At the sight of the invading alien, 20 of 40 lounging natives fled as the others watched warily from a campfire. Eventually, a hesitant-yet-curious tall, scraggly elder approached to investigate. Holding forth my hand with a mighty Viking smile eased his worries.
“Greetings from America. Is it okay if I camp with you tonight?”
Answering in a British accent, he sounded so proper, “Yes, of course you may sleep wherever you please. All visitors are welcome in Mbeyo.”
“So, why then have those people run away?”
“When some of us see white men, we are afraid that you have come here to kill us.”
“No, I am only a friend who has traveled across the world for one-and-a-half years to learn from your village.”
“But you are from a great country, what can we teach you?”
“We are both from great countries and can learn from each other. Maybe you can remind me of what’s been forgotten.”
“We are the Kavango and this is our church. We are Baptists but others here are Catholic and Evangelicals. Can you help us contact American Baptist missionaries?”
“Well, I don’t know any, but if you write a letter, I’ll photograph the page and post it on the Internet. Why do you want to contact them?”
“Because the missionaries will come and make electricity for us.”
“Why do you want electricity?”
“So we can have computers and Internet.”
“And televisions and stereos too?”
“Yes, yes, of course. We want everything just like American people.”
Pointing to a single-room mud hut, I ask, “But if you acquire those things, you’ll need a bigger house and an extra job to pay for it all.”
This confuses him. “But if the missionaries come, unemployment will end, and everyone will have lots of money.”
Pointing to groups of idle men standing next to women busy tending fires and stacking wood, I ask, “What do you do all day now?”
“There is nothing to do for many months while we wait for the rains. Then we will plant seed. Anyway, you are in time to hear our choir practice.”
The Mbeyo Baptist Church was built with the same mud-and-pole materials as the rounded huts, only bigger and square with a hard-packed dirt floor and rows of uneven sawed wooden benches. Inside, as two young boys warmed up on goatskin drums, the low humming choir began to shuffle with gyrating hips, matching the rhythm of a hollow barrel beat.
Between powerful harmonizing vibrations and subtly stamping bare feet, a fine dust filled the air, almost obscuring the undulating slow-motion dance. Clear, alternating octaves from converging voices gave me tingling goose bumps and shivers with hairs on end. Although swirling airborne particles made breathing difficult, it was impossible to rise or resist the hypnotic lure of entrancing upbeat hymns. As the Mbeyo Baptist Choir erupted into a spellbinding synchronization of explosive melody, I found myself sucked into the layered extremes of primordial life emerging in the eternal African song.
Khara
December 8, 2005
Livingstone, Zambia
One of Africa’s poorest countries, Zambia still holds its head high. Lacking the fanatical friendliness of Asia, acceptance here requires explaining my journey with photographs through fire-lit evenings winning over the hearts and hesitant smiles of wary natives. Slave-trading and genocide may be old stories to Westerners but not to Africans. Over the centuries, when they weren’t exterminating or enslaving each other, European colonialists arrived to take up the slack. Today, if they’re not soldiers, foreigners in Africa are aid workers living here who tie their assistance to converting the people to new religions.
Africans should be grateful that 37 separate Christian and Muslim sects landed in time to explain to them that for the last 10,000 years, they’d been worshipping the wrong gods. Yet, less populated and poorer than other African countries, Zambia’s future is promising.
Benefiting from Mugabe’s chaos in neighboring Zimbabwe, tourists exploring Livingstone have stumbled onto superior views of Victoria Falls and less commercial game parks much richer in animal life. Still underdeveloped in terms of hotels and lodges, two main asphalt roads connecting national borders east to west make it possible to cross the country in any weather. Run by European expatriates, backpacker hostels continue as the slums of adventure travel, with greedy owners exploiting the unsuspecting.
Cramming tiny rooms with rows of narrow bunk beds and with one broken-down hallway bathroom for 20 or more guests, these pitiful cons appear at first as bargain accommodations for 10 bucks a night. Without private transportation, a captive audience of trucking overlanders is hoodwinked into paying inflated prices for food, Internet and laundry. But vagabond motorcyclists dodge the gouging by venturing into town to determine where locals eat and shop.
