The Trip

To all my friends in Utah (and any other place that may be experiencing dropping temperatures):  I just want to tell you that I feel your pain (or the anticipation thereof) of waking up every morning to frosted window panes of frozen cars whose engines just can't quite turnover fast enough to get to work on time.

How do I feel this pain at 8:40 pm, in a balmy 28 degrees Celsius with 79% humidity?

Because that's about what my brain feels like.

I'm sitting at my computer, bleary-eyed, trying to get my brain to turnover. My trusty heat/humidity index is telling me that it "feels like" a sweltering 97 degrees Fahrenheit.  I'm pretty sure it's spot on.  It doesn't help that my second-degree sunburned legs look and feel like they have scarlet fever.  I'm being assaulted on all fronts.

There is much to share.  And I'm late in doing so...but I think the spark plug blew a fuse along the way, somewhere.  Or maybe it just melted.

I can honestly say that this heat has prematurely forced me to official frumpy-old-married-ladydom:  I don't do my hair; I don't do my makeup; whatever semblance of fashion I once tried to tout has now given way to avoiding "pitting-out" (Can I say that on a blog?); and my apartment looks like Iran decided to do some nuclear "expansion" in it--complete with an indestructible community of cockroaches.

So, to get to the point of this entry:  It's hot.
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Now on to other sub-points.


(WARNING:  These are some pretty lengthy and somewhat dis-jointed sub-points.  As much as I try not to make this blog a straight-up travel log, I really wanted to get this experience on paper...so I just cut and pasted.)

Aaron and I have been a little MIA over the past couple of weeks.  There are many things to be grateful for; and while immigration continues to be a hot-button political topic in the US, people should at least realize that they can be glad that no matter where you are in that vast land, the rules are still the same.  I wish I could say the same for Kenya.

It's a long, long story.  But, basically we had to renew our visas, and almost every immigration official we talked to had a different story.  The common denominator, however, was that we needed to leave the country.  And not only the country, but East Africa. 

So, after another round of advice seeking, we decided that heading to Zambia was our best option--actually I should say our cheapest option.  I am learning with greater certainty that the Spirit cannot lie.  During the whole process of planning our itinerary, I just had this brooding feeling that it was not going to be a good experience.  I never felt like we shouldn't go, but I knew we were getting ourselves into something that might not be such a pleasant experience.


We did our best with what little information we had to plan our trip.  Our plan was as follows:  take a bus to Dar Es Salaam in Tanzania, then take a bus from there to Lusaka, Zambia.  Then take yet another bus to Livingstone, Zambia to see Victoria Falls.  And then head back.  For those geography buffs out there, that's about 2,860 miles of travel--400 more miles than what it takes to get from Los Angeles to New York.  And our original plan was to do it in less than a week--including the two or so days we planned to stay in Livingstone.

And we almost did it.

Please note my sincerity when I say that it was one of the worst things I've ever experienced.  Almost up there with having my appendix rupture in a foreign country.

I realize that millions of people have experienced worse things in life--much worse--but by the time I got home, I felt like I had been into the devil's lair and back.

We left on Monday the 16th.  We almost missed our first bus, but thanks to some awesome traffic-law-breaking maneuvering skills by Aaron, we made it.  And we thought that was stressful.

We got to the border, passed through to the other side, and headed towards Dar Es Salaam.  Once in Tanzania, our ability to communicate dropped precipitously.  No one speaks English.  I was embarrassed to discover how little Swahili I really know.

Anyway.  We were getting pretty hungry by this point.  We stopped at a town and the bus driver told us that we were going to get some lunch.  Please at that, we hopped off the bus.  As we were starting to make our way through the barrage of hawkers and "guides," I had the thought that we should check and see just how long we were going to stop for lunch.  So, I turned around and pushed my way back to the bus, just to see them shut the doors and start to drive away.  I started to panic and ran up to the bus to knock on the door.  Suddenly, a bunch of people pulled me away from the bus, and pretty much saved me from getting hit by a car that I didn't see in my rush.  We weren't stopping for lunch.  At least not yet.

So we got back on the bus, drove a few blocks and then stopped.  We then had five...count that...five minutes to order and eat our lunch from a restaurant that hasn't yet learned the benefits of "to go" menus.  Again we were scrambling to not be left by the bus.

We boarded the bus again and finally made it down to Dar Es Salaam.  The bus company touts itself as a "luxury" line.  They market their buses as being air conditioned, and entertaining.  But, as it turns out it was the hottest automotive ride I have ever had in my life.  By the time we got to Dar Es Salaam, I was drenched in my own perspiration.  Apparently "air conditioning" means the windows open.

