tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83051571059278636892024-03-15T10:13:23.533+02:00Travel WallahsTravelling the world slowly togetherDave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-36928504506023173582021-12-31T09:36:00.001+02:002021-12-31T09:37:45.554+02:00Our Africa Moves: #7 di bodi's fine in Sierra Leone!<p> “How di bodi?” has to be our favourite greeting of all time. </p><p>While cruising around the towns and villages of Sierra Leone - or “Salone” as the locals call it - we were asked this countless times. We would use one of the following common responses:</p><p>“Bodi fine!” </p><p>“Noh bad!” </p><p>“Tank God.”</p><p>Telling strangers that we had “fine bodies” brought smiles to our faces - and so theirs - every time.</p><p>With our newly acquired smattering of Liberian pidgin, it was not too hard to pick up the Sierra Leonean pidgin - called Krio (“Creole”) - despite it having some idiosyncrasies due to the country’s partial Jamaican heritage. The strangest thing with learning pidgin is that you have to learn which words and syllables to leave out and there are a few totally new words to learn. The most confusing part of the language for us was that some people use the word “nah” (now) to emphasise the present tense (“I nah go”) which sounds very similar to “noh” which indicates the negative (“I noh go”) so we were often confused as to whether things were happening “now” or not at all. Here is a screen shot from an old guide book on some funny/strange and supposedly useful phrases for travellers (tip: pronounce the Krio phonetically and you’ll hear the link with English).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIEwgZ09BVjS05mJoH-nxPwm6U0Kz7kK4ZvNavowODaVnj6HdFsA2inV7TOx_lhBvzXD074ejIlL4bCCVTIOpvQrD1kmdbglnwnJpkCRqMzA-4u1Worjll-QlHXcoF0zCWJp_zb1b27aJx0iXRTqLGtlxiX1Hhe3ulDDYaX-cIMELQgl-ywR2Y4zGoDA=s568" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="520" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIEwgZ09BVjS05mJoH-nxPwm6U0Kz7kK4ZvNavowODaVnj6HdFsA2inV7TOx_lhBvzXD074ejIlL4bCCVTIOpvQrD1kmdbglnwnJpkCRqMzA-4u1Worjll-QlHXcoF0zCWJp_zb1b27aJx0iXRTqLGtlxiX1Hhe3ulDDYaX-cIMELQgl-ywR2Y4zGoDA=w586-h640" width="586" /></a></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTnHp_8s2k1EmaLFyDA66o8P2hmVHAIQF3vdWUDMdtwpJdAGFbN2qSfIC5x0800bwJyKbuehodazQX0BuqZUn2W1yBQJJ8mLQtTyBcokv4XxVX8XJfYPrWcER6CstlK4GnaIDP_2o8SjTKQkycEL9QH4Fq-g26xP9PoPlHLkuhL86TIaO7HGOxPsHpUw=s671" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="671" height="511" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTnHp_8s2k1EmaLFyDA66o8P2hmVHAIQF3vdWUDMdtwpJdAGFbN2qSfIC5x0800bwJyKbuehodazQX0BuqZUn2W1yBQJJ8mLQtTyBcokv4XxVX8XJfYPrWcER6CstlK4GnaIDP_2o8SjTKQkycEL9QH4Fq-g26xP9PoPlHLkuhL86TIaO7HGOxPsHpUw=w592-h511" width="592" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"hungry they catch me!"</div><p><br /></p><p>We had expected, given the similarity in their histories, that Sierra Leone and Liberia would have a lot more than a language in common. And yet, as soon as we arrived at the border we could tell that we were in for a surprise. The Sierra Leoneans have a remarkably sophisticated Health Screening building where your temperature is scanned and your identity recorded through the scanning of your eye’s iris. The immigration procedure was the usual low tech affair with a sense of arbitrariness about the rules, but after a relatively painless procedure we found ourselves climbing into a shared taxi and on our way inland on an immaculate, new highway. It turns out that Sierra Leone has very good roads throughout the country, a welcome reprieve following our Liberian adventures! After a few hours we bid farewell to our taxi at a village called Potoru and managed to find a basic $5/night guest-house for the night. </p><p>The next day we jumped onto two motorbike taxis and headed down a good dirt road towards Tiwai island, a wildlife sanctuary in the middle of the Moa river. This sanctuary was founded in 1987 by a British scientist who recognised that protecting this incredibly bio-diverse, uninhabited island would ensure the survival of many rare species while at the same time generating tourism income for the surrounding communities.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgav5TfhQku1Wl0_16ssIm6kBT1LA2kBOB61eeJsdFx_kGrZb6KExl6iYcjTJxqCWHK5aYh7_O7RQY_Sm4lVCOAgaM42QqO6X37_4R0gdrEPws-pFLX3WHCedw5mFDRwnSpW9LRTJtfxbWnWJP2Y0HW7zqFahXq_QbVpXxF3Rqd5oXKyFpwCeUyvVRSyg=s1208" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="966" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgav5TfhQku1Wl0_16ssIm6kBT1LA2kBOB61eeJsdFx_kGrZb6KExl6iYcjTJxqCWHK5aYh7_O7RQY_Sm4lVCOAgaM42QqO6X37_4R0gdrEPws-pFLX3WHCedw5mFDRwnSpW9LRTJtfxbWnWJP2Y0HW7zqFahXq_QbVpXxF3Rqd5oXKyFpwCeUyvVRSyg=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magnificent forest trees on Tiwai Island<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicsZXcDKO0zWApX56Zh3bL3bKO6Oc0DHKWXX6UcT5eLuPAG4O77IDzoVk3xPlEaXHkLQ5SybCwkOLCxhQKwzik95PC0kyyK4KbPispEUt0gXCsxQ74YT9NLFBqCIFdXDYjtw_5RieZqXK1c7LKaynMag4sGdl5Jq8WCTKAyZN82hTLotIsp76ekUmLIw=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicsZXcDKO0zWApX56Zh3bL3bKO6Oc0DHKWXX6UcT5eLuPAG4O77IDzoVk3xPlEaXHkLQ5SybCwkOLCxhQKwzik95PC0kyyK4KbPispEUt0gXCsxQ74YT9NLFBqCIFdXDYjtw_5RieZqXK1c7LKaynMag4sGdl5Jq8WCTKAyZN82hTLotIsp76ekUmLIw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forest fungi</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We spent three nights alone on the Island and did a number of guided walks where we saw lots of red and white colobus monkeys climbing enormous trees while underfoot countless armies of termites devoured any dead trees or branches - and your toes if you stood still for too long. Every few minutes we’d hear an eerie, loud wooshing sound as giant Yellow Casqued hornbills flew like jungle helicopters overhead. The island has chimpanzees and pygmy hippopotami but we were not lucky enough to spot any. Occasionally, we’d pass an old pit in the forest which turned out to be illegal diamond mines dug by rebels during the civil war twenty years before. It seems that if you pick the right spot in Salone you can just dig down a few meters in loose alluvial sand and find diamonds! Interestingly, anyone can get a small-scale miner’s license to mine diamonds provided you pay the government a fee of about US$100/year. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbl4NGzakGa4ho6Eq2esGzzTll7k9mRuEndNOod9LmEslF_e5zf3SeC4ZGHbzdCVxD3xwg8be0edwvv7CcHpRZ5AFdYyziQPjEDHLdpfbEksHssg8qVHYNoczWK8Fm33_03xE6yO7QlF5sSkLCpaVuPcxnJS2YiwlKae8WQWbhKNXmC67wExxjyIh6zg=s1207" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1207" data-original-width="966" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbl4NGzakGa4ho6Eq2esGzzTll7k9mRuEndNOod9LmEslF_e5zf3SeC4ZGHbzdCVxD3xwg8be0edwvv7CcHpRZ5AFdYyziQPjEDHLdpfbEksHssg8qVHYNoczWK8Fm33_03xE6yO7QlF5sSkLCpaVuPcxnJS2YiwlKae8WQWbhKNXmC67wExxjyIh6zg=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLMDuO1ugaU7D3bKqBtZYkfN22qw_WAPWUUbZWOdhuruYp6PKkTjt_7m_EJOlwy7jiTDlAkHqaUv0wZSlS-zbaLpZOQntvaiFi00JMpvBaN63XT3KLwcjoiKvYjNZgmeHnrxVgy_5UB_iKiibrifzc_riNeXlzA5yq5ZesJsHnLpoR8MMazDSi3bbNjQ=s966" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="966" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLMDuO1ugaU7D3bKqBtZYkfN22qw_WAPWUUbZWOdhuruYp6PKkTjt_7m_EJOlwy7jiTDlAkHqaUv0wZSlS-zbaLpZOQntvaiFi00JMpvBaN63XT3KLwcjoiKvYjNZgmeHnrxVgy_5UB_iKiibrifzc_riNeXlzA5yq5ZesJsHnLpoR8MMazDSi3bbNjQ=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abandoned rebel diamond mine</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>After a serene few days on the island we returned to the mainland for a three day guided hike that forms part of the <a href="https://tiwaiheritagetrails.weebly.com/" target="_blank">Tiwai Heritage Trail</a>, which visits the traditional forest villages that surround the island. This trail was created to ensure that these remote communities benefitted from protecting the indigenous forests. This trail was really interesting, giving us insights into the beautiful forests that cover this region while at the same time getting to meet the people and learn about their culture. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi83MWz92T-rdq91844EqFyBpdpNJJ9E7QCVOVUDoW4OUYAXztgBt6drGP1dOE-61x5aBMDOLFoM_DbgyStL0jhoI1gaubXWxbUQH2gLnAc6CQNVAjEUfBzIe5lMZ987Krvmx_GP2YbGrleNkahwBVm-_MnoIQjaRGPsf5_JYTWIrhEb1lFixRrSfKz8A=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi83MWz92T-rdq91844EqFyBpdpNJJ9E7QCVOVUDoW4OUYAXztgBt6drGP1dOE-61x5aBMDOLFoM_DbgyStL0jhoI1gaubXWxbUQH2gLnAc6CQNVAjEUfBzIe5lMZ987Krvmx_GP2YbGrleNkahwBVm-_MnoIQjaRGPsf5_JYTWIrhEb1lFixRrSfKz8A=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We spent days admiring the incredible Tiwai forest canopy</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Sierra Leone, unlike Liberia, is about 80% Muslim and on arrival in each village we would be met by a welcoming party of village elders, traditional leaders as well as the local imam. We would then spend an hour or so in the barri, a covered meeting area supported by poles or mud-brick columns, where a number of welcome speeches would be made. In Sierra Leone, Chiefs and Paramount Chiefs are elected positions and are not hereditary. While walking through the villages, it was common to see election posters for the different candidates standing for chieftaincy positions. This was the first time we’d ever seen traditional leadership in Africa that was not based on an hereditary system. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXNwPDjzDoD97K-ikQh7UqvyqBIv_jMp1yD6lqeMQ2cUFVNOZQgHL9vUPa5HnwKypEfDTvPIBZvx_Ex4gmP4swy-GuJ36Si8hAE5ujauFd-PrnhxsKScxLSWceNwOf7k81hoPPkK5fSv0-lVTnQ8NSeW5SYH9eYyIk5suQI9utlQZllZ5lGHNJf1LEwA=s1269" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1269" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXNwPDjzDoD97K-ikQh7UqvyqBIv_jMp1yD6lqeMQ2cUFVNOZQgHL9vUPa5HnwKypEfDTvPIBZvx_Ex4gmP4swy-GuJ36Si8hAE5ujauFd-PrnhxsKScxLSWceNwOf7k81hoPPkK5fSv0-lVTnQ8NSeW5SYH9eYyIk5suQI9utlQZllZ5lGHNJf1LEwA=w640-h488" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meeting the imam and traditional leaders at a village on the Tiwai Heritage Trail</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Interestingly, in this part of the world it’s pretty normal for women to go topless. We found ourselves blinking a few times while sitting and talking to a local imam in the barri who was wearing just a pair of shorts and sitting alongside a group of topless women who were chatting amongst themselves. Ancient animist beliefs have been merged with Islamic ones and inter-marriage between Muslims and Christians is common. Generally the whole attitude to religion is pretty relaxed, peaceful and tolerant - a fact that they mention often with pride. The Taliban should be sent to Sierra Leone to learn to chill out a bit!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgW7uK8AwIxj44nI62K5vLBji4NZmO9FOwMkrJCJRYm_S8Mg08D4BN-0TzUzkv-79g4tBMn_QOdF22BhuxMUa9AO1X0ygA4JhSnk9Rs_P9VTvZLXJtiwDRg5jNjU9Ro8_vDVH-VSR_HGpIiy9eYrMbbOtHelSJvRmlgSD-C7ppDOd6OfcxJr5fbB3lV4A=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgW7uK8AwIxj44nI62K5vLBji4NZmO9FOwMkrJCJRYm_S8Mg08D4BN-0TzUzkv-79g4tBMn_QOdF22BhuxMUa9AO1X0ygA4JhSnk9Rs_P9VTvZLXJtiwDRg5jNjU9Ro8_vDVH-VSR_HGpIiy9eYrMbbOtHelSJvRmlgSD-C7ppDOd6OfcxJr5fbB3lV4A=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Village on the Tiwai Heritage Trail</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Islam in West Africa came by the way of the indigenous North African Berber people who had adopted the religion around the 10th century. Berber merchants, with their camel caravans, were instrumental in connecting the gold rich regions of West Africa to the growing trade routes that were criss-crossing from the Far East to the Western-most parts of Europe. Gold coinage was needed to facilitate the flow of Chinese silks, Indian spices, Venetian glass, English wool and the many other tradeable “goods” of the time including enslaved people, cotton, ivory, fruits, vegetables and salt. This region was deeply involved in slavery and the slave trade in the past and an interesting fact we were told was that it was often relatively nearby communities from within the same Mende ethnic group who would attack a neighbouring village and enslave the vanquished villagers. It is supposedly still sometimes possible today to see which families are descended from enslaved peoples, based on the amount of land they own. The Berbers had held onto large chunks of their pre-Islamic, animist beliefs and, through their peripatetic trade, spread a far less orthodox version of the religion into West Africa than was practised by their Arab neighbours.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLaxinDm_04xMM_4zhVarAmTGxeWqzgCo6ezgYnaZ9s87ZlJS9wsuxoGD6BHxGOCcZf0mywL3szHG1wmR6FcfhWbBMtY6xPpwk050i6WtGRgQm_-mk_mLHNgodzn8fHQOiatj_QbrUoWIOehL3j3TEnTpUWQxKpAlwtqIUJhnK3mnnoJE5W1WhBVs4KQ=s1264" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1264" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLaxinDm_04xMM_4zhVarAmTGxeWqzgCo6ezgYnaZ9s87ZlJS9wsuxoGD6BHxGOCcZf0mywL3szHG1wmR6FcfhWbBMtY6xPpwk050i6WtGRgQm_-mk_mLHNgodzn8fHQOiatj_QbrUoWIOehL3j3TEnTpUWQxKpAlwtqIUJhnK3mnnoJE5W1WhBVs4KQ=w640-h490" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing a bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>In each village that we passed through, we were given a “heritage site” tour. Initially we expected that this might feel a bit contrived and overly ‘touristy’ for our tastes but in the end we found that each site was quite different and interesting in its own way. These sites gave us a taste of the deep integration of animist beliefs with modern day Islam and everyone participated in the rituals, including the imams. One site was a massive, sacred Cotton Tree where various rituals are performed for human fertility and good harvests. Other sites were sacred caves where people performed similar rituals and which proved a safe hiding place during the war. The last sites were ancient graves where, supposedly, giant ancestors were buried. These giants had stones marking their feet and their heads and thus looked to have been three metres tall... There were many stories of how these giant warriors had defended their villages during invasions by neighbouring communities and this defensive baton was passed down to the modern day defenders of these communities: the Kamajor militias. These militias were made up of motley crews of village people who defended against the invasions by RUF rebel forces and Sierra Leonean government “sobels” (soldiers by day, rebels by night). The Kamajors were certainly a colourful crew - they were made up of mostly forest hunters who knew the terrain better than anyone. They wore elaborate outfits adorned with various mutis and talismans in order to provide protection against bullets. Interestingly, the local villagers smiled happily when they heard we were South African. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHRqnNOUpiDfaeqeLP1i2cOaXlzHWEoBYFzM3jetOy7dCzqc0Z0wAPoHwmEk74-GCJN3X0VNOJh7WdnhvRBXvXVC20Mk8ipSbBtd0EtOh2VT9IyyEoh9ft0CtyGSRZIkrjL4SvsuXL5c04hMDCFjjpqpvsXE2mQpb0uMfQwxgKWqouzdjPeRYgajZzBA=s900" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHRqnNOUpiDfaeqeLP1i2cOaXlzHWEoBYFzM3jetOy7dCzqc0Z0wAPoHwmEk74-GCJN3X0VNOJh7WdnhvRBXvXVC20Mk8ipSbBtd0EtOh2VT9IyyEoh9ft0CtyGSRZIkrjL4SvsuXL5c04hMDCFjjpqpvsXE2mQpb0uMfQwxgKWqouzdjPeRYgajZzBA=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kamajor fighters (from Sierra Leone civil war) - not my photo. <a href="https://www.cfr.org/blog/podcast-vigilante-groups-and-countering-insurgencies-africa" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p>During the early years of the civil war, a South African mercenary outfit called <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Executive_Outcomes" target="_blank">“Executive Outcomes”</a> was recruited by the short-lived democratic government to fight the nightmarish rebel group, the Revolutionary United Front who infamously amputated tens of thousands of people’s hands and feet to spread terror through the villages. Executive Outcomes rapidly defeated the rebels in a few months but international condemnation of the government’s use of mercenaries forced Sierra Leone to cancel their contract and Executive Outcomes left the country. Within months the RUF rebels had recaptured much of the territory they had lost culminating in the brutal attack on Freetown known as “Operation No Living Thing”. While ethically and instinctively we are against mercenaries of any kind, it was sobering to think how well-intentioned, intellectual decisions in faraway, comfortable board rooms ultimately allowed terrible violence to be committed against defenceless people. If the voices of the rural Sierra Leoneans most affected by these decisions had been heard, might they have made differently?</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>**** SIERRA LEONE HISTORY *****</b></p><p>We didn’t have the time to do a historical summary as we did in previous blog posts. Here’s a link that gives a concise version of the fascinating history of Sierra Leone AKA “the Lion Mountain”. While there are similarities with neighbouring Liberia, there are huge differences too:</p><p><a href="http://www.historyworld.net/wrldhis/plaintexthistories.asp?historyid=ad45">History World: history of Sierra Leone</a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>**** END OF SIERRA LEONE HISTORY *****</b></p><p><br /></p><p>Sierra Leone is unusual in West Africa for being overwhelmingly dominated by just two ethnic communities: the Mende and the Temne (pronounced “Timnee”). Our very knowledgeable guide, Mohammed, was a fountain of knowledge about the history and culture of the area (we highly recommend Mohammed as a guide, his Whatsapp: +232 79 795174 ). The local cultures are deeply intertwined with the indigenous forests that cover this entire region. Each family has their own piece of forest which they use for building materials and firewood. These forests contain some giant hardwood trees which people treat as savings to be used for emergencies or an important event. If such an event was to occur, the family will meet to discuss the issue and might decide that one giant tree should be harvested and they’ll then sell it to a timber merchant either as unworked logs or sometimes they’ll first saw the logs into planks. We queried whether desperate or greedy families wouldn’t potentially cut down the whole forest for short term profit, but Mohammed explained that the majority of the biggest tree species are worthless for timber purposes so these wouldn’t ever be cut down. </p><p>In one village we found a blacksmith hard at work using a furnace based on a design that has been in operation in the region for over a thousand years. With the bellows pumping and his hammer pounding, he was busy producing machetes from the leaf springs of old trucks. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvXZPd0YCPwclwbhzSsOxCPP1RL7QicRTtXx3XMarqHT4KddQ2yvErZKsWJq8Kmt6dJSQDj8x48M7Hka5KIegKjOl24he9Dxs-bvFc7JWbLiDzQntSBqDooXD1AKk1f7R4CS_18rvxYVgyIqpCNwmDlJi7xfnGwiN3yOfdLvOdkdZAADfxcr7Ipa1PQA=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvXZPd0YCPwclwbhzSsOxCPP1RL7QicRTtXx3XMarqHT4KddQ2yvErZKsWJq8Kmt6dJSQDj8x48M7Hka5KIegKjOl24he9Dxs-bvFc7JWbLiDzQntSBqDooXD1AKk1f7R4CS_18rvxYVgyIqpCNwmDlJi7xfnGwiN3yOfdLvOdkdZAADfxcr7Ipa1PQA=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pounding the steel truck spring into a machete</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7jirOJgemchS0C6AJVlLi9dxj6gMnhxX46uf483v5rrMIlwDdclb2Xqe852yLMNqWQDUA0tAD0MPsFv_eX6DWiFCMxNHCiLi9EqTa_bjLii9O9OtTOmpCp_JckYQyeK-9XExdZeVXe2m_4P6xVE1fZM9J2C9on6lsWv1Fyzxk8CNDzXZCXGOxxLzWPg=s1208" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="966" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7jirOJgemchS0C6AJVlLi9dxj6gMnhxX46uf483v5rrMIlwDdclb2Xqe852yLMNqWQDUA0tAD0MPsFv_eX6DWiFCMxNHCiLi9EqTa_bjLii9O9OtTOmpCp_JckYQyeK-9XExdZeVXe2m_4P6xVE1fZM9J2C9on6lsWv1Fyzxk8CNDzXZCXGOxxLzWPg=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pumping the blacksmith's bellows</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/D00E3yuMlxk" width="320" youtube-src-id="D00E3yuMlxk"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">A village blacksmith making a machete</div><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiVGqivVVnEgu6X-4w_olOSvJlfCEgRuqgOCw5j9liITDL_Wugsk04qDRIp5XhxEL-oPdojeVxHDhwv3z21gbpdwWJ6lWlQ80YoMfS7ubGDrLNoj3ugqhtyYIXXuTgr9K1zM2nXuEZBUu6Bou_kf18tXg686VnQeacIFe5zW4UOYAnfEijYgae6rd_VQ=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiVGqivVVnEgu6X-4w_olOSvJlfCEgRuqgOCw5j9liITDL_Wugsk04qDRIp5XhxEL-oPdojeVxHDhwv3z21gbpdwWJ6lWlQ80YoMfS7ubGDrLNoj3ugqhtyYIXXuTgr9K1zM2nXuEZBUu6Bou_kf18tXg686VnQeacIFe5zW4UOYAnfEijYgae6rd_VQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A village chair maker</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The agriculture in this area involves the slash and burn method of clearing forest and then burning the under-brush. As far as we could tell, the areas being cleared had been farmed years before as the trees weren’t yet particularly large. These cleared plots were mostly used for farming rice, cassava and a few vegetables. Some plots had been converted to oil-palm plantations of between 50 and 100 trees. Oil palm plantations have caused the decimation of indigenous forests in South-East Asia so we asked whether this was a risk in this area. We were told that managing even just 50 oil palm trees was enormously labour-intensive so it wasn’t a very attractive way to use family land. For the sake of these magnificent forests, one hopes that mechanised oil-palm farming doesn’t reach this part of the world. </p><p>Farming in a forested region is tough as monkeys and other animals constantly raid your crops. The farmers have devised various ingenious traps to catch (and eat) these animals which is sad to see but we couldn’t see a workable alternative plan. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdy6wjswWF0BTi1lAsTGu_dh_PiabLCUbOZDtO6KzxAHte1RzAi6FMdhJQFmXpcx4cOHCU-kddEjNYfxXMOSjuYDwVaaoyX9kD2feBKPQz1_EX-7qXgAsOIvbhzThTQ3IqO_GQO2gK6v-9U-IY6n_PQoZOgiMRg-4RSlkla4yWx1U6O8PC_czITeX9Ug=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdy6wjswWF0BTi1lAsTGu_dh_PiabLCUbOZDtO6KzxAHte1RzAi6FMdhJQFmXpcx4cOHCU-kddEjNYfxXMOSjuYDwVaaoyX9kD2feBKPQz1_EX-7qXgAsOIvbhzThTQ3IqO_GQO2gK6v-9U-IY6n_PQoZOgiMRg-4RSlkla4yWx1U6O8PC_czITeX9Ug=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvested food is stored in the roof. The cone shaped objects on the vertical pole prevent rats climbing up and eating the harvest.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjDtcdj5991l5MkD1LlB016LggC_bTFFdyScziKwbmGtoCniV8X3LIV1UNk0WRBjDsKkR8DuS8jab2QSztjnvKbHB6Fhw40f79MQjFx51wnk60ubVXaq2EzWpYrJ2PGiEmFYwiV7UxcqMNRT5iXM8qPUxA1IrSrQgVyXWugrxRQi0sGZ0FjgoEoqvGQ-g=s1207" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1207" data-original-width="966" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjDtcdj5991l5MkD1LlB016LggC_bTFFdyScziKwbmGtoCniV8X3LIV1UNk0WRBjDsKkR8DuS8jab2QSztjnvKbHB6Fhw40f79MQjFx51wnk60ubVXaq2EzWpYrJ2PGiEmFYwiV7UxcqMNRT5iXM8qPUxA1IrSrQgVyXWugrxRQi0sGZ0FjgoEoqvGQ-g=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the giant, sacred Cotton Trees on the Tiwai Heritage trail</td></tr></tbody></table><p>On each morning of the village tour trip, we would wake to the sound that has serenaded us throughout Central and Western Africa: the soft brushing of a grass hand broom on the ground. It is quite amazing how people will wake up at the crack of dawn every morning and sweep the ground around their huts. What’s even more amazing is that this very early morning chore is not to remove litter or any kind of mess - there is little rubbish lying around - it is just for the aesthetics of a brushed sandy area. On the coast people sweep the beach sand, in the forests they sweep the red earth. We grew to love the gentle swoosh, swoosh sounds every morning and appreciate the fastidiousness of the culture.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8q1g3Jcry5R_q2tq2GkefOQV2i-YK4FZuQooUB7cpqdmhGJeml4hW2DGh628nbNuSflOoBT77L5iYLYWIV8BPDcoFG6fh04r_ZNgwG9HhNP70EpD7qvGjtHIStueEa7mONzYdSs8UNbNS0MNKaGLfAOqVSOEzXrNpH6BKy5CjrxK94Gm1i741mOocYA=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8q1g3Jcry5R_q2tq2GkefOQV2i-YK4FZuQooUB7cpqdmhGJeml4hW2DGh628nbNuSflOoBT77L5iYLYWIV8BPDcoFG6fh04r_ZNgwG9HhNP70EpD7qvGjtHIStueEa7mONzYdSs8UNbNS0MNKaGLfAOqVSOEzXrNpH6BKy5CjrxK94Gm1i741mOocYA=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A homestead's palm oil orchard</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIYKbOetnkqsXtvpWfsVbp_3qQwCGLzq_h6oCeh9bkW91d5Gq3HVDzfmnycfxQs4TX5VnIoB8mJcXDYdyMFws7gY6a82pK0vE4_3nT0ygb6_bSvkP9ImxifTi2ZWmHQS6qB70OZZ9xym7sOgve6994Jz_TsZGZVDcoiJzhTH8wNCXvpD-V6sgvtowuZw=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIYKbOetnkqsXtvpWfsVbp_3qQwCGLzq_h6oCeh9bkW91d5Gq3HVDzfmnycfxQs4TX5VnIoB8mJcXDYdyMFws7gY6a82pK0vE4_3nT0ygb6_bSvkP9ImxifTi2ZWmHQS6qB70OZZ9xym7sOgve6994Jz_TsZGZVDcoiJzhTH8wNCXvpD-V6sgvtowuZw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A monkey trap: the monkey walks along the branch and through the gap. The the noose is yanked upwards by a flexible branch and snares the monkey.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6pZ4tkInnHI" width="320" youtube-src-id="6pZ4tkInnHI"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>A trap for catching wild animals on the ground</i></p><p>One of the villages we visited was very poor and it seemed most of the kids were under-weight and tiny for their age. Few of them were attending school. Most of the other villages did have a basic primary school with a standard design of three classrooms with glassless windows where two grades shared a room. Government teachers in Sierra Leone - and the region in general - earn about US$100 (R1500) per month. Teachers employed directly by the community or local NGOs earn as little as US$30 per month. Recently, the government supposedly introduced free primary school education, but everyone we met scoffed at this saying that while officially school fees were not required, the schools were demanding so many other new fees that there was little reduction in the cost to parents. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwGx2SXVEvK0Qf9ivvFL2D0pCUWlVVyfuMsvVzyW4sbvB3TWphT_jxDMLzQMR9oDIlAYsEVVFA25pUVB6iIP4MUkxzCrN8WMfMqVL4Gc2HgMtsb_dF1xFeeVAcT1nvmiMG50AeA4zXsdpUpKQtcGds_TR6-1yBH13Ud3qFSTCmD57pFADS71r-ivLmDw=s1285" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1285" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwGx2SXVEvK0Qf9ivvFL2D0pCUWlVVyfuMsvVzyW4sbvB3TWphT_jxDMLzQMR9oDIlAYsEVVFA25pUVB6iIP4MUkxzCrN8WMfMqVL4Gc2HgMtsb_dF1xFeeVAcT1nvmiMG50AeA4zXsdpUpKQtcGds_TR6-1yBH13Ud3qFSTCmD57pFADS71r-ivLmDw=w640-h482" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Village mosque</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBXAde3SM3PUyqhNgPxed7THEKcB2ULYfko5X13HC92Ug2k95zael4AIGk4IDy96O0oj5UWThbxpe3DEkZTjhjlRvrDzcwaTOiSa1yE7heeDJ9g4tOzRhYhztgfHMiL9Cbjq32TgGIrbBUjV0H9oJPOkHLd3zbxWC28H2WAsRPCmhpeVUKvuY7mJbPVg=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBXAde3SM3PUyqhNgPxed7THEKcB2ULYfko5X13HC92Ug2k95zael4AIGk4IDy96O0oj5UWThbxpe3DEkZTjhjlRvrDzcwaTOiSa1yE7heeDJ9g4tOzRhYhztgfHMiL9Cbjq32TgGIrbBUjV0H9oJPOkHLd3zbxWC28H2WAsRPCmhpeVUKvuY7mJbPVg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another village bridge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgxZOMU84--aseE89gm5Yvv8CbbFEFEc01yanULIZjv3umT8h6rLOTnw5WQeiCqeF-xz3kncWuUJNNT9n3CXNs8jwIVB-WP6Plydjoe9OmdYVfo09RWiFPgocNIjVt6LRCbiA6tVwb8k3Jn_vNBPv9Ce09sXRJaVI7485KUDJaHnDLuVhaGBSMRu9JKA=s903" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="903" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgxZOMU84--aseE89gm5Yvv8CbbFEFEc01yanULIZjv3umT8h6rLOTnw5WQeiCqeF-xz3kncWuUJNNT9n3CXNs8jwIVB-WP6Plydjoe9OmdYVfo09RWiFPgocNIjVt6LRCbiA6tVwb8k3Jn_vNBPv9Ce09sXRJaVI7485KUDJaHnDLuVhaGBSMRu9JKA=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the path to the next village</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Healthcare in the country is a huge challenge. Everyone, except pregnant mothers, has to pay to be treated at the government hospitals. A broken leg can typically cost US$250/R3500 to treat which often forces families into debt. If you don’t pay, you don’t get treated. While the current president, Maada Bio, has made the introduction of “free education” a central focus, most of the people we spoke with said that the previous president, Ernest Koroma, was much better and credited him for building Sierra Leone’s impressive road system (with significant help from the Chinese government). Liberia needs to copy and paste Sierra Leone’s road building plan.</p><p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9pe949-k1ETdHYe9bRp64VImw28-EnjMe5v0oHlQ4oHbIRUx8m4U_nW5Se_ybQH5ck1NcrQ1QYje_IfDFtQyDAHHKG1JRERV_Mlip_VHXkX4yYSWCEae0mLO2IyIIYq5rY7FstDetYSNMJu5BIRRaT2phP4bA35Bu5uTnkLa3qPYUGm3CHl4amriLYA=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9pe949-k1ETdHYe9bRp64VImw28-EnjMe5v0oHlQ4oHbIRUx8m4U_nW5Se_ybQH5ck1NcrQ1QYje_IfDFtQyDAHHKG1JRERV_Mlip_VHXkX4yYSWCEae0mLO2IyIIYq5rY7FstDetYSNMJu5BIRRaT2phP4bA35Bu5uTnkLa3qPYUGm3CHl4amriLYA=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We like the Sierra Leonean mud hut design - especially the verandah which is particularly necessary during the rainy season.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>After a very interesting week in a beautiful area, we jumped on motorbikes which took us to the main highway and then caught a shared taxi to the city of Bo and then a minibus to Freetown. The entire road was tarmac and in excellent condition. On our arrival on the outskirts of Freetown there was some confusing hopping in and out of vehicles in places with names we would soon come to know well: Willbeforce (pronounce “Bafors”), Jui and Waterloo. By early evening we had found <a href="https://www.pangolin-travel.com/" target="_blank">our lodge</a>: the first place with a cool backpacker vibe since we’d left Ghana almost two months before.</p><p>When arriving in a new country there are a few things we always do. First, get a cellphone SIM card and load data so you can use google maps to find an ATM that will take a foreign bank card. A surprisingly difficult challenge in Freetown was getting cash from an ATM. The local currency is called “leones” and the biggest note is 10,000 leones which equates to US$1. Most ATMs have a maximum limit on the number of notes they can dispense at one time - generally a stack of 40 notes is the maximum that can pass through the cash dispensing hole. So in Sierra Leone you can only withdraw the equivalent of US$40 per transaction and then the bank back home in South Africa deducts a hefty minimum international cash withdrawal fee which amounts to about 15% of your withdrawal amount. This proved quite an expensive headache which forced us to use some of the US dollars cash we were carrying. In the end our problem was solved by a combination of locating a bank that would allow us to swipe our credit card inside the bank and then withdraw more than the US$40 maximum or, alternatively, to use the World Remit phone app to send money to one of the many cash transfer agencies that can be found on almost every street corner in West Africa. The end result was that at any one time, we would be carrying big wads of cash containing millions of leones. In the past, Sierra Leoneans were permitted to use US dollars cash for all transactions which was especially helpful when buying a car or a house. But recently the government banned this practice, forcing people to carry big bags of cash leones whenever they made a big purchase. Sierra Leone feels like a well-run country where most things seem to work quite efficiently, except for the monetary system. The country desperately needs some bigger notes: all other countries have notes representing $10 or more in value - a $1 note is just too small. Once we’d left Salone, we saw a newspaper article announcing that the government will be redoing the currency in October 2021, certainly a much needed intervention.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio8Av--8uWhMmIYungYzUiZsxOxBwOLSGhT9emOGmXyWHdPCSYXrRuu8MjIiWMuTJOIcGN3V9X8KBcZC-1o4EqHCe2XQMotl8qd58kc--BmsCKt7vANB9LccNDK3vAwB8yT6meTLJFa8hV-_clt-3c2DjzsGx0gEGYzDb4IF8Fq0WMlldE1VKjecSeuw=s1320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1320" data-original-width="1056" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEio8Av--8uWhMmIYungYzUiZsxOxBwOLSGhT9emOGmXyWHdPCSYXrRuu8MjIiWMuTJOIcGN3V9X8KBcZC-1o4EqHCe2XQMotl8qd58kc--BmsCKt7vANB9LccNDK3vAwB8yT6meTLJFa8hV-_clt-3c2DjzsGx0gEGYzDb4IF8Fq0WMlldE1VKjecSeuw=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wet and loaded!</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0j9c1zPwoB8GZXLb8zm_iqp5Kbnun_wYnTULUafVlGR5wuxZj7-oG7He0fk3fyyVH_qSknQwD5WcZ3dWPBg-4DdbRbyw3ERvjtvIJLjXH7ejr3mlYf7Gcjpii9le3PJk-pW2e-h76hkac7JWAe1elW4Qh49eZa4Adf4hsnYkNvOO-VUuoaOniI8WOew=s1320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1320" data-original-width="1056" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0j9c1zPwoB8GZXLb8zm_iqp5Kbnun_wYnTULUafVlGR5wuxZj7-oG7He0fk3fyyVH_qSknQwD5WcZ3dWPBg-4DdbRbyw3ERvjtvIJLjXH7ejr3mlYf7Gcjpii9le3PJk-pW2e-h76hkac7JWAe1elW4Qh49eZa4Adf4hsnYkNvOO-VUuoaOniI8WOew=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sucking a bissap icey in a bustling market in downtown Freetown</td></tr></tbody></table><p>With our first local cash in hand, we would then visit the shops of the new country we find ourselves in, to recalibrate our brains to local prices. Typically, we would do this recalibration using a few standard items like a tin of evaporated milk (crucial for coffee drinkers as no fresh or even UHT milk is easily available), a plate of street-food and a packet of drinking water. The latter is by far the most common way to consume drinking water in Ghana, Liberia and Sierra Leone. If you’re thirsty, you just need to look for a cooler box on the sidewalk or listen out for the call of “Ko Waaataaa!” (“cold water”) and then you grab a 500ml clear plastic bag of water, bite off the corner and suck it dry in one go. This does result in a lot of empty plastic water bags littering the landscape but one would imagine that these bags would degrade a lot faster than the hard plastic bottles used elsewhere in the world. It was noticeable how much cleaner Sierra Leone was than Ghana and Liberia. We’re not sure exactly how they achieve this, but there is a lot less litter than one might expect in a bustling city. On completing our “price calibration” for Salone it was clear that it was quite a bit cheaper than Liberia and Ghana for most things.