Yet for singles, backpacker hostels provide welcome opportunities to meet other travelers, specifically those of the opposite sex, also weary of being alone. Of all the exotic women I have met thus far, single female backpackers are by far the most impressive. Educated by experience and boldly spirited, they are inspiring to engage in deep conversation, swapping tales of adventure from different perspectives. So dazzling are these daughters of the road, if ever to marry again, I would surely choose a woman who has had the courage to travel developing nations alone. As African nights of introspection in a shrinking nylon tent closed in, my anticipation grew for what hopefully lay ahead in backpacker hostels.
It had been over a year since I’d encountered another long-rider, so I was surprised to meet a trio of bikers touring southern Africa. No matter the nationality, motorcyclists share a common bond. While three German riders were assisting in my parking lot tire mounting, out from an idling minibus stepped a young English backpacker hauling a daypack. Women this stunning are difficult to find, and she was definitely worth approaching. “What happened? Weren’t you heading to Victoria Falls?”
Annoyed but not flustered, the clear-eyed beauty with strawberry lips brushed back her sweat-dampened hair and stopped to talk, “Yes, but I forgot my money so I’ll have to return later.”
Concealing a set of sprouting horns, I tell her, “When I finish mounting these tires, I’ll be riding over around two o’clock. You’re welcome to jump on the back and come along.”
“That’s great, I’ll wait by the lobby.”
When men and women first meet, it’s common, though not always possible, for them to disguise their underlying intentions. Women are better at this than men. Although standards vary, men have body parts they inspect while trying to conceal staring, but women eventually catch us studying their breasts, the shape of their legs or the roundness of their butts. Although men aren’t sure about the specifics, women have criteria of their own. With all this in mind, everything about Khara radiated uniqueness. Sometimes women just glow, and taking my eyes off her was nearly impossible. Ferociously independent with an unpretentious beauty, a centerfold figure and a country-girl smile, Khara had it all. An aspiring archeologist who’d traveled South America solo, she managed to learn four other languages while teaching English around the world.
Backpacker women may be more accomplished and sincere than city girls, but they still maintain a special persona reserved for men. Private discussions with my female friends confirmed my suspicions years ago — no matter how innocent the smile, there are few women who don’t understand exactly what is on a man’s mind. And no matter our efforts, women ultimately choose their men.
Still, backpacking women are a breed of their own, unimpressed by what car a man drives or how many digits appear on his bank balance sheet. More intrigued by what is different and put off by arrogance, being so particular also reduces their dating pool options. Fast-talkers need not apply, and a man better have achieved the extraordinary if he wanted to be a candidate for a roll in the hay. A potential suitor who has climbed Everest
has a better shot than a rock star. But everyone’s knees wobble a little in solitude.
Loneliness on the road is a constant, subsiding during the moments we meet new friends and peaking when experiencing the glory of a fascinating planet with no one to share it with. While lovers can be a burden, without the fulfillment of turning to say, “Hey baby, check out the sunset,” somehow the thrill is diminished.
An afternoon spent ogling Khara as much as the booming waters of Victoria Falls led to pizzas and beer at midnight under a starry African sky. A lot can happen in a day, and connections on a spiritual level are powerful. “Khara, you should forget your plans and travel with me for a while. We’ll find a helmet tomorrow, stash your extra gear and head for Tanzania in the morning.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about that too, and it sounds good. I just need to be in Lusaka with friends for Christmas.”
From using her lap as a pillow, I leaned up to kiss her a second time — followed by her admonishing wagging finger. “But when we travel together, there’ll be none of that.”
Having heard and made such statements before, everyone knows that an agreement restricting sex is a fragile arrangement subject to change. No matter your efforts, keeping a relationship platonic is rare, especially when sleeping next to someone who’s spent the day riding with her arms and legs wrapped around your torso. One person or the other eventually gets ideas, and the dynamics can change with a strategic brush of the hand over bristling forearm hairs — and not always for the best.