As we approached the town, I tried calling the bus company to book our next leg of the trip (if this sounds ridiculous that I was booking along the way, that's because it was...but there were no other options).  Well.  All of the numbers I had said they were out of order.  Great.  Luckily the a young woman sitting across the isle spoke English really well and was following the situation.  She told me that the bus company had gone out of business.  Why am I not surprised?  As angel incognito #1, she spent the next hour and a half helping us find a different bus company, book our tickets, find a hotel for the night and arrange for a taxi to pick us up at 4:00 am the next morning.  Bless her.

The next morning we got up and stumbled down stairs to the hotel lobby.  Sure enough our driver was there.  We drove the 7 or so minutes to the bus stop.  Once there, we discovered that the company where we had purchased the tickets did not have a bus leaving that morning.  They failed to mention that when we were handing over our money the night before.  Again, not surprised.  Luckily there is another company that is an affiliate company (???  I'm really not sure how this all works.) that would take our tickets and give us a seat on the bus.  Hallelujah.

By this time it was about 4:30.  It was still dark.  And after some intense haggling with the taxi driver who wanted $30 for his services, rather than the agreed upon $15, we finally sat down in our seats--grateful to be on a bus headed for Zambia.

In the dim light of the bus, we could see that while we were two of the first five people on board, the bus was already packed.  There were boxes wrapped in black plastic shoved under all the seats and in much of the over-head compartments.  Odd.  Oh well, at least we were on the bus.

Finally, around 6:30 we were on our way.  (But not without my freaking out that Aaron had left to buy breakfast and was taking his sweet time...while the bus was revving its engine and pretty much leaving.)  The people at the booking office told us that it would take 24 hours to get to Zambia.  We would be sleeping on the bus that night.  But, we were OK with that, because that meant we wouldn't have to spend any money to sleep in a hotel.

The bus was pretty packed, but not unbearably so--at this point.  We drove and drove and drove.  We made a few pit stops along the way.  Public restrooms exist in the form of fields and forests, and it's very much a community experience.  The bus had a TV.  I got a taste of African soaps:  Over-the-top melodrama, just how they like 'em.  Then as night began to fall, they popped in King Kong.  I'd never seen it before, but as we drove deeper into the heart of Africa, I felt like it might be a foreshadowing (albeit pumped with hyperbole) of what was yet to come.

Finally, at about 12:00 am, we got to the border of Zambia.  The bus came to a stop.  The driver turned off the engine.  And then suddenly 3/4 of the passengers got off and started walking in the opposite direction.  What was going on?  We were completely confused.  English-speaking angels incognito #2 and #3 then explained to us that the border was closed.  We were not crossing that night.  And, moreover, Zambia has a law that commercial buses can only travel at night.  So, we would be spending the entire day at the border tomorrow, leaving at about 6:00 pm the next evening.  Fantastic.  I guess it was 24 hours of drive time.

And while we were eager at the prospect of saving some cash in accommodation expenses, that was first of a series of completely uncomfortable, miserable, sleepless nights.

The next day was hot and confusing.  I was sick from some food along the way, but there were only completely disgusting pit latrines (aka "squat pots").  These bathrooms also doubled as showers, and several people were taking bucket showers.  I can see how diseases such as Hepatitis and cholera are so easily spread around here.  My heart goes out to these people who live like this every day of their lives.  Not sure if I would get a chance to take another shower in the next few days, I joined in the fun.  By far, that was the most unsanitary thing I've ever done in my life.  Looking back, I probably shouldn't have done it.  But, you know what they say...desperate times call for desperate measures.

We spent the next few hours going back and forth and back and forth between Zambia and Tanzania, looking for the cleanest food, the most reasonable "facilities," the best exchange rates, and trying not to get ripped off.  Finally at 6:00, we were ready to go...as we had been in our seats since 4:00 in the hopes that we might get an early start.  Ha.  Fat chance.

Our ETD came and went and they were still packing the bus.  And when I say packing the bus, I'm mean like five men pushing and shoving to get one more sack of rice in the luggage compartment.  There literally was no room for anyone or anything else on that bus, and yet they kept loading it on.  When all was said and done, we had stuff packed shoulder-high in the aisle, with a smattering of additional passengers perched on top of the pile.  Had I not been panicky from the rising claustrophobia, I would have found it hilarious to watch them literally climb hand and foot over sacks and suitcases to get to a place flat enough where they could sit.  I could sense the tires groaning under their ridiculous burden; and I was envisioning the blow out of all blow outs.  All I could think of was being smashed by everyone, their luggage and their five-years' worth of food storage.

