Zimbabwe

I'm a millionaire!!!!!!!
Who would've ever thought...?

Right people, I'm about to enter Zimbabwe, the wind and the support of many people in my back. Everyone keeps saying I should just do it. And so I decided to follow their advice!
It's a beautiful country, its people are special and friendly, I can't just go and skip it. I've been looking forward to it and now it's going to happen! yippee! I'll be going by the best coffee house in the world toward Harare, the capital, and the national newspaper, 'the Herald'.

you'll be hearing from me!

Gepost op 2008-04-15 00:00:00 door

Mozambique...

The first part of Mozambique is practically uninhabited. On both sides of the road, the bushes have grown so big that it's impossible to pass through, even on foot (above pic shows one of the few sidetracks).
Not that anyone would want to leave the road here, there's landmines everywhere! I'm passing through the Tete-corridor. There has been a 30 year war here (up until the 90's!). In many ways, Mozambique is undiscovered territory. I met a biologist in Blantyre who discovers new species of butterfly by the month. And as I drive around I keep thinking: 'Good to have the rats here (see the rat de-mining training piece and www.herorat.org)'
I'm watching the tractor that is aiding the de-mining process. Heavily armed, it attacks the bush. (I'm silently thankful for the existence of these kinds of projects).

My first night I set up camp close to the main road, at a truck stop, along a gravel parking strip. It's as far as I dare to venture away from the road. Fortunately, the tractor is parked just out of sight behind a tree. When I want to get off the tractor, carrying biba in my arms, my heart jumps. Ahead of me there's something in the dirt that suspiciously resembles a puffadder!
I climb back up, park the dog in its basket, ignite the headlights and back up the tractorp a few metres. The curled up bundle on the ground doesn't move. So I look again, and again. It turns out to be a mega-turd! Obviously made by someone in dire need of a toilet!



People in the far north of Mozambique are huddled together in small villages that look as if hewn out bush. In huts made of clay, wood and grass. They look very similar to the refugee camps in the North of Uganda.


Gradually, the world around me becomes more 'inhabited', with touches of stone, iron and paint.

Tete City is like an island in this world of rough nature. The river Zambezi, that runs through the town, is a phenomenon in the desert, and it seems to me that it's the biggest river I've ever seen. Biba and I are looking around inamazement as we're crossing the river (seemingly forever) over the bridge.

I have only about 3 euros of Mozambique currency on me, and I intend to make it on that till I reach the next big stop, 443 km ahead. I'm not filling up on diesel because I need to figure out exactly how far one tank will get me (the reserve jerrycans are topped up tho). It would be bad to overestimate my 'range', once I enter Zimbabwe, with its possible Diesel shortages.
So I only stop by a gas station to 'browse'. Mozambique is a former portuguese co;ony and I've been told that this stop has
all kinds of special stuff. There's frozen ham, squid, european delicacies. I decide to leave it at browsing. Though I do order a cup of coffee, consuming it standing up. For a moment I imagine myself in Europe, in a gas station along the highway. It's a nice feeling. As if I were at home for a moment!

Again I mount the tractor, stroke the dog and return to the road, back to savage nature. It's a stupendous contrast. It's like a sting, because of my wealth, my being a westerner. But I'm not quite ready to trade in these people for the europeans, these people are very real, charming, open, down to earth...

My tractor can run for 700 clicks on a 90 litre tank. I'm pretty proud on the old hunk of junk as I enter Chimoio, one week later.
Chimoio is a town built in ancient colonial Portuguese Architecture. What they say is true, Mozambique is quite incomparable to other countries.
When I'm at the ‘Pink Papaya guesthouse’, I'm educated about Biba's 'roots'. I already knew that these authenticly african dogs (they look about the same wherever you go) have been given a pedigree-name in England. Biba is an ‘African hunting dog’.
As the name implies, they're mainly being used for hunting by the locals (though they're mostly laying down, scattered on the streets, like they were stray dogs). Now I'm being told that the dogs' ancestry goes all the way back to ancient egypt and the time of the pharaos. I look at Biba, look at the ears that transform from floppy to straight-up giga ears while driving in the wind, and I think... true!


My Biba is an ‘African Hunting dog’! ... of pharaoish ancestry. Cool!
Hmm. Or is it just Jackal lineage? She kinda resembles a small jackal. But she warms hearts whereever she goes. ‘She’s so cute!’ ‘Look at her ears!’ ‘I wish my legs were slim like her’s!'


And one last dessert. Close to Chimoio, there's this mountain. The elephant mountain must have ran off with my imagination.
Until later, when I find out that the locals call it the 'laying man' too. Kinda pharaoish too, don't you think?

Gepost op 2008-04-14 00:00:00 door

The Hunger Project

There's more and more little markets and bustle the closer I get to central Malawi. But it's still possible to camp in the wild peacefully.
(pic: Behind the woman with the tray of beans: a restaurant where I've eaten one afternoon. It's a happy fuss and women and children all crowd around to hear me speak my first words of Chechewa. They love it. I learned the words 'good day' and 'thank you' in Chechewa, the most common language here.

