being played in a distant village. After a quick walk the next morning to a view-point situated near Amedzofe, we set off for country number 12!

Our border crossing was thankfully uneventful (possibly thanks to Mik who managed to make the border official laugh out loud with her imitation of a lion when describing a South African R50 note which he had been interested in seeing), and we were once more grateful for our South African passports which meant we didn’t need visas. We crossed over near the Togolese town of Kpalime, following a small road towered by enormous trees and palm leaves the sizes of elephant ears, and then headed for Mt. Klouto situated in the coffee-growing highland district of the region, and famous also for it’s forest and butterflies. We spent the night camped on the summit, where we drank ‘Mt. Klouto Kick Mango Rum Smoothies’ and debated the possibilities of starting a ‘Togo-Juice’ business, inspired by the abundant array of fruit we had seen and bought on our way up to the summit. Innocent® be warned, competition awaits!

The following morning, we went on a guided walk of the surrounds, led by Guillime. We were led through patches of beautiful lush forest, sadly interspersed far too frequently by fields of ‘slash and burn’ farming. We saw a few of the 200 species of butterflies, but it was probably too early in the morning for the full spectacle to be observed. Or perhaps the reduction of their habitat is not helping the expansion of numbers! (We did however see beautiful display cases of butterflies – ‘a vendre’ – the colours and variety of which would impress any entymologist worth his salt). Guillime was incredibly knowledgeable regarding the local medicinal uses of plants; and he showed and described to us the local cures for malaria, infection and fever. He also explained that the leaves of the cassava plant are chewed if someone is bitten by a snake, and this apparently helps to slow down the spread of the venom (perhaps by slowing down one’s heart-rate?) while the unfortunate victim seeks medical attention. After purchasing batik art-work from a great local artist, pineapple jam and locally produced coffee, we set off for Lome.

Lome is a bit of a shock after the impressive infrastructure and economic drive found in Accra. Togo’s first democratic elections were held in 2007.  It is incredibly dilapidated and the signs of its corrupt and unstable government are glaringly obvious, bar the tarred main seaside boulevard, no doubt a Chinese ‘contribution’. We checked ourselves in to ‘Chez Alice’ and then set off for our appointment aboard the Mercy ship, currently moored in Lome. (The taxi ride there was pretty scary to say the least!). Neil’s brother had helped us to organise the visit the ‘floating hospital’ through his fiancée who had worked as a volunteer on board. Kelly and Estelle kindly showed us around the ship and answered our hundreds of questions with much patience! We were amazed by the extent of the facilities, from fully equipped operating theatres and school-rooms to a Starbucks cafeteria! The Christian organization that runs the Mercy ship is based in The States, and relies solely on donations to keep it going. If ever there was a worthy cause, this is it! The surgeries range from maxillo-fascial tumour removals and orthopaedic osteotomies to cleft palate repairs and cataract removals. There are also extensive community education and training programmes. After attending a vibrant church service onboard, we disembarked and headed for ‘The Pumpkin Man’s Fast Food Restaurant’, so named on account of his sign-board, which was anything but fast but did serve great local dishes at very affordable prices.

The next day was meant to be ‘head for the border day’, but unfortunately Maude developed a problem with her air-con bearings, and her loud screeching protests meant that we stayed another day in town as the crew tried to source parts. Andrew, Laura and I took the opportunity to check out the “Voodoo/Fetish” market in town. Interesting, if a bit touristy, and rather devastating for the poor animals!!

So, here we sit in Togo, as we await Maude’s repairs.

It goes like this… we are all sitting around our gas stove, waiting for our spaghetti to cook, when the debate starts. Where would Africa be today if it weren’t for colonialism? Better off or worse off?  If only we could find somewhere untouched by British, French, German or Belgium influence, perhaps we would have the inkling of an answer? But where to find such a place? So far, as we have traced a track along West Africa, we have seen baguettes sold by the dozen and ‘Bonjour’ has been our standard greeting…

So, would Dogon country perhaps throw a shred of light on our debates? Until the end of the colonial era, the Dogon were one of the African peoples who had most successfully retained their culture and traditional way of life, largely due to their isolated location in cliffside villages along a 200km stretch of the Bandiagara escarpment. Our guide books suggested the best way to see Dogon country was slowly, trekking over a few days with a Dogon guide to show us the ropes and prevent any cultural faux-pas’ on our part as well as a way of promoting responsible tourism.

