How to make Sesame Chikki

This post is dedicated to my friend Isabel with whom I share a fondness for this traditional Indian sweet.

 

Put one and a half table spoons of sugar into a saucepan. Heat it over medium heat until the sugar has melted stiring constantly to avoid lumps of burned sugar. Add four spoons of sesame seeds. Mix quickly with the hot sugar liquid and turn off the heat.

Put a little bit of ghee (butter) on to the working top and onto a rolling pin. Put about a fifth part of the paste on the table and form a patty (careful it’s hot!). Roll the paste with the rolling pin until the paste is very thin. You have to do this quickly otherwise the paste gets too hard and sticky.

As soon as it has cooled down it is hard and you can break them into smaller pieces, ready to eat. Enjoy!

First impressions on India

One month after we left Malawi our journey continues on a different continent, in a country which is as diverse and astonishing as only few others: India.

Read about my first impressions on Goa on the background of African memories.

The sun doesn't seem to be as strong as in Malawi. Which means you can actually walk a few minutes without a sunhat even if the sun is completely out (what hasn't been the case very often, most of the time it's quite hazy). And the good thing is you can have an umbrella with you even if you don't have a newborn baby. It rather seems to be a sign of caste here than a sign for a mother. By the way, where are the babies? Certainly not on the back of the women. Very seldom can you spot a mother with her baby on the arm. So how come that there are so many people everywhere?

When I get out of a building I keep being surprised how hot and humid it actually is! Air conditioned buildings let you forget about it too quickly. And as there is electricity everywhere, there is also Air con. Nevertheless we have already experienced the first power cut whilst being in the middle of a night market. The power cut rendered the world in black helping me to sneak away from an insisting seller who tried to sell me a sari.

Being on the streets is not only because of the sellers quite entertaining and stressful here. The number of vehicles on the narrow roads is most impressive. And how they drive! Just never walk on the wrong side of the street where you can't see when you have to jump out of the way. And never ever be startled when someone beeps at you. You might fall exactly in front of the person trying to warn you... Using their horns seems to be the favourite activity of all drivers here. But don't mistake the beeping for one of the friendly beeps indicating a free taxi, no it simply means "Here I come! Get out of the way!". The fact that they are all beeping from different sides doesn't make it easier though... Safest option seems to be hiding behind a cow.

Cows still live a very comfortable life in India. Being allowed everywhere at any time they never have to fear for their life (even though the elite seems to have started to enjoy a beef burger from time to time). Unlike in Malawi, where the main staple diet is consisting of nshima and usipa (fish), we can find here plenty of vegetarian food. And: It's hot without putting Nali on top of it! Which makes it tricky to pick the right dish for me...

Trying to understand the menu is the other thing… Language is an issue as usual while travelling. India has got many spoken languages. And as much as I love to learn languages none of them is (yet) in my repertoire. Sometimes Vijay's Gujarati helps to get some discounts (one seller actually started to deal with us at a lower price than he just did with a completely white couple), sometimes it even leads to more confusion when they happily start to immerge us with their local language (Konkani). So there's body language left. Good to know that wiggling your head means "yes"!

Strolling along the beach you see - apart from the red burnt tourists - people playing in the water. Again: rarely any kids, but adults enjoying the water! As in Africa women don't show much uncovered skin: they go in with their saris on! Men on the other hand seem to have a preference for covering each other in sand. One poor guy who fell asleep on the beach got a sexy woman corpse made out of sand on top of him...

Volunteering in Africa

The basis of volunteer work is to do work that requires to be done for the benefit of society or the environment without any financial recompense.  It is a socialist concept and one that isn’t tremendously popular in our predominantly capitalist society.  Whilst living in north-eastern France for the last three and a half years, I discovered that the concept of volunteering is at the heart of their society.  I too participated and was a member of a particular group that organised music festivals and cultural events in the local area.  There was no financial reward and if you were to break it completely down we were typically out of pocket due to travel expenses and such.  But the sense of achievement and fun we had typically made up for losing our weekends and evenings to long hard days of cooking food, pulling beer and being on our feet for 15 hours at a time.

But this article isn’t about the wonders of volunteering in France but what we were astounded by when we went to Southern Africa this year.  My girlfriend and I have just returned from a three-month trip in Southern Africa.  We hitch-hiked from Namibia to Zimbabwe and continued through Zambia into Malawi.  Our journey covered thousands of kilometres, meeting hundreds of people along the way.  The cultures and languages within countries and across borders are fascinating and vary to a greater extent than those between neighbouring European states. 