Single Female Backpackers Part Two
December 12, 2005
Chipati, Zambia
A wise man knows he is in trouble when he meets a female version of himself — in this case, a matching spirit meant she was driven by a similar yearning to get off the beaten path. A woman as qualified as Khara could be replaced but never be duplicated, and worse yet, she knew it. I knew if I traveled with her for any length of time, the best and the worst lay ahead, with an inevitable, uncomfortable fork in the road. Assessing emotional risk with Khara would be difficult, surely leading to a kind of aggravation that can empty a man’s soul. Before squirming into sleep lost in drifting erotic images, I knew that a certain train wreck was approaching.
Midnight scents of her warmth were already taking my breath away, and we had only known each other a day. We would travel for a few weeks, and with me at the end of a journey and she at the beginning of hers, just as I was returning to California, she’d be hungry to continue. As a dedicated wanderer, faced with a choice, she was certain to follow the open road. Now, how to diplomatically withdraw an offer.
She was even more beautiful in the morning, clean and fresh with shining eyes more intense than I recalled. As she stood with her bags in hand, eager to ride, I waited until after breakfast to be a jerk. As if in a pathetic scene from a familiar movie, I stammered out my feeble explanations without her even flinching. She understood. “Yes, it would have been difficult, sleeping together every night . . .”
With an awkward hug and quick kiss goodbye, I felt a rush not soon to be forgotten and half-wished she had ruined the moment with something revolting like lighting a cigarette. But instead, her soft olive skin and deep, dark eyes shone brighter than ever, outmaneuvered only by a low-cut blouse revealing what I was now sure to miss. As a single male most of my life, I can read a woman better than most, and when I feel the slightest manipulation, I have developed an ability to tune them out. Even though we would never meet again, Khara made certain her image would haunt me forever.
For fear that I would write, I skipped the ceremony of swapping addresses, instead handing her a business card with website information, “In case you wake up one evening and discover that you can’t live without me . . .”
As a single woman traveling alone, she had heard this all before and interrupts, “I’ll know where to find you.”
There wasn’t much left to say as she stood without emotion, feeding slender arms through the worn straps of a bulky canvas backpack and then strode down the rutted dirt road to find a taxi. The farther away I got from Khara, the more I wished she’d turned around.
Back beneath a frayed mosquito net, an otherwise cheery early morning dragged into dull afternoon with an aching for the night to come and go. Tomorrow was another grind deeper into Africa with unknown mind-twisting events ahead. Finally resting in the shadows of graying twilight, wrestling with the curse of solitude, I tossed into slumber aware I’d always wonder if I had done the right thing.
Sweet, Gentle Malawi
December 15, 2005
Nkhata Bay, Malawi
Though I’m still on target for following the sun, southern hemisphere rains have begun, with ferocious evening thunderstorms lasting until mid-morning. Crossing the equator again next month in Kenya marks the beginning of dry season and a clear though long journey north. Even if occasionally drenched, the ride across Zambia is pleasant with sporadic stops to chat at dilapidated roadside produce markets. After quizzing loitering truckers about their homes and families, I ask for a picture and get an unexpected reply. “How much are you going to give me?”
Surprised because it’s usually the natives who are first to ask for photos, I countered, “How much is it worth for a memory of meeting a friend?”
Embarrassed, with head hung low the barefoot young man clad in ragged brown shorts shuffled away only to return moments later with handfuls of soft yellow fruit. “I am sorry, please take these mangos and always remember the people of Zambia.” In the heat of an afternoon tropical sun, we joked about life on the road and shared the sticky, succulent pulp. Across the road, licorice-skinned women in colorful long dresses balanced woven reed baskets high on their heads while they chattered and bargained for shriveled vegetables. Vivid patterns of blues and reds contrasted with their shiny black skin. But another squall was approaching, and after posing with the truckers it was time to ride.