The owners of our campsite, Le Petit Repos, in Sevare, recommended a wonderful and unassuming guide, called Hassimi Guindo. He was born and grew up in Ende, a Dogon village and has been a guide for at least a decade. His gentle manner and quiet dignity left a resonating impression on us all. To Hassimi, guiding is not just a way to earn money, he is truly proud of his work and his diligent efforts smacked of integrity, a rarity in many tourist industries! He was our breath of fresh air. As he put it, we tourists are ‘fragile’ and must be taken care of.

Our Dogon Country trek was broken into 2 nights and 3 days:

Day 1

After an early rise, Hassimi arrived at our campsite and we travelled to Kani-Kombole, in southern Dogon country, where we left our cars, parked under two giant baobabs and overlooked by a Dogon style mosque. We set off at around 11am, in scorching heat, with temperatures of 40 degrees Celsius! Needless to say, after 4kms we were drenched in sweat and very grateful to sink our limp limbs into reclining chairs, under a shaded roof-top in the tiny village of Teli.  After a hearty lunch of chicken, tomato relish, couscous and cold cokes, we were bade to ly down on mattresses on the roof-top. We slept (and sweated) away the midday heat, and were roused at around 3pm to restart our trek. Hassimi lead us up to the cliff-face above Teli where the old village remains. This village was built in the 11th century, initally by the Tellem people (a pygmy race), then later taken over by the Dogon. We were shown the granaries, the Hogon’s house (the Hogon was the spiritual leader of the village), a typical family house and the Hunter’s house (complete with baboon skulls still plastered to the walls). Hassimi also pointed out the old Tellem miniature granaries, higher up on the cliff, which have been converted by the Dogon into burial sites with a view!

We then marched on to Ende, where we spent the evening listening and attempting to participate in local Dogon music, played on a calabash guitar with two strings and accompanied by a drummer on an upturned calabash. Mikaela was probably the most talented drummer, although we all fell short of local standards!  Each song had a story behind it – one about circumcisions, one about harvest time… and of course, one about a beautiful woman (some themes are the same the world over)!

Day 2

The formula was similar to the previous day except that we started the day much earlier, explored Ende village and the violet dyers who use a local plant to stain their cotton cloth a deep blue, visited the rope makers (wisened old men who make ropes from baobab bark) and then trekked on to our lunch stop at Yabatalou. All along our route we were greeted warmly by old and young alike, and it was not uncommon for us to be walking hand in hand with a little kids as we trekked past settlements.

Over our lunch-time siesta period, we entertained ourselves with numerous card-games of ‘Spite and Malice’ and some of us agreed to massages administered by the village ‘medicine man’ or ‘healer’. I must say that as a physiotherapist, I was rather skeptical at first, however after his treatment, (which was of the myofascial and neural type for those interested) my sceptism had vanished as effectively as my aches! Apparently, Dogon medicine is being studied by the Western world, as it has been recognized as having value.

The late afternoon trek saw us leaving the plains and climbing upwards through a gorge onto the top of the ‘falaise’ to the village of Begnimato. As we emerged onto the top-most portion of the gorge, we were dumbstruck by the sight before us; a little valley of Eden! Lettuces and onions were growing bright green and prolifically in neat squares, whilst children and men carried water to their veggie patches, chatting amiably to each other. Overhead, Abyssinian Rollers and Bearded Barbets trilled and twittered as they flew between the bright green mango and fig trees. We climbed slightly higher, past some spectacular rock formations, before arriving at our night-time repose. That night, we slept on the roof-tops, under the plethora of stars, disturbed intermittently by the swirling winds of the Harmattan.