What we found in southern Africa was that ‘volunteering’ is a massive industry.  But the definition of volunteering is different.  What we discovered was that the premise of most ‘volunteer’ projects is that the locals are incapable of developing themselves because they are inherently incapable or culturally inept in making the necessary changes.  This premise has to be true in order to justify, say, an eighteen year old, with no previous experience of development work nor knowledge of African culture or history to start telling communities what to do in teaching or health or construction or whatever projects he might be involved in.  It is quite simply absurd to think that untrained westerners have a better idea of how people from a different continent, culture, lifestyle, climate should live their lives than they do, or what is best for them in terms of development.  Even the experts are continually getting it wrong.

I have seen ‘volunteer’ projects advertised for teaching assistants, sport teachers, medical projects, helping to build a school/hospital or helping to look after animals.  Expertise required to join these projects?  None.  The volunteer does not have to be an expert in his field.  The teachers do not have to have any previous teaching experience, the medical helpers no medical or nursing experience and the one helping to look after animals, no zoo-keeping experience or zoology knowledge.

These projects are funded by the volunteer who makes a payment of between hundreds to thousands of pounds to attend a project of duration of typically two weeks to two months.  I find that a simple way of determining who is the real beneficiary is by following the money.  Whoever is paying is the ultimate beneficiary.

The volunteer benefits from learning about a new culture, experiencing a different lifestyle or close interaction with children or animals. In comparison, the communities that the volunteer has come to help in put up with the westerners with bemusement and with the infinite politeness that is common in these parts.

One day, we inadvertently overheard a conversation between a volunteer agency and leaders of the local community.  The volunteer agency stated that they had X number of volunteers arriving soon who want to be involved in teaching sports. They asked the local community leaders whether they could accommodate this.  It seems that the ‘need’ for volunteers has not come from the community but rather it is suggested to them from savvy volunteer tour agencies. The link between supply and demand has been lost somewhere in the world of business.

I believe it is important to think about what sort of volunteers are required for a particular need.   Wouldn’t, for example, asking a group of professional teachers to lead a course to train local teachers who will stay in the community their whole lives be more beneficial for the long-term development of a school?

Nevertheless I must finish by saying that most of the volunteering programmes are not inherently bad.  From my point of view they are tourism trips and should be labelled as such.  They are rewarding to the participant and if managed properly the projects may benefit the local community.  However they can be detrimental to development when communities stop doing things for themselves: We came across one village chief who mistook us for volunteers. After greeting us he declared that it is good that we are there and that he is relying on us to develop their country for them.

Malawian Sachet Culture

The sachet, as it is popularly known, is a small transparent plastic packet containing about 60ml of cheap, hard liquor.  They are available in all the popular brands of alcohol common in these parts as well as other sachet only varieties with fancy names and colourful packaging.  They cost as little as 15 kwachas (five pence) each and are typically bought in packs of five or ten. It has become the drink of choice for the poor, young, uneducated or vulnerable.

Such is their negative effect on society that Zambia has recently created a country-wide ban on the sachet industry.  Just three months after the ban came into force, when we passed through Zambia we didn’t come across their existence.  However when we passed across the border into Malawi, the sachet culture slapped us in the face.  We first come across the discarded empty sachets littering the dirt road and countryside.  They are everywhere and littering the towns, countryside, beaches and forests.  The litter problem, typically a Western defined problem (Malawians don’t share the same values on litter) is not the main problem of the sachet-culture, the effect on certain social groups is debilitating.  More than once we were harassed by men, madly drunk, incoherent and dangerous.

The affordability and availability of this cheap and potent alcohol means that life even in the most idyllic and rural settlements is being severely affected.  Men, who are typically the main consumers, are drunk before midday.  Teachers and parents are complaining of the effect on teenage boys who are dropping out of schools to drink sachets.  Even children under the age of ten are known to be drinking the substance.  Others complain of a rise in domestic and sexual violence.  The sachet culture also affects those not directly connected; the transport system based around private mini-buses are becoming increasingly more dangerous as drivers keep themselves awake with the use of sachets.

For a country with a high unemployment rate, such an increase in unproductiveness of the population paralyses development.