Aaron suddenly felt like it was going to be his last night on earth.  He began video tapping the atrocity of it all and saying (only half jokingly) how we were all going to die.  That got quite the stir from the passengers around us, who yelled at him to be quiet because he was jinxing the bus--as if we weren't already jinxed.

Finally...after the engine gave out a couple times, we were again on our way.  I had to keep my window open and my head halfway out of it, in order to seriously not freak out from claustrophobia.  The bus started clipping along at a pretty good speed...and suddenly my phobia gave way to fears of melting breaks and head on collisions.  Finally after some heartfelt prayer, I didn't feel like this was the end, and was able to "relax" and eventually fall asleep.

Fast forward x number of hours:  I was aroused from my slumber by a loudly talking man who was suddenly at the front of the bus.  He was speaking with one of the "bus men."  He didn't sound like he was very happy.  He was asking what all the stuff was on the bus.  He suddenly pointed at two boxes in the over-head storage compartment.  Remember those boxes wrapped in black plastic shoved into every nook and cranny of the bus?  He was jabbing his finger into two of them asking rather pointedly what was in them.  I couldn't hear the response, and then the man said that he was an investigator and that he knew there were drugs in those boxes.  Uhhhh, excuse me?  Drugs?  I looked under my seat, and Aaron's seat, and the seat in front of us...and the boxes were all identical to the two in front.  Was this massive boatload of cargo just a smoke screen for all of the paraphernalia that our bus was packing?  I jabbed Aaron in the ribs to wake him up. 

After some exchange that we couldn't really hear, the investigator was suddenly gone.  Did they pay him off or take him out???  We kind of started to freak out.  The bus's final destination was Zimbabwe.  The lady behind us said something about how we could thank President Mugabe for this.  Were we on a bus at the mercy of a bunch of thugs?  At this point images of being held as collateral started flashing through my head.  We made an exit plan:  if things went south, we'd hop out the bus window, try to hit the ground rolling and then hitch a ride back to Kenya.

Several minutes later, we went through another checkpoint.  Again, officials seemed suspicious, and then suddenly they were gone and we were on our way.  We then spent the next several hours driving on the darkest, bumpiest road I have ever been on.  We were convinced that they were taking the back roads to avoid any other officials of any kind.  The bathroom breaks on the side of the road were less than five minutes...the driver would start honking his horn even before everyone who needed to relieve him/herself was off of the bus.  There were people running to get back on the bus.  At one point, the bus was driving away while four people were hanging onto the bus outside of the bus, trying to get in the door.

After a couple more sketchy situations with immigration officers and weigh stations, we finally, blessedly, rolled into Lusaka the next morning.  One of our new friends, who was also an angel in disguise, helped us through the chaos of the bus station to find our next bus.  It was set to leave in 20 minutes.  We were ecstatic.  We got on our last bus to our destination and breathed a huge sigh of relief that we had made it.

The bus was much roomier, cleaner and the bus driver was professional and kind.  Already we loved Zambia.  After driving through some beautiful country side, we stopped for a restroom break.  (Not sure why I feel the need to share so much about our restroom breaks...maybe because they've scarred me for life.)  Anyway.  We had to pay 1,000 kwacha (which isn't nearly as much as it sounds) to use the bathroom.  As I was exiting, I realized that I only had 20,000 kwacha.  The keeper of the stalls told me she didn't have that much change.  I told her I'd be right back, and left to find Aaron and smaller bills.

As I walked out to the parking lot, Aaron was motioning for me to hurry.  He told me the bus was leaving.  I panicked.  All I could think about were those men who were hanging onto the outside of the bus for dear life.  I asked him for change.  He didn't have any.  So, I ran back to the restroom, slapped the 20,000 kwacha into the lady's hand and then ran back to the bus, just in time to see it, doors closed, backing up.  I spun around to Aaron.

"Are they leaving?!"

"Yes, you took too long in the bathroom.  They're leaving us."

"You promise me?!"  (If Aaron promises me, I know he's telling the truth.)

"Yes.  I promise."

"But what about our stuff?!?!?"