Day 3

Slightly bleary eyed, we awoke to a breakfast of freshly baked baguettes, smothered in guava and mango jam, and washed down with cups of coffee. Hassimi then showed us around Begnimato which is essentially comprised of three ‘quartiers’. An animist quartier, a muslim quartier and a christian quartier. Hassimi explained that although people belong to different religious factions, they live in harmony and marriage between the different factions is welcomed. We could certainly all learn a bit from this as! We also paid a visit to the hunter’s house – slightly macabre with the stuffed animal skins of civets, baboons and wild cats, not to mention the still live monkey chained to the wall!

We then hiked along the top of the plateau, gazing in wonder at the dust clouds on the plains below, stirred up by the Harmattan, till we reached the village of Indelou. This village is occupied by animists only, and has a ‘fetish’ rather than a church or mosque. Hassimi explained that the Hogon of the village had passed away a few years ago, and the village elders would soon be asking the fox – a revered animal – who the next Hogon should be. The fox answers their questions, which are written in the sand, by walking over the correct answer.

We descended back down through another steep gorge, and were met at the bottom by our ‘chariots’ which were two ox-drawn carts. The driver of our cart, an eight year old chap called Amaddou couldn’t have been prouder of his job and he was wonderful in his sincerity, making sure we held on tightly over the bumpy bits – fragile tourists that we are! In this manner, we set off to Ende where we had lunch. After lunch and another chariot ride later, we were back at our cars, feeling like we had left a little bit of our hearts behind.

So, there is certainly no definite answer to our debate, but we all felt touched by a culture and a people who had ‘something special’ about them. They are not wealthy in the western way, but their sense of community and pride in their traditions smacks of wealth to me. We could all learn from the wisdom of the Dogon people – long may they remain unaffected.

Marrekech, like Fes, is divided into an old Medina and a Nouvelle Ville. Unlike Fes though, which is cloaked in a medieval shroud,  Marrakech feels electric. The beating heart of the mayhem is the town square, or Djemaa El Fna. A feast for the senses –  snake-charmers, monkey-handlers, orange juice squeezers, henna tattoe artists, date & nut vendors, teeth pullers (the closest many get to a visit to the dentist) and muti men during the day, and at night the squre becomes transformed into a vibey street food market, whose vendors make UCT’s  RAG-MAG sellers seem tame!

And then there are the souks… the avenues of stalls selling leather goods, pottery, carpets, silver trinkets & antiques. The art of bartering is essential and patience of the essence!

Thankfully, due to Jamo and Sam’s excellent organisational skills, we were able to escape the chaos and enter the coccon-like tranquility of a tastefully renovated and redecorated Riad, called Riad Linda after it’s Australian owner. Sam and Jamo had flown in from London for the weekend, as had Paula’s cousin Cara and her boyfriend, Andrew. The final ‘extra’ on board, was Mikaela’s brother, Jonathan, who managed to find time to join us despite his tough gardening leave schedule. It was fantastic having you all around!

The girls, needing some time out from the camping scene, decided to try out a ‘Hammam’. The traditional version is an exfoliating scrub and sauna amongst female friends or family in a designated bath area (similar to the Roman/Turkish baths).  The tourist version of a Hmmam is an oil scrub and massage in a steamy sauna room, followed by the genteel sipping of mint tea whilst sunken into plush velvet cushions, draped in bathrobes. In a muslim culture where women do not meet in cafes for a good gossip, the Hamman’s are the next best thing!

While we were scrubbed within an inch of our lives, Andrew and Grant sought out the services of local barbers. Grant chose the deluxe version, which included a facial scrub, hair-wash, beard sculpting and hair-cut. It’s a wonder he didn’t get a manicure thrown in for good measure! Andrew, being the no-frills man that he is, opted for the beard and hair-trim only. This did however include the obligatory side-parting, German style.