Malawi has tried banning the product but a labyrinth of free business, vested interests and long legal processes means that the government required great political will to pass a ban.  They do not (yet) have the will.  A small success has been had from the Malawian government as they have increased the taxes on alcohol to 250% in the latest budget with the idea to price out school children from the market and make it uneconomical for others.  Sadly it still remains too cheap and the sachet problem will not be solved until a total ban is enforced. 

Further articles:

http://www.nyasatimes.com/malawi/2012/11/04/malawis-chanco-student-dies-after-consuming-alcohol-sachets/

http://www.nyasatimes.com/malawi/2012/07/01/chiefs-back-ban-of-alcohol-sachet/

http://mwnation.com/opinion-and-analysis/weekend-investigates/6767-should-malawi-ban-sachets

http://www.faceofmalawi.com/2012/09/zambia-bans-liquor-sachets/

Azungu!

Mzungu (plural Azungu) is the southern, central and eastern African term for a person of foreign descent. Literally translated it means "someone who roams around aimlessly" or "aimless wanderer". 

As soon as a Malawian kid catches sight of my light skin, it immediately sounds a warning cry: "Azungu!" Within seconds there's a whole bunch of children surrounding us. They will then make use of their communication skills in English: "How are you? What's my name?" (mistaken for "what's your name?"). Or they will straight away proceed to their most popular plea: "Give me picture!"

Vijay pulls out his camera and the children pose for a photo. Watching them when they have a look at the picture is the best part of it! Everyone tries to be as close as possible to the camera. The small ones - at the back - jump up and down in order to catch a glimpse of the photo. And they all erupt in laughter.

Enjoying Lake Malawi

The village of Chona (no electricity, no running water) PRESENTS: A special lecture on Aeronautics

The village of Chona, Zambia is not really a village at all but more of a focal point, a place of infrastructure where the wider community gathers.  It has a health clinic, a school, a small market and a well meaning everyday the community for miles around descend to Chona before heading back to their small plots of land and huts in the evening.  It is here at the local school, with so many pupils that the school starts at 7am to 5pm working in two shifts, where I offered to give a lecture on Aeronautics to the eldest math and physics class.

The small classroom, packed with fifty Grade 9 pupils wait patiently as I am presented.  As with the impeccable politeness of all Zambians they stand when I enter the class room, greeting me formally yet warmly.  I forgot to ask them to sit and they continued standing until the head teacher intervened and gave the instruction.

As with schools in the UK, all the pupils wore a school uniform, shirt and tie for boys and skirt, blouse and jumper (?) for the girls.  At this age in school, their shirts were not torn or over used and almost all had a note book to write in.

I started at the beginning.  The most that any of these children had ever gotten to an aircraft is seeing the large airliners silently cruising through the blue skies kilometers above them.  Had they ever asked themselves about how it could fly?  Or even how big these aircraft were?  From their astonishment I would say no.  Their initial shyness, coupled with ignorance soon gave way to intrigue and fascination.  Aircraft, aeroplanes, helicopters are understandable to small villagers like themselves who may have never even been in a car before.

They started answering the questions I posed them.  One boy, even answered correctly as to why the aircraft needed a tail using his knowledge of the large African birds around them.  Another correctly answered to what would happen if the aircraft started to go too slowly.  Their questions too became more sophisticated, 'Sir, how do you get oxygen into the aircraft?', 'Why can't you open the windows?'

The greatest part of the lesson was taken up by practical maths.  They were to work out in relation to other modes of transport how fast an aircraft travels at.  Speed is not something they are accustomed to.  The question 'How fast can you travel by bike?'  Was met with shrugs until they could think about how far their house was and how long it took to get to school.  30 minutes to travel 7km equals 14km/h.  The car, which most had never travelled on, was worked out to be at 120km/h.  But how do you work out the speed of an airliner?

I gave them a few clues: 1) Airliners cruise at roughly Mach 0.9, 2) Speed of sound is roughly 300m/s.  A few brave children, came to the black board to work it out.  Having no calculators all calculation must be done long hand or mentally.  When they worked out the speed at 972km/h they were astonished!  Shouts of surprise and murmurs of disbelief filled the classroom and exploded to a raucous when they found out that fighter jets can travel at 2-3 times that speed.

Hands were shooting up now and the questions flowed one after another non-stop.  But time was now over and I left them in a state of wonder.