'Muri bwangi?' (Hello, how are you?)
'Tili bwino, kaino?' (Fine, how are you?)
'Tili bwino!' (fine!)
'Zikomo.' (thanks)
'Zikomo kwambiri.' (thank you very much)

It's a mouthful, but it becomes a habit within days. I'm comparing the malawi words to portuguese (Not that I'm very good at THAT, but it's the language people speak in neighbouring country Mozambique) and to the kiswahili of Kenia/Tanzania. That sort of works.
In swahili one would call an elderly man or lady 'Chikamo'. Meaning something like: 'I kiss the soil on which you walk', and the answer would be: 'Maraba' (well okay then, but hurry up).
These words were introduced by slave traders, their literal meaning have faded to the background now. Whenever I would greet an elderly lady or gentleman in that manner, the answer would be a bright smile and a stretched ma-ra-baaa. I think that Chikamo (Swahili) and Zikomo (Chechewa) have corresponding origins. 'I kiss the soil on which you walk' can be applied as either a greeting and a thank you, I reason.
Interesting, analyzing these languages.



I set up my tent at 'Mabuyo-camp', a super nice spot near the city. Its English owners are on a trip to England, apparently they're getting married. Floris and Marieke, two dutch travelers are taking care of the campsite for the time being. They move around in a big truck together with their dogs, Bo and Ducko. Staying in one spot and managing a campsite is a totally new experience to them. It is an opportunity to remain in one place for a longer period for once and make some money. Pretty soon it turns out that the English couldn't have wished for better caretakers. The camp is cosy and well-run, Floris and Marieke work days and nights, with a smile on their face.
There's a lot of stuff to take care of in Lilongwe. I need to replace the charger to my laptop, the dog needs more shots and I need to have lots of contact with home base, back in the Netherlands.

Floris, Marieke, Biba and me visit the vet. They're worried about Bo, which has been acting very quiet and retreated lately. The vet says she can't do a blood test, so basically it comes down to guessing what's wrong. She gives Bo a shot against tick fever.
I'm having a bad feeling about this, I don't know why. At night, Bo comes over to get stroked, after which he lies down in a corner.
A couple of days after that, something happens that throws the three of us off schedule. Marieke gets the message from her mother in Holland, saying that her grandmother has passed away. Their travel insurance will pay for their return, so they can attend to the funeral. But the next day the vet runs a blood test (arranged through a GP), and discovers that Bo has the sleeping disease! Floris wants to stay on in Malawi, looking after Bo. I offer to mind the dog, so they can fly to Holland together and visit their families. They've been on the road in Africa for over a year, and I seem to have some leftover nursing needs brought up by the Kosovo situation. And so it happens that I stay on for a few days longer. They are days of value.


Biba made friends with one of the English couples' dogs: Dash (adopted when still a pup, a starved young dog, sitting on the dashboard of the local liquor store truck). The both of them behave like Kung-Fu masters when playing, everybody at the camp enjoys watching them play.
At night they sleep side by side, occupying the couch in total exhaustion. I'm looking after Bo and Ducko in the truck, worrying about the exhausted big black dog. The day after Floris and Mariekes departure Bo gets his medication, and I have to report back to them while they're away. I'm very relieved to bring good news on a daily basis! Relieved to see the dog getting better, looking brighter every day. Ducko refuses to sleep in the truck at night, slightly envious of all the attention payed to Bo.
So at night I walk him around the camp on a leash (which makes him proud as hell), before going to sleep.
After those days I return to the road, when Floris, Marieke and the English managers of the camp site have returned and Bo is back on his feet wandering around the camp. I've met very special people and have had interesting conversations. Now I'm off to Blantyre and 'The Hunger Project'.


Billboards by the side of the road. Initially the second one really appealed to me. It looks locally made and says; 'Aids is real. It's not witchcraft. Always use a condom and live.' But on second thought, I'm wondering why it's done in English. Okay, English is taught here as the second language, but most people here mainly speak the local language. It implies that the message conveys a western opinion, instead of a local reality.


I get comments about the fact that most images the west gets to see are about Africa, are pictures of straw huts and wilderness. It's is a rather skewed and incomplete view, I agree. So here's a day-to-day photo: Out for groceries in a village, by the side of the main road (Despite the fact that North Malawi doesn't really have a lot of these kind of places, that there's barely any motorized transport, that there's not a lot of urbanisation. But that is something I experience as a slow traveler. To a 'wealthy' tourist in a car, the next city is only 400 clicks ahead).