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZLCn6EXEC6kPOensGYZRcHXZ_6h4DvydzvMBthnnGEmgImvBFr1dlFkcgjnEbuMRtBABPVMrP3Wa7t_FG9fZcU5FdqJS4prwttbFVfh1_g5up5fi6UNjAqro_fG2wyrrmmBaE7xW0pUy9bw-afSLzTmQobBzOfU0tUN9ED6JBycaZlMCwmNxiwOFtug=s904" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="904" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZLCn6EXEC6kPOensGYZRcHXZ_6h4DvydzvMBthnnGEmgImvBFr1dlFkcgjnEbuMRtBABPVMrP3Wa7t_FG9fZcU5FdqJS4prwttbFVfh1_g5up5fi6UNjAqro_fG2wyrrmmBaE7xW0pUy9bw-afSLzTmQobBzOfU0tUN9ED6JBycaZlMCwmNxiwOFtug=w640-h334" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The green rolling hills of beautiful Freetown</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Freetown, Freetown… what a cool, beautiful city! Straddled over a series of green forested hills with glorious views of the ocean, this city really grew on us. So much so that we’d have to say that, as African cities go, it ranks second only to Cape Town in beauty and is certainly one of our favourites. The public transport is super cheap and easy: just shout out the word “bike” and you’ll have multiple motorbikes instantly at your side and ready to take you short distances for $0.20/R3. For longer journeys, or when it’s raining, just look for a keke (3-wheeler tuktuk) which might charge you $1 to travel about 8km. Longer journeys might involve a shared taxi for $0.50 or a minibus for a bit less. </p><p>Hilly cities are always a bit confusing as the roads can’t form a symmetrical grid but, after a while, we began to work out Freetown’s idiosyncrasies. You had to learn which roundabouts were transport hubs and which places needed a bike and which needed a keke. The only thing we never understood was the kekes’ mysterious pricing system: even locals were at a loss as to why a short journey in one direction would cost three times more than a longer journey in another direction. But with prices so low, we couldn’t complain. The centre of Freetown has a gigantic Cotton Tree which is at least 250 years old and is where the freed enslaved people from Nova Scotia stopped to pray on their arrival in Freetown. To this day, it is considered a sacred place at which spiritual ceremonies are performed. In its branches sit dozens of hooded vultures which are to West Africa, what crows and dogs are to Southern Africa: the urban scavengers. </p><p>On entering Sierra Leone, we’d found out that there were abundant supplies of Covid19 vaccines in the country which the public didn’t seem particularly interested in. We headed off to a local government hospital and sure enough we were the only people there to be vaccinated. After a very quick process, we had our Sinopharm jab and were on our way. At that point (July 2021), less than 1% of Sierra Leoneans had been vaccinated, and there still seems to be very little interest in getting jabbed.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhunH8z-5pvaohwoAGHLpdsKw3SC01lQabPV5_wilZgc81fUXb4kg_cnMXVEe4ClSf7zJcVMPw6uip4bVWRYOJ1g6UYaksyaJy-VIjD86p6j67PI-JSynNB7mhUY_GSSChDlQjxKR-Wz2lWgGqjp_TRv5wfZ0Yl8Dl48CIQRCU9rI0bGeyv5C0lIaFl4w=s1320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1320" data-original-width="1056" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhunH8z-5pvaohwoAGHLpdsKw3SC01lQabPV5_wilZgc81fUXb4kg_cnMXVEe4ClSf7zJcVMPw6uip4bVWRYOJ1g6UYaksyaJy-VIjD86p6j67PI-JSynNB7mhUY_GSSChDlQjxKR-Wz2lWgGqjp_TRv5wfZ0Yl8Dl48CIQRCU9rI0bGeyv5C0lIaFl4w=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vaccinated! Thanks Sierra Leone (and China) </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>While Sierra Leone has about double the population size of Liberia, it is very similar in terms of climate and day to day life. Covid prevention practices border on a theatre of the absurd. Covid restrictions applied to public transport include motorbike taxis only being allowed one passenger (normally up to three passenger), while kekes are allowed only two passengers (normally four passengers). On the other hand, minibuses (called “poda podas”) - which have much, much worse ventilation than a motorbike or a keke - are allowed to operate at 100% capacity. Not only that, virtually no-one in these buses wears a mask, except for the approximately three minute period when they reach a police checkpoint and where everyone has to put on a mask, disembark, wash their hands, walk to the other side of the checkpoint rope, and get back into the same poda poda again. As soon as the bus departs the checkpoint, everyone (except us) takes off their mask. Very few people wear masks on the streets and even in banks and government buildings, masks were the exception rather than the norm, even for bank/government employees. It is known that the highly contagious Delta variant is circulating in Sierra Leone and yet the statistics show just 120 Covid deaths in the past 18 months.. At the peak of their “Delta wave”, they experienced an average of just 50-100 infections and two deaths per day. We asked doctors working at the main hospital whether they had observed any panic for oxygen like that seen in neighbouring Liberia and they said no. Why the experience in Liberia and Sierra Leone should be so different is a real mystery, and again all we can do is appeal to the big funders of medical research to devote some dollars to better understanding what is happening with Covid on our continent (interesting studies here <a href="https://bmcinfectdis.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12879-021-06701-8" target="_blank">https://bmcinfectdis.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12879-021-06701-8</a> and here <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8107224/" target="_blank">https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8107224/</a> on a possible inverse link between malaria and Covid19). As things stand, it is hard to see how Sierra Leone will convince even 10% of their population to get vaccinated. As a Sierra Leonean told us: “<i>when we had Ebola, we could see that it was dangerous, we saw the vehicles carrying away the bodies, but with Covid we don’t know anyone who’s got very sick or died...</i>”</p><p>As one drives around the outskirts of Freetown, it is remarkable just how many giant houses are in the process of being constructed. These houses, often three stories high, are bigger than any houses we’ve seen anywhere in the world (with the exception of Tibetan houses). When we asked how come Sierra Leoneans had so much money to build these houses, people just chuckled and talked vaguely about “businessmen” but we never got a satisfactory answer as to why there is such a construction boom going on in the country. Freetown houses also stood out as being in exceptional condition. In most tropical African cities, cement buildings are soon covered in green moss and black mould and can look quite weathered. In contrast, in Sierra Leone the buildings all look freshly painted with bright colours. We were told that people typically paint their homes once a year, and the local paint seemed to be very durable. </p><p>The guesthouse we were staying in was in a nice part of town with many large, luxurious houses. However, next door to the guesthouse and scattered throughout the suburb we saw open plots with a few corrugated iron shacks housing families. It turns out that the country’s land registry system is quite corrupt and even when you have bought a plot and have all the necessary documents to prove it, it might happen that someone else could just start building their own fancy house on your land. In some cases, these usurpers of land ownership have bribed the land registry officials to transfer the plot into their name. If you dispute this transfer of ownership, you could end up tangled in a long complicated legal fight without any guarantee of success. You might even be forced to sell your plot to the house builder as they will complain that they have already spent a huge amount of money building their house. So to avoid all this hassle, if you legally buy a plot but are not ready to begin building immediately, you find a homeless family and allow them to put temporary shacks on your land for free in order to prevent someone illegally building permanent structures on your land. Then, when the land owner is ready to build, there is apparently no difficulty in requesting the shack dwellers to vacate the land. It seems that land and construction is the main way that people “save” money as the financial system is not trusted. If you have some savings, you either have to take the risk of having US dollars cash hidden under your bed or you buy some land and begin building a house. Even if building that house takes years, it’s still regarded as the best way to save for the future. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgghN3dBLWND7yCiU61Ij7vqlh-aIrCsJzMLEjCp90tJeqW-wvcYJJ2QS0b4X2Sho8H7lE0mGTkv3hWl40gKm2ZcYbo-mVyXiecZhL0WhDOb_ARquz2Mfmjgkis7DoxRrLYGiPnXgQ7kjFCtH6QJjMfwoeROoCbI_yTwWYYeL89IQX4WH-G84a1O3Tpzg=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgghN3dBLWND7yCiU61Ij7vqlh-aIrCsJzMLEjCp90tJeqW-wvcYJJ2QS0b4X2Sho8H7lE0mGTkv3hWl40gKm2ZcYbo-mVyXiecZhL0WhDOb_ARquz2Mfmjgkis7DoxRrLYGiPnXgQ7kjFCtH6QJjMfwoeROoCbI_yTwWYYeL89IQX4WH-G84a1O3Tpzg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All over Freetown there are buildings like these under construction</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>After a few days in central Freetown, we headed about an hour down the lovely Freetown peninsula to Bureh Beach. The Freetown peninsula has many kilometres of beautiful beaches located beneath forested hills. We found a lovely spot on Bureh Beach to spend about ten days doing some more “digital nomading” work. Sierra Leone’s historical links to Jamaica meant that Rastafarians were common and cannabis was easily found. The dominance of Islam also meant that drunkenness was rare. This normally lively tourist area was totally dead, thanks to Covid19 and the start of the rainy season. </p><p>You do not know rain until you’ve experienced Sierra Leone’s rainy season!</p><p>This country has 3000mm (3 metres!) of rain per year which is by far the highest rainfall on the continent. All this rain falls during the five month long, summer rainy season. Think about the most intense cloudburst of rain you’ve ever experienced and then imagine that falling for 10 hours every day. At some point, normally in August, the legendary seven-days-rain begins when it rains torrentially, non-stop, day and night for a whole week. The country gets so much rain that few people bother to put up gutters for rainwater collection; you just need to place huge buckets under any part of the roof edge and they fill up daily and in no time. The rain was so heavy during our stay in Bureh that the shop mamas added “how di rain?” to the usual greetings of “how di bodi, how di day?”. The answer that got the most appreciative response was to sigh and say: “di rain is di rain”. The drainage system in Freetown required to avoid flooding is quite impressive: deep gutters and well-built drains channel the floods neatly down the steep hills. These drains do, unfortunately, gather what litter there is and deposit it all on the inner city beaches. Lots of rain also meant LOTS of mosquitoes. Freetown’s mosquitoes are next level: they’re not particularly big but they are by far the craftiest of all the many mosquitoes we’ve met in the tropics. If you are not 100% perfect when tucking in the mosquito net into your bedding, then these little buggers could find the smallest crack to enter your sanctum and share their itchy love. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRKdN7fqUnefZyyFU6JEFDtdcSWVNvOX2IN6B3_h2FyCbSXkidIUVsZp2KScuA7EH5VD3r98GjV7JrMiSIZIDtunVGaCq8IQN-oDqcadyYB-NKPurBuvayY2hNAnS0VsQv0ovGYVPKpZFppMT1Uw-OFd_F5StkOh1IUz94suD_Znayk7vtZwcnCfwmog=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRKdN7fqUnefZyyFU6JEFDtdcSWVNvOX2IN6B3_h2FyCbSXkidIUVsZp2KScuA7EH5VD3r98GjV7JrMiSIZIDtunVGaCq8IQN-oDqcadyYB-NKPurBuvayY2hNAnS0VsQv0ovGYVPKpZFppMT1Uw-OFd_F5StkOh1IUz94suD_Znayk7vtZwcnCfwmog=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bureh beach on the Freetown peninsula, Sierra Leone</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We were mostly self-catering on our camping stove during these days at Bureh which meant regular visits to the markets. The vegetable selection was somewhat better than in Liberia but still a bit bare - one had to know a special little shop behind the main market where you could get carrots and lettuce. Each country we visit has its little sweet surprises. In Salone we were amazed to see youngsters pushing ice-cream wagons from which emerged delicious, cheap ice-creams: proper Conetto ice creams for $50c! It’s a total mystery how this was happening in a region that struggles to produce fresh milk. The other treats were FreeGells sweets, which are very similar to Halls sweets in South Africa but much much cheaper at just $20c per pack. Kids would wander about with buckets of delicious homemade peanut brittle, sesame seed crunchies and butterscotch jawbreaker sweets too. Bananas were super cheap but Mangos and Avos were much more expensive than elsewhere in the region. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfdIkTMnYitg99_bXTBtQoOulHIfhhmcFQtPlDrxHTfsMJ4yIg1K5xYdbn3cQRUE20u7YMJzTFLUH09MbgAqaJjt1nrlILq3MKISwVwYz6M6UaQMOB7t9V4a_kT4Y_K3SyOImEbsFVVc8oBUw5ZT6l753A_dBIwdCPb-uMFSZUmPpbDRhyF89LXiBjQg=s4472" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4472" data-original-width="3578" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfdIkTMnYitg99_bXTBtQoOulHIfhhmcFQtPlDrxHTfsMJ4yIg1K5xYdbn3cQRUE20u7YMJzTFLUH09MbgAqaJjt1nrlILq3MKISwVwYz6M6UaQMOB7t9V4a_kT4Y_K3SyOImEbsFVVc8oBUw5ZT6l753A_dBIwdCPb-uMFSZUmPpbDRhyF89LXiBjQg=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delicious sesame cakes and peanut brittles </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEij19jiTAgPi4v3WYOXLaQXJNV1QYjyH6YvxJEunDj6Ip03IcfrEnUCeBmofK1F3eD4CplvHKpzDTHKru7Y0oT-MvN0cxaQogWdJOMkMI8UyE4LA89R_x270GcMtS-r57vlMjbtfSwQ5E6H4bqOKyOh5FdggVFOl7gRxiqBwUFnlPXTABoMs6BXiGy7kA=s1028" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="1028" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEij19jiTAgPi4v3WYOXLaQXJNV1QYjyH6YvxJEunDj6Ip03IcfrEnUCeBmofK1F3eD4CplvHKpzDTHKru7Y0oT-MvN0cxaQogWdJOMkMI8UyE4LA89R_x270GcMtS-r57vlMjbtfSwQ5E6H4bqOKyOh5FdggVFOl7gRxiqBwUFnlPXTABoMs6BXiGy7kA=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young entrepreneurs</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_mhflL3IOPYih2cTKf6oE_WYOcemhUqeYnfeyBx-IvixgL9i4EUUn9-Vi_yKi0EK9qP4qdcAIemNPglBClRxw7pPjnYaDtS52maq0GU8Bp9sSiCIKdHtxR_9J0a-nXhdtFAp5afUfrbQaBeZ5MsYzhNHWl14mtZMnzH29NOdOE25X7NJ1HpqSQjClEw=s1408" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1408" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_mhflL3IOPYih2cTKf6oE_WYOcemhUqeYnfeyBx-IvixgL9i4EUUn9-Vi_yKi0EK9qP4qdcAIemNPglBClRxw7pPjnYaDtS52maq0GU8Bp9sSiCIKdHtxR_9J0a-nXhdtFAp5afUfrbQaBeZ5MsYzhNHWl14mtZMnzH29NOdOE25X7NJ1HpqSQjClEw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chilling out at Bureh beach, Freetown peninsula, Sierra Leone</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The shops in Sierra Leone are almost all tiny wooden or metal cubicles that sell a wide range of things spaza-style. There are a handful of super-markets in Freetown but almost everyone relies on tiny micro-shops for their daily needs. The biggest shops in outlying towns would have just a counter where you’d be served by the shopkeeper from a few shelves on the wall behind him. From what we can see, West Africa has two distinct approaches to retailing: in Ghana/Gambia almost all retail happens through supermarkets and large stores with little side-walk trading. There might be a little fresh produce market here and there but in general you have to enter a big shop to buy stuff. The Liberian/Sierra Leonean model of retailing is dominated by tiny shops – mostly erected on the side-walk. In addition there are loads of people wandering about with wheelbarrows or basins on their head filled with a wide range of products. It would be fascinating to study which approach is more beneficial to the economy. One would expect that larger shops would be able to sell more cheaply thanks to economies of scale, but then they have much larger overhead costs like air-conditioning, security, rent and staff. The microshops have none of these expenses and we found their prices very competitive. Hundreds of microshops instead of one large supermarket would seem to spread wealth and employment more widely in society. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ9De_sgjJMyKunUn_n-YPCQU3fwociso_Nh8119oI6sfgvKwZqoKTMDvImJDLoB_dtvQqcnHX1z1ru2-d9Q1HOtOzl0gT7V1KPVO7C8dGrwTJAEW8gCJZRlO91_JtRdN6oNvyNFegNrmI69aXVn8pfP210nxr-Hs_wYSlE6YnCJB2szePNwUjYqrDFg=s1408" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1408" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZ9De_sgjJMyKunUn_n-YPCQU3fwociso_Nh8119oI6sfgvKwZqoKTMDvImJDLoB_dtvQqcnHX1z1ru2-d9Q1HOtOzl0gT7V1KPVO7C8dGrwTJAEW8gCJZRlO91_JtRdN6oNvyNFegNrmI69aXVn8pfP210nxr-Hs_wYSlE6YnCJB2szePNwUjYqrDFg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bureh beach</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg8QuGcNAWD85IcFEvV2S00PduGwFCFknxN1z5JD0XNYsqKNiCgGDTeMkM3usgP8qW8t_o5CK0izw1OphYvol-obnWOjzeiQQ1HgwAk4IN-Y4qALDfuJ5ZcY3SR1tGAcolRKvIbdgnY1U8krvG2u7uSgwL75f9FTpe5n5a82d83GPvFNBWKzJIN68kLwg=s1408" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1408" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg8QuGcNAWD85IcFEvV2S00PduGwFCFknxN1z5JD0XNYsqKNiCgGDTeMkM3usgP8qW8t_o5CK0izw1OphYvol-obnWOjzeiQQ1HgwAk4IN-Y4qALDfuJ5ZcY3SR1tGAcolRKvIbdgnY1U8krvG2u7uSgwL75f9FTpe5n5a82d83GPvFNBWKzJIN68kLwg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bureh beach has lots of cool lodges and restaurants on the beach </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>After Bureh Beach we headed further down the peninsula and then jumped onto a boat to Banana Island. Here we found a lodge called Dalton’s Guest House founded and run by an eccentric guy called Greg. The island has a village of about 500 people and is dominated by a beautiful forest. The lodge itself was built into the forest with the giant communal restaurant and chillout area partially supported by living forest trees. We enjoyed some nice walks in the forest and through the beautiful village filled with pretty flower gardens and some monstrous Cotton Trees. We also did a boat trip to the far side of the island to go snorkelling - our first “touristy” activity in many months - it felt quite nice! The rains were still going strong so we felt constantly damp - our backpacks even started growing mould. We met a few cool travellers and got to observe youthful Instagram travel culture first hand. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv0FJzJX8W-0ZY3vZ2_lTtwdsNAD-cl21px97Ip6RhAf7Vg3Np2QFwQOTxWMnxfSCCPP9Roi81Ph80ynUzGhMcDj3Zs_PVsaH-_atUBY7H4LcQ-15W96CMYja5kDsXv4f49PfA3FhYtfcOVpLmlZvUqtkTxNezh_nDmGRw6YqdbTrWVJ6UihYejP2YsQ=s1280" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv0FJzJX8W-0ZY3vZ2_lTtwdsNAD-cl21px97Ip6RhAf7Vg3Np2QFwQOTxWMnxfSCCPP9Roi81Ph80ynUzGhMcDj3Zs_PVsaH-_atUBY7H4LcQ-15W96CMYja5kDsXv4f49PfA3FhYtfcOVpLmlZvUqtkTxNezh_nDmGRw6YqdbTrWVJ6UihYejP2YsQ=w400-h640" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our travel buddy on Banana Island - clearly our own photo skills are lacking!</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://instagram.com/nzinga.nwa?utm_medium=copy_link" target="_blank">Nzinga's instagram</a> and <a href="https://instagram.com/__africano?utm_medium=copy_link" target="_blank">Ellie's instagram.</a></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPHxr8znfxZtjwSKEPivpKl-fmLQn-x_YNDodI7McsZ4zNlswNV5dMprkdeXEHrUChRqsXij66eNwPFSlu5r0WmlwteP0UBzEZqFHcs1Na7hZfC8ZlGkNWfUNtjs-SzQVSaAjAlpdbWWiwnhJ7PM_N2Q6vIawuUjh10gT2El17D6hZr4ahACGw6UHEPQ=s1408" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1408" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPHxr8znfxZtjwSKEPivpKl-fmLQn-x_YNDodI7McsZ4zNlswNV5dMprkdeXEHrUChRqsXij66eNwPFSlu5r0WmlwteP0UBzEZqFHcs1Na7hZfC8ZlGkNWfUNtjs-SzQVSaAjAlpdbWWiwnhJ7PM_N2Q6vIawuUjh10gT2El17D6hZr4ahACGw6UHEPQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banana Island, Sierra Leone</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmNDte7k16bs8e0Noo8I0BQzPBI-pp1Y6x5uVRQI67-kTO9HNyRvVtMkAtTVUxJ3rsqafxCyANVO2c1VhGxSxiCkR0Ze6EGxtk2qM70IgvTYKaoMqFfeM2jntvqp0sFd_4GLeL53aZ1sHibeIQAItj6T5icIvvl3juyZhAYx9FHz41CsPiVJPiXl8aGA=s1408" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1408" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmNDte7k16bs8e0Noo8I0BQzPBI-pp1Y6x5uVRQI67-kTO9HNyRvVtMkAtTVUxJ3rsqafxCyANVO2c1VhGxSxiCkR0Ze6EGxtk2qM70IgvTYKaoMqFfeM2jntvqp0sFd_4GLeL53aZ1sHibeIQAItj6T5icIvvl3juyZhAYx9FHz41CsPiVJPiXl8aGA=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banana Island, Sierra Leone</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gBRoUGU70ro" width="320" youtube-src-id="gBRoUGU70ro"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Rainy season!!!</i></div><p>After a week on Banana Island we decided to return to the drier life in Freetown. During the previous few weeks we had become masters at travelling from Bureh to Freetown which involved four changes in public transport, each with its own peculiarities. The reason for these frequent trips to town was due to us having to visit the Guinean embassy in order to get a visa to visit this, the next country on our route. While the embassy staff were friendly, the visa application process was bizarre. It seemed that one first needed a letter of approval from a security office inside Guinea and so the embassy had to send copies of our passports to Conakry (the Guinean capital) to secure this letter. We were told to return in a few weeks when we were sure to get our visa. In the end this proved a total waste of time as every time we returned we were told to come back in a few days or weeks to no avail. It was not clear whether this strange procedure was Covid-related or whether there were other security concerns. Sierra Leoneans are able to cross in and out of Guinea without any visas or problems so it didn’t seem to be a Covid restriction. The fact that a month later there was a coup d’etat in Guinea with the elderly president overthrown by young soldiers might indicate that the government may have just been generally suspicious of anyone coming into the country. </p><p>After a few more days in lovely Freetown we headed north to two towns in the interior. We first stayed in a guesthouse inside an inspirational <a href="http://stjosephshischool.com/" target="_blank">school for the deaf </a> in the town of Makeni. The town itself wasn’t anything special but it did have a heaving, vibrant market which was fun to walk around. One restaurant we visited advertised that a portion of the proceeds of each meal went to supporting the ‘strit pickin’ - pidgin for street child. As South Africans, the reference to children as “pickins” or “pickinins” is rather offensive so we had to keep reminding ourselves that the word has no such negative connotations in Salone. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0ZNqHe4r4pZdAzPbyHbvr-yne0L0ZAiAYdpDBe5lfU9xvukJ8ZdJFoL_DMUaYjVlU7MWFXxQI1MiOADQMgPaYaJrwkEutEX8_gSSZRUDurfM7ZEGnX0jjdogOKfznH3vrtQdWEEXRnZ0jYbsLcptLRZ9gXBCN8P37Y4VqtS_NbFHUx-_Wq1cTtvcPFQ=s1200" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0ZNqHe4r4pZdAzPbyHbvr-yne0L0ZAiAYdpDBe5lfU9xvukJ8ZdJFoL_DMUaYjVlU7MWFXxQI1MiOADQMgPaYaJrwkEutEX8_gSSZRUDurfM7ZEGnX0jjdogOKfznH3vrtQdWEEXRnZ0jYbsLcptLRZ9gXBCN8P37Y4VqtS_NbFHUx-_Wq1cTtvcPFQ=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Makeni's bustling market</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We then headed further north to Kabala, which sits at the foot of a pretty mountain. There we wandered about the countryside villages where farmers were hard at work preparing their fields for rice planting. In both the towns and the villages in Sierra Leone it was remarkable to see how big the average home is. Almost every house has a large verandah - a good spot to hang out during the torrential rains. The houses are very well built; the local builders seemed to be a lot better at constructing using concrete and reinforced steel than we tend to see in the rural areas of the Eastern Cape. Being able to build homes that last generations is crucial to ensuring that there is an inter-generational transfer of wealth from parents to children that can, over time, lead to sustainable improvements in standards of living. One of the challenges we’ve seen back home is that substandard construction leads to houses often only lasting a few decades which means that each generation has to continually use up their meagre savings to rebuild their family homes, trapping families in a cycle of poverty that is hard to escape.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxoEv_nhPKo0nW4Tme7KwVCEGDeO2lciAfwolSiDd92bloK90YlFesWSooEgi-QNsAJ-D5zVbFe82173Txn6UxGXnqp0-_cUQHx2pNX953-KToVTvSqIZ8bSeyA6oeKCDv-I54UyjNlfqdFLiW8eo2k9INE86zurOzpGF3evIXllebJlmHzc-hZ39sqQ=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxoEv_nhPKo0nW4Tme7KwVCEGDeO2lciAfwolSiDd92bloK90YlFesWSooEgi-QNsAJ-D5zVbFe82173Txn6UxGXnqp0-_cUQHx2pNX953-KToVTvSqIZ8bSeyA6oeKCDv-I54UyjNlfqdFLiW8eo2k9INE86zurOzpGF3evIXllebJlmHzc-hZ39sqQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overlooking the pretty town of Kabala</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2NcDJlDNsK4Xd8DqxyAzeuDVUbcgj421xWKwMVYEcwV-riZJos1cKFGw6bClXLKpwHafAXnc5iSGrEAoicGpfMy6XhYAAeATRJcP8sYlbylZ8bjF57sVYmi29HOEdjMPUNeETz5_HNBOWs1S65rXFoouFDeEx1scBpB3YE18B32tYi1IHHJEnjrgbsA=s4000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3999" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2NcDJlDNsK4Xd8DqxyAzeuDVUbcgj421xWKwMVYEcwV-riZJos1cKFGw6bClXLKpwHafAXnc5iSGrEAoicGpfMy6XhYAAeATRJcP8sYlbylZ8bjF57sVYmi29HOEdjMPUNeETz5_HNBOWs1S65rXFoouFDeEx1scBpB3YE18B32tYi1IHHJEnjrgbsA=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from our guesthouse in Kabala</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>After a couple of days in Kabala we returned to Freetown in a minibus that had a live cow on the roof! The journey once-again involved countless checkpoints with our fellow passengers performing the ridiculous ‘mask on, disembark from the vehicle, wash hands, mask off’ Covid theatre each time. The next day we got our second dose of the vaccine in the hospital where, once again, there was nary a soul getting vaccinated and where even the visibly bored nurses weren’t wearing masks. Armed with our blue Sierra Leonean vaccination cards we were thrilled to join the world of the fully vaccinated. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI00Y5Y9YaJtVmOKat2LNBbsFYPMDaunDe1qrtdeezTrHGfuAGyhAg7vBPFfreD4YH9I9pie5T2GyF458flPCgT1PHpYITnBUn7E4iH1WJQJh6QUXQz0I_7JqFNsJnBERvm7YvcDAobrtvRzT0i3c8FHTrm0UCfAzOwRDLDE8FnAH-HpvT0_TPgmbfRw=s1288" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgI00Y5Y9YaJtVmOKat2LNBbsFYPMDaunDe1qrtdeezTrHGfuAGyhAg7vBPFfreD4YH9I9pie5T2GyF458flPCgT1PHpYITnBUn7E4iH1WJQJh6QUXQz0I_7JqFNsJnBERvm7YvcDAobrtvRzT0i3c8FHTrm0UCfAzOwRDLDE8FnAH-HpvT0_TPgmbfRw=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I need to go to Freetown with my cow"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhThq_MY9aDX4-MFcG1gIU9QgTnU0zQZr57SqKIBMXkX1_9QX_Nxso1wuAjo0vrjRgGjOvXNmzYAIXePXsY68UnW9oH9xRvwfRRC-gEMbGZua-ZlMjoGldFcyLbdZNReywbjUEw3SEKqP9S9TEjdevOIBll3B2SXin-3GDBAy7oBjlcIkygHfBKCaTAcQ=s1288" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="966" data-original-width="1288" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhThq_MY9aDX4-MFcG1gIU9QgTnU0zQZr57SqKIBMXkX1_9QX_Nxso1wuAjo0vrjRgGjOvXNmzYAIXePXsY68UnW9oH9xRvwfRRC-gEMbGZua-ZlMjoGldFcyLbdZNReywbjUEw3SEKqP9S9TEjdevOIBll3B2SXin-3GDBAy7oBjlcIkygHfBKCaTAcQ=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3kGSplF5M28" width="320" youtube-src-id="3kGSplF5M28"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Getting a cow off the roof of the Podapoda minibus</i></p><p>We spent our last few days in Freetown enjoying the vibe of this lovely city. We hiked up the highest hill and enjoyed magnificent views over the city as well as views of the site of a catastrophic land-slide in 2017 where more than a thousand people died when a steep hill on which they’d constructed their homes was destabilised by heavy rains. On the way up the hill we found a lot of rock-breakers working next to the road. We’d seen people doing this work elsewhere but this was the first place we got to talk to them and understand how their business worked. These men and women (and a few kids) lived on properties alongside the road where giant granite boulders were plentiful. Using a combination of sledgehammers and fire, they would break off big pieces of this rock which they’d pile next to the road. Then began the very boring work of hitting these rocks with a hammer and slowly breaking them down into much smaller stones that can be used to mix concrete. These stones are sold by the bucket load to construction companies and people could earn about $10 to $15 per day depending on how long they worked.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGPQSevxgze1tF_iaOox2fHe67LjoDbE9Ey_U6SgOo7pxJ4tGzFbylgRjpIfD3McyKNxK_VOTAdID45pWZmIZnXNUisxrM3o5DdlXCMuPcqmZxVNH8K945u2j-RDw9mTbT1UpLV_LIS6TgPEbvcar46CPKCdKIQVCTO-aopfGbQhh1fq_pDOLdqzMVwg=s1408" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1408" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGPQSevxgze1tF_iaOox2fHe67LjoDbE9Ey_U6SgOo7pxJ4tGzFbylgRjpIfD3McyKNxK_VOTAdID45pWZmIZnXNUisxrM3o5DdlXCMuPcqmZxVNH8K945u2j-RDw9mTbT1UpLV_LIS6TgPEbvcar46CPKCdKIQVCTO-aopfGbQhh1fq_pDOLdqzMVwg=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breaking rocks in Freetown</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVNiT9xUSl0wmSJwr_QrjVIBh9QlyhnvSAlvbLPsLyRF_zarS31kCX0vzabSsl2AExLF-jkk90IL1gMCjr2UPbOaHDqCFNbC8VQqSfCWK6nrFRbTtFeu-KJkHdEtGcawZ7eWjJO9bDM-0rt6oOSe3olSB8TaKvE8JUx3jPR_OlQOl5s7OdqGxnIXekKw=s1320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1320" data-original-width="1056" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVNiT9xUSl0wmSJwr_QrjVIBh9QlyhnvSAlvbLPsLyRF_zarS31kCX0vzabSsl2AExLF-jkk90IL1gMCjr2UPbOaHDqCFNbC8VQqSfCWK6nrFRbTtFeu-KJkHdEtGcawZ7eWjJO9bDM-0rt6oOSe3olSB8TaKvE8JUx3jPR_OlQOl5s7OdqGxnIXekKw=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smashing rocks into building stones, Freetown</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We also visited one of the city’s most popular beaches - Lumley - which has lots of beachfront cafes and bars. Sadly the beach is covered in plastic pollution washed out of the city drains and into the sea. Hopefully the beaches will be cleaned when tourism restarts in earnest. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5KEqCmqGEdhfMtjD9OnZagHc3OvqHtjxuZPD0PX9bH25yeWxPkWPLwVEF_Grp0cDWZP-tv8V3_CGptiQFtchS9LLMv9YNwN1dvWqdicZYS9g5to7y-TwHedL7mUmhS9gN4RXdtZUbLYFkJz7_dgZkLT6J18ZGspMWVBodTpRNGHDTKxEeZrcoE87FMA=s1280" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="1280" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5KEqCmqGEdhfMtjD9OnZagHc3OvqHtjxuZPD0PX9bH25yeWxPkWPLwVEF_Grp0cDWZP-tv8V3_CGptiQFtchS9LLMv9YNwN1dvWqdicZYS9g5to7y-TwHedL7mUmhS9gN4RXdtZUbLYFkJz7_dgZkLT6J18ZGspMWVBodTpRNGHDTKxEeZrcoE87FMA=w640-h384" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Throughout our trip, in every country, these colourful Agama lizards have been everywhere.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RzSozke2Zfg" width="320" youtube-src-id="RzSozke2Zfg"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Red-headed agama lizards fighting</i></p><p>On one of our final touristy jaunts about the city, we visited the Peace Museum which is part of the Special Court for Sierra Leone complex where war crimes from the civil war were prosecuted. The Peace Museum was quite harrowing with horrific images of the brutality of the war. Towards the end of our visit, a museum official came over to chat with us and shared his personal story of being captured and tortured by rebels and by the junta running the country at the time. </p><p>We also visited the National Museum which has a fascinating collection of masks and outfits worn by the different secret societies that are an integral part of Sierra Leonean culture. The vast majority of adults in the country are members of ancient secret societies that they join on achieving adulthood. Men mostly join the <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poro" target="_blank">Poro society</a> when they are teenagers and the initiation rituals and lessons learnt there are highly secret. Similarly, women join the <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sande_society" target="_blank">Bundu/Sande society</a> which traditionally includes female circumcision as part of the initiation ritual. While there has been some efforts by mostly urban women to alter the Sande society initiation rituals away from circumcision, it is still the case that about 90% of Sierra Leonean women have experienced female genital mutilation (FGM). One of the tricky issues to resolve is the replacement of income for the women hired to perform the cutting, for whom this is their only profession. West Africa, Guinea, Mali and the Gambia all have rates of FGM of over 75%. In the east, the worst culprits of the barbaric practice are Ethiopia, Egypt, Sudan and Somalia. Victims of FGM experience not only the pain of the cutting but terrible complications during and after childbirth. And this in regions where access to medical care is of the poorest in the world.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnG49WuRNM1yDDdZNsuz6vdUFP7k2Yh8iJ4fT7BSz-nWXXU0_ZCUs7ncjWDoPDqRS8XtIuc0xRUhge3D8uAVOJhgF3zsxE_tYrZetW5IBb8vb6h_lZhd-3j5mPtY8_G6JhZNdk-RPgwNVZy6N1zLJM5nBnIeyjhQlfdpwb1kIs0gxDvXzCdgDfx5DrPQ=s560" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="560" height="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnG49WuRNM1yDDdZNsuz6vdUFP7k2Yh8iJ4fT7BSz-nWXXU0_ZCUs7ncjWDoPDqRS8XtIuc0xRUhge3D8uAVOJhgF3zsxE_tYrZetW5IBb8vb6h_lZhd-3j5mPtY8_G6JhZNdk-RPgwNVZy6N1zLJM5nBnIeyjhQlfdpwb1kIs0gxDvXzCdgDfx5DrPQ=w640-h612" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Female Genital Mutilation in Africa</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The various secret societies and ethnic groups in the country have elaborate ceremonial outfits and incredible masks that are worn by the fetish priests (known locally as “devils”) who lead the community in ceremonial masquerade dances. Different outfits and masks indicate who is permitted to join a dance ceremony - in some cases anyone from any group can join, while other outfits indicate that only members of that particular society may participate. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXOZyZiQiF7c3z3QvFfyLJr9zRYZytDgpH6nO5v5hiIdV-SPMVIDEIe2Fvtl-XXE8NJ62sevixoFqXRamMttUM_XZ1fwZRk4W7rBPndqeu6Hgc3WlqjC7qLF9Nkia6FibJ16uxo8SxtIkILA3IPJ9pOVp2v06P798n9zMXD00Qd09wbcAn8megNbVjsA=s3999" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3999" data-original-width="3999" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXOZyZiQiF7c3z3QvFfyLJr9zRYZytDgpH6nO5v5hiIdV-SPMVIDEIe2Fvtl-XXE8NJ62sevixoFqXRamMttUM_XZ1fwZRk4W7rBPndqeu6Hgc3WlqjC7qLF9Nkia6FibJ16uxo8SxtIkILA3IPJ9pOVp2v06P798n9zMXD00Qd09wbcAn8megNbVjsA=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elaborate ceremonial costume, Sierra Leone</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3eMcQjmRflqbHRHYggTZkuJOIsJ0t2KHKo4yjtfzs_klXz2coZbfjvjYKzW-fn9dCKpTOyq6TEmHj8lClD2TbavQYPpntxY_gE4UXXiIBMh4YJ92FtwOsUMAc4OYs9NpOutnczWzguQ4xXXV0Kacvwl3KkHlbglYWA0qkxs8CacNvQUZ71qikqq7s4Q=s4472" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4472" data-original-width="3577" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3eMcQjmRflqbHRHYggTZkuJOIsJ0t2KHKo4yjtfzs_klXz2coZbfjvjYKzW-fn9dCKpTOyq6TEmHj8lClD2TbavQYPpntxY_gE4UXXiIBMh4YJ92FtwOsUMAc4OYs9NpOutnczWzguQ4xXXV0Kacvwl3KkHlbglYWA0qkxs8CacNvQUZ71qikqq7s4Q=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDqbjTdFORJyvBgiFbmZp9bv1jdjBBq1lUw29BGodf9yE1A9DSeFygEE0cv4ohnTQadNT_A8NKK3TGZNLa5oT1xLX9GA5MtewcTCdXBUMOoPVHNyjHysixeNnKjH9tP1AYNL_DcoSN2hYMNXZ9OyBKvCxe6cbuAgjQmm3Px-MYYr6I-caQkLQ3zzDMBw=s4472" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4472" data-original-width="3577" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDqbjTdFORJyvBgiFbmZp9bv1jdjBBq1lUw29BGodf9yE1A9DSeFygEE0cv4ohnTQadNT_A8NKK3TGZNLa5oT1xLX9GA5MtewcTCdXBUMOoPVHNyjHysixeNnKjH9tP1AYNL_DcoSN2hYMNXZ9OyBKvCxe6cbuAgjQmm3Px-MYYr6I-caQkLQ3zzDMBw=w512-h640" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ceremonial masks, Sierra Leone</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We didn’t get to see any of these ceremonies ourselves, but here’s a cool video showing a masquerade ceremony. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HBeH9KhQPww" width="320" youtube-src-id="HBeH9KhQPww"></iframe></div><br /><p>And here’s another great dancer who’s part of a similar ceremony although in nearby Cote D’Ivoire, not Sierra Leone, but we’re putting him here just because he’s so impressive.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jZ572yLH9sc" width="320" youtube-src-id="jZ572yLH9sc"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Incredible Zaouli dancer, Cote D'Ivoire</i></p><p>After an easy five weeks in Sierra Leone, we gave up on ever getting visas for Guinea. So we jumped on a ferry that took us to the airport across the bay and did a short plane hop over Guinea to visit Africa’s smallest country: The Gambia. </p><p>As our aeroplane lifted off, we took one last look at lovely Freetown and the land of the Lion Mountain and thought: “We go si back!” (<i>See you later!</i>) </p>Dave Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15005938262421761891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-9259915952651596572021-09-23T11:34:00.004+02:002021-09-26T14:57:05.729+02:00Our Africa Moves: #6 Liberia, for the love of liberty