Unlike Asia, camping in Africa has been convenient and economical, but threatening wildlife on the banks of the Zambezi River in Zambia now made that questionable. At night, the jungle is an aggressive world of predators battling their way up the food chain. Survival of the fittest is the only given. Although they’re strict herbivores, in Africa, hippopotamuses kill more unsuspecting people than scorpions, snakes and lions combined. Getting between a hippo and its water refuge usually results in a stomping, crushing or tossing into the air. With that in mind, it was better for me to sleep in a farmhouse campground while deciding where next to go.
Of the two routes to choose for reaching Malawi, the road southeast passed Luanga National Game Park, the newest and reputedly best in Africa. But a 90-mile connecting seasonal side road had incurred serious storm damage, and rumors were that the last 30 miles were washed away. This meant a four-hour spin through mud to find out, and with worn sprockets and a fully stretched drive chain, it was a chance not worth taking. With sufficient time left to reach Nairobi by January, an untargeted detour into Malawi became the latest deviation on the plan-of-no-plan, still leaving enough time to refresh in the capital. In an intriguing blend of East and West, descendants of Arab traders strolled the modern concrete boulevards of Lelongwe in traditional Islamic gowns crowned with crocheted white skullcaps. Controlling major commerce for 200 years, tan-skin Muslim Indians and Arabs consider themselves true Africans as much as the indigenous black natives. But the convenience of a city was only an afternoon rest stop to stock up on fuel and food sufficient to last while riding the irregular lake shoreline leading north to Tanzania.
Namibia, Zambia and Malawi have been more comfortable to navigate than rumored. Tales of corrupt guards at African border crossings also prove to be unfounded stories. So far, there have been no pistol-waving demands for bribes or paperwork complications. In run-down wooden immigration stations, polite uniformed men stamp me in and out in minutes, with the only hassle being having to wade through throngs of babbling money changers with h
andheld calculators competing to cheat confused travelers converting horrendously inflated currencies. But this is Africa, and even they are part of the show, as much as the incredible landscape that frames the gasping poverty of Malawi.
An elongated body of water covering half of the country, life centers on gigantic Lake Malawi, for its fishing and the water it supplies to maintain surrounding rubber tree plantations. A long, tiring day ended at the edge of darkening lake waters lapping at pebbled beach coves. Ringed by mud huts hidden in shaded forests, this scene had likely not changed for a thousand years. Camping in native villages evolves into a deeper experience as the lives of the locals unfold. Crowded and lively, after sundown, every hundred yards another group of laughing youngsters kick up dust as they practice singing and dancing for upcoming tribal festivals. When lacking a drum, they clap in encouraging beats as performers in the middle shimmy and prance to chanting rhythms. Wandering through the smoke-clouded village, firelight and a full moon reflect off shiny black faces flashing dazzling white teeth. As I pass between huts made of sticks and mud, teenaged natives grab my arms, guiding me into their circles to watch the clumsy white man flail.
Dressed in disheveled rags, old fat women with enormous butts stooped, cooking porridge in overflowing iron pots while men staggered about drunk on powerful local brew — African White Lightning. Wherever I visited through the night, there was always someone offering drinks, dances or questions about why I had come.
Native life is good, but staying clean is a challenge requiring occasional overnights in farmhouse lodges for showers and homegrown food. Poorer but even friendlier than Zambia, Malawi is a well-kept travel secret which supplied the strongest lure yet to linger. Even the cops who impounded my motorcycle were amiable while soliciting a bribe for “One of the most serious crimes in Malawi.” Riding without a helmet is a finable offense around the world, but for payment of their fine, I insist that they provide a receipt. Wearing tattered street clothes, the Malawi police refuse and threaten to impound my bike if I decline to pay. How was I to know if these unarmed barefoot boys were even real cops? Sensing a bluff, I respectfully held my ground — but they were serious, and they chained up the Beast right next to the jail for the night. Typical of Malawi friendliness though, they walked me back to the lodge to view a nighttime laptop slide show of this journey so far. In the morning, we shook hands as I paid their seven-dollar fine and headed north to Tanzania.
One More Day Everywhere Page 37