When I reach Blantyre, I go off looking for the head office of 'The Hunger Project'. I meet Rowland Kaotcha, its Malawi manager. In front of him on his desk is my book (looking at pictures: it hasn't been translated to English) and in no time we're discussing the goals of the organisation, and mine.
We're pretty much about the same thing. The Hunger Project is about "empowerment', about letting people develop their own outlook (developing dreams), and about 'doing'! They only come when invited by a town or a community. They (in cooperation with local experts) councel people in finding ways of ending their hunger problem. They provide micro-credit, teach people to read and write, among other things. But the basic principle is the most important (that's why I thought it so exciting to get here: this basic principle is what I consider a practical form of aid, so I needed to see if it was really being implemented!).

The basic principle of the Hunger Project is to have people build something for themselves, to guide them through every step of this path to independance. It starts out with the step of a mentality change. A lot of people reason that this (poverty, trouble) is how they were born and raised, so that it inevitably is going to be that way forever. I know of now other examples around here. One is either rich or poor, and those extremes live at planets far removed.
The poor one is easily pressed into a dependant role, begging.
There are many charities in Malawi, the 'green paradise, warm heart of Africa', that donate food, dig pumps etc. But that does not bring on changes, often it creates just another form of dependancy or worse. 'We had a bad harvest, give us food!'
When a pump breaks, they request a new one from a different organisation. It's a lengthy procedure, but repair is a heavy burden on community funds, so why not just order a 'free' new one? Possibly setting back that particular charity for thousands of dollars. Poverty hasn't been solved and charities will be needed forever.

Rowland Kaotcha and his collegues intend to convince people that there are other ways of doing things, and by now there are more than enough of practical examples to start up such a process. Even though often the beginning is rough. He tells me he recently had a consulting visit with a (new) community.
They had mapped out the situation, had motivated people to change their predicament (a food shortage). People agreed to get to work, picked a date for a follow-up meeting and a plan of action.
When he returned to this village however, nobody bothered to attend the meeting. One day after his last visit, a different charity had passed through the village, informed themselves of the local situation, and sent for bags of 'food-aid'. He was told that the Hunger Project was no longer needed, since food had arrived. Rowland Kaotcha made an assessment of how long the food-aid would last that community, and returned there after some weeks, when the situation was just as dire as before.
He said: Do you really want to be this depending, or are you finally prepared to alter your circumstances?'
The message started to sink in. A poor man lives day by day, sometimes it's neccesary to look a bit further than that.


Foto 1: Near Zomba, in the village of Jali, one of the The Hunger Project developments.
Foto 2: Local women pick up womens' condoms at an Epicenter.

A development starts with the wish of a community.
Together they build an 'Epicenter', a community center.
It's in there that people are trained, are taught to read and write. Novel agricultural techniques can be experimented with on community turf and, when succesful, be implemented on individual farms. The building gets to have a community bank for micro-credit financing and/or savings, a small library, childcare facilities, a community space for meetings that can be rented out when not in use (the day I'm there, its rented out to the local churches' womens' group). And there's a food bank.
Farmers can buy furtilizers at the project and pay with the first bags of their harvest. Those harvests end up in the food bank and are returned to the community whenever shortages occur.
I see food stores for every month of the coming 6 months and a new harvest is coming, the rain season is almost over.
This is the way the organisation helps out: a bit of local fututre planning, the kind that people here find difficult to do.


Water pump, lady of pigs...

The water pump, made possible by THP (sorry, by the local people, just like the epicenter, the basic materials like stone and clay), came with spare parts, and several people in the village learned how to repair it.

In several villages women are educated to become midwives, so pregnant women don't need to walk 20 clicks to the next medical post, avoiding many deaths of mothers and children!

And then there's the story of the woman on the right-hand picture above. I was taken to this local woman. I suspected there'd be good story here (why else would we go there?), but I didn't expect the spontaneous flood of tears running down my face after she was through. After all these stories and thoughts of the kind:'Well this could be handled in an easier, better way', but never actually seeing any exceptions, this was a big surprise. She looked at me with amazement. 'why are you crying?'
I said: 'Wow, it's so beautiful, showing the possibilities, showing that all you need to do is... do'. 'yes'' she said, putting an arm around my shoulder, 'all you have to do is... do'!

She picked up a notebook, in which she had written down her story, not wanting to forget the details. Then she told in detail about her life before the development began. How THP enabled her to learn to read and write (there's a certain pride there: not just her children, but she, a mother was given a chance, was inspired, something to be passed on to her children!).
She read out loud about how she tried to set up a project twice, through THP and micro-credit financing. How it failed both times. How she decided to try it one more time... She was given three pigs, and the assignment to care for them for 8 months.
(Which, all considered, is a pretty tough job. The need to feed them all this food, every day, might very well spawn the idea that maybe eating the pigs is a much better option. But she didn't.) She took care of the pigs. Within eight months, 3 pigs had turned into 28 pigs. Now, only three years later, she has sold 80 pigs. There's not a lot of good meat around, especially pork, and her pigs are huge compared to european standards.
Her hut has now been replaced with a stone house. She has television and a satelite dish.
And (!!!!!) she is taking care of 60 local orphans. That's the point I started crying. She isn't just taking care of herself, but also cares for the community. It's obvious that she's an inspiration to her surroundings, gentle, down to earth, smiling.
Female power and effort! And, something I was happy to see (because it's often otherwise with strong women), she has a husband. Who is proud of her (not just a drunk, a macho-machoman...). And she has savings.
As I drove off (no need to tell my story here), I noticed her looking, smiling, slightly thoughtful. I wouldn't be surprised to find her driving a tractor in a year or two.