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJ3JDC0uH5KYhrkQSrwcStmajQBxt8XUN_hIDFWxK-bqcrqI4RJ_Pf2MYFa-0K17_g63TfnIV4yuAi9AFawCaykpoiRotyHEPaxMCQOP_7_LUt6_0QKHXW-5JQZ3AdBuNlEhwdcnLYWA5/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_150751_645.webp" style="display: none;" />
<p><br /></p><p>Take a big sip of water, hold it in your mouth and in your best American accent say: "My man! Y'all waa-a-go Mo-rovia?” </p><p>The sound of Liberian pidgin is disorientating; the American accent is unexpected. Liberia is the only African country that has used American English as the base for its pidgin vernacula. Tones from the American South dancing to a rhythmical African beat. Pidgin is to English what Afrikaans is to Dutch. It’s not slang, and no one is making up random words or grammatical constructions. The grammar follows rules that everyone understands. That’s why the BBC can publish <a href="https://www.bbc.com/pidgin" target="_blank">news articles in pidgin</a>. The speaking pace is fast and words run into one another. Many words are different, or just sound different to us, with consonants at the end of words usually left off and tenses dispensed with. To indicate tense, the time of occurrence of the event does a lot of work. For example, you don’t need to know the three verbs: I went, I am going and I will go. You just need the one verb ‘go’, as in: I go yesterday, I go now, I go tomorrow. Learning pidgin is a unique language learning experience: normally a new language forces you to learn new words. In the case of Liberian pidgin, if you already speak English, you mostly need to learn which words or parts of words to leave out. You have to keep reminding yourself that everyone is speaking English and that if you listen carefully enough, you will get the gist of it. We have to listen very hard though and ask people to repeat themselves often. It makes one wonder if they think we’re a little bit slow! Here’s a video of typical Liberian English (select settings/gear icon at bottom of video and tick "subtitles"): </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Y76c6UqN0dc" width="320" youtube-src-id="Y76c6UqN0dc"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;">Typical Liberian English</p><p><br /></p><p>Entering the airport building in Monrovia the lingering feeling of calm, collected Ghana evaporates and is instantly replaced with a bit of chaos. Not the out of control chaos of the Congo but a chaos with some street cred nonetheless. As with Ghana, all passengers must do a Covid PCR test on arrival. Unlike Ghana, the process of registering and getting tested was a bit shambolic, though in a happy, friendly way. At the immigration booth we received a friendly welcome from the immigration official who asked how we’d obtained our Liberian visas. “Well that”, we replied, “involved a long complicated process in Accra that needed a pile of documents from ourselves and an invitation from a Liberian national (luckily Rejane has a Liberian friend she’d been to university with), a fairly substantial visa processing fee and an in-person interview!” Far more onerous than most other visa application processes, save maybe the Schengen one. The immigration official assured us that all this would not have been necessary if we’d known her. So for next time, we now had her phone number. </p><p>After that friendly encounter, we were stamped into Liberia where it felt like someone had suddenly turned on the music and upped the volume. Although Ghana is situated much closer to the DRC, it seemed somehow like we’d been portaled into Congo-lite. Everyone walks a little faster, talks much louder, smiles bubble up more quickly, music blares in the markets, bus stations are chaotic again and the roads, the roads... but we get ahead of ourselves... first we had a few days to explore Monrovia, the capital, which has the best roads in the country.</p><p>On leaving the airport and entering the chocablock traffic, it was interesting to see trucks laden with charcoal again. We hadn’t seen that since the DRC and Zambia where the smog is due not to factories but is primarily due to the smoke from charcoal burning stoves. </p><p>Downtown Monrovia bustles with everything you could possibly want to buy crammed into a few blocks. Stalls spill over from the sidewalks into the street with clothes and shoes, ready to eat meals of rice, fish, chicken and curry, tinned and packaged foods, hardware, electronics, polony sandwiches and wraps, boiled eggs and a good variety of fruits and many types of chillies piled high in heaps. Down near the seaside, it's a mess with water filled potholes, water dripping down from buildings and litter in monster piles slowly rotting away. Buildings still sport bullet holes from the war years. Motorbike taxis and tuktuks squeeze their way through the traffic, winding their way past men pushing wagons filled with water jerrycans who supply much of the city with water. The buildings have the mouldy, black colour typical of concrete in the tropics where people have given up on painting their walls. But the eyes are drawn more to the colourful movement of people and vehicles and the endless street stalls selling interesting things.</p><p>Our first mission was to find a working ATM which took a while and in the end surprised us when it dispensed US dollars. These dollars you took to the money changers who then gave you big piles of battered Liberian Dollar notes. We soon learned that one must check the pile carefully for the extra battered notes, as the market women will grumble if you try and use them and often totally refuse to accept them. We also got ourselves mobile phone sim cards - MTN is called “Lonestar” in Liberia, the nickname of the Liberian flag. The latest sales technology to hit the region are rechargeable loudhailers where you can record a short message that then plays on a loop non-stop. While the benefit to the salesperson of not having to endlessly repeat the same message to passers-by is obvious, being stuck at a bus stop for hours while listening to the message “Lonestaaar topup Lonestar dataaaa; Orange topup Orange dataaa” repeated every 20 seconds did test one’s equanimity.</p><p>Monrovia has a large, unhappy looking shopping mall that seemed abandoned. It silently hovers over Miami beach, a fun place for an evening drink and meal. As you arrive at this lively open-air beach bar/restaurant area, a young guy - your host - quickly arranges a plastic table and chairs on your chosen part of the beach and then he brings you a steady supply of drinks along with grilled chicken and salad. Only one plate though - in Liberia, as in much of West Africa, everyone at the table gets their own spoon to eat off the communal plate. Miami beach is a long way from pristine, and the ocean waves looked dangerous, but the music was loud, the drinks affordable, and everyone was having fun. It is clear to us now, that South Africa is the dance capital of the continent - it would be impossible to have the Miami beach vibe in SA without half the crowd shaking their booties. In Liberia and everywhere else we travelled, the dancing was somewhat lacking. </p><p>Having experienced the busy messiness of downtown Monrovia, we were very interested to see the upmarket suburb of Sinkor to get a sense of the spectrum of life in the city. Rejane’s university friend invited us to a charity fundraiser brunch at a Lebanese restaurant in Sinkor which would not be out of place in any first world city. Our best meal in months!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIngV2rOjapd27DBEhvgJZJ7quSQNaj9wFXW3MdzZAdJH-mxU7bHG47_2C9E-x8GTlabABs1sEdlgh7DYgP_5YRtuQBUjtHCo3S3KGk17fnzqFYpLl3Stbvf0Ut_Le8k8gvRbn4BjSDatc/s753/IMG_20210922_145904_740.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="753" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIngV2rOjapd27DBEhvgJZJ7quSQNaj9wFXW3MdzZAdJH-mxU7bHG47_2C9E-x8GTlabABs1sEdlgh7DYgP_5YRtuQBUjtHCo3S3KGk17fnzqFYpLl3Stbvf0Ut_Le8k8gvRbn4BjSDatc/w400-h400/IMG_20210922_145904_740.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fantastic fund-raising brunch with friends in Monrovia</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After a few fun days exploring the city, we were ready to get on the road again. We’d been warned about the roads during the visa interview in Accra by the Liberian national who worked at the embassy. “You won’t get to the seaside in Harper” he warned. “Not in the rainy season anyway.” Really? We’d just crossed the Congo! Challenge accepted! </p><p>Our plan was to travel slowly and overnight in a few towns along the way. When the roads are bad, the secret is not to rush. From Monrovia, our plan was to stop first in Ganta, a lively town on the border with Guinea (distance: 260 kms - should be 4 hours travel). Then we’d move onto Zwedru, Liberia’s second largest city (distance 215 kms, another 4 hours). From Zwedru we’d stop over in Fish Town, where there is nowhere to fish (distance: 160 kms, should be 3 hours at most). Finally, we’d travel from Fish Town to Harper, the pinnacle of posh seaside holidays before the war (distance: 130 km, a couple of hours, maybe). Adding it all up, the total distance we’d be travelling from Monrovia to Harper would be 765 kms and one might expect total time on the road of 13-15 hours for the full trip. Or so we thought... The journey took seven days and 50 hours of road travel time. FIFTY HOURS. </p><p>The part of the trip from Monrovia to Ganta was pleasant. First we had to catch a minibus taxi from downtown Monrovia to the sprawling long distance taxi and bus station called Red Light. Clip off the consonants at the end of each word, as you do when speaking pidgin, and the minibus taxi will get you to the “Rare Lie” taxi and bus station. In this minibus taxi we would have our first experience of the typical lively political debates one hears all through Liberia. This debate was all about how Liberia doesn’t farm enough, resulting in high prices for fresh produce that has to be transported in trucks from Guinea and Cote d'iVoire. The question under debate was: who’s fault is it? When it comes to politics in Liberia, everyone has an opinion and is not shy to express it in loud tones with aggressive and dismissive hand gestures thrown about for effect. At Rare Lie we found a long distance taxi that would take us to Ganta. Seven people squeezed into a sedan that would normally seat five people - two people share the front passenger seat and four people squash into the back. Despite being a cosy ride, the journey was fine: the road was tarred all the way to Ganta and we arrived with no drama at lunchtime.</p><p>Having absorbed the liveliness that is usual in border towns, we started making enquiries about the trip we’d do the next day from Ganta to Zwedru. Zwedru is the second largest city in Liberia so we expected that to be easy. First a motorbike taxi guy approached us. He was going home to Fish Town and he’d love to have paying passengers on his bike. No, no we were not interested. We had plenty of experience with motorbike taxis crossing Congo. Liberia’s roads can’t be so bad that one needed to resort to a motorbike taxi. We want to take a car taxi. The road is bad, he protested. Can’t be that bad, we responded with confidence, this isn’t the Congo now is it?!</p><p>A mere 300m away from the $10 hotel we were staying at, we found the taxi rank where there were indeed pickup trucks loading up to travel to Zwedru. See, we were right, the road can’t be that bad. The next morning we were up quite early and started searching for seats. There were a few pickups promising to leave “now!” but in truth seemed to be still hunting for passengers. We decided against travelling in one 4x4 that was indeed travelling “now” but which was so overloaded and top heavy that some of its passengers had decided to disembark and look for other transport. We would also have had to ride in the back boot area which didn’t have proper seats - just cushions on the floor. We were first in line for the next available pickup so we got first choice in seating, enabling us to nab the front ones, clearly the best seats in the car. But we had to wait for the other seats in the vehicle to fill up. We still needed four additional passengers who would sit in the seats at the back. Also, there was a complicated process of loading the goods that would be transported in the loadbox. This process is complicated because there are just too many goods needing to move and too few vehicles. So the vehicles get massively overloaded and each driver has to make a call about the maximum size load that his vehicle can manage. So stuff gets loaded then offloaded again, or rearranged, while tough negotiations take place between the driver and the owner of the goods. The latter wants the lowest transport price possible; the driver wonders whether the weight will destroy his car en route.</p><p>A concern we would soon come to understand. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOQxwp3YEM4Fr0HksT2esygkTsiP0htywIepe3zF3gKxsUlx1BjhFlvEj69c3cEkwr7tYOWWkaqiSV_-KssHGQPtGj3-5U4EpWVaXnl2JkKERGtJpeQJXjmWu8Fss8EnNuUs5wliYhpKl4/s799/IMG_20210922_135333_452.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="799" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOQxwp3YEM4Fr0HksT2esygkTsiP0htywIepe3zF3gKxsUlx1BjhFlvEj69c3cEkwr7tYOWWkaqiSV_-KssHGQPtGj3-5U4EpWVaXnl2JkKERGtJpeQJXjmWu8Fss8EnNuUs5wliYhpKl4/w400-h385/IMG_20210922_135333_452.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our transport from Ganta to Zwedru</td></tr></tbody></table><p>This whole process had us sitting at the little tea shop in the dusty taxi rank from 7am to 1pm. About 30 minutes before we left, a tall, handsome soldier in full camouflage and boots arrived. He was to fill the last available seat in our vehicle. We were ready to go. We were annoyed to find out that soldiers are treated with special respect, and so our comfortable front seat was given to the soldier while we were forced to squeeze into the back seat, which already had two women (one not at all small) and a child of about 10 years old on it. </p><p>Despite our annoyed mutterings that soldiers should just be treated like any other person it didn’t take long for us to realise the sense of this arrangement. It helped smooth our drive through checkpoints. </p><p>In Liberia, as in the Congo, there are countless checkpoints. Police checkpoints, military checkpoints, immigration checkpoints, Drug Enforcement Agency checkpoints, entering the village checkpoints, exiting the village checkpoints… it sometimes feels like anyone with a uniform can just put up two sticks and a rope across the road wherever they like and demand a fee for the ‘service’. They look for any flaw in your papers or vehicle or the goods you’re transporting and demand a small amount of cash to let you pass. Checkpoints are understandably necessary during times of conflict but once that’s over, how do you remove that easy source of cash without pissing off your army and police? In many African countries, police make five times more from their checkpoint money than they earn from their salary. So if a government decided to remove the unnecessary checkpoints, they would very soon have to deal with a lot of very unhappy soldiers and police who’ve lost most of their income overnight. Not a good idea in a region that has experienced so many coups and civil wars. </p><p>So the population just has to live with the checkpoints and the fees that everyone has to pay to the officers for all and sundry bullshit reasons. BUT everything changes if you have a soldier in uniform in your vehicle. In that case, you are just waved through every checkpoint with a smile. Often you don’t even have to stop the vehicle! </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ca5R7ZVE6XgLqwSRoNiRWBUqhcgDN34AsWzIRm83BLBag1rsR3UVCOsCllW5j8DPDvv41978eBpcj8oINko8khHPE41tnTYuvr4QZaSXCpWyvHrcjiuSPMkfKBda7JjH6niLMbgqcn_h/s943/IMG_20210922_135512_205.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="943" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ca5R7ZVE6XgLqwSRoNiRWBUqhcgDN34AsWzIRm83BLBag1rsR3UVCOsCllW5j8DPDvv41978eBpcj8oINko8khHPE41tnTYuvr4QZaSXCpWyvHrcjiuSPMkfKBda7JjH6niLMbgqcn_h/w400-h326/IMG_20210922_135512_205.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Repairing the wheel studs on our pickup</td></tr></tbody></table><p>So we settled into our squashed backseat for the next 215km which we expected to take about 6 hours. It actually took 36 hours. </p><p>The drive was slow, very slow. The traders whose loads we were transporting seemed to have scored a good deal - for them. Our pickup was totally overloaded. And the road was bad. Not Congo bad: your vehicle will get to its destination, but it will be slow. Our vehicle was taking strain. The troubles started just 30 mins out of Ganta: constant stops to top up water, check tyres, change tyres, check oil and each stop seemed to be done at the most leisurely pace. Every time we passed a river or some water source the ‘car boy’ would jump off the back, fill up a jerrycan with water and cool off the radiator. We inched along, starting and stopping like this until evening time. This stop, we were told, would be a longer than usual as one of the wheel studs had snapped off and had to be replaced. There was nowhere to get any dinner - we’d expected to be in Zwedru for dinner - but we managed to find a large, delicious pineapple. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4WVauEc5GNoc_SepgcBBvoRBxAi3PMVKnVYmWQtHQQ8Dj0qTzTbKaQHpTko1JXy8EowrQhSCHMk2SX4u7qQuEvYgVESqCV0jM_LN7oB2FOZAXldNyEGCzRxfH4vlR09UqJ3Kda4x59UVh/s1024/IMG_20210922_151330_592.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4WVauEc5GNoc_SepgcBBvoRBxAi3PMVKnVYmWQtHQQ8Dj0qTzTbKaQHpTko1JXy8EowrQhSCHMk2SX4u7qQuEvYgVESqCV0jM_LN7oB2FOZAXldNyEGCzRxfH4vlR09UqJ3Kda4x59UVh/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_151330_592.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pineapple for dinner!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After a long stop, the wheel was repaired and we were on our way again only for us to break down again 400 metres later with more broken wheel studs. The load was so huge and the road so bad that the vehicle just couldn’t bear it. The driver didn’t have any spare wheel studs left so he was forced to jump on a motorbike taxi and head off to another village to try and find the necessary spare parts while we all sat on the side of the road in the dark. It took hours. The villagers brought out wooden benches for us to sit on under a tree.</p><p>Sitting together in the dark, we made friends with our fellow passengers. That’s the big upside of travelling hard: you make more friends than when you travel easy. Human beings naturally bond in tough times. After we’d all had our fill of bitching and moaning about the driver and his bad management of his load, we were told the stories. The stories of the civil war. Every adult in their mid twenties or older seems to have a horror story. Their own, personal horror story. </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>********** LIBERIAN HISTORY **********</b></p><p>When writing these summarised histories of the countries we visit, it’s important to remember that behind the facts casually mentioned, are real people. People for whom something like a civil war isn’t an abstract story about a faraway place, but for whom the mention of the war awakens memories of a horror we can scarcely imagine. We were powerfully reminded of this, sitting under a tree in the night in a forest village waiting for the umpteenth repair of the truck on which we were travelling. We were sitting on a crude wooden bench with some fellow passengers and started making small talk. We got talking to a large jovial woman who subsequently became a warm friend whom we care deeply about. We spoke about travelling and how much one learns from visiting other countries. She had travelled quite widely in the region as a trader and gradually it emerged that she’d also been a refugee in neighbouring Cote D’Ivoire during the Liberian civil war. We rather casually asked what the war had been like. </p><p>“Senseless… Senseless…!!” She lamented. </p><p>She’d been living in Monrovia at the time, in a large house with her family including her old, blind grandmother. The civil war had started years before but only recently had the rebels begun advancing on Monrovia. Everyone had begun making plans to flee; in her case the family planned to drive to Freetown, capital of Sierra Leone. Up until that point the rebel advance had been very slow and so most people assumed that they had another week before the real danger started. She was busy packing her bags and getting everything ready to leave when machine gunfire started in the distance. This was not unusual and normally the shooting ended within an hour or so. However, this time it just got louder and louder, closer and closer until the shooting was literally outside her house. Machine gun bullets began ripping into the walls of the house as she cowered, lying on the floor. For three hours it continued until it suddenly stopped and voices began shouting into the house from the doorway. “Come out, come out, come out!” Not knowing where anyone from her family was, she walked to the door and a few yards away stood a child soldier with an AK47 looking very coldly at her, sizing her up. Was he looking for a sign that she was from the “wrong” tribe? Or whether she would make a good soldier? She will never know. For what seemed like an eternity he just stared at her, and then, very quickly motioned with his hand that she should come towards him, which she did. She walked towards him and then straight past him and then out the gate. There in the street were dead bodies strewn in every direction, butchered. “Something I had never seen. Dead bodies everywhere!” And she just kept on walking through the carnage, carrying nothing at all, not even her purse filled with her life savings that was elsewhere in the house. Her old, blind grandmother, left behind, was never seen again… to this day no-one knows what happened. She managed to walk to a safer part of the city and ultimately found transport to Freetown and to the relative safety of being a refugee for the next decade. This is just one story of millions of stories from the horror that was the Liberian civil war. </p><p>The ancient history of Liberia goes back about 800 years when this densely forested, high rainfall area was inhabited by communities migrating in from the North and the East and living a mix of hunter gatherer and farming lifestyles. It seems that the size and the density of the rainforest kept these communities relatively disconnected from the giant empires that rose and fell in West Africa during this period.</p><p>Little did these communities in Liberia know, but in a faraway continent, a plan was afoot that would shape Liberia’s history forever more. In the USA, there was a seemingly well-intentioned campaign to assist freed African American slaves to return to Africa. This campaign, named the American Colonization Society, was led by both white and black Americans with a mixture of motives: some believed that black Americans would never be truly free in a white country, while others felt that freed American slaves were an economic threat to white American workers. US President James Monroe was champion of this cause, and with his support, a ship called the Elizabeth set sale in 1820 with 88 African Americans accompanied by three white officials for a new life in Africa. </p><p>They landed near modern day Monrovia in 1821 and after some difficulties secured a 56km stretch of land on which to settle. This process was not straightforward and like many early European colonial agreements, it is hard to conclude whether the local people willingly agreed to the deal or if they were coerced by force. There was indeed a battle, possibly apocryphal, that saw the settlers defeating an attack by the Dei people in 1822 that was subsequently controversially commemorated annually as <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matilda_Newport" target="_blank">Matilda Newport Day</a> due to the actions of Ms Newport in helping to achieve victory in the battle. </p><p>Over the next 20 years, more African Americans arrived and set up four additional colonies along the coastline with names like Maryland and Mississippi-in-Africa. In addition to African American settlers, there were a large number of enslaved people rescued from illegal slaving ships on their way to the Americas. It seems that the people freed in this manner preferred not to be returned to the communities that originally enslaved them so it was decided to bring them to Liberia. Some of these people originated from the Congo region and on arrival in Liberia they were all known as the "Congos". They integrated with the Americo-Liberians and later the entire group became known as Congo people and the term "Americo-Liberian" fell away. Their descendents continue to be referred to as Congo people, to this day. The early colonizers suffered terribly from tropical diseases with 60% of the settlers having died by 1843 – the highest mortality rate for any country in modern history. In 1842, the smaller colonies amalgamated to form the country of Liberia and it later declared itself an independent republic in 1847. And so, remarkably, there was an independent black republic in Africa at a time when the entire continent (except for Ethiopia) was in the process of being colonised by various European powers. Liberia represented a completely unique situation on the African continent – a form of colonisation where the colonists were, on the one hand, Africans returning to the land of their ancestors while on the other hand, they were a people with a completely foreign culture and world view. The Americo-Liberian colonists were devoutly Christian and it seems that, like many European colonists, they regarded it their moral duty to save the indigenous people from heathen beliefs by converting them to Christianity.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtc8Ex0shCW_TQpL2vo7w5PJETdCUCGUmjGbmSVFw-MmpL2dYV4g2bcvjoHPwS9UPegbA7jckzWExYwBfZZnGW1GKNAp-DZ88-BnHCizf4a3jjJAa4LgGdPSis4aQI8C_mbGHP0bLA9qMA/s800/IMG_20210922_153345.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="800" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtc8Ex0shCW_TQpL2vo7w5PJETdCUCGUmjGbmSVFw-MmpL2dYV4g2bcvjoHPwS9UPegbA7jckzWExYwBfZZnGW1GKNAp-DZ88-BnHCizf4a3jjJAa4LgGdPSis4aQI8C_mbGHP0bLA9qMA/w400-h398/IMG_20210922_153345.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Liberian flag</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The American settlers had a strong attachment to America and the culture of the American South and so, much of their new country’s symbolism was distinctly American. Their capital city was named Monrovia, after US President James Monroe. The eastern state was, and still is, called Maryland. The flag mimics the US flag except that it has just one star and hence the country became known as the Lonestar state. The country’s motto was (and remarkably still is): “the love of liberty brought us here.” The country’s other major cities include Buchanan, Harper, Greenville and Barclayville. The main roads in Monrovia: Benson St, Johnson St, Carey St. The colonists dressed in typical American Southern attire and built large houses reminiscent of those found on the American plantations. To this day, Liberian names sound American and the local English accent has a distinctly American drawl.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DakYyQe_YTVXps0CbVe-NfBYrCSJNte0yQsHHUh4jYZVSBRZQTlSgooHJX3oedd3vANlKYlFqW52wkBG4ZPj6CbEFTmh6qp0jUtPS8CqnBYaEwTjpNY0nD5f9lWFww47-96twu46j1R8/s348/Coat_of_arms_of_Liberia.svg.