The grand finale of our weekend, was an evening at a very swish restaurant on the ‘Eloff Street’ part of Marrakech’s Monopoly board. Here, we were entertained by beautiful belly-dancers, whose hypnotic hips and sequinned tassles mesmorised us (some more than others… Richard!) as effectively as the snake-charmers in the square.

An intoxicating and heady brew!

Waving a fond farewell to Chefchauen, we set off, on Andrew’s choice of ‘the scenic route’ (of course!) towards Fes which was to take us via the Rif Valley. What none of us knew however, was that the scenic route was described in our Rough Guide (read later that evening) as a route ‘not to be undertaken by inexperienced drivers’. The road was windy, busy and arduously slow going. But at least the views made up for it.

The Rif Valley also hides a slightly more secretive past-time as the hashish producing region of Morocco. We were constantly flashed by passing cars, while the occupants of the cars gesticulated wildly indicating a smoking sign as they drove past.

At one stage, a black Mercedes Benz with tinted windows and a motley crew within became particularly attentive, driving up our cars’ tails, passing in front of us, then slowing down whilst flashing and hooting and waving and shouting at us to slow down and pull-over. After about 10 kms they finally realized that we were dudds as potential buyers and left us alone.

W pulled into an outer-lying campsite, ”Camping Inernational” in the dark that evening. After a hearty tagine, we stumbled off to our tents.

The next morning, we were awoken by the calls to mosque – exotic an evocative in the still morning. Mohammed, the campsite manager, had organised us a guided tour for the group, as the Medina of Fes can be confusing and almost impossible to negotiate as a non-resident. Hamid, our tour guide and salesman extraordinaire, kick-started his tour with a bird’s eye-view of the old Medina (old town). He explained that in the Medina, life carries on as if the modern world has never existed. He lead us through alleyways, introducing us to the family roles traditionally played for hundreds of years. The father and sons learn a family trade (such as pottery, wood carving, weaving etc) and the mother is then responsible for buying wool from the year’s trade. The wool is the family’s ‘insurance’ and is used to make traditional carpets.

Although parts of the Medina are certainly frozen in time, such as the food markets and donkey transport trotting purposefully through the alleyways, the modern world has managed to creep in, visible as satellite dishes in the hundreds sunning themselves on the Medina roofs and “made in China” trinkets for sale.

Hamid then lead us to a ‘pharmacist’ also known as a glorified spice merchant who managed to sell us spices and musk smelling soap for outrageous prices. Hamid no doubt was chuffed, as he was getting a commission on all our purchases. As Andrew commented later, being with Hamid was like watching a great 30 minute documentary followed by hours of advertisements. The culmination of Hamid’s show occurred when he took us to the ‘UNESCO approved Government Co-op Carpet Sales House’. Here, in an exquisite and restored house inside the Medina, we were separated into couples and herded into separate rooms where we were shown carpet after carpet by relentless salesmen. Some of the carpets were beautiful and Chippy and Richard, Mikaela’s parents, made Hamid’s day by purchasing not one, but two! Chippy, slightly ashen-faced, remarked that she was not even sure the carpets would match their furniture! But such was the charm Hamid had managed to pour over us, to his credit.

One of our last stops on the way out was the famous tannery. Seen and smelt from above, it truly looks like a giant’s paint-box as Michael Palin so eloquently describes in his Saharan documentaries.

It was late afternoon by the time we exited the Medina’s walls into the bright sunshine and breathed in some fresher air. After stocking up on grocery supplies from a swanky supermarket, we headed back to our campsite. The next morning was spent chasing up third party insurance, which we hadn’t managed to get at the border. Paula also spent some time contacting the SA embassy in London in order to follow up on her renewed SA passport. We finally left town around mid-afternoon and spent a freezing night camping near Azrou.

So, farewell was bid to London and off Andrew and I set to catch our ferry from Dover to Dunkirk. Well, we almost made it, but alas, apparently arriving 10 minutes prior to departure is not sufficient time to pass through border control and catch your ferry. So, as we pulled in to the ferry terminal, we were forced to turn around and exit again, as our ferry chugged off into the blue yonder. So, one false start down, we managed to be well in time for the next available ferry (4 hours later) and off we set for the shores of France. One country down, 20 to go.