' That's a way to do it!'

A German tradition I'd never heard of before. Sprung from medieaval times, from the guilds. In order to become a master, one had to leave ones home and travel for three years, going abroad, picking up knowledge and experience. Only after that one would be able to join the guild.

I encounter two young travelers dressed intraditional clothing (apparently, it's to be found all over Germany: no orange coveralls but traditional clothing on construction workers, very nicely made out of canvas or corduroy). The first one is a bricklayer (grey suit), the other one is a carpenter (black outfit).
They started their world tour three years ago, carrying only these clothes, and a 5 euro budget!
Now they are in the south of Malawi, having been practically everywhere on this planet. They tell me that not all craftsmen in Germany venture off like this, but that at least 10.000 of their colleagues are doing the same thing right now. They offer their professional skills for means to travel on.
Wow. Another thing I didn't know.
It's really special, also because these are pretty ordinary construction guys who get flung into the wide world, just like that. Everywhere they went they were offered a permanent job, but one of them really looks forward to his return to Germany, the day after tomorrow (thankful he might be for his experiences, though). It kinda massages your mindset about your purpose in life. I'm pretty convinced I want to be working close to a coast somewhere, in future.



I'm already on my way to Zimbabwe, through Mozambique, where I'll be waiting for the Zimbabwe election results.
Back in Blantyre, Michel (truck driver and mechanic) offers me the opportunity to come by his workshop to have the tractor overhauled. This is where he and his colleague from Zimbabwe are going to teach me the final stages of tractor maintenance!
For a moment I feel like a little old grandma, clutching her handbag:'well I just thought let's take the poor creature out for a walk for a bit. All it needs is a sip of diesel on occasion, innit?'
But afterward I'm aware that I'm a lot more familiar with the tractor and its workings.



It's quite simple, actually. The filters are being replaced. And so I find out what's wrong with the Diesel I tanked recently (the engine started dying on me again and again, for the first time. quite scary). Instead of kerosene, the diesel contains frying fat from a dirty jerrycan! Fat lumps of fat clog the filter. I'm advised to have the filter system changed, making the whole thing a lot simpeler. The fuel now runs through three filters, directly from the tank, before it reaches the engine (instead of a filter switching system). The first 2 filters (that get the dirtiest) have draining taps now, and I'm carrying spare filters. They also replace the V-belt, about time. The old one can come as a spare. Everything is greased again, and my left front wheel that has come slightly loose is being cleaned and readjusted. Now I'm ready for a couple of possibly rough months in Zimbabwe...


Welcome to Africa!


Tomorrow I'll be crossing the border.
Into Mozambique.
Toward the Tete-corridor...
And the bush.

Gepost op 2008-04-01 00:00:00 door Manon

22.000 kilometres behind me!

'It's a celebration!'
The tractor loves rain water!
I wish I could say the same thing, my protective clothes are not holding out all that well and somehow it's always the underpants that get soaked first. Nice!

It took me over two months to track down an internet connection. Southern Tanzania and Malawi, up to the capital Lilongwe were pretty much impossible on that front (when driving a slow tractor), so I'll be starting this story back in the past...

Daan, a colleague from theatre school, has been traveling with me for a month. He helped me out filming for my documentary, and by taking pictures.
It's kind of totally impossible to catch yourself and tractor in one picture when traveling on your own. For example: driving through beautiful landscapes, or cities. And to have a fellow actor and director coming along with you generates a tremendous boost and inspiration, creatively speaking. We had fun, and made good stuff. About which I'm not going to tell you anything, you can go watch it... when the documentary is done. (hehheh that'l take a while yet).
Daan got subsidized by the Internationalsation Fund of the AHK (Amserdamse Hogeschool voor de Kunsten).
Incredible, and I'm very grateful!

So back in time we go:
On his first days Daan gets baptized by fire instantly. Still far removed from the next "big city", driving through the Tanzanian landscape, lunch in small villages, getting soaked by heavy rains and sleeping out on the plains.

At new year's eve, we're both so tired that we go to bed at 9 in the evening. We wake up at 4 at night, we smoke a 'dutch' cigar while thinking of friends and family in holland.

In Mbeya, a town in Rift Valley (southern Tanzania) we find our first official camp site, theUtengule Cofee-lodge.
It's there that we're being offered to stay over at the estate for a few days (by Francis and Fiona), so we can do some filming in peace and quiet.