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="330" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DakYyQe_YTVXps0CbVe-NfBYrCSJNte0yQsHHUh4jYZVSBRZQTlSgooHJX3oedd3vANlKYlFqW52wkBG4ZPj6CbEFTmh6qp0jUtPS8CqnBYaEwTjpNY0nD5f9lWFww47-96twu46j1R8/w379-h400/Coat_of_arms_of_Liberia.svg.png" width="379" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The current Liberian coat of arm and motto</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Although the political system was ostensibly democratic, there was only one ruling party – the True Whig Party – and the fairness of elections was dubious. In one election, the True Whig Party got 15 times more votes than there were voters. The political system was dominated by Americo-Liberians while indigenous Liberians, despite being in the majority, were mostly excluded from the political system. It seems that the Americo-Liberians – like other colonists in Africa – didn’t see the indigenous people as their equals. Indigenous Liberians were prevented from voting in elections. There was even a investigation by the League of Nations (the precursor to the United Nations) that found in <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuthbert_Christy" target="_blank">1927 that slavery was still being practiced in parts of Liberia</a>. The descendants of the freed enslaved were themselves guilty of enslaving others. This report led to the resignation of the Liberian president and vice president at the time. </p><p>Some people take a perverse joy in pointing out that the Americo-Liberians employed many of the same oppressive, discriminatory practices that white colonists employed elsewhere on the continent. This is certainly a touchy subject even within Liberia and much of the distressing parts of its recent history has its roots in frustrations and anger that indigenous Liberians felt due to being treated as second class citizens. Perhaps a more humanist take might be that the behaviour of Americo-Liberians during the colonisation of Liberia, does not reflect some peculiar failing on their part. Rather, their behaviour reflects the view of a community of people from a supposedly more technologically advanced culture which arrives and settles in a land where the local people appear to them as “primitive”. They might then take on what seems to them to be “enlightened” thinking and progressive action to educate, acculturate and “free” the indigenous people from “heathen” beliefs. If one truly believes that “heathens” will go to hell, then it seems an act of great generosity to save them through Christianity. Merely having a similar skin colour to the local people is not a guarantee of solidarity and cultural tolerance. Around the world, there have been derogatory attitudes towards rural people regarded as backward, hillbillies (USA), low class (UK), serfs (Eastern Europe), untouchables (India), amaqaba (South Africa). It’s a sadly all too human trait to regard the “other” as less rather than merely different. Even the damning League of Nations report on slavery as practiced by the Americo-Liberians should be considered in light of the fact that similar systems of forced labour were still common until 1975 in the Portguese colonies of Angola, Mozambique and Guinea Bissau. It also appears that part of the report was criticising indigenous Liberians themselves who were continuing the ancient culture of slavery within their rural villages. It seems the Liberian government regarded forced labour more like an alternative approach to paying income tax. In modern society, we accept that about 20% of our income is given to the government to provide services, which means we work for free for the government for 20% of our time. What the Liberian government was doing – in some cases – was requiring people who couldn’t pay monetary taxes to provide free labour instead to build national infrastructure like roads. This approach to forced labour was not unique to Liberia (and it continues officially <a href="https://www.npr.org/sections/goatsandsoda/2018/07/18/628364015/how-rwanda-tidied-up-its-streets-and-the-rest-of-the-country-too" target="_blank">in Rwanda</a>, Sierra Leone and a few other countries). Unfortunately, it seems that this forced labour system was abused by private Liberian plantation owners to get free labour to work on their farms. Nevertheless, it seems simplistic and unfair for some people to crow about how former slaves had themselves became enslavers. </p><p>Liberia struggled economically during the late 1800’s and early 1900’s and became heavily indebted and unable to repay foreign loans. While neighbouring colonies/countries were growing economically and investing in crucial infrastructure like roads, railways and electricity systems, Liberia seemed stagnant and unable to progress and expand significantly beyond a handful of coastal towns. It is not clear why Liberia fell so far behind its neighbours. One former Liberian president claimed that neighbouring colonies benefited from the economic linkages and technical skills of the British and the French. Perhaps the British/French benefitted from having a long history of colonisation in multiple countries so were able to learn from and replicate techniques and interventions that had succeeded elsewhere. </p><p>The economy in the first half of the 1900’s was dominated by one major foreign investment: the creation in 1926 of the enormous Firestone Rubber Plantation, the largest rubber plantation in the world, about 60km from Monrovia. This plantation employed up to 25,000 Liberians and was the backbone of the Liberian economy and government tax revenue for decades. The company began its operations by making a loan to the Liberian government and then demanded to have the final say on all the government's expenditure until the loan was repaid in 1956! The Firestone Rubber plantation continues to operate to this day, employing 7500 Liberians and remains the biggest rubber plantation in the world. </p><p>In the middle of the 20th century, Liberia began to modernise with assistance from the USA. Liberian President Tubman (1944 to 1971) strategically positioned the country as an important American Cold War ally and was thus able to secure significant American investment, most notably the building of the Freeport of Monrovia and the Roberts International Airport. This led to an economic boom in Liberia with the country experiencing the second fastest GDP growth in the world thanks to a significant increase in rubber, timber and iron ore exports. The economy also benefited from a policy of making it cheap and easy for any cargo ship to register as a Liberian vessel which led to Liberia having more registered merchant vessels than any other country for many years. This economic success led to many indigenous Liberians migrating from the rural inland areas to the coastal cities despite the Liberian government’s attempts to prevent this. President Tubman also introduced limited political reforms that allowed some indigenous Liberians to vote and his government implemented much-needed literacy campaigns.</p><p>In some ways the 1960's and 70's were a golden age for Liberia. The economy grew rapidly and attracted celebrities and revolutionaries from across the continent. At the time, Monrovia’s Ducor Hotel, one of the few five star hotels on the continent, was the place to be in West Africa - you might have seen Idi Amin taking a swim in the famous swimming pool (allegedly with his gun) and Miriam Makeba singing in the bar. Liberia in the days of Tubman must have stood out as somewhat surreal. An African country where the elite were all black, dressed in the flamboyant fashions of the American South, the women in Victorian hooped dresses, the men in top hats and tailcoats, driving American cars, speaking American English, living in palatial, plantation-style homes with giant verandahs and balconies, going to dancing balls and attending joyful church services. An African Gone with the Wind perhaps?</p><p>However, despite Tubman’s achievements, political reforms to allow greater participation of indigenous Liberians (more than 90% of the population) in all spheres of life were painfully slow. The society was stratified with Americo-Liberians, the political and economic elite, living on the coast, while indigenous Liberians mostly lived in the densely forested interior and were distinctly second class. Increasingly, indigenous Liberians began resisting and mobilising against the political system. While there were some voices within the Americo-Liberian political establishment calling for more rapid, inclusive reforms, President Tubman stubbornly resisted.</p><p> In 1971, President Tubman unexpectedly died and his deputy, William Tolbert took over. Tolbert began to implement some of the necessary inclusive reforms and brought a few indigenous Liberians into important leadership positions. These reforms were resisted by many and he was accused by some leading Americo-Liberians of "letting the peasants into the kitchen".</p><p>Tolbert ended the de facto one party state and allowed an opposition political party to emerge but everything he did was seen as too little, too late and the country was gripped by increasing instability. In 1979, an ill-conceived tax on rice leading to an increase in food prices proved the last straw and protests ensued. The protests descended into rioting and looting with 40 people killed and the country became highly unstable.</p><p>On the night of 12 April 1980, 17 indigenous Liberian soldiers led by 28 year-old Master Sergeant Samuel Doe mutinied and attacked President Tolbert’s residence. A freakish stray bullet severed the telephone line and President Tolbert was unable to call for help. One can only wonder how many lives might have been saved over the next 25 years had that bullet missed. The soldiers quickly overran the President’s meagre defenses and he was immediately executed and disemboweled.</p><p>The soldiers quickly took over the main radio station, and Samuel Doe announced that there had been a coup d'etat and that he was the new leader of Liberia. Tolbert’s cabinet ministers were quickly rounded up, taken to the beach, tied to specially erected poles and the public and the world’s media were invited to watch as they were executed by firing squad. Only four cabinet ministers avoided execution, one of these was Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, future Nobel prize winner and Liberian president.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuYgytFD8OlXuglUQtyZiE0gYkDrrQXPxBii2Der1W4W3lA0hD9guaHZe0xc5BCUB085mWVOcSebDSYmj5gmm3MM48BCvfeYlTVeWsPki39TxE-exSc0c63q4gPL-UvzpCYKB70Md1w4o/s950/Dennis.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="712" data-original-width="950" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuYgytFD8OlXuglUQtyZiE0gYkDrrQXPxBii2Der1W4W3lA0hD9guaHZe0xc5BCUB085mWVOcSebDSYmj5gmm3MM48BCvfeYlTVeWsPki39TxE-exSc0c63q4gPL-UvzpCYKB70Md1w4o/w400-h300/Dennis.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cabinet ministers lined up for public execution by Samuel Doe's government</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Samuel Doe led the country brutally and shambolically for the next 10 years. As public unhappiness with him grew, he increasingly resorted to favouring and surrounding himself with members of his Krahn tribe to ensure his safety. In 1985 there was a failed attempted coup against Doe led by soldiers from the Gio and Mano tribes and Doe later took brutal vengeance against innocent communities in those areas. This action soon morphed into Doe's Krahn community attacking other tribes and them in turn retaliating. Despite his despotic behaviour, Samuel Doe continued to get diplomatic and financial support from the USA (he was one of the few African leaders invited to the White House) which regarded him as an ally in its fight against the supposedly ever-expanding Soviet communist threat. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/WBoQ8meby8E" width="320" youtube-src-id="WBoQ8meby8E"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">President Reagan invited Samuel Doe to the white House</div> <p></p><p>However, Doe had unleashed the apocalyptic forces of ethnic nationalism, and multiple rebel movements sprung up trying to overthrow him. The main rebel group was led by Charles Taylor who was trained and financed by Libyan dictator Muammar Gaddafi. In 1990, another rebel group led by Prince Johnson attacked the building where Doe was meeting with international peacekeepers, massacred 80 of Doe's soldiers and captured him. Prince Johnson filmed himself as he tortured Doe for 12 hours, ordering his soldiers to cut off Doe's ears then castrate him before executing him. Doe's mutilated body was paraded through the streets of Monrovia. In the conundrum that is Liberia, Prince Johnson sits today as a senator in Liberia’s elected government while the videos of what he did to Samuel Doe are available for all to see on Youtube (not recommended viewing). Samuel Doe's is still a face on Liberia's currency.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfNmdjL9LaLhRTu8YdnyoIlfZHWctsvt-rsBWTeEo6X4PdYQDamM8dDBbGOxmwygQWpCiznwcLrFDqCAn7chtaDaEZhL-KTQ-ynrF1iCviPsXYQT34HGRSBTsURzB7Y87pTVfFxP6hxNJ/s703/dfed8fe3eb50746d239669a6e11efdd6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="703" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWfNmdjL9LaLhRTu8YdnyoIlfZHWctsvt-rsBWTeEo6X4PdYQDamM8dDBbGOxmwygQWpCiznwcLrFDqCAn7chtaDaEZhL-KTQ-ynrF1iCviPsXYQT34HGRSBTsURzB7Y87pTVfFxP6hxNJ/w400-h338/dfed8fe3eb50746d239669a6e11efdd6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Current Liberian dollar with Samuel Doe</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Although Prince Johnson had started out as a comrade of Charles Taylor, they soon turned against one another and Liberia sank into the most brutal civil war. Hundreds of thousands were killed as multiple rebel groups formed and killed along ethnic lines. Child soldiers were recruited, forced to kill their parents, fed drugs and unleashed as fearless killers on the public. One infamous child soldier called himself <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Butt_Naked" target="_blank">General Butt Naked</a>. As a child he was appointed a spiritual leader within the Krahn tribe and thus became an advisor to President Doe. After Doe's death he led an army of naked children armed with AK47s and machetes who killed tens of thousands. In his own words:</p><p>"So, before leading my troops into battle, we would get drunk and drugged up, sacrifice a local teenager, drink the blood, then strip down to our shoes and go into battle wearing colorful wigs and carrying imaginary purses we'd looted from civilians. We'd slaughter anyone we saw, chop their heads off and use them as soccer balls. We were nude, fearless, drunk yet strategic. We killed hundreds of people—so many I lost count."</p><p>General Butt Naked subsequently admitted to killing 20,000 people during the war. He is now a church leader in Liberia.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvEUlKVUA_fvS6TW0D-qe0NcxB2tlB1FvgqPrXnEBv2CDdsyZV7feBLUf_wP2fyNuNt5D9NWE6ACmUKRm0R88GHK3ZCsGPCCXJ6NM1NbFRkD2kgVxUKjOx-XbOOfMP5sWvn_oxek5eqHu/s1024/Warlords-1024x490.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="1024" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjvEUlKVUA_fvS6TW0D-qe0NcxB2tlB1FvgqPrXnEBv2CDdsyZV7feBLUf_wP2fyNuNt5D9NWE6ACmUKRm0R88GHK3ZCsGPCCXJ6NM1NbFRkD2kgVxUKjOx-XbOOfMP5sWvn_oxek5eqHu/w400-h191/Warlords-1024x490.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Child soldiers on the attack</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Other units of child soldiers wore wedding gowns and wigs as they murdered in the belief that these would provide magic protection against bullets. Cannibalism was common and openly displayed to the few journalists who dared to visit the country during this apocalyptic time. Liberians in their millions fled to neighbouring countries to escape the terror. This was truly one of the most nightmarish episodes in recent human history. Most Americo-Liberians fled overseas, never to return – their palatial homes to this day stand abandoned, some empty, some occupied by squatters, all gradually falling to pieces.</p><p>As the war progressed, various international organisations tried to have the rebel groups sign peace agreements, but these invariably failed until finally, in 1996, the war was ended by an agreement signed in Abuja, Nigeria and elections followed in 1997. At the time, Charles Taylor was a towering figure of power in Liberian society and his widely cited campaign slogan of “He killed my mammy, he killed my pappy, I’m going to vote for him [otherwise he may kill me]” proved highly effective. Taylor won the election with 75% of the vote with former World Bank official, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, coming a distant second.</p><p>One would think that Taylor’s megalomaniacal craving for power would have now been satisfied having been elected as the uncontested, popular leader of Liberia. But Taylor had even bigger ambitions. He believed that West Africa should be seen as three distinct zones of power: Anglophone West Africa (Nigeria and Ghana), Francophone West Africa (Cameroon, Chad, Niger, Mali, Côte D’Ivoire, etc.) and the Mano River region (Liberia, Sierra Leone and Guinea). Taylor’s ambition was to rule over the whole Mano River region and as soon as he assumed the presidency of Liberia he began organising and funding a rebel movement, the RUF, in neighbouring Sierra Leone that sought to overthrow the government there. The RUF employed similar tactics to those used by Taylor in Liberia – child soldiers, amputation of limbs, mass murder of civilians, etc. – and Sierra Leone descended into a similar horror that Liberia had just experenced. Sierra Leone is rich in diamonds, and the RUF quickly captured the diamond mining regions and used the diamonds they found there to fund the war, leading to the coining of the term “blood diamonds.”</p><p>In retaliation, in 1999 neighbouring Guinea and Sierra Leone supported a new Liberian rebel movement, LURD, which invaded Liberia from the north and soon posed a genuine threat to Taylor's government. So began the second Liberian civil war. More rebel movements later joined the fray, invading the southern parts of the country from Côte D’Ivoire. </p><p>By 2001 the international community had had enough of Taylor and his support for the brutal Sierra Leonean RUF rebels. The United Nations Security Council imposed strict sanctions against Taylor and his government and two years later he was charged with crimes against humanity in the International Criminal Court for crimes committed by his fighters in neighbouring Sierra Leone. Meanwhile, the horrific Liberian civil war continued unabated. </p><p>And then in 2002, the women of Liberia rose up. Peaceful, silent protests against the violence began in a fish market, and then spread throughout the country with the women all dressed in white. They formed the Women in Peacebuilding Network (WIPNET), with the statement: "In the past we were silent, but after being killed, raped, dehumanized, infected with diseases, and watching our children and families destroyed, war has taught us that the future lies in saying NO to violence and YES to peace! We will not relent until peace prevails." These brave women not only forced Taylor to attend peace talks in Ghana, but at those talks they formed a human shield around the venue preventing the delegates from leaving until they agreed to make peace. This was the decisive moment that was the beginning of the end of war in Liberia.</p><p>Charles Taylor returned from the Ghanaian peace talks to Monrovia with the capital under siege by the LURD rebel forces and with an International Criminal Court arrest warrant hanging over him. Nigeria offered him safe exile should he agree to leave Liberia and never get involved in Liberian politics again. Taylor accepted the offer and on 11 August 2003 he resigned as president and went into exile in Nigeria. Three years later the Nigerian government agreed to hand Taylor over to the Special Court for Sierra Leone but Taylor then suddenly disappeared from the house where he'd been living. A furious President Bush told his Nigerian counterpart that if Taylor were not found and arrested, he would cancel an upcoming bilateral meeting of the two presidents. Twelve hours before the scheduled meeting, Taylor was captured at a remote border post with Cameroon in a Range Rover with diplomatic number plates and large quantities of dollars and heroin on board. He was swiftly transported to Liberia and within hours on to Sierra Leone. In 2006 his trial was transferred to the Netherlands and after a lengthy trial, in 2012, he was found guilty of 11 counts of crimes against humanity including terrorism, murder, rape and sexual slavery. He is currently serving his 50 year sentence in a UK jail.</p><p>His former wife, Jewel Taylor, is currently vice president of Liberia and Charles Taylor remains a popular figure in many parts of the country. We met many people who claim, incredibly, that he would win an election today if allowed to stand.</p><p>In 2005, with Taylor out of the country and UN peacekeeping forces more or less keeping the peace, the country's first truly free and fair elections was won by Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, who became Africa's first woman president. The new president faced the most daunting task imaginable. A country where about 10% of the population had been murdered and everyone else, deeply traumatised. The country’s infrastructure was totally destroyed: there was no electricity at all, no water system, the roads were undrivable, the formal economy barely existed.</p><p>The scale of the herculean task she undertook in the next decade cannot be detailed here – it is worth reading <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Madame-President-Extraordinary-Journey-Johnson/dp/145169735X" target="_blank">her remarkable life story</a>. </p><p>In short, she brilliantly succeeded in having all Liberia’s international debt cancelled and step by painful step began rebuilding the government and the economy from ground zero. After nine years of gradual, steady progress, things were just starting to look up when a virus emerged on the border of Liberia and Guinea that, until then, had only ever been found in remote villages in the Congo rainforest: Ebola. The virus quickly spread throughout the Mano river region, and the virus began killing thousands in the most horrific fashion. Ebola is spread by bodily fluids and physical touch and kills 50% of people infected – victims die from bleeding internally and through their eyes and other orifices. The highly contagious virus spread into the slums of Monrovia - the first time this virus had entered a large city. Things looked like they were about to spin totally out of control when youths raided a Monrovian isolation centre where Ebola patients were being treated and “liberated” them into the surrounding slum. Yet miraculously, despite Liberia having just 50 doctors when the epidemic began, with the decisive help of the USA army medical corps, this desperate situation was brought under control and two years after the epidemic began, the nightmare was over leaving almost 5000 dead. Sadly, the Ebola epidemic put a halt to much of the progress that was being made economically but nevertheless many people hail Johnson Sirleaf's two presidential terms as a success considering the state that she found the country in when she assumed the presidency. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbchgBvATDUTXY4C8x_G8USFcFF_zCKY5XCOi_9edA_ojzO9RT8baUnJ8r02otT1dErHJbQpijYaU_DVEbBo_Q7eZKvdVb8fIYWywHa8AHmMCQu2adlJD6tXc_A43h4dXGxelP_UMvf_NX/s800/Ellen-Johnson-Sirleaf.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="800" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbchgBvATDUTXY4C8x_G8USFcFF_zCKY5XCOi_9edA_ojzO9RT8baUnJ8r02otT1dErHJbQpijYaU_DVEbBo_Q7eZKvdVb8fIYWywHa8AHmMCQu2adlJD6tXc_A43h4dXGxelP_UMvf_NX/w400-h255/Ellen-Johnson-Sirleaf.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (on right) collects the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize with fellow Liberian Leymah Gbowee (centre) and Twakkol Karman (Yemeni) </td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>It was surprising though to find quite a few Liberians who were not so impressed by Johnson Sirleaf. Some pointed to the finding of the Liberian Truth and Reconciliation Commission that found her guilty of having funded Charles Taylor in his early years and that ruled that she should not be allowed to hold political office. Others claimed that she and/or her family were corrupt and demanded that she and other politicians be made to answer to a war and economic crimes commission. These critics scoffed at her award of the Nobel Peace Prize as an attempt by the international community to influence Liberians in the elections that were imminent at the time. It was all quite confusing and hard to understand. </p><p>In the most recent elections George Weah, perhaps Africa’s <a href="https://youtu.be/o0DBnBfW2WM" target="_blank">greatest footballer ever</a>, was elected president. An incredible rags to riches story. His presidency unfortunately coincided with the ending of the United Nations peacekeeping presence in the country. Tens of thousands of highly paid United Nations employees brought an enormous amount of money into the country on a monthly basis, and when they left abruptly, the economy suffered noticeably. Fans of Weah point to his focus on local agricultural development to boost the use of Liberia’s incredibly fertile land and abundant water sources in order to reduce the importation of food. His detractors point to his lack of technical expertise and education in sharp contrast to his predecessor. Again, opinion is very much divided. To its credit, Liberia has seen a democratic change of power without violence and the hope is that, as political stability becomes the norm, voters can demand improved performance from their leaders.</p><p>While the task facing Liberia’s leaders is daunting, they are far ahead of a country like the DRC both politically and economically and the peace that prevails seems like it will endure. Liberians, like the Congolese, have been forced to become incredibly entrepreneurial and independent and if the government can just get basic infrastructure in place, the people themselves will do most of the rest. Unfortunately it seems that infrastructure like roads and electricity have been terrible for so long, that the population and the government lack the ambition or belief that things can and must change fast. Incremental improvements to the roads are not enough – an ambitious project of linking the major towns to the capital within a few years is needed. Much can be achieved in a short time – neighbouring Sierra Leone serves as an example. Even if toll roads are the only viable form of finance, the savings in time, fuel and “bus” fares would more than compensate for the extra costs of the toll fees. </p><p>Depending on whom we spoke with, there is either a sense of optimism about the future or a sense of resignation that the country will continue to muddle along slowly and in the process fall further behind the rest of the region and the world. One hopes that Liberians will take time to appreciate how far they’ve come in the last 20 years while at the same time not accept the status quo indefinitely just because it’s better than war.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>********** END OF LIBERIAN HISTORY **********</b></p><p><br /></p><p>After a couple of hours of sitting by the side of the road, we wondered where on earth our driver might be. We thought about calling him but no one had his number. Ask the “car boy”, someone suggested, he must have the driver’s number. The car boy’s seat was on the back of the pickup on top of the load. While we were uncomfortably squashed inside the vehicle, we still felt grateful to not be the car boy: a teenage boy whose job it seemed was to jump up and down from the back, fill and carry jerrycans of water to cool down the radiator, check tyres, check oil and do any other grunt work the driver demanded. The other passengers started laughing infectiously, like you do when your situation is tragic - as ours undoubtedly was. They explained that the teenage kid who was the ‘car boy’ was in fact also a paying passenger! His mother had paid our driver to take him home to Monrovia from Ganta, which is an easy three hour journey along a beautiful tar road. But once the mother had left, the driver got offered this deal to transport some merchandise to Zwedru, and so he changed his plan. The poor boy had no choice but to stay with the vehicle and accompany the driver to Zwedru - he was now travelling in the opposite direction of his original destination! And, given that we were not even halfway to Zwedru yet, it seemed like it would be many days before he would arrive in Monrovia. To add insult to injury, his status had changed from ‘paying passenger with seat inside car’ to ‘car boy with seat outside car on top of roof’. From our perspective: a total injustice. From a teenage boy’s perspective: total adventure!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aiCzEpv6R4TRMUFKm2mnqWfeE9m7NS-6k0JCi9tbK40gBP6zer4a1I-2XmmcTepH3TQnqkQ9eUBD7pSydI5JEGwpod96xjDJ7pH_Qse7o7EgZnItr_g-AXyLg5EYAXbJWMQ7rpySheFm/s1024/IMG_20210922_151210_676.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aiCzEpv6R4TRMUFKm2mnqWfeE9m7NS-6k0JCi9tbK40gBP6zer4a1I-2XmmcTepH3TQnqkQ9eUBD7pSydI5JEGwpod96xjDJ7pH_Qse7o7EgZnItr_g-AXyLg5EYAXbJWMQ7rpySheFm/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_151210_676.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fixing the suspension on the way to Zwedru</td></tr></tbody></table><p>At 10pm our driver returned from his mission with spare parts and a mechanic, and this time the repair job was pretty effective. This was a good thing since the really tough driving was about to begin. </p><p>Stopping and starting, we covered a good 30 kms until we hit the mud swamp. The road ahead was blocked by a sedan stuck in a big mud hole. Everyone got involved, pushing and shoving and just when you thought it was hopeless and the car would never get out, it suddenly moved forward and was free. Next, it was the turn of our heavily overloaded pickup and sure enough we got stuck. Badly. After an hour of pushing, our driver gave up and went to sleep in the cab. We were deep in the forest with no villages anywhere near us so everyone else milled around waiting for who knows what. We gave thanks that Liberia’s notoriously heavy rains kept away that night while we all waited outdoors for something to happen. As time passed, more cars began appearing from either direction adding to the queue waiting their turn to tackle our mud hole. At around 3am, a group of guys from the back of the queue came to see what the holdup was. They woke our driver and decided to give pushing another try and miraculously we got out of the hole. We had been on the road for 14 hours and had covered 100 kms. We were not even halfway to Zwedru. There was nothing on the way. No hotels, no restaurants, no where to stop for amenities, nothing but magnificent, thick forest for kilometres. </p><p>Our vehicle continued slowly grinding its way along. After about an hour’s travel we encountered a truck blocking the road and a queue of cars waiting for it to be moved. Our driver, exhausted, turned off the engine, slumped forward and went to sleep until everyone else got their cars unstuck. At 5am we reached a village and gratefully ordered tea and fried eggs at the roadside tea shop, the first food available since the pineapple we’d had for dinner the day before. Liberia has cute little teashops on most street corners where you can order: Lipton Tea, ‘Nescafe Tea’ (instant coffee) and ‘Over Tea’ (Ovaltine). These beverages seem more or less interchangeable and generically referred to as “tea”. This is perhaps the only country where one can order tea and be given hot chocolate. You can also always get an omelette fried with onions on a fresh baguette topped with mayonnaise.</p><p>While we ate, the driver fixed the radiator by pouring a raw egg into it. Sorts out radiator holes in a jiffy! Snuff tobacco does too, apparently. And we were good for another 10 kms until something audibly snapped. It was the left suspension and the wheel had to come off again and the axle re-attached to the leaf springs. This took another two hours. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8NQx0wNydvyf7TCl5Tj-xPm4Lzz2KZOWn92jugEHmTu_k6w1ILsJfFscbSell85rEDODEmo66fnedv7O2Ou8gR4cnDwcszwF5wW95ijYBFDoPqFGqqquTaMjTuIqVRO0tl8rT-GEYNss/s1280/IMG_20210922_135756_356.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8NQx0wNydvyf7TCl5Tj-xPm4Lzz2KZOWn92jugEHmTu_k6w1ILsJfFscbSell85rEDODEmo66fnedv7O2Ou8gR4cnDwcszwF5wW95ijYBFDoPqFGqqquTaMjTuIqVRO0tl8rT-GEYNss/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_135756_356.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going no where slowly. Waiting for repairs.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>24 hours into our journey to cover the 215 kms to Zwedru, we were still 107 kms away. We’d had no sleep, it just wasn’t possible, being so squashed. We hadn’t even brushed our teeth, we felt rough. </p><p>With the left suspension fixed, we hobbled along again for a few more hours until the right suspension snapped. At this point everyone was pretty much at the end of their tethers. We started to talk about finding other transport. This wasn’t easy as there wasn’t much at all in the way of alternative options as most passing vehicles travel fully loaded. There are always some motorbikes around but we were still 74kms away. That’s a long time on a motorbike on these roads when you’re that tired. </p><p>Lunchtime came around and this time we’d happily broken down in a village where we could get a hot meal: the options were rice with potato leaf stew and deer meat or bean stew with deer meat. There was only bush meat in these parts. If you were lucky it might be deer meat but it could also be monkey. After two hours it started getting hot and our car was still sitting on bricks, waiting for something or other to happen, who knew? We sat nodding off with exhaustion. Another car came by claiming to have space for a couple of passengers. This sounded hopeful though a bit confusing: we’d have to pay again of course and they had to go and load something first somewhere else. It wasn’t clear if we could take the spare seats in their vehicle or not. Our brains weren’t working well enough to follow the pidgin. Also there was the issue of finding our driver. He had disappeared in search of spare parts. We needed to find him before we could take any other transport since our backpacks were buried in the load. One of the passengers went walking around the village trying to find our driver but in the end he couldn’t be found and the other vehicle left to fetch something, promising to return. Our driver then appeared and fixed the car and so we had to decide whether to wait for the other vehicle which was nowhere to be found or continue the journey with our vehicle that was now ready to go. We chose the devil we knew, and sure enough the devil we knew broke down five kilometres later.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAei6wtpVuv-kF16aPkaL8HCwAG0Bdc87CgQv9CHQa1uqN1UN9M1TaF7ChigtPKrLCrbt4aqbJqrPVGUWPTWe6UGEqY9LBMR6HqgAcHiLioeChT-PBANgTvGpG3guCMCArG0LoQgPCMZ04/s1024/IMG_20210922_135626_214.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAei6wtpVuv-kF16aPkaL8HCwAG0Bdc87CgQv9CHQa1uqN1UN9M1TaF7ChigtPKrLCrbt4aqbJqrPVGUWPTWe6UGEqY9LBMR6HqgAcHiLioeChT-PBANgTvGpG3guCMCArG0LoQgPCMZ04/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_135626_214.