As Mr. Moses, the senior teacher, said as we left, "Thank you.  It is inspiring to the young village children to realise where they can emerge with studying and the usefulness of it."

What has happened to Travellers?

One of the many joys I used to have was to meet other travellers.  Each meeting used to be an explosion. Two sets of experiences clashing and fusing into a helix of conversation, telling stories and sharing ideas about about the ills and woes of our host country and with wild and crazy and sometimes intelligent ways to solve them. These conversations starting at midday would stretch into the early hours of the morning and even the occasional incoherent ending fueled by local beer would give nuggets of gold.

My conversations now seem to revolve around where we've been, where we're going before falling back on life in Europe.

What happened to the politically wired travellers with an axe to grind? And the ones with several axes? Where are the socialists, the communists, the capitalists, the anti-capitalists and the anti-capitalists capitalists? Where are the environmentalists and the anarchists?

I call all these people to come find me and let's toast to Africa's successes and woes. Let's solve the continents' issues with useless rhetoric and see where our ideas lead us.

A special day

How many of your birthdays do you remember? I will definitely keep lively memories of this one…

When I wake up the sun is already out.  It’s 6am and it’s already getting too warm inside our tent in Chona, a small village west of Zambia's capital Lusaka. We’re having (English!) breakfast together with our host Momo, a Japanese nurse who’s volunteering at the local clinic, and her friend Tamaki. They just helped to deliver two babies, one of them named after Tamaki.

As we arrive at the clinic there are already many people waiting outside of the registration office. The “registration office” is a small room where thousands of booklets are piled up.  It’s probably the messiest and dustiest room I’ve ever seen.  Every patient gets a number when he first visits the clinic. He has to bring his own booklet - a small exercise book. If he doesn’t have money to buy one, they cost 10 cents in the local market, he is turned away. While Vijay is enquiring the patients name, age and headman (which indicates the village they’re leaving in) and writing them down on the booklets, I try to find the booklets that have already been personalized. Sometimes the booklet is on the shelf where it should be, but most of the time I have to go through several piles of unsorted booklets. Some booklets just can’t be found. Then the clinic provides them with a “new” booklet – another patients booklet from 2009 where we tear out the indicates the doctor has written down.  As soon as they are registered – we have their booklet on a pile and bring it into the doctors office – the people queue again.   After they’ve seen the doctor they queue again in front of the pharmacy where they show their booklet, with newly indicated prescriptions, and get their medicine. It’s impressive how patient they PATIENTs here are. Many come from far away. They walk for several hours to get here, queue hours in the sun – all being ill.
 

After helping out at the registration, I can see the new born babies and their mothers. An 18 years-old HIV-positive woman hasn’t decided yet what name her boy is going to get. She looks tired, but smiles when I tell her that she has done well and has a beautiful baby boy.

Later,  I give a hand at the HIV-testing.  It’s Wednesday, so all pregnant women from the area come to get checked. One part of it is the HIV-test. Most of the women already have many kids, one of them – aged 29 – is awaiting her 6^th…

It’s good to see that most of the womens test results are negative today. Two husbands are tested positive though. Other tests have to be done.

Around 1pm the clinic closes and we prepare lunch: Zambian-Japanese fusion cooked on charcoals. It's very hot now and we try not to move too much. But the buckets need to be filled with water. The tap water is only running between 11am and 4pm when the sun is strong enough to make the solar pump work. Momo's house is one of the few with taps, so people come here to fill their buckets as well as for recharging the batteries of their mobile phones . There are only two houses with electricity (thanks to solar panels) in the village. Not even the clinic has electricity!

After lunch we go to the local school. We've already spoken to the headmaster and the senior teacher Mr Moses the day before. We take a seat in their small, dark office between two classrooms and soon end up in a Math lesson of grade 9. There are more than 50 pupils in this class. Some of them with notebooks others only with their torn school uniform. While I am more focused on the teacher-pupil interaction and the teaching skills, Vijay is paying more attention to the calculations. As he politely points out the teachers errors on the blackboard, the classroom fills with laughter. Fortunately the teacher has got a good sense of humour!

Later in the afternoon we climb a rock near the village, where we get a beautiful view of the surroundings and enjoy the sunset.

After dinner Vijay and our host Momo, surprise me with wine and lots of snacks which Momo brought from the city. When Ms Kaboscha, Momos neighbour who is also working at the clinic, joins us, the birthday party is perfect!