1st pic: what is it you see?
A view from the house of Francis & Fiona. Fiona asked: 'What do you see?
I saw a mountain.
She said: 'Look again, I'm seeing an elephant'. And lo and behold, I felt like The Little Prince:
- An elephant that looks over the mountain tops (from the front: eyes, a bit of trunk, ears)
- An elephant's back, moving from left to right, from behind the first mountain tops.

Our last days on the estate, and there's a swiss woman in the lodge. She's a world champion in the art of making 'Coffee-Art', in other words: creating drawings in coffee-foam.
She creates hearts, edelweiss, the Taj Mahal, and get's me all teary-eyed by serving me a coffee with a snowman on it. 'Good luck on your way to the south pole' she says.
And she tells me about her dream. Ever since she was young she dreams of owning her own coffee house, serving nice coffee, biscuits, cakes.

She realized that dream, for a number of years she ran a succesful business in Zürich. 'But' she told me, 'after a few years this dream of mine started to show some flaws. It had become real, which was good. But the reality of having your own business is basically, that you're spending most of your time with records, accounts and order sheets'. She missed being behind the counter and the satisfaction of serving good coffee.
She decided to quit her business and go 'study' coffee (!?!), and to follow courses in Coffee-Art. And all this with the same enthousiasm and vigour with which she had started the coffee-house. In no time, she was competing in competitions (became world champion), and for a number of years she gives demonstrations and teaches courses...



Even though there aren't many people who know this, I've declared before starting this journey: 'If there's one reason to stop doing this, it'll be the moment I run out of coffee!'
Coffee-freak. Cuppa coffee under the Eiffel Tower. Building a snowman on the south pole, carrying the 'dreams of the world' in its tummy, cuppa coffee and home we go.
The coffee bit might sound like a joke, and of course it is.
But it also represents the feeling, the enjoying of the journey.
Something like English people and tea...

Francis and Fiona donate 6 huge gold-coloured bags of coffee for the trip. And a tin of 'special coffee for antarctica'
Suddenly I appear to be the richest woman in the world, coffeewise... from Rift Valley.



Three months old and she eyes the vet curiously... until she feels the syringe! Biba is having her Rabies-update in Mbeya.


Off we go again, into the rain. Daan brought along a giant sheet of orange plastic, because my tent is still toughly resisting any effort of water-proofing. The plastic turns out to be quite handy against the occasional daytime flood too.
One afternoon Daan, Biba and I are sheltering from the rain behind the tractor. The orange sheet has been pulled from the tent on the back. It won't stop pouring. Gradually, the road turns into a river, currents and all. We're knee-high in water. I open the top hatch of the case on the back and put Biba on it. She's asleep in minutes. I pick up my knitting-work and continue making my southpole-snowman-scarf (yup, getting closer all the time). It's made with wool from the various countries I've passed through, the first colours being a fluorescent yellow and sky-blue. I'd like to add all kind of stuff from diverse countries: masai beads, a shell I picked up from the Dar sea, Lucky beans...

I have made a request to Emmy (a friend and co-designer of this website & artist), wether she would like to sew felt figures onto it, and she said yes. (she makes lovely stuff)
She was on television in a documentary series 'over mijn lijk' (over my dead body). I think she's one of the most inspiring women that I know.

In short: When I was in Ethiopia, I got the message that she has cancer, totally out of the blue. Far too young, too alive, f*cking cancer, what the hell is this...
She's on her own journey now, the kind nobody is asking for. But she's making the best of it. She took control of her own life, only doing stuff she enjoys. At the moment she's going through a rather heavy chemo therapy.
You can read her blog here:
http://weblogs.bnn.nl/EmmyOML
(and there's good pictures too)



It stopped raining and from under the improvised tent I see kids' feet. Neighbourhood children are wondering what it is we're doing out here, hidden under plastic behind a tractor.
Getting from under there and putting away the gear is turning out to be a performance in itself, they laugh at the dog and our bungling. Toot-toot, and we're off again... One of the boys is wearing a worn out ski suit.

Entering Malawi. Biba on the left mudguard, ears flapping in the wind. As if she can smell a new country, different smells: 'This is what I wanted all my life, adventure!'. She wiggles her tail. On the right side, Daan, holding a camera. I'm in the middle.

Malawi is one of the poorest countries in the world. I'm trying to visualize the extent of poverty here. The countryside itself is many times more 'rich' than that of Tanzania and Kenya that I've seen, which is telling. A small, long country along the length of 'Lake Malawi'. Hills and mountains shooting up from the lake toward the borders. Mountains and lake mean an abundance of water, which in turn means furtile soil. Both being a blessing. One can live of this earth. No real need to import foodsuffs.



In various parts of Malawi people grow rice crops. We pass a tea plantation... (local/cooperation or owned by a westerner? don't know).

So what's with the poverty, then? Would it be correct to call this a poor country? Pretty soon I find out that there's no such thing as big cities in Malawi, the first 'big town' Karonga turns out to be a village underneath the trees, with a bank.

thought #1: Is a nations' prosperity measured by its Gross National Product?
If that's the main factor, it's easy to understand why Malawi has a pretty low score. No cities, no Industries, a majority of farmers and tiny tiny shops, people selling fish and tomatoes in the street. So is this poverty? I hardly know anything about this country yet, so I'm looking around.