At this point, I ran towards the bus and started yelling at the driver.  He just kind of waved at me and kept backing away.  I motioned emphatically, frantically, at him that I needed to get my stuff off of the bus...you know...like my clothes, money, food, passport (actually Aaron may have had that), etc?  I was acting like a madwoman.  Again he motioned at me, but this time he gave me this look as if to say, "Hold on, you crazy woman, I'm just turning the bus around.  You can get on in a second.  Quit freaking out!!"

I turned around, and Aaron was laughing at me.  Not funny.  I slugged his arm and told him that he shouldn't have done that, because now I was completely sick to my stomach.  He kept laughing as we got on the bus, which was now full of Africans.  I ducked my head and moved to the back of the bus, avoiding any sort of eye contact with anyone.  I'm sure it was quite the scene.  We continued on our way, and Aaron got the royal silent treatment.

Finally, finally, finally, after almost four full days and two miserable nights of being on a cramped, sauna of a bus, we finally made it to Livingstone.  It was like an oasis.  I have never been so happy.  Lessons from Lehi's law of opposition were never more poignant in my mind.  We stayed at a hostel and figured we owed it to ourselves to get a private room, even though it cost four times more than what we were planning to pay.  It was surprisingly really nice--or maybe the contrast was just so stark--and we really enjoyed staying there.

Livingstone is a pretty cool place.  If you have the money, there are some amazing things to do.  We were traveling on the cheap, but managed to fit in a little adventure (as if we hadn't had enough).  We went to Victoria Falls and tried not to be too disappointed by the fact that it was just a trickle.  It's the dry season; so the impressive magnitude of water was no where to be found.  But.  We were able to get some pretty good views of the gorge that make up the falls and to do some hiking.  We met a young British couple and they became our Livingstone buddies that day.

After checking out the gorge, we decided we were going to hike down to the Zambezi river and check out its torrents in person.  The hike down was great.  On the way up, we were all a little winded.  As we stopped to catch our breath, we noticed a rather large baboon sitting about 20 feet away from us.  He wasn't really paying attention to us, and his presence prompted us to share a story with the Brits about the woman on the East Coast who was mauled by her friend's chimpanzee.  The thought of it sent shudders through us all; and now with air in our lungs, we decided to move on.

Not but two or three minutes more, another large male baboon suddenly appeared out of the trees.  We kept walking, trying to hurry a bit, when suddenly the baboon bee-lined it at our friend, Phil.  This was a good-sized creature.  Images of our recently-told story came flooding into our minds.  Phil started to kind of run, and the baboon started to run after him, too, cornering him against the mountain.  Phil and his girlfriend started to freak out.  My adrenaline started to pump.  How in the world does one ward off a large, ugly baboon??  I started to pray.  (Yes, there was a lot of praying on this trip.)  Suddenly Aaron yelled, "Throw the chips!"  Phil was carrying a plastic bag with some potato chips and water in it.  He took out the potato chips and flung them across the way.  Luckily the baboon ran after them.  And then, as if on cue, 15 or so other baboons, previously unseen to us, came rushing out of the trees after the chips.  We all started to run at this point.  Suddenly there was another large male baboon again heading straight for Phil.  This time, Phil didn't even stop to think, he just threw the rest of his items and the baboon went after those as well.  We finally made it to the top and between the adrenaline, heat and running uphill, we all just about suffered cardiac arrest.  It took a good few minutes for everyone to calm down.

After checking all of our vitals, we decided that we weren't quite done with the Falls, and we went and hiked on the side where the river usually is rushing over the edge of the cliff.  It was pretty amazing.  I'd love to see it in full force.

The next day, Aaron and I decided that we still hadn't had enough adventure, and so we decided to do the "gorge swing."  The gorge is long and winding, and the river doesn't flow through all of it.  In one spot, an outfitter group has rigged up a cable that stretches across a dry part of the gorge.  In the middle of the cable, they've attached a rope.  For those who are brave enough, there is a plat form where you essentially jump off into the gorge, free fall for 150 feet and then swing back and forth in the gorge.  Click here and here for some visuals.  (Someday, when I have the right technology, I'll post our video of it.)  We're crazy; end of story.  But it was the highlight of the trip.  That was the good kind of adrenaline.