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wheel studs broken again... on the way to Zwedru</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We were now 67 kms away from Zwedru and the shadows were lengthening. We couldn’t face another night on the road so we managed to wave down a motorbike and we had to bid farewell to our travel buddies who were too scared to travel by bike, Congo-style. After our motorbike accidents in the DRC we had sworn never to have both of us and our luggage on one motorbike again but at this point we’d had enough. Liberian roads, though muddy, don’t have the dangerous deep soft sand found in the southern DRC and so after a thankfully uneventful journey we arrived in Zwedru in time for dinner. We had completed 215km in 36 hours. </p><p>We met up with our travel companions the next day and found out that they had stuck with the vehicle until late into the night when they too gave up and took motorbikes. We were invited to the family funeral that our travel companion was attending which was an interesting experience. Funerals in Monrovia are dance- and alcohol-filled affairs with fierce debates about politics. </p><p>After a couple of days recovering in Zwedru, we began searching for an “NGO car”. We’d received a tip to avoid the merchandise pickups and find a car that transported NGO employees around the country. Since the end of the civil wars there has been a proliferation of NGOs in the country and NGOs have the best cars: new, strong, comfortable 4x4’s and they don’t carry loads. To find one, you have to find a transport-fixer-guy in the main vehicle parking area in the town and then he uses his contacts to find out which vehicles are going where. By mid-morning there was good news: a brand new Land-Cruiser-NGO-Car heading for Fish Town. Nice! </p><p>The two of us had the comfortable backseat all to ourselves. Even though the road was bad, the car handled like a champion and we sat back and enjoyed the luxuriousness of it all. The car belonged to one of the Catholic Church’s development agencies and the employee being driven to Fish Town, our next stop, had very interesting views on politics and, of course, his own horror story to tell: </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBRaMgzqkB2p3zNgsR_9Vf5tzlndUMUpoENzrRlbgNqe3VQvLwcsesbXru-ZH7EzyiTAr2jMUwH7PO-0Scd42nnr5vnPxT7OhhUG1g_Gbkz7lwpZ32W2qXoZ9WgZUve54manSCmRAFHZq/s1280/IMG_20210922_151055_497.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBRaMgzqkB2p3zNgsR_9Vf5tzlndUMUpoENzrRlbgNqe3VQvLwcsesbXru-ZH7EzyiTAr2jMUwH7PO-0Scd42nnr5vnPxT7OhhUG1g_Gbkz7lwpZ32W2qXoZ9WgZUve54manSCmRAFHZq/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_151055_497.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"NGO car" cruises past trucks stuck in the mud (towards Fish Town)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>He was 10 years old when the civil war started and his family moved from town to town fleeing ahead of the approaching rebels. They lived in the forests and in the many houses abandoned by families who had fled to become refugees in neighbouring countries. These empty houses became temporary homes for countless people as they moved through the country trying to stay out of harm's way. When in a civil war situation, it seems that bravery is not an asset. Those who fled at the first sign of danger were most likely to survive. Those who decided to wait-and-see often suffered horrifically. One day a group of rebels found his group. They separated the women and children from the men and then shot the men. That was how he lost his dad. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/G9OPUTrVS5k" width="320" youtube-src-id="G9OPUTrVS5k"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">"NGO Car" cruises through the mud</div><p>We arrived in Fish Town in the early evening after the easiest and most comfy journey we’d had since Namibia. Unfortunately, there was no fish in Fish Town, no cooked food of any kind it turned out. One restaurant owner, who was completely out of food, took pity on us and managed to scrape together a plate of french fries and one piece of chicken for us to share. </p><p>The next day we had to cover the last 130 kms to our final destination of Harper. Although Rejane wasn’t feeling great - a tummy bug - we were keen to push on and get to the beautiful coastline of Harper. We spotted an almost full minibus that had been two days on the road all the way from Monrovia - we understood their pain - and they made room for us. For this stretch we had no soldier or NGO-car authority to help us get waved through the endless checkpoints. So we just had to swallow the irritation at the shakedown attempts and the endless paging through our passports. Amazingly, the road from Fishtown to Harper had been newly and expertly tarred and so we reached Harper that afternoon. From Monrovia the journey had taken us a full week.</p><p>Harper has beautiful stretches of white palm-tree lined beaches but the infrastructure is still totally bombed out from the war years. Even for unfussy travellers like ourselves, there was barely anywhere vaguely nice to stay, no matter how much you were willing to pay. The only guesthouse in town is in an area that was once an affluent Americo-Liberian suburb but all of the houses had been abandoned during the wars and were slowly disintegrating. Those houses that had functional roofs were now occupied by “squatters” who lack both the resources and the incentives to maintain the buildings. As a result, wandering through parts of the town, the scene had a distinctly post-apocalyptic atmosphere. There was little visible, recent construction activity despite the war having ended almost two decades before. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nb1afNCy5hAX02pSqx60MK28vhKhmH4i0bY0I7HJVwWQ9Ajyqe2Vv4M8DnYgh2wpJvdOg1a5g0OXBN27HkbJKAFGmqCUz3DMvCJDR85W0hwyn4NQ836wsD9DcCAKm8xeBMhr65AvPtRm/s932/IMG_20210922_142140_870.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="932" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nb1afNCy5hAX02pSqx60MK28vhKhmH4i0bY0I7HJVwWQ9Ajyqe2Vv4M8DnYgh2wpJvdOg1a5g0OXBN27HkbJKAFGmqCUz3DMvCJDR85W0hwyn4NQ836wsD9DcCAKm8xeBMhr65AvPtRm/w400-h330/IMG_20210922_142140_870.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Derelict Americo-Liberian mansion, Harper </td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDKBnbZjnABfjr7cKTPxWwZpWpe-QE03ciNMCmJptFncv62kPK0VhjLdNsi_Tt9cIP3FZtYpZpuX1Dmp7YZtW9yJsu9dofaVgbi4S3mQEGU0BazzO7A3tQoA3wqb0LGBHSHs1cAKGcuif/s1024/IMG_20210922_142046_705.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDKBnbZjnABfjr7cKTPxWwZpWpe-QE03ciNMCmJptFncv62kPK0VhjLdNsi_Tt9cIP3FZtYpZpuX1Dmp7YZtW9yJsu9dofaVgbi4S3mQEGU0BazzO7A3tQoA3wqb0LGBHSHs1cAKGcuif/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_142046_705.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harper</td></tr></tbody></table><p>That night, Rejane’s tummy bug morphed into symptoms more typical of Covid and we began to contemplate what that would mean for two travellers in a remote part of Liberia where there was only occasional electricity, no running water and a fragile, under-resourced health-care system.</p><p>We had been very careful throughout our trip to wear our N95 masks indoors and on public transport and so far all our numerous tests required when crossing borders had come up negative. When we arrived in Liberia, we tested negative on arrival, and at that point in time, the whole country was seeing an average of just eight new Covid cases per day. Mask-wearing was mostly non-existent, even in banks and shops. At the time we arrived, in June 2021, Liberia had experienced fewer than 100 Covid deaths in total and the consensus on the street and amongst the elite was that Covid was more-or-less a non-event. It was the same story that we’d heard and seen throughout our journey so far. Lulled into a false sense of security we had a couple of meals in indoor restaurants for the first time on our whole trip. Little did we know but the infamous Delta variant was in Monrovia and Liberia’s biggest Covid wave had already begun.</p><p>Fast forward a week and Rejane was feeling grim. She tested negative for malaria on one of the malaria-self-test-kits we were carrying. Dave, who had no symptoms at this stage, headed off to the local government hospital to find out whether they were able to test for Covid there. The JJ Dossen Hospital seemed in decent shape, not too dissimilar to what one would see at our local rural hospitals back home in South Africa. The helpful hospital staff confirmed that Covid tests were available, although judging by their response, these tests were not often performed nor requested. The two of us returned an hour later where we both did rapid Covid tests. While waiting outside for our results, there was a distinct change in attitude from the hospital staff when their relaxed easy smiles were suddenly replaced with concerned looks. Fifteen minutes later a doctor appeared and beckoned us to follow her. As we walked with her, she confirmed what we now suspected: we had both tested positive for Covid19.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyt9IKAqrpK6bu0qatKl4Nh3D5Wf7KODP-AO46srrkKpwaGkR-8cy153qPhGDwFL1rT85rjmzSrUjFSmxrbs3bqwHzPmwycC79EUmJVkPmO9B-pPat_0Q2He85WT13RXtggyocf9FZA6bT/s1280/IMG_20210922_145655_685.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyt9IKAqrpK6bu0qatKl4Nh3D5Wf7KODP-AO46srrkKpwaGkR-8cy153qPhGDwFL1rT85rjmzSrUjFSmxrbs3bqwHzPmwycC79EUmJVkPmO9B-pPat_0Q2He85WT13RXtggyocf9FZA6bT/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_145655_685.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Covid test was positive</td></tr></tbody></table><p>By a stroke of good fortune, the JJ Dossen hospital was receiving support from a remarkable international NGO called <a href="https://www.pih.org/" target="_blank">Partners in Health</a> (PIH). We’d heard the PIH name mentioned over the years - particularly during HIV activism days in the 1990’s - but we had never come into direct contact with it. PIH believes that quality health care is everyone’s right and its mission is to ensure that people in the poorest countries get access to the best health care and not merely the minimum level of healthcare that the country can afford. Prior to PIH, most international health NGOs and the World Health Organisation argued against making expensive treatments available to poor countries as this would divert resources from other, more cost-effective interventions that could have a greater, broader impact. </p><p>Partners in Health, and its remarkable founder, Dr Paul Farmer, had a different approach. They looked at the needs of each individual patient and did everything humanly possible to get them the treatment that would save their life, no matter the cost. This profoundly humanist approach was initially criticised by public health experts: how could one justify spending US$20,000 treating a single Multi-drug Resistant Tuberculosis (MDR TB) patient in Peru when one could save many more lives by spending that money on cheaper interventions like childhood vaccinations or providing clean water and sanitation? Of course, that argument means saying to the person who is dying from MDR TB, “sorry we can’t justify the expense of saving your life” while a few thousand kilometers away, another patient in a rich country would receive the life-saving treatment free of charge. PIH would not accept this blatant inequality in health care and, through its relentless focus on providing even expensive treatments to the poorest communities, a remarkable change began to happen. PIH’s activism led to drug companies dramatically lowering the prices of expensive treatments so that they became affordable to the poorest countries - the cost of treating MDR TB fell by 96%. What’s more, PIH had already proven false the claim that these diseases were too clinically complex to manage in the poorest countries. Models of treatment developed during the years when PIH was using expensive treatments could be replicated in poor countries who could now access previously unaffordable treatments. </p><p>The story of Partners in Health is beautifully captured in the award winning book: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mountains-Beyond-Tracy-Kidder/dp/0812973011" target="_blank">Mountains Beyond Mountains</a>. A book everyone interested in a better world should read. </p><p>Rebecca, the friendly PIH doctor, led us to a new Covid isolation ward recently built at the hospital by PIH. The lesson learnt during Liberia’s Ebola epidemic was that if people were forced to isolate at a hospital where living conditions were bad, these patients would either run away or they would not come forward to test in the first place, in order to avoid being forced to isolate in uncomfortable conditions at the hospital. So when the Covid19 pandemic began, one of the first actions by PIH was to build a nice, new isolation building to encourage Covid19 patients to isolate themselves away from their families. </p><p>We were not forced to isolate at the hospital but the reality was that our guesthouse wasn’t great, it didn’t have a kitchen nor a restaurant and we wouldn’t be able to go out and shop without interacting with people. So as we were shown around the brand new and, as yet, unused isolation facility we couldn’t believe our luck. We had our own room, a clean bathroom and toilet, three hot meals a day, 24 hour medical care and the rather comforting sight of an oxygen machine right next to our beds, should things take a turn for the worse. </p><p>We returned to our guesthouse to fetch our bags and had to deal with a rather annoyed guesthouse owner who demanded proof that we had tested positive for Covid as he thought we were just making up stories in order to leave without paying. When we paid him in full, he was somewhat mollified but still suspicious. </p><p>We returned to the hospital and collapsed on our beds. By this stage Rejane was feeling truly rotten and despite her trying to put on a brave face, the visit by the hospital’s Mental Health Team picked up she was feeling worse than she was letting on and in no time she was hooked up to a drip which helped matters considerably. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgmlDn9a1gx2VchYhikBI6Gr6sTj3zhNTzuizvlg9wRJ1A6kMaATVQQAv7d_4xaoFzVAwNR9eUzLh3hy5wexsXPBFHuU8FxtL9rPMDbHTroUhcz7mU8bzimFYKv4QVSIZazToBXOnE36t/s1142/IMG_20210922_145547_236.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1142" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEgmlDn9a1gx2VchYhikBI6Gr6sTj3zhNTzuizvlg9wRJ1A6kMaATVQQAv7d_4xaoFzVAwNR9eUzLh3hy5wexsXPBFHuU8FxtL9rPMDbHTroUhcz7mU8bzimFYKv4QVSIZazToBXOnE36t/w359-h400/IMG_20210922_145547_236.webp" width="359" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretending not to be feeling grim</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Our first priority was to contact our fellow passengers who we had travelled with en route to Harper. Thanks to the ubiquitous use of WhatsApp this was easily done and we were super relieved to find that not a single one of our fellow travellers had been infected. For us that is excellent proof of the effectiveness of N95 masks and validation of our policy of religiously wearing them on all public transport even when on those uncomfortable 36 hour long journeys. It was really heart-warming how people who had only known us for a day or even just a few hours contacted us throughout our stay at the hospital to check on how we were doing. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjze7GnypUZ4diUVImL5NbElIKEsVO_wOd2PuGNB-aV6nGy0LM-fzhRzoiZWBwMnlbMp37eE0wFCmFEzu4ZGREVgHwvlw2Ob9qmey2dyePnLho0LQbmjxPtsXjZoqeMwIPdhv9s1I-W1oJ6/s1280/IMG_20210922_151003_333.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjze7GnypUZ4diUVImL5NbElIKEsVO_wOd2PuGNB-aV6nGy0LM-fzhRzoiZWBwMnlbMp37eE0wFCmFEzu4ZGREVgHwvlw2Ob9qmey2dyePnLho0LQbmjxPtsXjZoqeMwIPdhv9s1I-W1oJ6/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_151003_333.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The helpings of hospital food were very generous</td></tr></tbody></table><p>At 9pm every night and 6am every morning, a nurse in a full hazmat suit tested our oxygen levels, temperature, blood pressure and pulse and sternly ordered us to take our medication and drink more water when our blood pressure was too low. Every day we would get friendly enquiries from the hospital kitchen as to which typical Liberian dishes we preferred. The food in Liberia is rich and hot - chilli hot. So hot it is hard to eat and we are no chilli slouches. Stews are cooked into thick broths often with three different kinds of meat in one dish with dried fish added for extra flavour. Rolls of beef skin were common though not particularly appetising. We’d get a mound of rice to eat it with but sadly not much in the way of veggies. Dave’s sense of smell and taste disappeared and surprisingly this meant he couldn’t taste the heat of the chilli either. There were also various delicious porridges served and rolls with omelettes. We got fruit most days including delicious mangoes and oranges. </p><p>After about a week Rejane was feeling much better while Dave was still coughing up all sorts of gross green and orange phlegm. Most people who have had mild/moderate Covid know the anxious feeling after a week or so when you’re feeling really sick and know that the days to come are when things either start improving or get much, much worse. But lucky for us, our coughs gradually got better - we never needed the oxygen machines - and after 14 days we were ready to rejoin the outside world. Despite our repeated offers to pay for the health care we’d received, we were told that all our care was within the PIH budget. In the end, we settled on the compromise of making a donation of necessary supplies directly to the hospital which eased our sense of guilt at having used resources not intended for us. We had grown very fond of the friendly, caring staff who had been so kind to us. The day before we left, a new Covid19 patient, who had recently returned from Monrovia, joined us. After we left, we remained in contact with the hospital staff and were sad to hear that the ward filled up to capacity with some people passing away. The staff were understandably anxious and fearful. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKf-RpF1oW-rdJD6IJU4rqCoEzB7ZpU4dBKG5p_qHl9ZNbagG8aYfyfwQPvB-6mcyj0LipYSLxS6B6VkAv6BJiWNZEbJStTuIwmv9wMXxjeUlGsUMQj3BTutv72IlZXJOzRQNYAFpzsCUE/s1280/IMG_20210922_145801_692.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKf-RpF1oW-rdJD6IJU4rqCoEzB7ZpU4dBKG5p_qHl9ZNbagG8aYfyfwQPvB-6mcyj0LipYSLxS6B6VkAv6BJiWNZEbJStTuIwmv9wMXxjeUlGsUMQj3BTutv72IlZXJOzRQNYAFpzsCUE/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_145801_692.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaving JJ Dossen's Covid Isolation Ward after 14 days</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Liberia was struck hard by their Covid Delta wave and it remains a mystery why it was hit harder than neighbouring countries. While we were at the hospital, the rainy season began with torrential downpours almost every day. This lowered the sweltering temperatures but might also have forced people indoors more than normal which would also contribute to higher rates of transmission. However, neighbouring countries have the same climate and the Delta variant was also circulating there, yet somehow there was no big wave of infections. It seems there is still so much unknown about this virus and how it manifests in Africa and all we can do is reiterate what we said in our last blog that more of the billions of dollars spent on Covid research needs to be directed to Africa to understand what is going on here.</p><p>As we gingerly emerged from the hospital it was noticeable how many more members of the public were wearing masks. We moved into the Pastoral Centre guesthouse set up by the Catholic church which was basic but comfortable and had a more reliable electricity supply than the rest of the city, thanks to the church’s generator. After having been in Harper for over two weeks, we finally got to visit one of its beautiful beaches and swim in the ocean. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzRJhX7_UHhK8kNv5pM2aocSlJIkuCcwbIQJzUWODCA7xZl6GPNfr-UyaVX1ZtXztSeeIxzLzxMoxy7-K5uJHRkeqB5pZe0R-Mficvv3H0DqSt5k36MV-Zd5mvcyBgiyset0-zIouIEGg/s1024/IMG_20210922_143730_537.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="575" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzRJhX7_UHhK8kNv5pM2aocSlJIkuCcwbIQJzUWODCA7xZl6GPNfr-UyaVX1ZtXztSeeIxzLzxMoxy7-K5uJHRkeqB5pZe0R-Mficvv3H0DqSt5k36MV-Zd5mvcyBgiyset0-zIouIEGg/w400-h225/IMG_20210922_143730_537.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We didn't take many photos in Harper and unfortunately the only photos we have make it look grim. We visited this lovely beach (<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/carolina75011/14153216655/in/photolist-nyEWdP-nyEUn4-c8VF9A-c8UCL5-c8UEdd-c8UzJ3-c8Un9W-c8UGmU-c8UpN5-c8UoWJ-c8UTH9-c8UAQ5-c8Uum1-c8UDxE-c8UxA5-c8UsAh-c8UULb-c8UF9u-c8UwSA-c8UrdU-nhbcy6-nwC4Xq-nyqjos-c8UrQQ-c8VG2b-c8UtPo-c8VDLU-nhbiRW-c8VD4d-c8UnBE-nyqkRh-nynMvt-3Jrtrz-c8UnR3-DzY8d-c8UJFN-4k8wJx-bs7HGD-2mfKQ62-2mfQ1kB-4k8xjP-9GLR3P-2mfRehi-2mfLdU3-2mfL4YC-2mfVbkA-2mfTKo2-2mfV9Km-2mfTKpj-gqz19y/" target="_blank">photo not ours</a>)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9QzhjoW2Vt5Y6ErmIIiQwAkvV-WKaCWJGZRe2bbxk9ai0rAU_vpkvj0asEDiW8oEKgTmmWl49prkWRVpltLBuNBhQFLb_DZolrROukBspPv2Gj6rkc8oRLGfyZ-C5YuGqBIWLOFfVqPhU/s1024/IMG_20210922_145344_334.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9QzhjoW2Vt5Y6ErmIIiQwAkvV-WKaCWJGZRe2bbxk9ai0rAU_vpkvj0asEDiW8oEKgTmmWl49prkWRVpltLBuNBhQFLb_DZolrROukBspPv2Gj6rkc8oRLGfyZ-C5YuGqBIWLOFfVqPhU/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_145344_334.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A road through a huge tree, Harper, Liberia</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Liberians are super friendly and happy-go-lucky people and we grew very fond of the country, despite spending half our stay there inside a hospital. However, walking around Harper, the seemingly endless sight of once magnificent Americo-Liberian homes now standing derelict gives an overwhelmingly post-apocalyptic feel to what once must have been a wonderful holiday town. If you were dropped in Harper without any information, you would think that a war had ended last month and not two decades ago. The biggest problem seems to be that the Americo-Liberians who fled the conflict don’t seem to have an intention of returning any time soon. Yet, they are still legally the owners of these derelict houses and Liberia wants to honour their property rights, appreciating the fact that these people didn’t voluntarily abandon their houses - they were fleeing war. But there is now an impasse: it is unlikely that investors will want to invest in a city that looks like a warzone but it will continue to look this way unless the owners of these houses either repair or sell them. Speaking to Liberians, the consensus seems to be that few, if any, of these Americo-Liberian families will ever return and perhaps they were just holding on to the ownership of these properties in the hope that when Harper returns to prosperity they can sell these properties for more money. But Harper will not return to its former glory until these homes are repaired. A catch22 situation. Perhaps the Liberian government needs to give an ultimatum that either these homes are renovated or sold within a certain period of time or that they will be expropriated by the state and sold to people/companies that agree to rebuild or renovate them.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXvL_l0zCu9t0p3gW-E3JltfIg6JO9YGODjK9rUNBfA5kMLZpqDrUf1aVTW1Uvv8BeJI-8PmeDwBxc5DemIEVGTS6cASfuzbWGg6CO0_UwUEF-UDqx8uyD3a5_U3BEqBAegC8iUyUGh3q/s1021/IMG_20210922_140010_243.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1021" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXvL_l0zCu9t0p3gW-E3JltfIg6JO9YGODjK9rUNBfA5kMLZpqDrUf1aVTW1Uvv8BeJI-8PmeDwBxc5DemIEVGTS6cASfuzbWGg6CO0_UwUEF-UDqx8uyD3a5_U3BEqBAegC8iUyUGh3q/w400-h301/IMG_20210922_140010_243.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Former President Tubman's abandoned mansion</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Qbt_dOAqnUKQUdkiB9o3_p69QVZaHKBwKPfgveWF8zBtGRgFws3N-qTB39wairfFSlWJllretOEsNA-B7rGqvvVlm8tKzRykqU2xmlkU9UmGoDCvtl0N2LjebB5nkr1fgYyNdtAr1Vbd/s1024/IMG_20210922_141943_409.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Qbt_dOAqnUKQUdkiB9o3_p69QVZaHKBwKPfgveWF8zBtGRgFws3N-qTB39wairfFSlWJllretOEsNA-B7rGqvvVlm8tKzRykqU2xmlkU9UmGoDCvtl0N2LjebB5nkr1fgYyNdtAr1Vbd/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_141943_409.webp" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>Liberia is full of surprises and when we passed a giant, impressively built building with tall columns and a beautiful mural on one side, we were intrigued. On closer inspection we found that this was the local Freemasons Lodge - it turns out that many of the Americo-Liberian elite were freemasons, including many of the past presidents. This lodge was situated in a prime location and despite suffering the same decay as much of the rest of the city, it still makes a grand sight. Another building we visited was the abandoned home of Liberia’s most famous leader: President William Tubman. This too must have been a magnificent house with sweeping views over the ocean. Despite now being abandoned and partially occupied by homeless people, hints of its former glory were evident in the beautiful architecture and the spacious rooms.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirmqmWDpSL2ubgXaem1wbayBVTQopLyIZA7Hd7gyeznTFVcwECPU1SVXiXpeHr576fWmQ7f6TpcuVzeI16mAhLARLYMjbOUX1Ib19qtefpYZSKee2a41ia0eZXu_JNSh1db9svTV3-MC8c/s1280/IMG_20210922_135859_358.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirmqmWDpSL2ubgXaem1wbayBVTQopLyIZA7Hd7gyeznTFVcwECPU1SVXiXpeHr576fWmQ7f6TpcuVzeI16mAhLARLYMjbOUX1Ib19qtefpYZSKee2a41ia0eZXu_JNSh1db9svTV3-MC8c/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_135859_358.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harper's derelict Freemason Lodge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>After taking it easy for a few more days we began to make plans for returning to Monrovia so that we could head on to Sierra Leone. We weren’t keen on a repeat of the road trip the way we'd come but there weren’t many other options. The only flights out were from the small airport which has no commercial flights. There are a few private flights on a small plane each week but these could only be booked by one of the NGO’s. Like ‘NGO-car’, there was ‘NGO-flight’, a great crowd to be in with, if you could arrange it somehow. After asking a local NGO for help, we managed to book two seats on the next plane only to have our plans thwarted when the airline cancelled all flights until further notice due to members of their staff catching Covid. Doh!</p><p>So we were back to trying to find an NGO-car. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBUlmTqTHwuAinaPorCMXCiYCV5EsaQe_JGkVYyv3UiIO0Lppu-7-SwkQ7NGW1g741qXCEo0TnMYwIZUdVRpQUkruS1KBB9-I9HMsVW6dPlMk6q4O0V9vllJQNLT4Y7o2jK8xtJSH1lBW/s1134/IMG_20210922_145447_034.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmBUlmTqTHwuAinaPorCMXCiYCV5EsaQe_JGkVYyv3UiIO0Lppu-7-SwkQ7NGW1g741qXCEo0TnMYwIZUdVRpQUkruS1KBB9-I9HMsVW6dPlMk6q4O0V9vllJQNLT4Y7o2jK8xtJSH1lBW/w361-h400/IMG_20210922_145447_034.webp" width="361" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maryland county is famous for this Palm Butter dish</td></tr></tbody></table><p>One additional problem we now had was that our unexpected two week stint in the hospital meant that our tourist visas had expired. A road trip involving dozens of checkpoints with an expired visa did not sound like fun. We contacted our friendly immigration lady we’d met in the airport on arrival and she explained that visas could only be extended in Monrovia. But not to worry, she said, we could call her if any of the soldiers at the checkpoints gave us a hard time. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWF2RekStaXbMLjCFL0h139IzsOYURw9rIRgtosOi8eT7swDAsO1u4eWRL6J3RDJbqfU3FLS28BVK689rNikL2sr0ugsghAaiiywSJmmP6dbpr3bFVJmuFmBHF84JF9C4oqSfiFmBH0Cj/s1024/IMG_20210922_145200_466.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWF2RekStaXbMLjCFL0h139IzsOYURw9rIRgtosOi8eT7swDAsO1u4eWRL6J3RDJbqfU3FLS28BVK689rNikL2sr0ugsghAaiiywSJmmP6dbpr3bFVJmuFmBHF84JF9C4oqSfiFmBH0Cj/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_145200_466.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sports Betting is big across Liberia, including Harper</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Dave began to search for an NGO-car only to find that one had left an hour before. We were encouraged to grab our bags, jump on motorbikes, and try to catch up with it. After a high speed journey to the small town of Pleebo we had to give up the chase and settle for finding another pickup. it was either that or be stuck in Maryland province until heavens knows when. It had been raining torrentially over the three weeks we’d been in Harper so we braced ourselves for even worse road conditions. We were happy that our pickup chose to take a different route to that which we’d come on - this time hugging the coast for most of the journey which was a lot shorter. </p><p>Within a few hours of starting our journey we devised an effective way of talking our way through our visa problem at the checkpoints. Rejane would lead the way, while Dave pretended to be busy doing something in the pickup truck. The soldiers/police were generally quite enamoured with Rejane’s feminine presence and she would chat them up friendily in her basic Liberian pidgin making sure to distract them from inspecting her passport too intently. Dave would appear at the end of Rejane’s show and was invariably waved through with only a cursory glance at his passport. This strategy proved highly effective and got us through 18 of the 20 checkpoints we encountered. The two checkpoints where this approach failed required a call to our friend at immigration and thankfully, in a small country like Liberia, it turned out she was well known and respected so in the end, our visa problem proved much less of a hassle than we’d expected. </p><p>Sadly, our transport was not as hassle free. This time we spent not one but two nights squashed on an even smaller backseat with two elderly gentlemen. We hit mud swamp after mud swamp (each one took hours to get through), the radiator broke (which Dave fixed with his epoxy glue) and a wheel literally came off while we were driving. There were moments of despair that morphed into periods of deeper despair. Hours stuck on the side of remote roads gave us ample time to admire Liberia’s magnificent forests. There was exhaustion that you feel deep in your bones and camaraderie that lifts the heart and fuels the energy needed to eventually, finally reach Monrovia. 400 km that took three days to travel. </p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0KRB0SxQpeGZCXp-w3ji0oI6dd9hRS_HCu0cq_DVGqv7gdsOH-GuNAnQ8gMy_yrhf1bfcY7f0gPre5vj-cCYA-rFxkQ9YEG6TdPi3y9opyubMkg7TB8zfevKVIDFWTOR1UMOzSNmRWxkq/s1024/IMG_20210922_150829_836.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0KRB0SxQpeGZCXp-w3ji0oI6dd9hRS_HCu0cq_DVGqv7gdsOH-GuNAnQ8gMy_yrhf1bfcY7f0gPre5vj-cCYA-rFxkQ9YEG6TdPi3y9opyubMkg7TB8zfevKVIDFWTOR1UMOzSNmRWxkq/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_150829_836.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coastal road from Harper to Monrovia</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/N68VynVOE88" width="320" youtube-src-id="N68VynVOE88"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Trying to get around the logging truck: fail!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HZHZZrGadHE" width="320" youtube-src-id="HZHZZrGadHE"></iframe></div><span style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">Trying to get around the logging truck: success!!</div></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZ81yuCBzhg70xMhxyCOJX8bSk7KxQJ19s4TeS_RmrkF8vyqe5SyyV-_etIocN4HhVkgYZMOo6vq2nD6el2K1SOQ1la13FgKrku3z_o7CWZPzfE-L3vNLxfLb7CL_GIZBHQT3naOLXn_u/s1280/IMG_20210922_150615_654.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZ81yuCBzhg70xMhxyCOJX8bSk7KxQJ19s4TeS_RmrkF8vyqe5SyyV-_etIocN4HhVkgYZMOo6vq2nD6el2K1SOQ1la13FgKrku3z_o7CWZPzfE-L3vNLxfLb7CL_GIZBHQT3naOLXn_u/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_150615_654.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bush meat for lunch</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/m5eJ9sTQ-88" width="320" youtube-src-id="m5eJ9sTQ-88"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Skillful mud driving. For this deep mud hole, the driver disconnected the air filter. We have no idea why - but it worked.</div><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWI_kpqjD4qFjWT1falLmrm387lnytSeml_TV4xZbpDWO12Rh_S9laJgFesRYelD8UKQvoiXcRE_5DiWCyatQbdudNwhFwvEWia8APFTUUdz8tgNnzA96TI1goT0pAL4OhDohUlNZx4Hyo/s1033/IMG_20210922_150408_079.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1033" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWI_kpqjD4qFjWT1falLmrm387lnytSeml_TV4xZbpDWO12Rh_S9laJgFesRYelD8UKQvoiXcRE_5DiWCyatQbdudNwhFwvEWia8APFTUUdz8tgNnzA96TI1goT0pAL4OhDohUlNZx4Hyo/w396-h400/IMG_20210922_150408_079.webp" width="396" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Epoxy glue meant for fixing the tent came in handy when the radiator broke</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3hNbprptMj8GCce4QaMxSEOBOA2aXjF3K3FJ64CRLe2o7a8ZPBiEp1mup-fwIKVfv9lKaJeZyTRGodtAZUrsAAPq6t9i4jpj84fITtJ-lHjxLVAuaVp2QOvLQQtY1Q309le80u3nZJmo/s1024/IMG_20210922_150512_743.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3hNbprptMj8GCce4QaMxSEOBOA2aXjF3K3FJ64CRLe2o7a8ZPBiEp1mup-fwIKVfv9lKaJeZyTRGodtAZUrsAAPq6t9i4jpj84fITtJ-lHjxLVAuaVp2QOvLQQtY1Q309le80u3nZJmo/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_150512_743.webp" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8Y0aGgUf2brj1UFWElDNL_ppFejoRBV6m017hBXWeN18F3HmDsKcsmU3qFEa_pQiwWgc-RkyRidsAILBfNNnfrQcT6-HDWdMb2CYvLKiFbGQg-tgiYo3czr73tEgkM6mU_uR-jEQMoUz/s1280/IMG_20210922_150702_315.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8Y0aGgUf2brj1UFWElDNL_ppFejoRBV6m017hBXWeN18F3HmDsKcsmU3qFEa_pQiwWgc-RkyRidsAILBfNNnfrQcT6-HDWdMb2CYvLKiFbGQg-tgiYo3czr73tEgkM6mU_uR-jEQMoUz/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_150702_315.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our seat for 3 days and 2 nights</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJ3JDC0uH5KYhrkQSrwcStmajQBxt8XUN_hIDFWxK-bqcrqI4RJ_Pf2MYFa-0K17_g63TfnIV4yuAi9AFawCaykpoiRotyHEPaxMCQOP_7_LUt6_0QKHXW-5JQZ3AdBuNlEhwdcnLYWA5/s1280/IMG_20210922_150751_645.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVJ3JDC0uH5KYhrkQSrwcStmajQBxt8XUN_hIDFWxK-bqcrqI4RJ_Pf2MYFa-0K17_g63TfnIV4yuAi9AFawCaykpoiRotyHEPaxMCQOP_7_LUt6_0QKHXW-5JQZ3AdBuNlEhwdcnLYWA5/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_150751_645.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another breakdown - time to appreciate Liberia's magnificent forests</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SIENXp-S-TI" width="320" youtube-src-id="SIENXp-S-TI"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Local villagers made their own "toll road" around the mud holes</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOHd_yJ2OVHb0k2ZgIXbFI8cf3FTTkg4UFqYedSioxGFDZbRIO8uty1Lsl0G8jFJhHnLqlgaL07YxS61BZ3BjQPImLNuPSfAnPhA_q8xRBz2D9XOEnY6_3KC4yDgb52GWuGTiWEVIofDT/s1024/IMG_20210922_150251_213.