Rubber trees on a rubber plantation. Attached to the trees are receptacles, collecting a white dripping fluid. Local boys are selling balls of white rubber by the side of the road, leftover threads that remain after the process is done. Those balls bounce higher than anything I've ever held in my hands before.
Rubber and tobacco are the main export products of Malawi.

Later on,I discover that the nation does have it's problems, as it was explained to me. The previous president appears to have had the intention of keeping his people dependent (in short). He convinced everyone that working the land would not be viable without the use of pesticides, which are expensive to the common man. people were forced to culture corn and tobacco, and it still shows when you pass the stalls throughout the country. The stalls are almost empty compared to any other country I've been (why, in this green country?). Only after about 380 kilometres into the country, it's possible to purchase anything different from fish, nsima-flour or tomatoes.

Singular Agriculture degenerates the soil, but in their poverty, people are afraid to switch crops. (a bad season can cost you half your family). Furthermore, because it has been inhibited for such a long period, tales of sorcery and witchcraft crop up whenever someone succesfully manages to culture different fruits and vegetables.
The potential of the lake is not being used, for instance for irrigation purposes. Anyone taking a trip down to the lake with a bucket on a daily basis, succesfully irrigating his crop, runs the risk of being rumoured to 'fertilize his crop with the blood of his children'
As a concequence, there aren't that many people who dare to chance that. They wait for rain and fail to take control for themselves (a reoccuring issue in most of the countries I pass through).
It's the cynical westerners that keep telling me that people here are lazy. I try to find better explanations. Religion, for instance. The belief that everything will be alright (rainwise), praying the rain will come this season.
Someone comes with a different intriguing argument: singular nourishment/ a lack of vitamins tends to make people lethargic.
Yeah well, that's kind of hard to estimate. The goods for sale in the street aren't necessarily the foods people eat at home (and it's dead certain that your hosts are bound to make you something special,when your visiting). Sometimes the street food is better than what one might eat at home, but often it's pretty fast stuff, like fries...

Day in day out one can see people plodding on or next to their bike, which is overloaded with lumber, coal or other cargo. People working the land, all together. It's Rain season now, so it's all or nothing, now's the time for agriculture.
during (European) summer, everything is barren, barren, barren.
In onze (Europeesche) zomer is het hier droog, droog, droog. (and so like our winters, it's impossible to cultivate anything)

My apologies, a website with short reports isn't supposed to go on like this, but I can't seem to help myself.
As a matter of fact, many of the conversations I'm having, with Daan, and the local people (all 'foreigners'), are attempts at understanding of local situations, the people. Most of these talks turn in something political and/or 'concerned'.

Opposed to Holland, where it's custom to talk toward some kind of middle ground, there's so much going on here that every observation raises more questions, creating new topical discussions again and again. (among people who've seen otherwise... It makes you wonder if our way of thinking isn't better... or would that just be plain arrogance? Daan replied: 'I keep thinking I'm a filthy rich bastard compared to these poor people, but who am I to define all this as 'poverty'? I see a lot more smiling people on the street here, than I've ever seen in Amsterdam'.)



On a mountain near Livingstonia (yes, founded by 'Dr. Livingstone, I presume') Daan and I set out to find a giant waterfall. We can't find it. A local guy volunteers to guide us. It turns into a jungle trek worthy of Livingstone himself. At times I have to pick up Biba because of slippery roads close to steep ravines, or because there's climbing to be done. After about half an hour of climbing we reach the mega-huge waterfall, and our guy sits down in the grotto behind it.
The picture reminds me of an ancient image: This is one of those places people fled to to get away from slave hunters. Daan asks him 'So your ancestors were slaves?' 'No' I say, 'they were the people that got away'.



Okay, this amount of water at once is what causes erosion. The past ten years, Malawi appears to have progressed. But deforestation is a major issue. Wood is for cooking. The exponentially growing population is creating a new problem. The forests on the Malawi hills have been degrading... There's plenty of green still, a lot, fortunately. But apparently it's only a fraction of what there used to be.

So I'm telling of all these complicated matters in Malawi and I totally fail to mention the first thing you notice when crossing the border: The people, the incredibly friendly people!
The Malawians might be the kindest folk I've encountered on my journey so far. (though I'm still a big fan of the Kenian straightforewardness and sense of humor). On nights when we're camping in the wild, there's an atmosphere of peace and calm that's overwhelmingly relaxed. Malawi is paradise on earth.

At camp sites people approach me: 'We have been expecting you!'
(..silence)
'For about a year now...'
(giggle)
Suddenly it dawns on me how 'the tractor girl story' has raced out before me. And since my arrival in Malawi, I'm seeing loads of tourists, more than ever before (It's back-pack heaven).
At Kande Beach (by the lake, something one can't just skip by)
people jump from bars with open arms: 'There you are!'
'Good gracious girl, come here, have a beer!'
They ask questions untill my head starts spinning! These are fun people!