We stayed in Livingstone as long as we could.  (Which ended up being about a day and a half.)  I don't know that it will ever work out, but I would go back to Livingstone in a heartbeat--we left a lot of things undone there.  People at our hostel were so awesome and helped us try to re-chart our path back to Kenya--as we wanted to avoid our recent bus lines at all costs.  We decided that going through Malawi was a better option.  Not sure how we came to that conclusion, because it took us even longer to get home than to get to Livingstone.  And while we didn't take part in the drug cartel this time around, we were driving in some pretty ghetto buses.  We left Saturday night and traveled pretty much non-stop to Kenya, arriving Tuesday evening.  In the course of those days, we slept on the bus all three nights.  One of the buses was absolutely filthy and was infested with cockroach-like bugs and mosquitoes.  It ran out of gas, got a flat tire and then had some lug nuts loose on another tire--which they finally soldered on.  The driver was constantly making stops for the "bus men."  And our trip was taking for.e.ver.   At one point, we drove through some mountains.  I have never seen a bus get so close to the edge on one side, with passing trucks and buses on the other.  There were no guardrails and again, all I could think about was rolling and being smashed by passengers, luggage and cargo. Aaron and I basically lived on water, peanut butter and biscuits, took one shower at a mangy bus stop, and wore pretty much the same clothes the entire time.  We were hot, sweaty, sleep deprived and sick.

We got to the border of Tanzania and again had to sleep there, but didn't have to wait all day to start traveling again.  Our final destination on that bus was Dar Es Salaam.  We were then going to take our final bus to Mombasa.  Well, since the ghetto-mobile was having so many problems, we were told that we weren't going to make it in time to catch our next bus, and that we would probably have to wait until the next afternoon to catch a bus. No. No. No. No. No.  We were so done with this trip.  And besides, we had to be home that night, because we had company coming the next day.  So, we told them that.  The "bus men" and a bearded pirate-looking lady (seriously) were extremely accommodating.  They were somehow able to flag down a bus on the highway headed for Mombasa.  Both buses pulled off to either side of the road, we grabbed our stuff, jumped off the one bus, ran across the highway, and then jumped on the other.

By this time, it was all I could do to endure.  I was sick, I was hungry and I was exhausted.  For the next eight hours, it was literally a mind-over-matter situation for me.  I couldn't talk to anyone I couldn't look at anything, all I could do was close my eyes and endure to the end.

We got to the border of Kenya and I could hardly contain myself.  I wanted to be home more than I could stand.  As we were sitting in the immigration office, getting ready to pay for our three-month visas, the immigration officer asked us if we wanted single- or multiple-entry visas.  We only had enough money for the single-entry.  Out of curiosity, I asked him what it would take to get a multiple-entry visa.  He said, "Oh, you pay $50 to the consulate in the US, and you get a visa for one year.  You can come and go as much as you need to."

Silence.

We really just spent over $1,000 to go through the closest thing to hell I've experienced and we could have avoided ALL of it for $950 less?????

I couldn't even begin to entertain the thoughts of "If only..."

Just give us the visas and we'll be on our way, thank you.

Grit my teeth, clench my fists, breath deeply.  I was almost home.  Oh wait...there was still a two and half hour drive to Mombasa.  Once we approached the island, had to get off the bus to cross the ferry to get onto Mombasa.  I lost Aaron in the process as his endurance wasn't as keen as mine, and had to find someplace, quick!  Luckily, we made it on the ferry and we both made it back on the bus.  Once it town, we helped a Czech man find his hotel, got a taxi and were on the home stretch.

AFTER AN ETERNITY, we rounded the bend to our home and got to our front door, only to find it locked, and our "roommate" delayed somewhere in a taxi.  Pacing, pacing, try not to cry, pacing, pacing, pacing.  Like the sound of angels singing, I heard the gate open, and into the complex walked our roommate.  She was all smiles to see us, and I'm sure we looked like death on toast.  We stunk, we were ornery and I was down to my last fiber of endurance.  I wasn't the most cordial I've ever been.  But I think she understood.

After we were showered, fed and dressed for bed, I sunk my head down into my pillow with a heart full of gratitude to be back in Kenya.  Kenya.  It was like coming home.  Strange, but true.

I really think that we were carried on the wings of angels.  There wasn't one major incident, we didn't loose anything and I really feel like heavenly messengers were sent to cross our paths at just the right times.  Prayer works, and I think the Lord heard a lot of people's prayers in those nine days that we were gone.  I have gained an even deeper appreciation and respect for these people:  seeing from a unique perspective how they live, what their countries are all about, and to experience the true love that they have for other people--even complete strangers.  It is in the midst of heat that we are refined from our dross.  I feel grateful tonight for my trip through that African "heat."  I think I needed a little refining.  But, don't plan on me reporting on any more crazy adventures anytime soon.  That was quite enough for a while, thanks.

If you've made it through this novel, then you must really care.  We love you, too.  Until next time....thanks for all of your thoughts and prayers.