Lungobe Health Clinic

the registration office

patient patients!

as there is no doctor in the clinic, the nurse attends the patients

Ms Kabosha gives out the medicine at the pharmacy

mothers and babies are getting checked

Is this a classic AIDS story?

Zachery is 25 years old.  He finished school at the age of 22, three years ago, but has never had a job.  With a high unemployment it is difficult for young people to get a job anyway but coupled with his inability to fund any high education he was particularly disadvantaged.  Both his parents have died, his brother is ill and lost his job and his family home is about to be repossessed.

We met Zachery as we left the hostel this morning to take a stroll around Lusaka, the capital of Zambia.  It was 10am and he stopped us on the road a few minutes from the hostel.  He asked for a moment of our time because he had 'a problem which he was sure we could help with'.  We agreed to listen to him but with very sceptical ears.  We listened as this polite young man described how two days ago he received a letter for repossession of his home.  The story became more tragic as he continued to describe how not long before that his father passed away, the last member of his family with a job.  He showed us an official letter and he was in arrears of over one million kwachas, about $200 US.  He was asking for any help we could give him.

Still with an air of scepticism we suggested that we needed a tour guide for the city and we offered 50,000 kwachas, $10 US for a few hours - an amount that someone not really in need would've turned down but would make a real difference if his story was honest.

He agreed and took us on a walking tour of the city for three hours.  During this time his story came out about how he lost his mother and then recently his father.  He told us about how he is the youngest of seven children and the only one that can work now after his brother lost his job after he fell ill.  He has a few nephews and nieces that he has to look after too.

He is devoutly Christian, but he doesn't understand God's purpose for him.  He mentions that he asks God what is his purpose here on Earth, as he is suffering and has done for a long time.  He looks at us in earnest as if we can answer this question for him.  But there were some inconsistencies too, he had a nice shirt and jeans on and after mentioning a few times that he hasn't eaten in two days didn't seem ravaged by hunger when we stopped in a cafe for a cake - although that could've just been to keep up appearances.

Indeed a sad story if all is true.  Never were the words HIV or AIDS mentioned, it is not something that people readily admit to, but is rife and devastating in this part of Africa.  In many countries in Southern Africa the AIDS crisis is becoming a pandemic with generations of parents and breadwinners literary wiped out.  In the best of cases children must become parents to their siblings, grandparents in their old age care for their orphaned grandchildren, in the worst, a generation of street children emerges.

Zachery was very pleased when we parted with him holding his 50,000kwacha note.  We hope it would provide him with some food for his family and a little hope too.  He certainly earned it.

Cruising down the Zambezi in our little raft

The Most Amazing Infinity Pool in the World

Bathing at the edge of the world.

Living desert

Finally we found a place with fast internet connection, so we can share some pictures with you. :-)

When you walk or drive through a desert, you might get the impression, that there's no life around you... In case of the Namib, a coastal desert in southern Africa, this assumption is completely wrong.
Having endured arid or semi-arid conditions for roughly 55–80 million years, the Namib is the oldest desert in the world. This is one of the reasons why a number of unusual species of plants and animals are found in this desert. Many of them are endemic and highly adapted to the specific climate of the area.
In Swakopmund we had the pleasure to track some of these amazing creatures. Have a look!

It's not the destination... (Part 2/2)

...but the journey.  That's the saying and it cannot be truer than when one is hitch hiking.  After a month in Namibia exploring both the South and North with our own hire car I have to say that no single day has left us with as many impressions and understanding of Namibia as our first day hitch hiking.

....
Our third lift came within minutes of us wolfing down a quick lunch of bread and horse radish spread.  A large truck slowed and pulled off the road in the gravel side lane where we were waiting.  It took so long to slow to a stop that we stood watching for the best part of a minute.  He rolled down his window as I approached, engine still running.  Over the loud purring of the engine I heard nothing of what he said as I strained my neck every upwards to catch maybe a word.  He never raised his voice and so our brief conversation was based on me interpreting his facial expressions and relying on social instinct as to which way the conversation was going and answer appropriately.  We 'agreed' on a price of $35NAB for the distance, more than we wanted to, and hopped onboard.  Our bags occupying the truck cabin's rest area behind the front seats.  Although the perspective from the high cabin was spectacular, everything else wasn't.  His maximum speed was 80km/h, the average was 60km/h.  Our attempts to talk to him resulted in one word answers or just a plain shrug of the shoulders.  We found out he came from Walvis Bay this morning, leaving at 3am.  That was ten hours ago and he hasn't taken a break yet.  That pretty much explained his constant fidgeting as he tried to keep himself awake.  But conversation wasn't one of the these methods.  As we drove we passed a large burnt patch on the left hand side, the remains of a large truck splayed throughout the zone.  We all shifted in our seats uncomfortably.