The following morning, worries about Biba begin to occur. She has been vomiting for two days now. At first I just thought she was missing the other dogs from Mzuzu. That she had to adjust to travel, and to making farewells to friends met on the way? This morning I'm watching her and decide to keep an eye on her poop-habits (oh well... things you do when traveling...).
Behind her there's a tiny puddle of milky transparent goo, with bits of pink in it. Watery diarrhea and blood?
It scares the hell out of me. This is not good!
I'm trying to find the number of a vet in the capital (the Mzuzu vet won't touch the dog). I send a text message (it's sunday) explaining the situation, hoping to get an estimate on the gravity of this. She replies telling me to call her back immediately and to keep the vaccination-booklet close to hand.
Within five minutes she's raging at me. 'Your dog didn't get a boost on her Parvo/distemper 5in1 vaccination, I'm practically certain it's Parvo! If she isn't put on an IV drip soon, she'll only live for another few days...' (subcontext: what kind of dog owner are you?)


Fellow travelers on the road, a lot faster though
A tiny piece of Holland in Mzuzu, Malawi!

My heart skips a beat, I can't believe what I'm hearing. I stammer. And I've been so careful to find out what to do, back in Dar. I don't want to lose another dog this soon! Biba is a sweatheart. A little Kung Fu fighter when playing with the other (bigger) dogs, following me around wiggling her tail, sleeping at my feet. In no time (and after many phone calls) I'm in a car on my way to Lilongwe, the capital. Together with Daan. He gets it.
Around about half past eight at night we arrive (as we said we would). The vet says she's tired and wants to go to bed. When we're getting out of the car she says:'Oh, the dogs looks healthy enough to me'. My knees are about to buckle on me. At first I'm the worst woman on earth for not looking after my dog, I was to come over immediately, and when I've arrived (after a four and a half hour ride), it isn't all that bad. (previously, she thought it ridiculous when I told her Kosovo had the sleeping disease. 'Whoever told you a dog can contract the sleeping disease?'
I told her Kosovo had died of it.) This wasn't exactly getting off on the right foot.


'A dog on a drip'

We enter her practice.
The cab driver joins us. Biba is put on the table. All of a sudden, the vet declares that the dog isn't doing to well after all. Some of her leg hair is clipped, and in goes the drip. Even though I pity Biba, I have to giggle silently: I got a dog on a drip! But it's also a bit weird. I can't help being proud of myself though, to be taking care of this dog, that I'm not sitting on my hands when knowing the signs are serious. My one real fellow traveler. A love on four legs.
The vet explains to us that Biba has Parvo (she can't do a blood test, but seems to be 99% sure). Parvo is the most serious, lethal disease that a young dog can contract. The drip is very important, she has lost a lot of fluids and needs to overcome the disease by strengthening her resistance, there's no medicine against it.

We're leaving for Mabuya Camp with the dog in my lap. At our arrival it turns out the drip needle has moved, biba's leg starts swelling. I take it out and call the vet. She won't let me come back, she wants to sleep. I stammer. This is important, I came all the way down here to give Biba the best chances. She sighs and says no, she really needs to sleep. The campsite people sympathize. A human-doctor on holiday says he'll take a shot with the needle, but it doesn't work. Everybody is thinking hard and worrying. Nobody understands this vet and the 'emergency' situation. But somewhere inside a little voice tells me it might not be all that bad, but that this woman will never ever admit to it.
After three (long) days Biba starts drinking again. The following day she even wants to play with the other dogs, and she's eating again. We return to the tractor.

Next morning I have my first tractorrace since this journey started. With the man from Kande horses, a tractor-freak who actually had the plan of meeting me on the way while I was travelling South. Unfortunatly on the day he heard I was nearby, his engine broke down.
And also as a first in the history of my tractorjourney (2years and 8months), I actually overtook another tractor! (with my maximum speed of 20 km's per hour;)

I never before managed to do a similar thing. My tractor turned out to be the sturdiest, but also the slowest tractor in the world. Wherever I traveled, however bad local tractors appeared (engine-blocks on wheels) they allways overtook me! Sometimes I get gestures saying: 'do you want to trade your tractor for mine?' And then I would reply, gesturing, 'Yes, yours is much faster!' But this allways only brings only laughter. People overtaking me with a big smile, a wave, thumps up.
(hehe)

Daan's last day has arrived. Tomorrow morning he’s flying back to Holland. But because of Biba’s illness we won’t manage to arrive in Lilongwe. We make the decision to find a touristy camp-site and find Daan a taxi from there. The sign at the side of the road is promising. It even says ‘overlanders welcome’ (these trucks are always full of big groups of tourists). We follow a dirtroad, the sun is setting. The road seems endlessly long. We’re starting to get nervous. We pay entrance fee to a ‘wild parc’. ‘What the..?’