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOHd_yJ2OVHb0k2ZgIXbFI8cf3FTTkg4UFqYedSioxGFDZbRIO8uty1Lsl0G8jFJhHnLqlgaL07YxS61BZ3BjQPImLNuPSfAnPhA_q8xRBz2D9XOEnY6_3KC4yDgb52GWuGTiWEVIofDT/w400-h300/IMG_20210922_150251_213.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This truck was stuck for 2 days with about 10 trucks waiting behind it</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0FTfUOrbzJMn9eaUtmkM3ewKhuthZ7Ug7Q3C6v0JWHpp1GwtxtxVJwaw3QIIn4IfTyNvfxoNmruKbbDQ8ohKFv5uQQv0fsrJ0topKIVsvq-9LL6Dp7d3-7yTZYkEMwbHY01KiU59FUGu/s1280/IMG_20210922_150108_712.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0FTfUOrbzJMn9eaUtmkM3ewKhuthZ7Ug7Q3C6v0JWHpp1GwtxtxVJwaw3QIIn4IfTyNvfxoNmruKbbDQ8ohKFv5uQQv0fsrJ0topKIVsvq-9LL6Dp7d3-7yTZYkEMwbHY01KiU59FUGu/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_150108_712.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our legend driver and travel buddy</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After just a day’s rest in Monrovia we were forced to make sudden plans to cross into Sierra Leone as there were rumours that the land borders were about to close. We rushed to get another Covid test which proved a bit of a fiasco. Liberia chose to give just one company the monopoly on Covid testing and this inevitably led to the most disorganised, inefficient Covid testing situation we’d yet encountered. It was only through a stroke of good luck that someone sitting next to us in the queue had a contact in senior management who was able to ensure that we got tested in time for our departure. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQ-dWAxKq0cFJNZeivOaCBnqPfES7KbQBgeSWqulu_hRj5IEs_su7Smiw9OxFTmb8NSUOnKOBNn8bnDgiVIvf0pGu7yI79oTW8_u8wxhKSlpE5JBaG83XVdRfelAoveyccw6WWMw9iyD5/s1280/IMG_20210922_150010_566.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQ-dWAxKq0cFJNZeivOaCBnqPfES7KbQBgeSWqulu_hRj5IEs_su7Smiw9OxFTmb8NSUOnKOBNn8bnDgiVIvf0pGu7yI79oTW8_u8wxhKSlpE5JBaG83XVdRfelAoveyccw6WWMw9iyD5/w320-h400/IMG_20210922_150010_566.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lively Monrovia public transport hub</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qk6ZQvoJYho" width="320" youtube-src-id="qk6ZQvoJYho"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Shoe shine and tea: sights and sounds of a Monrovian transport hub</div><p>And then we jumped onto a shared taxi and a few hours later we were at the Sierra Leonean border ready for our next adventure.</p><p>As tough as our travels through Liberia were, we felt that the hardship forged a stronger, deeper affection for this plucky little country. Liberia came through for us during our toughest travel experience and we will forever be grateful to friends new and old who helped us on this part of our journey. </p><p>Our most powerful memory of Liberia is the incredible friendliness of its people.</p><p>Liberia! My Man! Good luck and keep on hustling. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><u>Best Book on Liberia</u>:</p><p>Besides “Madame President” and “Mountains Beyond Mountains”, we also recommend the brilliant book by the Liberian New York Times journalist Helene Cooper called “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/House-Sugar-Beach-African-Childhood/dp/0743266250" target="_blank">The House at Sugar Beach</a>”.</p><br />Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-62266868825631808812021-08-29T11:33:00.001+02:002021-08-29T11:33:40.668+02:00Our Africa Moves: #5 Ghana, no drama.<p>After our chaotic <a href="https://travelwallahs.blogspot.com/2021/07/our-africa-moves-4-bashing-through.html" target="_blank">departure from Kinshasa </a>we were forced to overnight in Addis Ababa. While waiting in line to move into the Awaiting Transfer part of the airport, a friendly Congolese pointed us to an Ethiopian Airlines table where he said we should be able to get a free hotel room for the night. Ethiopian Airlines have a generous overnight stay policy for passengers routing through Addis. Dave dusted off the Amharic he’d learnt in 1987 and, not only did we score the free room, we were upgraded to a fancy four star hotel with dinner and breakfast included! It was our first hot shower since Zambia.</p><p>The next day we flew to Accra, Ghana. On landing, we were impressed by the efficiency of the airport Health Screening staff. They registered and tested everyone on the flight for Covid19 within 30 minutes to ensure that no-one had a fake Covid certificate or had become positive subsequent to the negative test result obtained in their country of departure. It was all so orderly that it felt like we had landed on a different planet.</p><p>After our test we headed for immigration where we were asked for our Ghana visas. According to the information available online, South African passport holders were entitled to a Visa on Arrival. However, the woman at immigration frowned and explained that tourists are required to have their Visa on Arrival pre-approved before departure. After our adventures in the Congo, border wrinkles no longer bothered us much anymore. Unflustered, we responded “Sorry about that, so now what?” A supervisor was called and some talking among officials ensured before we were pointed towards an office. There we had a slightly weird conversation. We were told that there were two options available to us: an entrance stamp for $100 or an official Visa on Arrival for $150. The cheaper option felt dodgy somehow with the official looking a bit uncomfortable about it all. When we opted for the more expensive (and most likely legitimate) $150 option, she looked relieved. After more slick administrative efficiency to process the visa we were waved through immigration and into Ghana. For the first time in two months we exhaled the sense of uneasiness that is constantly with one when travelling in the DRC.</p><p>Our next clue that Ghana is a world away from Central African chaos was that we were able to call an Uber to pick us up. And the Uber was cheap! In no time we were in our backpacker hostel.</p><p>The reason we had chosen to travel to Ghana from the DRC was partly due to Covid19 closing many land borders and also because we had to become “Digital Nomads” to do some remote work for the <a href="http://www.bulungula.org" target="_blank">Bulungula Incubator</a> back home. Digital Nomads need two things: reliable electricity and internet. Optional but preferable: a beautiful place to base oneself while working.</p><p>We picked up a cheap tablet computer that could be used in combination with our handy bluetooth travel keyboard in an Accra mall. We also grabbed a Vida Café coffee and blissfully savoured a pizza before searching for the local bus station to catch a minibus, known locally as a “tro-tro”, to the far east of the country and a small coastal village called Keta. The traffic in Accra can be intense with traffic jams on the main highways common. These traffic jams are so ubiquitous that a whole economy has developed around them with people selling food and drinks to trapped passengers: our favourite was the yoghurt and millet drink known as ‘burkina’ sold by Muslim women from the north of the country. Another favourite was Bissap, a sweet but pleasantly tart dark red juice made from hibiscus flowers. Ghanaians have a street food innovation we loved: their version of the roasted maize/corn one finds across Africa solves the problem of how to apply salt without most of it falling onto the floor – a quick salt water dip, brilliant! Despite the traffic in the very intense heat, we were fully appreciative of the fact that we could travel half way across the country on excellent tar roads in a minibus in a matter of hours. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEvgcqefnIvX7HPlkzLui6CffErisyQTakbhAp_jRnEbadxGxoF1vk05Hofh_keQumHaBYS1BMKThUhf0aDp1zQ_LLrys4jkmZ3tFGK_wSW2IbSCZk00RnsVnQbBQCT2Wc2eKqClRXVsR/s1280/IMG_20210826_085826_763.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEvgcqefnIvX7HPlkzLui6CffErisyQTakbhAp_jRnEbadxGxoF1vk05Hofh_keQumHaBYS1BMKThUhf0aDp1zQ_LLrys4jkmZ3tFGK_wSW2IbSCZk00RnsVnQbBQCT2Wc2eKqClRXVsR/w320-h400/IMG_20210826_085826_763.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A digital nomad hard at work</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We stayed in Keta for about two weeks at a <a href="https://wildcampghana.com/" target="_blank">beachy backpackers spot</a> situated in a quiet village, interspersing hard work with ocean swims and visits to the local market. May is typically the start of the rainy season in West Africa, but the rains were late and the heat was intense – way beyond anything we had experienced on the trip so far and well into the discomfort zone. You had to work and sleep with a fan blowing on you at full speed, constantly. The local beach was nice with quite intense waves that broke violently on the shore and one had to maneuver quickly to get to safety behind them. These violent waves have been eroding the beach for decades and the local town has been partly consumed by the ocean. Keta used to be the regional capital but when the erosion got so bad that the town was literally disappearing into the ocean, the government was forced to change the capital to a town located in the inland mountains over 100km away. A number of failed efforts have been made to deal with the erosion; it seems that the main source of the problem was the creation of the giant Volta dam in 1965, which supplies the whole of the country with hydro-electricity. Unfortunately, the dam reduced the amount of silt that flows naturally out of the river mouth and is deposited on the beaches to provide a balance to the erosion caused by the waves. The backpackers where we stayed was built on a part of the beach reclaimed from the nearby lagoon. The communities were offered this reclaimed land in exchange for their land lost to the sea. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbdjTK8Hx-5Dsq23S4_8VuaR0p0doqQgT81fW7fpVm48zagtrxCco0Xq3oYl3o_hG7MP6LFcV8Wb-SLuRfH9m8yV7SiKl0Zwp5mZTFjkA33jXKaNfRTYok_QFI1GuHe3krdrzsvHhU8kjY/s1024/IMG_20210826_085932_910.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbdjTK8Hx-5Dsq23S4_8VuaR0p0doqQgT81fW7fpVm48zagtrxCco0Xq3oYl3o_hG7MP6LFcV8Wb-SLuRfH9m8yV7SiKl0Zwp5mZTFjkA33jXKaNfRTYok_QFI1GuHe3krdrzsvHhU8kjY/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_085932_910.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our colourful backpackers lodge in Keta</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTs9PXIt7hzKzct26tMJ-QMrtwRehsR54d6NC87eeJJl2N7PFGcdHH9h5xS8QN2o2pt6cyheeMxoTmwwgkdlCbFHxbfYMZhsj1dG9pAeZiUrhtYjj8tP-dJ-DafEoY3IyF2S448HlALQhe/s1024/IMG_20210826_090017_098.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTs9PXIt7hzKzct26tMJ-QMrtwRehsR54d6NC87eeJJl2N7PFGcdHH9h5xS8QN2o2pt6cyheeMxoTmwwgkdlCbFHxbfYMZhsj1dG9pAeZiUrhtYjj8tP-dJ-DafEoY3IyF2S448HlALQhe/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_090017_098.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cute lodge on land reclaimed from the lagoon</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After two hot weeks in Keta we met two cool Lebanese/Ghanaian travellers and gratefully caught a ride with them up to the cooler, mountainous Volta Region on the border of Togo. We stayed in a village called Wli where we visited and swam under the highest waterfall in West Africa. At night we heard beautifully rhythmic drumming which continued into the following day. On investigation we found a funeral in progress. We were invited to observe, which we did at a distance, and appreciated the drumming, singing and dancing skills. Funerals in Ghana are famously joyous and lavish affairs that often involve <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=ghana+designer+coffins&client=tablet-android-huawei&prmd=ivn&sxsrf=ALeKk03VlQfMxuMgL7GJP5nLatwwYuThNA:1629471716239&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjA7cSW77_yAhUJyYUKHVVDB2cQ_AUoAXoECAMQAQ&biw=962&bih=601" target="_blank">elaborate coffins shaped as cars, boats, planes and fish</a>. One can tell the age of the deceased by the colours worn by the people dancing down the streets. Red and black dress is worn at the funeral of a young person, white and black for the elderly (over 70). Funerals are advertised on billboards posted all around town along with a large photograph and information about the deceased, including the name, age and funeral details. The large number of these posters made us wonder whether Covid19 was causing high levels of mortality. Ghanaians assured us, however, that the current rate was nothing out of the ordinary and that many of the posters we saw were for funerals that had already happened a while ago. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3ResBcy3kWdCUb_jljuVOEKGyp-Z5t_tpNbW4kQUxN6p08jTECignQXtmj7QujmX2VwCaQ-1TCgfiNCQzV_FntTex1AS5ObzdZTmCrful40sVkhRRp9hyRu5shVs0s7AfTaUZrYHGlZT/s1280/IMG_20210826_084924_406.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3ResBcy3kWdCUb_jljuVOEKGyp-Z5t_tpNbW4kQUxN6p08jTECignQXtmj7QujmX2VwCaQ-1TCgfiNCQzV_FntTex1AS5ObzdZTmCrful40sVkhRRp9hyRu5shVs0s7AfTaUZrYHGlZT/w320-h400/IMG_20210826_084924_406.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swimming beneath the Wli waterfall, the highest in West Africa</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfF4s3tgfSJEDyv-b1wADCaqOGWe181C_v9CMlZUWUUJD7s6mi_U6o476qH2KlcxK53atnBCNFI-l6f3XGoFHBNFWS9IHO7JrktedkTYN6zWztV3xKXQcZs2urgOak9xU6GupjnV2KNi7r/s1024/IMG_20210826_085059_388.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfF4s3tgfSJEDyv-b1wADCaqOGWe181C_v9CMlZUWUUJD7s6mi_U6o476qH2KlcxK53atnBCNFI-l6f3XGoFHBNFWS9IHO7JrktedkTYN6zWztV3xKXQcZs2urgOak9xU6GupjnV2KNi7r/w400-h400/IMG_20210826_085059_388.webp" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>During further wanderings around the village, we asked about locally grown coffee. Ghana is known for its coffee and we’d been spoilt with the excellent and widely available coffee in DRC. We got some eventually but it was not easy to find and definitely not as cheap. Happily, Ghana is also one of the biggest producers and exporters of cacao and so chocolates were quite easy to find, something we hadn’t had in months.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUFzxFCBCEuKrpePBWkdSCn3D1Qkyjnniw_47kFbsb9cnvPxyN5-kWAMZrVctXWeiveHhkNTY0weLEdyErNL-cuZ5S_0k8WEAwwRj3g2sPj-G9W-anxulKVnKiFV5dNjEuoScF5JynaOc/s1280/IMG_20210826_084506_532.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUFzxFCBCEuKrpePBWkdSCn3D1Qkyjnniw_47kFbsb9cnvPxyN5-kWAMZrVctXWeiveHhkNTY0weLEdyErNL-cuZ5S_0k8WEAwwRj3g2sPj-G9W-anxulKVnKiFV5dNjEuoScF5JynaOc/w320-h400/IMG_20210826_084506_532.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking through the forest to Wli Waterfall</td></tr></tbody></table><p>With Ghana generally regarded as the most organised country in West Africa, it has been interesting to observe how Covid19 is viewed here. Ghana has many large shiny shopping malls where mask-wearing is quite strictly enforced. However, while we were there, few people bothered with masks on the streets and in public transport and the police didn’t seem interested in enforcing mask rules. Ghana has been one of the more successful African countries in the roll-out of Covid19 vaccines but even so, the demand for vaccines was low. We met young expats living and working in Ghana who were asked to take up vaccines because the government was concerned that with demand so low, the vaccines would expire and go to waste. We heard similar reports from travellers in other African countries including Malawi, Sudan, Senegal and Sierra Leone. The Congolese have only vaccinated 0.1% of their population and yet they had to return a million unused vaccines to the Covax programme due to a lack of demand, an unfortunate situation not helped by President Tshishikedi refusing to be vaccinated with the Astra Zeneca vaccine. 70% of medical staff in the DRC <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/aug/05/covid-only-kills-white-people-myths-and-fear-hinder-jabs-in-drc-congo" target="_blank">refuse to be vaccinated</a>.</p><p>While there has been a lot of concern expressed about global vaccine inequality, it is quite clear that at this stage, in much of Africa, it is the demand for vaccines and not the supply that is currently the pressing problem that needs to be solved. Unless the perception of Covid19 in tropical African countries changes or the reality becomes much more frightening, it looks like many countries will be lucky to convince even 10% of their population to vaccinate. From our lay perspective, it seems that the first step towards solving this problem would be for significant research funds to be dedicated towards investigating what is going on with Covid19 in tropical Africa. We can’t just keep assuming that the low recorded death rates are simply due to the inadequate record keeping missing huge numbers of Covid fatalities in the tropics. During this pandemic, almost every large city in the world has experienced queues of desperate people gasping for oxygen at the doors of their hospitals. Yet, in African cities, where there are the fewest medical facilities per capita, only a handful have reports of desperate situations caused by the pandemic. When trying to understand a new virus, there surely might be valuable clues in places where anomalies seem to be occurring. And yet we are seeing minimal in-depth and on the ground research outside of South Africa. The research that we do see is being done remotely with minimal input from local sources, using existing internet information and extrapolating tiny amounts of anecdotal data. One example is The Economist magazine which recently published the statistic that 5% of Congolese parliamentarians have allegedly died from Covid19 and then extrapolated that this must be representative of the situation in the DRC as a whole. However, Congolese parliamentarians can hardly be considered to be representative of the general population. Firstly, they are part of a tiny minority of Congolese who can sit indoors for long periods of time, thanks to having access to electricity and air-conditioning. The easiest way to catch this virus is to spend time indoors where there might be an infected person in the room. Everyone else in the DRC has to sit outside or have excellent ventilation to keep cool in the tropical heat. Secondly, it seems safe to assume that rates of diabetes and obesity would be higher amongst wealthy parliamentarians than the average, slim Congolese. Either way it should not be random travel bloggers, or The Economist magazine for that matter, trying to take guesses about what is going on. Proper, on the ground research is needed to understand this seemingly anomalous situation: either the virus is just not having the same impact as it is elsewhere in the world and we can learn a lot about this monster if we study why that is. Or, it is indeed wreaking silent havoc in Africa and we need this fact to become widely known and spur the motivation for vaccinations to save African lives and to prevent Africa becoming a petri-dish for new variants. As of 8 August 2021, Ghana had recorded a total of 859 Covid19 deaths out of a population of 31 million while South Africa had a over 90,000 recorded deaths with only double the population. </p><p>Refreshed from our cool respite in the mountains of Wli, we returned to Accra and spent a week of Digital Nomading in the nearby coastal town of Kokrobite and the legendary backpacker spot, Big Milly’s Backyard. International tourism has been hit hard by the pandemic but the various lodges were surviving thanks to support from local customers on weekends as well as expats working for NGOs. It was painful to see the many desperate makers of arts and crafts trying to sell their wares to a clientele who are less likely to buy their wares than tourists. After a festive Friday night with good tunes and beautiful dance moves everything got eerily quiet for the rest of our stay. It turns out that the local traditional religion imposes a month of no music every year and that Friday party was to be the last before the silence began. Damn!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZiWq8QZtiiDuvUo11GhWBMB9Sh2WBjqj5QmKiCNq8qQys9dZN5pk7Yb040GhSVJ6IGslF2HH9o5aVKtM6R4X0c8V9Tx8Ksg0e0OcgYObeRzZClxt8CB94wY3C6DO8FJrt9l3-SpgSGsLP/s1024/IMG_20210826_085407_377.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZiWq8QZtiiDuvUo11GhWBMB9Sh2WBjqj5QmKiCNq8qQys9dZN5pk7Yb040GhSVJ6IGslF2HH9o5aVKtM6R4X0c8V9Tx8Ksg0e0OcgYObeRzZClxt8CB94wY3C6DO8FJrt9l3-SpgSGsLP/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_085407_377.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging at Big Milly's lodge</td></tr></tbody></table><p>With the music turned off, we turned to pondering history…</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">************ A Brief History of Ghana ************</p><p>Ghana is rightly considered one of Africa’s biggest recent success stories. Its past, like all history, is complex. For hundreds of years, the country was dominated by various competing kingdoms, notably the Ashanti in the interior and the Fante on the coast. As European ships began to frequent the coast, trade began in their most valuable “commodities”: gold, ivory and enslaved people. </p><p>Slavery has ancient roots within West African society, as it does throughout almost all human societies across the globe, with warring groups typically enslaving defeated enemies. Early travellers in the region described a situation in which approximately one third of the people within an average village could be enslaved to other community members. While descriptions of the conditions of these enslaved peoples range from a relatively benign form of domestic servitude to horrific suffering and human sacrifice, most experts regard their fate, when sold into the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, as significantly worse than that experienced on the African continent. Historians also seem to agree that the huge demand for enslaved people in the Americas caused many African kingdoms to turn their economic and social systems towards an increasing focus on war with neighbouring communities. This facilitated the capture and enslavement of prisoners, in order to supply and profit from the lucrative slave trade. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfb_G-T9X5S80xAzvGyql7Yp3RRDjMOmZr6nEvxpDEUV96IFmogt0IiIIQavFvdpca7Y0Lp-KkE_skjHciXJh6v2nOvYEChI5sOciKrlaPyMSLrpxZ2UEmjyuxxm3-Vi9J77zOjoPldWBO/s1024/IMG_20210826_085506_903.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfb_G-T9X5S80xAzvGyql7Yp3RRDjMOmZr6nEvxpDEUV96IFmogt0IiIIQavFvdpca7Y0Lp-KkE_skjHciXJh6v2nOvYEChI5sOciKrlaPyMSLrpxZ2UEmjyuxxm3-Vi9J77zOjoPldWBO/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_085506_903.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishing boats and beach at Kokrobite</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade burgeoned as a number of European nations started trading posts on the coast in order to trade with local kingdoms. These kingdoms often co-opted the Europeans for help in their battles and rivalries with other local kingdoms. In one instance, the Fante co-opted the British in their defense against the powerful Ashanti who then, in turn, promptly allied with the Dutch. The ghastly trade in enslaved peoples continued unabated until the epoch-changing event of 1806 when the British banned the slave trade and enforced the law throughout the Atlantic, even against traders not subject to British sovereignty. This was the beginning of the end of one of the most horrific phases of human history; it brought to a close a culture that had existed and been deemed acceptable across the globe since the start of recorded history. It took the British navy 50 years to completely stop the trade in humans and the last ship to complete the journey to the Americas was in 1858. Sadly, once the international trade had ended, it still took many decades for the practice of slavery to end in the Americas and another century for it to dissipate within communities on the African continent (although, incredibly, slavery <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/4250709.stm" target="_blank">still continues in parts of the Sahel to this day</a> ). As dominant participants in the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, the British are responsible for one of history’s worst atrocities: conditions were so brutal that a third of victims, mostly children, died during the ocean crossing. Those who survived the ordeal experienced further brutality and generations of enslavement on plantations in the Americas. When considering history in all its layered complexities, we can hold the British responsible for a crime beyond forgiveness while acknowledging that the law they passed and enforced in 1806, abolishing the Slave Trade across the world (slavery had never been allowed inside Britain itself), brought an end to a global human culture that had caused the immense suffering of countless people from Africa, Europe and Asia for many thousands of years.</p><p>Over time, the British took greater control of the coastal regions as many local chiefs increasingly requested to be included within a British protectorate, partly as protection against the powerful Ashanti kingdom further inland. The chiefs and elders of the various coastal communities within the protectorate met with the British governor in 1852 and agreed to form a Legislative Assembly as part of the governing system. However the Ashanti were a powerful and fiercely independent kingdom which repeatedly attacked the British in an effort to prevent its support of enemy tribes and its creeping expansion. This led to a number of wars in which the Ashanti were initially victorious but in 1901, they were eventually defeated and their territory added to the protectorates under British administration. </p><p>The “Gold Coast” as modern day Ghana was then called, became an official British colony in 1874. British colonialism took on quite a different form in West Africa from what transpired in Southern Africa and parts of East Africa. At its peak, there were only a few hundred British officials working in the region that would become Ghana, and British citizens were not encouraged to settle there. Administration of the bulk of the territory was managed through village chiefs who had the authority over most affairs at the local level. Under colonial rule, the government gradually expanded the number and role of elected local officials within power structures, although the Governor retained over-all control until independence was won. The Gold Coast government was notable in its focus on education. While the Congo had almost no university graduates to run the country at their independence in 1960, the Gold Coast had enough formally educated persons to confidently propose in 1919 that half of the government’s technical officials should be Ghanaian. By 1950 Ghana had, by far, the best formally educated population in West Africa with over 3000 schools providing education to 44% of children of school-going age. Furthermore, the economy flourished from the introduction of coffee and cacao which developed into significant exports, along with gold. Export earnings were invested in road, train and electrical infrastructure and the funding of schools. Ghana was wealthier per capita than South Korea at the time of independence. </p><p>Many West Africans had fought on behalf of the British in the Second World War, and on their victorious return, these soldiers began to agitate for the same independence granted to the former Asian colonies. During the following decade, this transition unfolded without significant conflict nor bloodshed. The most prominent leader fighting for independence was the legendary Kwame Nkrumah, a graduate from universities in the UK and the USA. It was not smooth sailing for him, and the British imprisoned him on two occasions. Fortunately his internments were measured in weeks, not decades as Mandela, Sisulu and others were subjected to in South Africa. In 1957 Nkrumah was chosen as President in the first democratic elections and Ghana became the first country to gain independence from colonialism on the African continent. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIZhXZFW-5jHzHQE0Rhtk8eWva-Qv5CurgbHg3E8X8L-VTFNQJfSK2GVxP5UjXjmvzv1BTKv_WrFwV0ZxE1oxGdPc7IvE5ZLuhqB4NWyeXxULSlIeMEttVpS_MkfqoEQicMfoVFBIjajr/s1024/IMG_20210826_085642_658.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfIZhXZFW-5jHzHQE0Rhtk8eWva-Qv5CurgbHg3E8X8L-VTFNQJfSK2GVxP5UjXjmvzv1BTKv_WrFwV0ZxE1oxGdPc7IvE5ZLuhqB4NWyeXxULSlIeMEttVpS_MkfqoEQicMfoVFBIjajr/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_085642_658.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Milly's Backyard - backpacker vibes</td></tr></tbody></table><p>While Nkrumah was a committed Pan-Africanist who contributed significantly to liberation movements in Southern Africa, the years of his presidency of Ghana were not widely celebrated. He introduced a number of failed socialist policies, was profligate with the country’s foreign reserves and then loaded up with significant sovereign debt. A number of poor policies led to hyper-inflation and economic stagnation. In the 1960’s many African leaders were of the view that multi-party democracy could exacerbate ethnic tensions; political parties were most easily able to garner votes by claiming to represent a particular ethnic or regional population. As a result, Ghana, and many other countries on the continent, chose to go the “no party” or “one party” route whereby voters would elect individuals rather than parties. In reality, however, this largely led to a fairly choice-less democratic farce. Economic malaise and general dissatisfaction culminated in Nkrumah’s overthrow in a military coup in 1966. The next two decades saw multiple coups interspersed with brief, ill-fated returns to democracy and economic malaise throughout. The final coup, in 1982, was led by Flight Lieutenant Gerry Rawlings, who was of mixed Ghanaian and British parentage. This final coup proved a turning point in modern Ghanaian history. It started inauspiciously with the execution of suspected coup plotters, but for once, a military dictator actually achieved what all military dictators claim to want: an end to corruption and the return to multi-party democracy. Rawlings managed to clean up the government significantly and boost the economy. When elections were held in 1992, he was democratically elected as president. So began the last three decades of political stability and economic success which have seen political power change hands between rival political parties on three occasions with little drama. Significant economic growth has led to a dramatic reduction in poverty and, to South Africa’s discredit, Ghana can now boast a smaller proportion of its population surviving on less than $2 per day, and that is in spite of South Africa being three times wealthier per capita. However, the UN’s Human Development Index (HDI) is probably a better measure of a country’s success as it measures a range of indicators like Education, Health, wealth and access to services. Ghana’s HDI is worse than South Africa’s poorest province, the Eastern Cape. In fact only <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_Human_Development_Index" target="_blank">two countries</a> in Sub-Saharan Africa have an HDI better than the <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_South_African_provinces_by_Human_Development_Index" target="_blank">Eastern Cape</a>: Botswana and Gabon. </p><p>Nevertheless, it must be noted that Ghana has good roads, reliable electricity, clean water, West Africa’s best health system, low levels of unemployment, good schools… and yet, what did the civil society banners proclaim along Accra’s main highways? “Enough is enough!” We found widespread dissatisfaction with the performance of the Ghanaian government - perhaps most people are destined to be unhappy with their governments most of the time. When we described our experiences of life in the DRC to Ghanaians they would invariably concede that “perhaps Ghana is not doing so badly.” We would heartily concur! It’s good to continuously push for improvement and progress, but now and again one should also appreciate how far one has come.</p><p style="text-align: center;">*****The end of history and back to hanging out at Big Milly’s*****</p><p><br /></p><p>While Big Milly’s remains an iconic spot on the West African backpacker route, it was sad to see how strewn with litter the beaches had become since 1998, when Dave last visited. An unhappy and almost inevitable outcome of development is a growing litter problem: as countries move out of poverty and get richer, the amount of waste they generate increases exponentially. Today’s Developed Countries went through the same growing pains in the 1960s and 70s until they focused on cleaning up the problem. We’ve seen this at home in the Eastern Cape where 20 years ago, few people had enough money to buy much in local shops and there was a minimal amount of litter around. As the number of jobs and social security payments grew, so people were able to buy more things. Whereas before, a 500ml box of UHT longlife milk was a rare treat, now it can be purchased regularly. The same goes for soft-drinks, sweets, loaves of bread and packets of frozen chicken – all of which come with plastic packaging. In the past, the absence of a waste disposal system wasn’t much of a problem with volumes of stuff bought negligibly low, but as volumes increase exponentially, our beautiful villages are becoming increasingly dirty. Waste disposal is more complicated than it seems as there aren’t many options available: burning plastic causes the release of carcinogens and creating your own landfill is illegal. Remotely located rural areas have a further, difficult challenge as the costs of transporting waste to the nearest city rubbish dump are prohibitive and its not sustainable to emit huge amounts of carbon in the process of relocating rubbish. Governments with limited funds are compelled to prioritise spending on more immediate concerns like clean water, electricity and roads and so the problem grows. And the honest truth is that the majority of community members, who are in daily survival mode, aren’t particularly bothered by litter and so the elected representatives won’t see it as a priority. Fortunately for city dwellers in South Africa, there are more-or-less functional waste management systems in operation and regular waste removal and collection from your house door can be expected, requiring little personal effort.