Exhausted and ready for some down time after our mad last week in London, we joined up with my folks in the Pyrenees for a week of skiing, crepes, vin chaud and some well deserved R&R. The Pyrenees deserve a definite mention – they are lower in altitude and several degrees warmer than their big brother, the Alps. Gentle, friendly and decidedly pretty, this mountain range is a favourite amongst Spaniards and the local French.

Trying to repack our snow-covered 4×4 (christened Dagga Bull after the lone, tough male buffaloes that roam the African bush and enjoy the odd wallow in mud pools) was an experience, for us and the passers-by, and sure to contrast with what will follow.

My parents patiently put up with our gear strewn all over the chalet as we resorted and reorganised our packing system. Frequent trips to ‘Wi-Fi’ stations were also a regular part of our daily routine as we desperately tried to get last minute ebay purchases sent to the rest of our crew pior to their departure. (A massive thanks to Kevin and Eva in this regard!).

One week later, rejuvenated, we squashed my folks’ bags into the back seat, squashed them in too for good measure and off we set for Spain! A gorgeous drive through the Cols of the Pyrenees, the trees all sugar-coated in a dusting of snow was followed by a meander through rural Spain towards Cadaques. Betty, our GPS and vocal 5^th member of our car chose a decidedly scenic route, which we all throroughly enjoyed, despite some incredibly small and windy roads. Tapas and a stay-over at ‘Hotel Masrai’ welcomed us to Spain – quiet and chilly at this time of year.

Day 2 in Spain included a tour of Salvador Dali’s eccentric museum and holiday retreat, Figueres and Cadaques respectively. We then spent some time returning to my father’s youth when he had worked as a sailing instructor in Roses. He was amazed by the development that had occurred since he had last worked there 35 years ago. He reminisced about his motorbike that he had brought over with him from France, and alas, had failed to impress a prominent property developer’s daughter.

Our next stop-over was the beautiful city of Barcelona with it’s wide streets, grand buildings and exotic palm trees lining the squares. We had problems finding parking for our extra high vehicle, but thankfully were able to solve our dilemma by staying at a slightly outer-lying hotel and parking our car in a guarded restaurant parking bay just opposite.

Unfortunately, my Mom’s back played up due to a combination of long hours in the car combined with coughing with a cold. She was very disappointed but in her typical way, she smiled and told us to enjoy ourselves while she recovered. So, the three of us spent a great day exploring Barcelona’s marina, Barceloneta, the beach, the local markets and later the Ramblas and Gaudi’s unfinished church. That evening, Mom had recovered enough to join us for a delicious paella meal just across the road from our hotel.

Sadly, the following day we said goodbye to my folks who were catching a train back to Paris, and thereafter, flying home to SA. Andrew and I camped that evening along the Costa Brava – the horrifically overdeveloped coastal resorts populated by Europeans escaping the cold winters, or realizing their dreams of a place in the sun. Truly awful in every respect and, in our opinion, to be avoided!

The Alhambra Palace in Granada was certainly a highlight and we marveled at the exotic Arabian architecture reminding us of ancient times gone by. We were dressed warmly but still became chilled to the bone as we waited to get in (the queues at this time of year were non-existent at the crack of dawn however we had arrived early after being warned by our hotel receptionist that we should rather be safe than sorry).

Our next stop-over was Cordoba, famous for it’s Mezquita – initially a mosque and now a church. The red and white double arches inside were very impressive as was the sheer size of the interior. This town, like so many others in Spain had streets lined with orange trees, the green leaves and bright orange fruit creating a gorgeous effect. In Cordoba, we also inadvertently stumbled upon a medieval festival , complete with tame eagles, huge open coal fires roasting plump pigs and stalls selling jewelry and sweet cakes.

Tarifa was our last top-over prior to meeting up with the rest of our African Vuvuzela crew. At last, Africa was within reach, beckoning enticingly! Au Revoir Europe.