In the darkness we stand. Between trees on a strech of land that is called campsite. Under the trees a few small and empty huts. Looking at nature around me, I know we can expect 'some' wild animals here. This truly is a wild parc. I quickly tie Biba to a leash.

A man in a white pick-up arrives. He introduces himself as the owner, a Greek that has lived here for most his life. He campsite isa coöperation with the local community. A way to preserve the wildlife, and, to generate income for the lcal community.
The man offers Daan a ride, he has to travel to Lilongwe tomorrow morning anyway.
I had just proposed to Daan to make a thermos with coffee and drive all night. ‘I’ll drop you of at the airport, no probs!’ To me it feels weird to be left alone on this completely deserted campsite. Maybe a bit to lonely for starters..
But. We’re both tired of the long day driving. Daan decides it’s alright this way, he’ll accept the ride. The man opens one of the huts for us. He thinks it’s super to have such a ‘special visitor’. Daan finds it super to find out there are lot’s of zebra’s and giraffes all around us.
(until they keep us awake all night, chewing on things, making you shiver to the bones to hear ‘wild’ so nearby, even though they are ‘only’ zebra’s. Hum, I just heard they can kill a lion with their hooves..)

A little while later we’re sitting on the open veranda of the hut, beside an oillamp. Eating our ‘last supper’. Daan says: ‘the man reminds me very much of my grandfather!’ Biba’s sleeping peacefully and completely rolled up between us.

Next morning Daan and all his luggage is picked up by the white pick-up of the Greek with his Malawian daughter. I wave a long time.


‘Zebra-reindeers’ close to the tractor at the deserted camp...
A last interview Daan made...

In the afternoon I sit in front of the hut, on the veranda, bare feet in the sand. I’m knitting the scarf of the snowman on the Antarctics. I see an airplane at the horizon en tell Biba: ‘Look, this is how Daan is flying now, also high in the sky.’ (she follows my armgesture with her eyes) ‘He’s probably already above Kenya. He’s going all the way to the Netherlands, a country you haven’t seen yet. But one day, I’ll take you there. Home. Then I’ll introducé you to my family, to my father and mother. And to Nienke, my little niece of one and a halve years old. She is really sweet and playfull. I’m sure you are going to like her!’
Biba looks at me seriously, her head held sideways. It’s such a theatrical dog, all frowning and understanding. You would think she really understands.


And there we go again, at a snail’s pace.. on our way to the South Pole.


Thanks Daan! It was really nice you came over to help!

Gepost op 2008-03-13 00:00:00 door

An extraordinary ordinary day...

It started out like any ordinary day on the tractor. I woke up at a campsite in the bush, a quarry located near a cluster of shacks. I played around with the dog, packed the tent on top of my travel case and floored the pedal...




Halfway through the day, I'm taking a short break. I'm sitting on the 'nose' of the tractor and I'm making some alterations to the huge flower-patterned blouse that Mama Lati offered me as a present.
From the moment that I've been wearing that blouse, people have begun reacting more direct and extrovert. 'Look here, it's a girl! On a tractor!' Now and then I get the occasional surprised finger pointing upward from an old lady, probably meaning something like 'how unladylike'. But again and again, the finger is replaced by a great smile! A meaningful smile. A waving arm, a thumbs-up. And I reply every time, or smile back. There's nothing more contagious than spontaneity and smiles.




So I'm peacefully sitting on my tractor with a needle and thread. I'm waiting. A bus pulls to a halt in front of me, and I look up.
Dozens of people are getting off it. I'm looking them over, but I don't recognize any of 'm. People walk off into the bushes, or visit the toilet. The bus driver approaches me. Asks me what I'm doing, where I'm from. He laughs. His stopover was a purely impulsive action. He wanted to know why there was a girls sitting on a tractor. I'm surrounded by people, smiling and asking questions. The bus takes off again, people waving through the windows.
So it's back to sitting next to the dog, on the hood of the tractor, surrounded by never-ending nature, with my sewing kit.

Half an hour goes by, and perfectly timed: the blouse is done and another bus stops by. Twenty metres in front of me, a person somehow manages to eject himself from it, dragging along a backpack. This month I'll be traveling with a fellow theatre maker, who'll be assisting me with my film project.
The bus honks and waves, the dog freaks and the tractor has another passenger. The coming month, the right mud guard will be occupied too, and I'll be sitting in the middle.
It's strange to realize: Daan got up out of bed yesterday morning in Holland, and took off for the airport. 24 hours later, he gets off a bus in the middle of Tanzania! Together with the other passengers, he's been looking out of the windows for hours, trying to spot a green tractor.




We're moving, I decide to try and find a good spot to set up camp, we're leaving the road and into the trees we go.
'Daan, you better get used to the bumping and bouncing!'
We make camp under a tree on the plane. A tree that just now supported a mega-huge african eagle, a beautiful creature.
A good start.

Gepost op 2008-02-20 00:00:00 door

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