The one hour trip became two hours and it was now late in the day, at 3pm we reached Otavi.

After fending off several cars that wanted to cram us into the boot of their full cars a sedan type car pulled up with tinted windows and house music blaring out.  A light coloured, well-built man got out who could've been a boxer a few years ago but had a small belly growing and laughter lines showing the faint sings of slowing down.  The passenger seat was filled with a friend of his of equal if not slightly smaller stature and in the back a lone dark girl, also a paying passenger.
"How much to get to Groofontein?" I asked.
"You decide." He responded, rendering me a bit off guard.
"Ok, how about 20 each?"
"Fine."  (Maybe we should've offered less!)

The 60km/h of our previous lift became a cool 120km/h with the air conditioning and house music both on high.

The sun was now lowering itself down in the sky when we arrived in Groofontein making the world seem more yellow but by no means relieving the heat and mugginess.  At the fuel station where we were dropped off there was a mini-bus heading up to Rundu, our 'fingers-crossed-let's-hope-we-can-get-there' destination.
"120 dollars"  the driver's assitant began.  "But because you were volunteers, 100 dollars"
Volunteers?  Neither of us said we were volunteers, but maybe no other tourist does hitch hike late in the afternoon from this out of the way town.  Anyway it was too much!  So far we had payed 55 dollars to reach to this point and we were three quarters of the way there.

Evelyn volunteered this time to 'do the rounds'.  She walked up to all the cars at the fuel pumps asking them of their destination and in her nicest voice asking for a lift.  The first said that he's not going to that destination but the second, a couple of young well dressed light ladies in a new black volkswagon said that they are going there but 'would rather not take us as she going at ridiculous speed!'.  Evelyn couldn't argue with that logic and so we went back to waiting.  The mini-bus was slowly filling up and we were running out of options.

"90 dollars"  I asked, trying to negotiate down the price.  There was a lot of silence and small discussions and they were not budging.  It was looking like we were to pay the 100 dollars when out pulled up the black car just as I was reaching into my pocket.  "Jump in" she said.  And we were off!

This was our fastest lift.  True to her word we zoomed along at 180 km/h in the air conditioned car with black and orange 'fast' seats.  The scenery now changed from large cattle ranches to small local farm plots and people living in reed and grass houses in small villages on the side of the road.  The trees were more lush and cattle and donkeys roamed along the road in equal numbers.  Out of the 2.5 million habitants of Namibia about a million of them live in the north east making it the most densest part of Namibia.

Finally at 7pm just as darkness descended we arrived in Rundu, 700km from our start.

It's not the destination... (Part 1/2)

...but the journey.  That's the saying and it cannot be truer than when one is hitch hiking.  After a month in Namibia exploring both the South and North with our own hire car I have to say that no single day has left us with as many impressions and understanding of Namibia as our first day hitch hiking.

We covered 700km through five different lifts.  That's London to Strasbourg in one day.  From the built up capital of Windhoek through the arid and dry landscape of mid-Namibia to the lush green of Rundu, on the Angolan border and on the Okovango river.

Getting out of Windhoek was the hardest single aspect.  As with any big city you have to get a ride or taxi to the city edge, to the right road heading in the direction you want to go.  Our obliging taxi driver did as we asked but first we had to drive through the throngs of people who wanted to 'help' us on the city edge.

There is no mature and extensive public transport system in Namibia.  The country's two million habitants are scattered over an area three times the size of Great Britain or two times the size of Germany.  The country has, however, a very good road network system.  This is partly due to tourism but mainly due to the fact that most of the country's foods and goods is transported by road from South Africa (see previous posts).  This road network has led to the formation of an informal public transport system in the form of mini-buses.  They wait at designated fuel stations with a trailer on the back for luggage.  As soon as they are full they belt off at break neck speeds to their destination.  As well these mini-buses private cars fill up their cars with paying customers.  Prices are negotiable.

On the city edge was one of these locations where everyone gathers to find mini-buses or private vehicles come to fill up their cars.  Seeing our taxi pulling through they gathered around all wanting to help us.  Indeed they probably wanted to help us, but also wanted to help themselves by requesting extortionate prices.  They tried to open the taxi doors and convincing the taxi driver that this is the only option.  Through our persistent 'no's' the prices began dropping, $100NAB per person became $50NAM per person but it was already too much.  "Onwards!  Take us out of town, now!" we commanded our taxi driver before our taxi was over run with people.  We stopped on the road going North a little way out of town where the taxi driver thought it would be safe to hitch hike from.  One of the more persistent men followed us with his car - he was going to a town along our way right now and was looking for passengers - he lowered his price but after all the commotion we wanted some peace.  He left us, the taxi driver left us and we were soon alone in the growing sun on the main road.

Our first lift came after about twenty minutes.  A small courier van stopped.  A Damara man.

"Matisa?" - Hi, How are you.

"!Aa-aa" - I'm fine.

He looked nervous, in his cabin there were two seats but certainly not enough space for our luggage.  "We'll have to put it in the back."  I mentioned.  He looked up and down the road and hesitantly said "ok, quickly!".  He opened the back which was completely empty and we dumped our rucksacks inside and clambered into the front.  He mentions that if he gets caught giving rides to people he will get fired.  We speed off.  He took us to the first big town on the way, Okahandja and when he left us off he put his car down the bank of the road, out of sight. "Ok, quickly, get out!"

Our second lift arrived as we walked under the peaking sun towards the main intersection outside Okahandja.  Evelyn's arm outstretched and thumb upwards pulled over a small car and just in time too.  It was now 11am and the sun was blazing hot and our rucksack straps slowly digging deeper into our shoulders.  It was a small car with a lone driver.  A white man in his mid-twenties got out and waited for us to reach him.  He was a service representative for a South African industrial water company and was on his way to Otkiwarango for a meeting and the next town on our journey northwards.

Softly spoken he descriped how he came to Namibia 14 years ago from South Africa.  "Would you ever go back?" I asked.
"No way, never!" He exclaimed. "I had an option to go back for a promotion to Durban, South Africa for a salary that is triple of what I am being paid now.  I turned it down.  You can't live in South Africa with all that violence around you.  And later, when you have kids, what sort of life will they have?  They cannot go outside and play anymore.  They go straight from their schools to their homes and stay there all evening playming their X-boxes and Play Stations.  That's not a life they should be having and good for their development.  Here in Namibia you can go out and play without worrying about getting mugged or worse."

"And even in the schools it's not safe.  There were, what? a hundred murders in the schools last year.  And then unless you are the captain of the football team or rugby team you will surely get picked on, bullied, and there are more than a few suicides in school children there.  There is no way I'm going back."

The dusty, arid landscape continued as we drove the long straight road northwards.  Knee high yellow grass filled in gaps between a peristent thorny shrubbery and small dry trees.  Large acacia trees punctuates the scene and those tree's close to the roadside with their large umbrella of branches and leaves provides some shade for the lone trader.

"What are they selling?" I asked, pointing to one trader in particular piling identical white sacks on top of each other on the side of the road.  "It's food fo the sheep, coming from the seeds of the tree overhead."

"And the other thing about South Africa," he continued, "is that, now the ANC [the ruling party] have a huge issue with the [powerful] youth leadership and if they lose the next election, the country is heading towards civil war.  But, one can say the same thing for Namibia too, Namibia has been independent since 1991 and it's been the same party that's been in power ever since.  Each election they promise more jobs and in Namibia we now have an employment rate of 50%.  For a country of only two million habitants that is devastating.  People are now starting to wake up and realise that they are not delivering on their promises and they want change.  I hope that if change does come the ruling party will relinquish power without causing trouble."
 "Yes, let's hope they are more responsible than other African states."  I offer in reply.
 "Oh, Namibia and Namibians have far more sense than the countries around."

In Otjiwarango he let us off about a kilometre past town,  the best place to hitch hike from.

ETOSHA - Wildlife Eldorado

A little taster of the wonderful wildlife we saw after only a two day stop in Etosha national park.  Stay tuned for some amazing photos...

Very slow internet here and not much of it so sorry for the lack of activity and photos on the blog.