</p><p>Sadly in Ghana, the litter situation is bad, even in Accra. It has perhaps the worst plastic litter problem we’ve ever seen, outside of India, and this plastic finds its way down to the sea in such huge quantities that we were literally swimming amongst plastic bags at the Kokrobite beaches. This problem will kill Ghana’s international tourism industry – it is now rich enough and organised enough to at least clean up the major cities and its most popular beaches. </p><p>From Kokrobite we headed westwards on a series of tro-tro buses until we reached a remote village where we jumped on motorbikes down to a beautiful village called Cape Three Points, so named for its three-pointed peninsula. We found a wonderful lodge called <a href="https://www.escape3points.com/" target="_blank">Escape 3 Points</a> which reminded us very much of our home in Bulungula. It had similar rustic, eco-friendly innovations and was positioned in a lush forest, right on a beautiful beach. They grow much of their own vegetables and served delicious food in a communal area where we found quite a few other travellers. For the first time in almost 6 months we got to hang out and swap stories with different groups of travellers as they passed through. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4P-_Bd1PdNyqi7EVPuP4OO8JDDqb64mlDwokKVbqKFvUZtplNX7Eg39ZrBwfYAnxrtVzlIY9oE-GtFKj_WCBaV7k-Rn_vOBv6x5u8ij9lwM5bJBvUKxRSRkRmKlZVLLirZ5XrK7zkI8LD/s1280/IMG_20210826_085147_575.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4P-_Bd1PdNyqi7EVPuP4OO8JDDqb64mlDwokKVbqKFvUZtplNX7Eg39ZrBwfYAnxrtVzlIY9oE-GtFKj_WCBaV7k-Rn_vOBv6x5u8ij9lwM5bJBvUKxRSRkRmKlZVLLirZ5XrK7zkI8LD/w320-h400/IMG_20210826_085147_575.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cracking open a coconut at Escape 3 Points</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmhXY17r2hnC2nwbHGyG2c0YNoJfA1_jw8WMvuZSnW_VF8KoeyE28nbSHxGI1NeaSFa-zS7qbskip8PWMHPW3qMVBxB6ivMemLz2_TZvuXq1IrG4QcFEIMGu3_n3t6Z_Q5EeF3g-98mhk/s1017/IMG_20210829_091314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="755" data-original-width="1017" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmhXY17r2hnC2nwbHGyG2c0YNoJfA1_jw8WMvuZSnW_VF8KoeyE28nbSHxGI1NeaSFa-zS7qbskip8PWMHPW3qMVBxB6ivMemLz2_TZvuXq1IrG4QcFEIMGu3_n3t6Z_Q5EeF3g-98mhk/w400-h297/IMG_20210829_091314.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at Escape 3 Points</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuWU-0tMKMDUEookpgqUlFR-zmVInfo8krdphawEDfnLfi1B8foAK-zmM8zx41zoeS0GhAZTlCQauzBPyQjdO7Tkzitz-qrfxU6yzS4pN52YeEUu3gG8qGFOqr5cmZEQrl6CiyYH3s8zs/s1019/IMG_20210829_091400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="1019" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuWU-0tMKMDUEookpgqUlFR-zmVInfo8krdphawEDfnLfi1B8foAK-zmM8zx41zoeS0GhAZTlCQauzBPyQjdO7Tkzitz-qrfxU6yzS4pN52YeEUu3gG8qGFOqr5cmZEQrl6CiyYH3s8zs/w400-h300/IMG_20210829_091400.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cool, chilled vibes at Escape 3 Points</td></tr></tbody></table><p>To economise, we would wander over to the nearby village for lunch where rice and fish sauce could be had for about half a dollar. Despite being a farming area, it was noticeable just how few vegetables are used in the local food. At best there might be some green kasava leaves and a little tomato and onion boiled away into a thick soup with a hearty dose of chilli peppers. Across Ghana it was hard to find local dishes that had as many veggies we are used to in any typical meal in South Africa. If you ate their famed Jollof rice at nicer establishment you would get a little bit of finely chopped cabbage and carrot mixed in but otherwise it was basically rice with meat, flavoured with stock and a lot of chilli. The Ghanaian veggie markets were quite barren when compared to Zambia’s bountiful markets but the Ghanians make up for this with huge volumes and varieties of fruits. What’s more they had FANMILK! These are super cheap sachets of delicious ice-cream and frozen yoghurt that you could find all over Ghana and made a delicious treat. One surprise was that the Coca Cola in Ghana tasted really strange. At one stage we thought it was fake coke being put into the returnable glass coke bottles. But eventually someone pointed out that Coke Ghana puts the (disgusting) Coke Zero in all the normal coke bottles and then merely puts a Coke Zero lid on the bottle. So it is not possible to buy a bottle of normal coke - if you want something without the chemical sweetener taste, you need to buy a tin of coke. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKeYbdGFuMIVypHEYgHfhkiRZ-Azu7ipv7sH4CYZTdt8P3e5MiugQwMvJPxnXszCUKldn4Pzyg-EyYj7gjDKmUuHic1Gu7K5r00Y7YqFBxLHiQmxlxOWYUw6rIT7OAa3feForbvblcaDq/s1024/IMG_20210826_084627_617.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKeYbdGFuMIVypHEYgHfhkiRZ-Azu7ipv7sH4CYZTdt8P3e5MiugQwMvJPxnXszCUKldn4Pzyg-EyYj7gjDKmUuHic1Gu7K5r00Y7YqFBxLHiQmxlxOWYUw6rIT7OAa3feForbvblcaDq/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_084627_617.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coke Zero in all normal bottles of Coke</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEjd05Ll1lsaSnNRcAfYU2oZe8ts8oR21WtqIZfeB4aP7nmyEKcTFbGXJkkmAadjdiXG4xpfTfc0VZ6kHfvm3B1061lVPp5OAKQrDda-MnRtawxGKjPP7ZGOCjFQWRJIaAHFogNw6tvktb/s1024/IMG_20210826_085320_949.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEjd05Ll1lsaSnNRcAfYU2oZe8ts8oR21WtqIZfeB4aP7nmyEKcTFbGXJkkmAadjdiXG4xpfTfc0VZ6kHfvm3B1061lVPp5OAKQrDda-MnRtawxGKjPP7ZGOCjFQWRJIaAHFogNw6tvktb/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_085320_949.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chilling at Eddie's beach restaurant at Cape 3 Points</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After our simple lunch in the little village we would wander through the forest and onto the beach on our way back to the Escape 3 Points lodge. A few times we stumbled upon completely naked men and saw women washing their upper bodies unselfconsciously. It turns out that being nude outdoors is pretty normal in this part of the world and the fishermen would often stand naked on the rocks while angling to avoid getting their clothes wet. This surprised even the city-dwelling Ghanaians but we thought it was quite cool that the men and women here were so relaxed about their naked bodies. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgni7iGC9PyQL_G4UtDY2m1HhWZnMiU6Y832HWQq_WrUixkkv4sYawJLzJV3149WI7ElW5YEdOxxllTIS5fQrSIF42-Z_wLBQPvNksXH8GWf0TqEfj8s7mgW5uS2RPwkbSowHp4bXS6r0ng/s1024/IMG_20210826_084808_588.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgni7iGC9PyQL_G4UtDY2m1HhWZnMiU6Y832HWQq_WrUixkkv4sYawJLzJV3149WI7ElW5YEdOxxllTIS5fQrSIF42-Z_wLBQPvNksXH8GWf0TqEfj8s7mgW5uS2RPwkbSowHp4bXS6r0ng/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_084808_588.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging out with travellers from Escape 3 Points was fun!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggTmZYTXTn_W8qPLbxd-N3dTdlXjbA3U0DtMHRjqp29vGzVyuNCPBsZbPQB2kU7gj5UXtvuMBBPJ6SqFVi-Z0Lhj1aPy5xlBSmkC7tISOc-EFqTg70mwKplmDfAPPAw7F_GNNz3u_0HPMp/s1024/IMG_20210826_085246_641.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggTmZYTXTn_W8qPLbxd-N3dTdlXjbA3U0DtMHRjqp29vGzVyuNCPBsZbPQB2kU7gj5UXtvuMBBPJ6SqFVi-Z0Lhj1aPy5xlBSmkC7tISOc-EFqTg70mwKplmDfAPPAw7F_GNNz3u_0HPMp/w400-h300/IMG_20210826_085246_641.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Munchies.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Ghana also has a significant Rastafarian culture and we found ganja, despite still being illegal, easily available for the first time in a few months. Talking to Rasta beach café owners, rendered destitute by the disappearance of tourism, one did have to endure descriptions of complex Covid conspiracies – perhaps a little more justified in Ghana where most people we spoke to genuinely didn’t know anyone who’d tested positive, let alone died. We would try our best to describe the terrible South African Covid situation but that served merely to reinforce the perception that SA is an abnormal part of Africa. Sigh… </p><p>After a very chilled week in Escape 3 Points we headed back towards Kokrobite where we stayed with a super cool Nigerian girl we’d met on our visit two weeks previously. She had a huge smartly decorated house that had aircon and hot water (!!!!) and we had loads of fun together for our last three days hanging out and finishing up various chores before the next leg of our journey. One surprisingly difficult chore was to locate methylated spirits/ethanol for our camping stove. In Zambia and southern DRC every village sold meths for use in the many barber shops for the sterilisation of scissors and razor blades. Unhappily, as we moved north and westwards it became increasingly difficult to find. In Kinshasa we’d found a hand sanitiser that contained 90% alcohol which worked fine but in Ghana we struggled to find anything at all that was pure enough to fuel our stove. After a long search we eventually managed to get some from a hand sanitiser manufacturer so our morning coffee ritual was safe for another month or so, phew!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNBKYAyL7xsIpvhJDv2M2T6AEkcqR9_jXZ2FGIAUEVnGJ6tpWkty37FExnAMdmILZDB3orMzV4Tz4ublSN5hi7CobSVNOmmngYPHUyLcmlHkYYmz7PdjvP_4lwDwzkadRJnGO79BABl4gh/s1280/IMG_20210826_090052_025.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNBKYAyL7xsIpvhJDv2M2T6AEkcqR9_jXZ2FGIAUEVnGJ6tpWkty37FExnAMdmILZDB3orMzV4Tz4ublSN5hi7CobSVNOmmngYPHUyLcmlHkYYmz7PdjvP_4lwDwzkadRJnGO79BABl4gh/w320-h400/IMG_20210826_090052_025.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ghanaians taking a firm stand against...</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After bidding our new Nigerian friend farewell we jumped into a taxi and headed to the airport. We were a little nervous as we’d over-stayed our tourist visa but we had been assured by various in-the-know people that there was no point extending our visas as we would only be required to pay a fee of just $8 for each month (!) that we’d overstayed. Fortunately, on passing through immigration, we didn’t even have to pay this fee and so we happily boarded our plane, destination: Liberia! </p><p><br /></p>Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-47446431517029504622021-07-23T17:02:00.005+02:002021-07-24T11:28:43.920+02:00Our Africa Moves: #4 Bashing through the forest, sailing the mighty Congo<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrWxbaRMcscQHanMIELK1yjT3PJY6ExHDFBluzQxk5Xh1SlRsBoP8BThYU4ABAKLjxvTsFeqjWL28Ku0y3aqMsTAsuRMTsmtizr1xTFmdkAC0yj6QZ5j4MLQSdPe664rsh3JwhWwC4bw_/w320-h400/africablog403.jpg" style="display: none;" />
<p>The truck was organised. It was organised. Our places had been arranged and we were ready to go. Dave had even gone all the way to the chaotic dusty parking area where the trucks left from with one of the guys who worked at our hotel to make sure he did it right. We had two seats booked next to the driver in the front. We were tired of jaw-clenching motorbike rides. We were in Kananga, the first large city we’d seen in the Congo on the trip so far. The roads to our next stop, the town of Ilebo, weren't so bad. You still needed a good vehicle or a motorbike but it wasn’t the mud-hole chaos of the roads we’d just travelled through. A truck ride would be a welcome change.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBGSWC8uVCeSPKy-UjIS-CumHmzlTGKQOW4qlolxVAnIJ_3L7hE5zVXgBQlvxfpGmJU5HilfQV9P4st0MJdCAOErIV84sc86bJKI5E4Qi_YeNHT-XCWKEXg7POhnoQcIkc5-RcsB1M9f7/s1024/africablog401.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBGSWC8uVCeSPKy-UjIS-CumHmzlTGKQOW4qlolxVAnIJ_3L7hE5zVXgBQlvxfpGmJU5HilfQV9P4st0MJdCAOErIV84sc86bJKI5E4Qi_YeNHT-XCWKEXg7POhnoQcIkc5-RcsB1M9f7/w400-h300/africablog401.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grilled meat street food, Kananga, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />It was Wednesday and the truck we’d arranged to travel with would be leaving on Friday morning. So we spent the Thursday on walkabouts in Kananga’s bustling markets and a rare delicious lunch of shawarmas at the Lebanese restaurant owned by actual Lebanese people. Kananga has a large main road – a tar road nogal – running through the town centre with a large grassy island with tattered gardens and monuments in the middle, between the lanes. The city centre had basic shops and government offices and in places fancy, newer looking government buildings built in recent years. While there was still some feeling of a city that had seen much better days, there were small, encouraging signs of investment and renewal. On the central grassy traffic island mentioned above, there were about 30 people hard at work slashing the already-fairly-short-grass even shorter as part of a public works project. One couldn’t help feeling that their efforts could be better spent fixing the horrific roads we’d just travelled. Here and there we saw abandoned petrol stations as the state of the roads leading to the city were too bad to allow trucks to transport fuel. So Kananga may well be the biggest city in the world supplied with fuel exclusively by the bicycle transporters we described in our last blog. In Kananga we saw some bicycle transporters loaded with 400kg of bricks which they were delivering to another part of town. An incredible feat of strength. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57mb5-rp2UocAY6Xy0cPBI7IWQSNpHm9bG_0rzp9mgHmu-q7CwMnaA-H_YgKZV1TQmC_RUq6uI2pIY0vGMRxNn1LAG1QA7yD3mLKMtkZD7cVo8eDDJKFItMb_-wgdegGxGFlKeGuTGnu7/s1280/africablog402a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj57mb5-rp2UocAY6Xy0cPBI7IWQSNpHm9bG_0rzp9mgHmu-q7CwMnaA-H_YgKZV1TQmC_RUq6uI2pIY0vGMRxNn1LAG1QA7yD3mLKMtkZD7cVo8eDDJKFItMb_-wgdegGxGFlKeGuTGnu7/w320-h400/africablog402a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first tar road in over a month, Kananga, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />Kananga’s main market was a colourful, heaving, bustling mass of small-scale traders selling anything and everything. Sadly Kananga’s infrastructure is still a bit of a mess with electricity on for just a few hours per day and water traders sitting on the side walks with buckets of clean-looking water for sale to the majority of households which have no accessible piped water. Every 100 metres, one would find a small ingenious “business bureau” where a group of young men and women would be busily typing on computers attached to printers. These were powered by a solar panel lying on the sidewalk and connected to a battery and inverter to allow them to work throughout the day. These bureaus seemed to have an endless supply of customers needing CVs, application forms, letters, university reports, business plans, invoices and funding proposals typed up and printed. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOSdw-ZjqsfWAosaeHsfkda5gr8eXQg20D8gfWTal7opXbiHdAckGmbz8ILhT447loHcabahryxZ4d_x8gw2sf5hoNcDkMlz0VvRViaIgpGkBI9gUYWVnG-mL0C6P5WPcFcwt6iBoDATNv/s1280/africablog402b.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOSdw-ZjqsfWAosaeHsfkda5gr8eXQg20D8gfWTal7opXbiHdAckGmbz8ILhT447loHcabahryxZ4d_x8gw2sf5hoNcDkMlz0VvRViaIgpGkBI9gUYWVnG-mL0C6P5WPcFcwt6iBoDATNv/w320-h400/africablog402b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZFTyUxJQg4N9SoMv-bhLG6ENDMBRWl_Vbh19WKTvfCBFi2QoDOUk5PXugjPt8AdhglfETLOHfqGg5BVzHMnfNfDhCzV-AFFs0J0UPhPXXOYNB2fq-Y3FPzYA0DEbSWejMyqQRTGymXKBa/s1280/africablog402c.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZFTyUxJQg4N9SoMv-bhLG6ENDMBRWl_Vbh19WKTvfCBFi2QoDOUk5PXugjPt8AdhglfETLOHfqGg5BVzHMnfNfDhCzV-AFFs0J0UPhPXXOYNB2fq-Y3FPzYA0DEbSWejMyqQRTGymXKBa/w320-h400/africablog402c.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solar powered mini-business bureau, Kananga, DRC<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p>Just to be double sure that our truck journey was still on track, we decided to do a quick turn at the truck parking, to confirm that all was in order. The problem is that it's crazy and confusing and so very hard to know where exactly you’ve been and who you spoke to and how it works and how it's supposed to work and how to do it all in French. Noone seemed to know who Dave had spoken to and which truck we were supposed to take and if there was a truck going and when...We waited for this person and that person to be called, other phone calls were made, some other people arrived. We sat. The original plan, the original guys... well who knew? We hadn’t paid for anything yet so there was nothing sinister going on, just plain old simple confusion. Now what? Aaarrghhh..motorbikes agaaaiiinnn??? We started walking back slowly to the hotel. Some guys called us over: what were we looking for? A truck? to Ilebo? Why don’t we take the train? A train? A train? A train! Where is the train?? We would definitely take a train!! We love trains, trains are safe and comfortable. There’s an actual real live train at the desolate old train station we’d passed on our walks? “Yes, there’s a train and it comes twice a week. It’ll arrive in Kananga tomorrow!” </p><p>At the rudimentary train station we found a smart looking older man who confirmed that there was indeed a train operational and that it was meant to arrive the following night. It was a cargo train though because all passenger trains were suspended due to Covid. So now everyone just gets on the cargo train with all the goods. There are no seats and everyone has to find a spot in the container carriages. The train is slow though. It takes 3 days for the train to cover the 400 kms to Ilebo. But you can talk to the conductor and see if you can pay for a spot in his carriage at the front which won’t be so crowded with people and will be more comfortable. So we tried that. Long talks and negotiations later, we needed to get ready and come back the next day when the train would arrive. The next morning Dave went off to check. Nothing yet. Come back later. That evening, nothing. Friday morning, nothing yet. Friday afternoon there was some hope: come back at 6pm. The train would arrive that evening and then we’d get going. We were ready. We had supplies for three days. We could cook on our alcohol stove. There should be lots of space to cook, it was a cargo train after-all. We arrived at 6pm ready to get going, excited about a train journey. And then... we waited. Just waited and watched passengers slowly arrive with blankets, charcoal cooking stoves and supplies for the journey. Everyone seemed to be inspecting the container cars and choosing their spot, getting their stuff organised and set up. It took hours. We waited on the platform, we needed to talk with the conductor/driver, hopefully we would get the better spot, upfront with him. </p><p>At about 9pm, the conductor came over. Yes we could have a space in his carriage. No problem. The price was low, very low. If the price was this low for us, everyone else must be paying practically nothing. What was the catch? Dave had a funny feeling, it just felt too cheap. Of course there were the long discussions about what we needed to pay the immigration officials who hung out at the train station but that was a separate issue to the train fare. As always, when it came to the immigration officials, we didn’t think that there was any service we needed from them that warranted payment, to their perpetual confusion. Just being an official was enough wasn’t it? We then watched the shake down of all the other passengers begin. Some meekly handing over cash, some roughly shaken about. So it wasn’t just all about us.</p><p>Anyway, never-mind the confusingly low price, we were excited. We were ready to go! No more motorbikes! There was no indication as to when we’d get going though, the train was being serviced. There was no scheduled leaving time. We were getting tired. Oh well, as soon as we could board, we’d be rocked to sleep by the gentle rhythms of the train. Around midnight there was movement. And suddenly it was all happening. We had to come down onto the tracks. A complex pantomime then began to unfold with train cars being hooked onto the locomotive, moving forward and switching rails, then being unhooked, moving back to hook onto another train of cars, switching lines and so on, back and forth for a while until all the carriages were in the correct sequence and we were finally ready. It was well after midnight and we were pretty tired now but we were ready to board!</p><p>So what were we hoping to find? We imagined that the driver might have a small room where he slept when his co-driver was driving, that we could share. Perhaps a small storage area with a plastic chair and a spot where we could lie down and sleep on the floor for the next three nights? Basically anything better than being crammed into a windowless cargo carriage with 30 people for three days during an airborne virus pandemic.</p><p>We walked to the locomotive at the front and climbed gingerly up the narrow ladder into the driver’s compartment with our loaded packs and grocery parcels. We blinked. Hard. Where was the space we imagined with a couple of seats at least and maybe even somewhere to recline? Literally, if you swung that cat, it would hit the side walls of the compartment. What we were looking at was a space about 2 metres by 1 meter with a seat for the driver/ conductor. Another seat for the second conductor. Both seats worn right down to the metal bars of the seat. Behind the driver’s seat was a woman sitting on her luggage, folded up and squashed in, dozing off. Behind the co-driver’s seat was merchandise packed to the roof and next to that another folded up person. We climbed over all the tightly packed parcels and in the one meter space left between the two driver seats we found two 20 liter jerrycans filled with fuel. Our backpacks were placed horizontally on top of one another and then on top of the jerrycans. The conductor patted the top of the backpacks and motioned for us to sit down. That was our spot. For. Three. Days. And. Nights. O.M.G. It is not often that we think that we’ve bitten off more than our hardened travel jaws can chew. This was a moment. And we took pause. We squashed in next to one another and tried to shove bits of clothing against the spiky metal bits poking us from the engine room which was up against our backs. As there was no way to lean back, we had to try and find ways to slump forward without falling off the perch on top of our backpacks which were balancing on the jerrycans. The train was still not moving. Something about not having authorisation to get going yet. So they were waiting. Everyone was busy going to sleep for the night. We tried, we really did... for about 2 hours. It was impossible. And we had to do this for 3 whole days and nights???</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXIeA_7ollEEwQxy42C7OPioCrrnPDcgxEh7B-_Ln4gMfZyYX-JqVy2vWXh9T_KoAIsLcKlpmzVJbCzAA3du-0OeXv5yGWjvyNmbNqOKFXp2sVlMZcG4DmzNpVLr6rtZsMPOeQIuUMeF7/s1280/africablog404.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXIeA_7ollEEwQxy42C7OPioCrrnPDcgxEh7B-_Ln4gMfZyYX-JqVy2vWXh9T_KoAIsLcKlpmzVJbCzAA3du-0OeXv5yGWjvyNmbNqOKFXp2sVlMZcG4DmzNpVLr6rtZsMPOeQIuUMeF7/w320-h400/africablog404.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying to cool down in the shade while the train is being fixed, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />We were so tired. We had to lie down - anywhere. We had to get out of the squashed space that was this conductor's compartment. Dave went out scouting. It was pitch dark, three o’clock in the morning. The driver bashed on the steel door of the first carriage which opened and we spotted an empty spot on the floor next to two women and a young child. We gratefully put down some black plastic and our backpack bag covers on the filthy floor, pulled out our camping pillows and went to sleep. At about 6am the train began to lurch forward out of the station and the train crew began bustling about. They were the mechanics and general working crew of the train and we were sleeping in their work space. We needed to move, we were in the way. There was a metal table and benches welded to the floor where everyone sat. We were completely exhausted. It started getting hot. The carriage was as greasy as a car mechanics’ workshop with tools everywhere, jerrycans of fuel, 200 litre water barrels slopping about as the train jerked along and extra railway sleepers piled up for fixing the train tracks along the way. As tired as we were, it was impossible to sleep sitting upright on a metal bench. If you tried to put your head down on your arm to sleep you poured with sweat from the heat of the metal table. Then the lunch cooking began. An elaborate affair on a coal burning stove which smoked up the carriage and made it even hotter. We just sat, our fatigued heads nodding and jerking, and tried to switch off our brains. The six mechanic staff and eight fellow passengers looked at our rather glum faces and must have wondered what the hell... We weren’t in a chatty mood. They passed sachets of rum amongst themselves, we were not in a party mood either. No masks in sight – for the first time on our trip we couldn’t give a fuck about Covid, we just wanted to make it through the next three days. Life felt like it had descended into a feral survival mode.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/O9XIVmX_Sdw" width="320" youtube-src-id="O9XIVmX_Sdw"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Our train pushing through the forest, Mweka, DRC</div><p>The train slowly, very slowly bashed through the thick forest at about 10 km per hour. The forest grows so quickly that the tree branches and long grass grow into its path and the train has to bash its way through. We felt tired, hot and even a bit ill. Desperately needing to sleep but just not being able to. There was no bathroom or toilet. You had to wait for the train to stop to go in the forest while trying to dodge the crowds of open-mouthed and staring kids from the village where we’d stopped. You might expect a bit of toilet-insecurity having to wait for the train to stop in order to go to the loo. Not on this train. At least every hour we would hear three loud toots and a shout would go up: “Boy-O, Boy-O” The train would come to a sudden halt and the mechanic crew would dash out to do something or other. After 30 minutes or so, the train would inch forward, halt, and then again three toots: “Poop, poop, poop” and the shouts “Boy-O, Boy-O” and then more running around and so forth until one long pooooop came and we would jerk forward to carry on our 10 km an hour slow bash through the forest. We would find out later that the ‘boy-o’ are a kind of rubber concertina pipe that connects the hydraulic brakes between the carriages. The pipes are old and so are the clamps holding them in place so they loosen and break every hour or so and the crew have to run down the length of the train to find which one has come loose so they can repair it Macgyver-style with wire and other pieces of pipe. As he moves the train forward, the driver can see from his gauge that the brakes have lost pressure but he has no idea where the problem is located. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTD-UYUPYjd2hav8GMDi-ecqwQ7FhgDNMrXSgqNO5nFWZ8rMtIZKzbDKzUJb5gpkpRW_oxQDMQaV2yHkl2uAuRHYxxlwvoMHEzv2FtudLrvHLyh4y6kkuVoA8m42Zs7J4tX5EZV9glOPGy/s1024/africablog405.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTD-UYUPYjd2hav8GMDi-ecqwQ7FhgDNMrXSgqNO5nFWZ8rMtIZKzbDKzUJb5gpkpRW_oxQDMQaV2yHkl2uAuRHYxxlwvoMHEzv2FtudLrvHLyh4y6kkuVoA8m42Zs7J4tX5EZV9glOPGy/w400-h300/africablog405.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our train buddies, on the way to Ilebo, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />We were so very tired, hot and uncomfortable that we even spoke about getting off in the village of Mweka. The train should reach there the next morning and then we’d then have two days of motorbiking ahead of us. The fact that we were even contemplating facing a motorbike again was clear evidence of the extent of our discomfort. </p><p>That night we had time to try and make a more comfortable sleeping spot. We managed to “book” the space underneath the metal table in the carriage. We used a thatch grass broom to sweep out as much of the dust, grass and general debris of the day's activity that we could. We laid down black bags, then our backpack covers, our sleeping bags (it was so hot that we didn’t need to sleep under them), and finally our blow-up camping mattresses. The train was on a long stop as there were some de-railed carriages ahead of us from when the train had passed in the opposite direction. Our mechanic team had off-loaded some giant wooden sleepers and a very large jack and rushed to the front of the train to get the derailed carriages back on track (literally) and then to repair the rails so that we didn’t derail in turn as we rode over the same section of rail. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjke2e3AT9Lly9k87ZJgpa1bFxw2dsysxnbv8Dy1jsz5OiN4pgbVUuPa6tJ0dse8sS7KaxpDn3CMKNrw2MxpPq3xQlAoGLg0C2_FD4YeLsRL5bBQmJq5q1N4SN9aPHtScsP_VxC6cf3vnym/s1024/africablog407.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjke2e3AT9Lly9k87ZJgpa1bFxw2dsysxnbv8Dy1jsz5OiN4pgbVUuPa6tJ0dse8sS7KaxpDn3CMKNrw2MxpPq3xQlAoGLg0C2_FD4YeLsRL5bBQmJq5q1N4SN9aPHtScsP_VxC6cf3vnym/w400-h300/africablog407.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our train carriage kitchen, towards Ilebo, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />But this was not our problem. We had a flat, soft place to sleep, and we rapidly began to sink into dark, beautiful sleep. A volley of machine gun fire nearby attempted to thwart our descent into blissful peace but after a sleepy thought as to whether this is the moment in DRC travel when one should grab ones valuables and run into the forest, we trusted that all would be well and fell into wonderful, deep, uninterrupted sleep. We slept like kings. </p><p>After a good rest, the next day didn’t feel like the extreme torture of the day before. The skies were a bit overcast and so it wasn’t quite as swelteringly hot. We started making friends with our crew. They all transported goods for sale in Ilebo, mostly maize that they bought from the small villages we passed en route. They got to transport their cargo at better rates as they were train employees – it seems that they earned more from the trading than they did from their salaries. The other guys in the carriage were family and friends who they took along and who were also running businesses transporting goods up and down. They all did this long slow journey a few times a month with their cargo. Some of them sported fat moonbags of cash around their waists. We couldn’t understand how they were making so much cash but couldn’t even organise a mattress or few cushions to sleep on. Especially if they did this regularly. Everyone just grabbed whatever space there was on the metal benches, the table or on top of a pile of goods without any comfort. At one of the stops the train security guard came to hang out too. A tall good looking guy with a huge machine gun and a balaklava who looked very scary until you made eye contact and realised that he was just painfully shy, practically blushing at the slightest bit of attention. We asked about the machine gun fire the night before and he said he was just shooting in the air to chase away the kids who were crowding the train. We spoke about the legendary, brutal Mai-mai militia warriors who were believed to be invincible from the strong medicine they use. They apparently can’t even be killed with RPG rockets. If you shoot a rocket at them, they can catch it in their hands. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HLrOiMWZRX8" width="320" youtube-src-id="HLrOiMWZRX8"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Train surfing, Kananga to Ilebo, DRC</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrWxbaRMcscQHanMIELK1yjT3PJY6ExHDFBluzQxk5Xh1SlRsBoP8BThYU4ABAKLjxvTsFeqjWL28Ku0y3aqMsTAsuRMTsmtizr1xTFmdkAC0yj6QZ5j4MLQSdPe664rsh3JwhWwC4bw_/s1280/africablog406.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrWxbaRMcscQHanMIELK1yjT3PJY6ExHDFBluzQxk5Xh1SlRsBoP8BThYU4ABAKLjxvTsFeqjWL28Ku0y3aqMsTAsuRMTsmtizr1xTFmdkAC0yj6QZ5j4MLQSdPe664rsh3JwhWwC4bw_/w320-h400/africablog406.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's cooler on the roof, train to Ilebo, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />As we chugged past a village, we saw a whole crowd of people, men and women, walking together, the women carrying buckets and containers on their heads. They were walking in a type of serious, orderly formation, not walking and chatting to one another, as you would normally see a crowd of villagers do. Everyone in the train carriage leapt to their feet immediately to look. We found out that this village was in conflict with the neighbouring one. The chief of one village was demanding taxes from traders from other villages in order to trade in his market. There was also a ethnic dimension to the conflict as the villages were inhabited by different language groups (“tribes”). Some violence had broken out and now the women were in danger if they went alone to collect water down by the river. The previous night, 13 people were killed in a <a href="https://www.theeastafrican.co.ke/tea/rest-of-africa/dr-congo-clashes-3342968" target="_blank">brutal attack</a>. While the Congo is often synonymous with terrible violence, this is almost always in a relatively small region in the far east of the country - a world away from the Kasai province where we were travelling. When a state fails and the policing and justice systems seem to be focused more on extracting bribes/cadeaus from the population than providing a judicial service, then there is always the risk that people decide that they need to take the law into their own hands. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SzxGkSIZjvg" width="320" youtube-src-id="SzxGkSIZjvg"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Tour of our train carriage, half way to Ilebo, DRC</div><p>As the 2nd day progressed we got into the swing of train life and began to make friends and enjoy ourselves: wait for the poop poop poop “boy-o” drama so you can have toilet stop and hopefully find some hot dough balls (called vetkoek or amagwinya in South Africa) to have with peanut butter and the delicious Congolese filter coffee that we brewed on our little alcohol stove. At lunchtime, the team would get the coal burning stove going and make the best fufu we’d eaten with chopped cassava leaves and sauce made from tiny dried fish (like the kapenta of Tanganyika). The men and women each had their own communal plate. First you break off a piece of fufu with one hand, dip it in sauce, roll it around a few times into a fat sausage and then with your thumb push a bit into your mouth all the while rolling your fufu sausage, dipping it in sauce, collecting a bit more fufu from the communal plate and so on. For more entertainment you could climb on to the roof of the train with the crazy youngsters train surfing through the forest. One unusual thing we noted was the large number of people with albinism one sees in the villages of Kasai province. When we asked about this, we were told that Kasai province in particular was famous for this and that it was strongly believed that one should not mistreat albinos as they could curse you leading you to give birth to albino children. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-M66V_k6UNfvOra8FawTDLMtkF1WnBAC9I0wV7gO9oINR0lb6vdH7Lf-GCq-UFXqL26vRsCPxl_r9B4d9g6tZSaHq6MNKfRz0rLKtxcQs4XZDRAONPovg8CTsVpeFioHavc1Pep-BbzU-/s1280/africablog403.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-M66V_k6UNfvOra8FawTDLMtkF1WnBAC9I0wV7gO9oINR0lb6vdH7Lf-GCq-UFXqL26vRsCPxl_r9B4d9g6tZSaHq6MNKfRz0rLKtxcQs4XZDRAONPovg8CTsVpeFioHavc1Pep-BbzU-/w320-h400/africablog403.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best view in the house, train to Ilebo, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />In the afternoon we managed to organise a few buckets of water at one of the longer stops and find a somewhat private spot to have a bit of a wash. We also had to complete the obligatory visit to the train station immigration officials who needed to copy down all the details from our passports and march us off to pay for photocopies somewhere before going through their usual shakedown routine. This happened a few times on our way through the forest too with machine gun carrying soldiers in camouflage jumping on and off the train and also trying their luck with us. The Congolese official shakedown was always lurking: it could happen anywhere, at any time. Thus far we have always successfully refused and have yet to pay a cent.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OFgjYzmBuCg" width="320" youtube-src-id="OFgjYzmBuCg"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">How to eat Fufu correctly, train to Ilebo, DRC</div><p>In the evening we cooked noodles and bully beef sauce or canned sardines. As the days and nights passed we became firm friends with the crew and our fellow passengers. And we spent enjoyable hours sharing stories and learning how the ever-resourceful Congolese make a living under such challenging conditions. Some of the crew were eccentric characters who would have us all laughing as they dealt with the crazy train dramas that arose every few hours. Our 3rd night and the day that followed were filled with laughter and excited anticipation of arriving in Ilebo. </p><p>“Boy-O” depending, we hoped to arrive in Ilebo around lunchtime on the 3rd day. Every time we heard the poop-poop-poop going and the train pulling to a halt, there was a collective groan from crew and passengers. We slowly pushed forward: 60kms away, 50, 40... Lunchtime passed us by, we were now well into the afternoon. Slowly the day was slipping away. A few boy-o sessions later, it was starting to get dark but then suddenly we were only 2kms from Ilebo! We could see it on our google maps! But we were stopped, not moving. The boy-o repair was taking long. We were beginning to panic. This could take all night. We couldn’t possibly sleep another night on the filthy floor when there was a hotel within walking distance. But we were still in the forest and though the final stop was close, it wasn’t an easy walking path. Everyone just kept telling us to wait. It was excruciating. Then finally, the train moved a few hundred metres, shuddered to a stop next to a dirt crossroad and suddenly it was chaotic action – hurry, hurry – we grabbed our bags and jumped off the train, a couple of our crew helped push us through the thronging crowd, plopped us onto two motorbikes and we were whisked away along walking paths to the imposing Hotel des Palmes (The Palms Hotel). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidyfRr-f22PcfkOYHL1_Lkqdu_Uz5KFCsjEar5bQUV8nl7I5JkUFb-b-NmJ6MSy3L116QtiYOSNJfJr-VApGPLL3tFWiaFZWHnWpz18D9fqfrM1K8M2lDKSSLXS_jETqvrBckQcjQbBevS/s1024/africablog410.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidyfRr-f22PcfkOYHL1_Lkqdu_Uz5KFCsjEar5bQUV8nl7I5JkUFb-b-NmJ6MSy3L116QtiYOSNJfJr-VApGPLL3tFWiaFZWHnWpz18D9fqfrM1K8M2lDKSSLXS_jETqvrBckQcjQbBevS/w400-h300/africablog410.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Le Hotel des Palmes, Ilebo, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />Le Hotel des Palmes is like a crumbling mini-Mount Nelson Hotel - an old colonial style building that has not seen repairs for perhaps 50 years. After the train, we’d have been grateful for merely a clean bed and a place to have a proper wash. Rejane ran up the grand staircase with her backpack strapped to her back, now filthy with train grease and all the dirt of the journey. The rooms were enormous with high ceilings and stylish black and white floor tiles. Much of the old dark wood furniture remains with huge double doors that lead onto an enormous wrap around a balcony. At night you could picture King Albert and Queen Elizabeth of Belgium sipping their cocktails when they came to stay in 1912. In the morning the birds tweeted from the surrounding trees while the cool morning air drifted in through the double doors. The morning light also uncovered the deep discolouration and cracks in the tiles, the leftover red speckles of stoop paint on the balcony, the useless wires of the aircon machines that went nowhere, the dark spots coming through the large mirrors, the rotten sagging parts of the ceiling and in parts completely broken through and the mould weaving through the intricate designs of the balustrades. The saggy bed and the buckets of water for the bath and for flushing the toilet could also not exactly be hidden (there was even a non-functioning bidet!) but we were in heaven. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-12qcQDBzreKyKrOC_UA_Z6hQ1PBHIYDMaWvkcIpSOuF9nco9pUztuztgpDbOAjwDb_diQYgF9En_180ZBJXqLmFRt5JFt91w-Z3hMelsIsnP34yyiB4yctJQwoVydBStXu3hFwQ7k4-D/s1024/africablog408.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-12qcQDBzreKyKrOC_UA_Z6hQ1PBHIYDMaWvkcIpSOuF9nco9pUztuztgpDbOAjwDb_diQYgF9En_180ZBJXqLmFRt5JFt91w-Z3hMelsIsnP34yyiB4yctJQwoVydBStXu3hFwQ7k4-D/w400-h300/africablog408.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Le Hotel des Palmes, Ilebo, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />Having mentioned the King of Belgium, it’s perhaps appropriate to give a quick overview of the DRC’s history, where another, earlier King of Belgium, Leopold, stands out as one of the most ignoble characters in the country’s often sad and violent history. </p><p style="text-align: center;">*********** CONGO HISTORY ***********</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>The Congo forests have been inhabited by the AbaTwa (“Pygmies”) for perhaps ten thousand years. There are many AbaTwa in more remote parts of the forest to this day. A few thousand years ago Bantu tribes moved down from West Africa into the Congo with some moving through the forest and beyond ultimately populating Southern Africa. Perhaps the region’s most famous ancient civilisation was the Kingdom of the Kongo about 600 years ago. The Kongo traded with the first Portuguese ships that sailed down the West coast of Africa and one of the Kongo princes even studied in Portugal. Sadly one of the most traded “commodities” that the tribes sold to the Portuguese were enslaved people: the region that stretches from modern day Angola towards Gabon was one of the most heavily affected by the trans-Atlantic slave trade. When the trans-Atlantic slave trade was finally banned in 1808, many ships continued to smuggle enslaved people to the Americas. When these ships were intercepted by the British navy, the enslaved understandably didn’t want to be returned to the communities that had enslaved them in the first place so they were taken to Sierra Leone and Liberia where they became the new elite and their descendants are still referred to as Kongos to this day. </p><p>At the Berlin conferences in 1884 where Africa was disgracefully dissected and allocated to various European nations, the Congo – the least known region – was allocated to King Leopold II of Belgium who registered the country as his own private company. While the journey of Henry Morton Stanley and his African team from the source of the Congo river to its mouth is truly one of the most epic adventures any group of people have ever under-taken, the horrors and brutality they experienced along the way so coloured his view of the region that he seems to have been blinded to the even greater brutality that followed when his benefactor, King Leopold, unleashed a reign of terror on the people of Congo in his desperate quest for every greater quantities of valuable rubber. Leopold’s Congolese “Force Publique” were known to kill and disfigure villagers who didn’t meet their rubber collection quotas. To prevent wastage of bullets, amputated hands were required as proof of the number of bullets used. Perhaps as many as 10 million people died during this period – mostly from Sleeping Sickness – which spread rapidly along the newly created transport routes. So brutal was the King’s reign that the ensuing outrage in Europe led to the Belgium government being forced to remove the Congo as the King’s private possession, and to take control of the country as a Belgian colony in 1908. </p><p>For the next 52 years the Congo existed as a colony – with the Belgians regarded as rather unenlightened colonisers even by the absurd standards of the day. Much infrastructure was built and many successful industries created (Lever Brothers began in the Congo – making their first “Sunlight” soaps from Congolese palm oil) but the investment in the Congolese people themselves, while good at the primary school level, was close to non-existent when it came to tertiary education. By 1960 there was not a single qualified Congolese doctor, engineer, lawyer or economist. There was also not a single Congolese army officer. As the wave of activism for independence began to wash over the continent in the 1950’s, it seems that few people in Belgium and even within the Congo foresaw an independent African country in central Africa. When a Belgian journalist who had lived and worked in Congo proposed that the Congo undergo a 30 year process of handing over power to the Congolese, this was ridiculed as absurdly ambitious. </p><p>But after Ghana became independent in 1957 the Congolese independence movement was catalysed. Three charismatic Congolese leaders, Lumumba, Kasavubu and Tshombe, emerged and led the demands for Congolese independence. In the late 50’s a series of anti-Belgian riots broke out in Congo, and Belgium felt increasing pressure from other European countries to join in the wave of decolonisation sweeping the continent. Whereas just a few years before, it was unimaginable that Congo would be independent within 30 years, the Belgians now wanted to be rid of the colony as soon as possible. At the independence negotiations in Belgium in 1960, the Congolese found that instead of having to fight tooth and nail to win independence years into the future, the Belgians willingly said they would give up the country within 6 months. The Congolese negotiators were stunned by their good fortune. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvniraguPFHdlIqXizhbwAuqnJikwvxRYggYoBAF8vaeTcmQF-CvvXHkuwx_u6ir_IycVrVu-sFtvpfCZcK2CYXkGEk3tOXE836P6-UZCHOjH0FYrknUxS6VLrgy0djHFDT4zI_GLhA0es/s1280/africablog409.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvniraguPFHdlIqXizhbwAuqnJikwvxRYggYoBAF8vaeTcmQF-CvvXHkuwx_u6ir_IycVrVu-sFtvpfCZcK2CYXkGEk3tOXE836P6-UZCHOjH0FYrknUxS6VLrgy0djHFDT4zI_GLhA0es/w320-h400/africablog409.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Le Hotel des Palmes has seen better days, Ilebo, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />But this proved a pyrrhic victory: almost immediately elections were held but conflict developed between the three Congolese leaders and the regions they represented. At the same time anti-Belgian violence erupted in the Congo and the ensuing killings caused the majority of Belgians, including almost the entire professional and commercial classes, to flee the country within a matter of months. Tshombe launched a war to force his mineral rich Katanga province to secede from the rest of the country and Prime Minister Lumumba and President Kasavubu fell out. Lumumba’s unorthodox behaviour in flying to the USA without invitation and demanding to meet the President created a negative image of his presidential suitability in the West. This being the time of the Cold War, his fate was soon afterwards tragically sealed when he naively made requests for help from the Soviet Union. Until then, the Cold War had mostly played out in Eastern Europe, but Lumumba had now inadvertently placed himself and his country right in the middle of a battle between the giant elephants of the West and the USSR, and like the saying goes, Lumumba was trampled underneath like grass. The USA feared that he may give the USSR and communism a foothold in Central Africa and as the country descended into chaos, the CIA and/or the Belgians, working with military rebels led by Colonel Mobutu, assassinated Lumumba in January 1961. While Lumumba has become an icon to many, interestingly within the country we encountered decidedly mixed feelings towards him. Many said that he rushed the transition to independence and failed to build unity between regional and ethnic factions which ultimately led to the governmental and economic collapse that followed. However, it seems fair to say that Kasavubu and Tshombe amongst others, share the blame for this too. </p><p>Mobutu became president through a coup in 1965 and his first years in power were seen as somewhat productive and constructive but during the 1970’s he began his descent into becoming a notorious kleptocrat who pillaged the country of billions of dollars. He bought a dozen castles in Europe and built his own opulent palace in his village deep in the jungle - it even had a landing strip to allow the Concorde to take him on shopping trips in Paris. He famously flew his tailor in from Belgium to visit him on a monthly basis - at the taxpayers’ expense - after all, Mrs Mobutu had a 50 metre long walk in closet to fill. Mobutu’s corruption and extravagance became so infamous that a little-used English word was resurrected to describe his leadership: a “kleptocracy”. Mobutu was also a brutal and violent dictator who tortured and executed opponents, sometimes publicly.</p><p>As part of his decolonisation/Africanisation policy, Mobutu renamed the country “Zaire” and himself as Mobutu Sese Seko Nkuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga meaning "The all-powerful warrior who, because of his endurance and inflexible will to win, goes from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake." Every city and person was ordered to change their names from Western names to traditional African names - interestingly, the most prominent person to defy this rule was Mobutu’s wife, Marie-Antionette.</p><p>Despite his blatant thieving, Western powers saw him as a bulwark against the expansion of Soviet communism and he was invited as an honoured guest to all the world’s capitals on multiple occasions. He visited the White House many times, and President Reagan described him as the “voice of good sense and goodwill” in Africa. Much of the money he stole was loans and grants from Western governments and the IMF. France and Belgium both sent troops on a number of occasions to help keep him in power. His anti-Soviet stance also attracted support from Mao Zedong’s China and made him an ally of Apartheid South Africa and Israel. </p><p>As the Zairian economy imploded, both the funds and the skills required to maintain the country’s vast infrastructure evaporated. Road, railways, electricity infrastructure, water systems, buildings, school, hospitals all began to collapse. By the 1990’s things were so bad that Mobutu allowed the national army to “pay themselves” by looting shops and other businesses. These notorious pillaging sessions left the cities looking like they’d been ravaged by swarms of giant locusts. The collapse of the USSR and the ending of the Cold War meant that Mobutu’s erstwhile bankrollers in the West no longer needed him as a Cold War ally and were now too embarrassed to continue supporting him. As the country descended into hyper-inflation and total economic collapse, Mobutu began to engage with civil society and negotiate with political opponents, but there was little meaningful change. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eznwp4nzkB8" width="320" youtube-src-id="eznwp4nzkB8"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Tour of Le Hotel des Palmes, Ilebo, DRC</div><p>Following the Rwandan Genocide in 1994 and the subsequent victory of Paul Kagame’s RPF movement, a million Hutu refugees and hundreds of thousands of the murderous Interahamwe militias fled to Eastern Zaire. The Interahamwe launched attacks on Rwanda from their bases in and around the refugee camps and it appeared as if Mobutu was either unwilling or unable to stop them. When Mobutu gave the order that all Zaireans of Tutsi ethnicity (known as the Banyamulenge) should either leave Zaire or be killed, this led Rwanda and Uganda to support a rebel group led by Laurent Kabila which entered the east of the country, emptied the refugees camps and within a matter of months had defeated the demoralised Zairean army. Mobutu fled to Morocco and died there a few months later from cancer. He was 66 years old.</p><p>President Laurent Kabila ruled a more or less stable country, renamed the Democratic Republic of the Congo, for four years until he was assassinated by some of his own men, after which he was replaced by his son, Joseph Kabila, aged just 29 years old. During President Joseph Kabila’s 18 year reign, he was much criticised for stealing perhaps hundreds of millions of dollars and for not being able to stop the ongoing violence in the east of the country. Those who are more charitable might say that at the same time, the economy stabilised and began to grow. Foreign investors began to regard the DRC as an opportunity, rather than a chaotic basket-case, and investments in the country’s vast mineral wealth began to trickle, and later, rush in. He was elected for the maximum of two presidential terms in two somewhat “democratic” elections. At the end of his second term in 2018, and despite Kabila’s best efforts, the opposition leader Felix Tshishikedi (whose father was a famous opposition leader to Mobutu) defeated Kabila’s preferred candidate. The fact that Kabila was not able to rig the election is perhaps a backhanded compliment to his leadership. </p><p>President Tshishikedi was initially thought to have been subsequently “bought” by Kabila and many of Kabila’s allies appeared in important positions of power. But over the past year, President Tshishikedi has systematically sidelined Kabila’s allies and is now seen as his own man. The outlook for the country is looking more optimistic than it has for – perhaps – ever. The most powerful opposition figure is the much-loved <a href="https://www.timesofisrael.com/son-of-greek-jewish-holocaust-refugee-now-one-of-most-powerful-leaders-in-congo/" target="_blank">Moise Katumbi, the Jewish former-governor of Katanga province </a>who achieved some impressive results in improving the economy and expanding education and water services during his eight years in charge of the province. Thankfully neither Tshishikedi nor Katumbi have a history leading armed militias and both have shown a willingness to work together for the good of the country. So, whoever wins the next election, one can be hopeful of more years of relative political stability and economic growth and thus greater prosperity for the Congo’s long suffering population. While the horrific conflicts in the east remain a scar on the face of DRC and on all humanity, it is important to remember that this is a small region in a vast country. For the first time in a long time, there is reason to be optimistic about the DRC. (However, we will be watching closely the <a href="https://www.africanews.com/2021/07/15/drc-mixed-feelings-over-draft-law-limiting-presidential-eligibility//" target="_blank">recent moves by Tshishikedi</a> to ban presidential candidates whose parents were not both born in the DRC. A law aimed at one person: Katumbi). </p><p style="text-align: center;">*************** END OF HISTORY ***************</p><p><br /></p><p>We spent almost a week in Ilebo at the Hotel Des Palmes overlooking the mighty Kasai river, the watery highway that leads all the way to Kinshasa. Our days were spent shopping for food in the markets where amazingly – despite the plethora of Ebola outbreaks as well as the small matter of a coronavirus pandemic – we found dead bats for sale in the bush meat market! </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4wuUVXzNu9O9Ca7hv5ND6h1bl2jk0MEjB-ZVTeNurXgrHCILyTO1l4T51Y2rH9pnhB7EbJnED-ASdQ38F0wXFlepvelNQPIm5YrWTTvZ1gsqDW591a0RFh4bkq0MNgh0CfDGOk4jOh-g/s1280/africablog411.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4wuUVXzNu9O9Ca7hv5ND6h1bl2jk0MEjB-ZVTeNurXgrHCILyTO1l4T51Y2rH9pnhB7EbJnED-ASdQ38F0wXFlepvelNQPIm5YrWTTvZ1gsqDW591a0RFh4bkq0MNgh0CfDGOk4jOh-g/w320-h400/africablog411.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bat is still on the menu, Ilebo market, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />It was in Ilebo that we heard the happy news that The North Face was refunding the full cost of our leaky tent which we complained about bitterly in previous blogs. The matter had been resolved by our friends Heather Hope and Volkan Akkurt who doggedly harangued North Face and impressed upon them that we were important “influencers” (!) that deserved their attention and assistance. Thanks guys!!</p><p>Ilebo had some okay restaurant shacks and a bigger market than most towns to explore. The markets always present us with a bit of a dilemma. On the one hand, the common practice of doubling or tripling the price when a (very rare) “Mundele” (white person) appears is quite alienating and irritating. On the other hand – being good bargainers – means that we can often force the price down to the local price… but at what cost? Certainly the market woman needs those few extra cents she’s charging for her onion more than we do. But at the same time, if one just accepts absurdly inflated prices based on skin colour, one just perpetuates notions of the “other” and the acceptability of discrimination. As much as the market woman needs those few cents more than we do, those few extra cents will not change her reality one iota in the bigger scheme of things. In the end we generally just keep the negotiations fun and happy and ease off when we can see we are approaching a fair price. We may pay fractionally more but we don’t look like clueless suckers who don’t understand the value of things. </p><p>After a few walkabouts in Ilebo we noticed that there was a bit of an edge to the calls of “Mundele” (Lingala for “white person”) or “Chinois”. Many younger kids sounded like they were almost mocking us to our faces. A few times we took the time to engage the kids in the presence of adults and asked why they would disrespect strangers which made their eyes go wide and earn a rebuke from their parents. Sadly this habit of mocking Chinese people and other outsiders has seemingly offended the very small Chinese community in the town and one could sense they felt quite alienated from the Congolese. We too had felt that the atmosphere had become a bit more antagonistic since entering the Kasai province. When you were a stranger just walking about, a minority of people could be outright rude or mocking. But once you had made a connection and engaged with people, the atmosphere would change completely, and we made some very cool friends. Why the atmosphere should be so different between Lualaba province and Kasai province is a mystery. Whatever the reason, it is not the traditional friendliness that strangers and travellers like us love about our continent.</p><p>After a couple of days we made our way to the river harbour. Our next mission was to find a boat to get to Kinshasa. Down at the harbour we began our completely naive enquiries, trying to figure out how it all worked, who was in charge, who could give us info, who might just be bullshitting. After a few visits, we learned that there was indeed a boat going in a few days, a good boat. The “Mama Zalima”. There were definitely good boats and bad boats. A good boat could get you to Kinshasa in a week. A bad boat, well, that might take a month. We were lucky, the Mama Zalima was a good boat, it did this journey once every three months, and it was due to depart on Monday. It was Friday, we had time to meet the Captain and try and get a spot.</p><p>As is common in the DRC, one random guy emerged as the person who would be negotiating on our behalf and helping us get in front of the Captain. The next day we were told to come down to the harbour. There we sat waiting for a while. The usual wait-patiently-and-see move but the Captain wasn’t there so we’d have to come back. The next day we tried again. This time he was there. An entourage followed us. We sat down and the discussions began. We asked about the possibility of securing a cabin. It was a cargo ship, he explained. There was no accommodation for passengers. But there was a city of tents and makeshift shelters, cooking areas, sleeping areas, etc. couldn’t we just put up our tent somewhere in a corner? We would be no trouble at all. No, no, he said. These conditions were not for tourists. It rained a lot, at night sometimes. There weren’t any cabins. But we were tough, we protested, we just needed a spot and we would be fine in our tent. We asked very, very nicely. Okay, he said, they would think about a solution and our random guy would let us know. </p><p>The next day we contacted our random-guy. Sorry he said, it looked like the answer was a “no”. Now what? How the hell were we to get out of Ilebo? We wouldn’t get another boat as good as the Mama Zalima. We decided to bypass random-guy and appeal to the Captain directly ourselves, without a crowd tagging along. </p><p>Our long appeal to the Captain worked. It seemed that he had never said ‘no” to our random-guy. There was no way he was letting us camp in our tent along with the rest of the cargo and the city of people on the boat, but we could rent the cabin of the second in command for a reasonable sum. The cabin was a little 2m by 2m metal box with nothing inside but it was easy to clean properly - we were thrilled! At night we could lay down our inflatable mattresses and put up our mosquito net. During the day we could pack our “bed” away and had two plastic chairs to sit on and we could cook our meals on our little alcohol stove whenever we wanted. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgERdB8ZLHcStLv3uPwhAPQ81Ks9aWPiR2_broiayrXg0Uu2wb38qPRKkY3HYr3tv4hi5h8TZF3YvzReRfCYT__cXM2Hyp5dI7QQmsZ4kO5syGtnUTA3opChxtUp5QChU1TAkffPFvacov2/s1024/africablog412.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgERdB8ZLHcStLv3uPwhAPQ81Ks9aWPiR2_broiayrXg0Uu2wb38qPRKkY3HYr3tv4hi5h8TZF3YvzReRfCYT__cXM2Hyp5dI7QQmsZ4kO5syGtnUTA3opChxtUp5QChU1TAkffPFvacov2/w400-h300/africablog412.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mama Zalima, our boat to Kinshasa, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwS7laK0wG0352Ss9jiZvm0tM1umZZJaSg69WQGzCFHd4tUGVSv4JQ__TbgtdCuitn2c96-IOMsy_1cJpH2eohY_z8PIngnwxIab07jzZszEQR7-leGE7rvtBuVj_9Cz0Il82YhTk5E1g/s1024/africablog426.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwS7laK0wG0352Ss9jiZvm0tM1umZZJaSg69WQGzCFHd4tUGVSv4JQ__TbgtdCuitn2c96-IOMsy_1cJpH2eohY_z8PIngnwxIab07jzZszEQR7-leGE7rvtBuVj_9Cz0Il82YhTk5E1g/w400-h300/africablog426.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mama Zalima engine room, Kasai river, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />The boat itself resembled a tug-boat and it pushed three large barges ahead of it which were filled with hundreds of tons in each of their holds while the barge decks were covered in a small tarpaulin city of people with their merchandise on their way to sell in Kinshasa.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DifZDUqDYYQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="DifZDUqDYYQ"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sights and sounds while sailing down the Kasai river, DRC</i></div></i><p>There was a communal 1m x 1m bathroom on deck with a toilet that dropped through to the river and which you could stand over to have a bucket bath. During the day we would sit up on deck, read, eat snacks and chat to the other passengers. The gentle captain, Papa Gabi, and his crew were super kind and helpful and went out of their way to make sure we were as comfortable as possible. Fresh dough balls were made right on the ship and we had them hot with peanut butter and chocolate sauce. Every now and then we stopped at village ports to offload or onboard goods. We initially wondered how Papa Gabi would be able to weigh and thus calculate the transport cost for all the giant sacks being loaded onto the ship. It turned out that the calculation was straightforward: there was a flat rate of about US$10 per sack irrespective of how much it weighed. And what was stopping the passengers creating monster sacks weighing tons you may ask? Simple: the criteria was that one man must carry the sack alone from the river bank onto the ship. As a result, there was a thriving business on the river banks for the strongest men who could carry the heaviest sacks of maize and thus make a little extra money for the maize traders. The strongest men could carry a bag weighing as much as 150kg (the equivalent of 3 bags of cement!) on their shoulders as they walked along the narrow plank leading to the ship. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBjLAfY_avP8_vAG0hwGnw7kkd27p_1AISKNH8k5-p5V-amEdxDWSBzCa99401q3TDm-e9cB2jtbZ4FNtFWYWH0KcjMOBVlCJrvrk4o8MTjVGrEtYFertgg5EUkOtbe70JV53OPvuBUwHq/s1280/africablog418.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBjLAfY_avP8_vAG0hwGnw7kkd27p_1AISKNH8k5-p5V-amEdxDWSBzCa99401q3TDm-e9cB2jtbZ4FNtFWYWH0KcjMOBVlCJrvrk4o8MTjVGrEtYFertgg5EUkOtbe70JV53OPvuBUwHq/w320-h400/africablog418.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our three barges that we were pushing to Kinshasa, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oU-WrjkbepE" width="320" youtube-src-id="oU-WrjkbepE"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Man loading a heavy bag on to our boat, Kasai river, DRC</i></div></i><p>We could disembark on average once a day to buy fresh veggies, fruit and other general supplies at village ports. We also had lots of time to learn and practice French using the excellent Duolingo app. Duolingo has tons of languages on it and you learn with fun games and clever cartoon characters. Another very useful language learning tool is the free Coffee Break French podcast which is also available in a range of languages. In the evenings the boat would dock for the night and Dave would try to fish, with no luck. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1WjDW0uJVGPb_KJVOruNwl7PCAvQcivMDaHkyacw8r2Vtb-QsPLYytxRiWCKQzme4syuJmSFft1G9E0eBJB3343SCQ-tQ-hToL9ekVMR3ws3zzyb6rxfiJefa2HBUv24ntwGktynSukv/s1024/africablog419.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1WjDW0uJVGPb_KJVOruNwl7PCAvQcivMDaHkyacw8r2Vtb-QsPLYytxRiWCKQzme4syuJmSFft1G9E0eBJB3343SCQ-tQ-hToL9ekVMR3ws3zzyb6rxfiJefa2HBUv24ntwGktynSukv/w400-h300/africablog419.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kasai river, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIuNYllq_S6O5DH61lH-1q9NvMtcPCU8I0Gt1-Uy_NMeucosdIy5DGVipSJn4t0VSfE3Z6d5ROpVom_JTosftn88omVURw48fxo2pEqFAs2oGpEcw09xD7yb0QiXY6zwqaK7v5JQDkm4Q/s1024/africablog417.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIuNYllq_S6O5DH61lH-1q9NvMtcPCU8I0Gt1-Uy_NMeucosdIy5DGVipSJn4t0VSfE3Z6d5ROpVom_JTosftn88omVURw48fxo2pEqFAs2oGpEcw09xD7yb0QiXY6zwqaK7v5JQDkm4Q/w400-h300/africablog417.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arriving at a small river village to dock for the evening, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItrkLVegCAYnqo3Cu6IiE0er-Ck-lcy2BmuSH82EXWkNaqj7Ix6VtFeO1_vUBn-2N4x8SlpV5dWPPIWduRT4hv-_WIb2XI6tF6GO2nMhYccR_ZBU3uBYkOoJLsHyPC67n7obf1-xF6VT8/s1024/africablog415.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItrkLVegCAYnqo3Cu6IiE0er-Ck-lcy2BmuSH82EXWkNaqj7Ix6VtFeO1_vUBn-2N4x8SlpV5dWPPIWduRT4hv-_WIb2XI6tF6GO2nMhYccR_ZBU3uBYkOoJLsHyPC67n7obf1-xF6VT8/w400-h300/africablog415.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over the Kasai river, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ZX6olGWyqaE" width="320" youtube-src-id="ZX6olGWyqaE"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>More sights while sailing the Kasai river. DRC</i></div></i><p>We sailed steadily at about 12km/h passing slower, much less comfortable looking boats laden with cargo. We were definitely on one of the best boats on the river. For five days we sailed down the Kasai river with huge forests on either bank. Looking east, it was incredible to see the enormous, beautiful trees and think that the forest stretched unbroken for almost 1000km until near the Ugandan border. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rH00DCXKKSU" width="320" youtube-src-id="rH00DCXKKSU"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Giant trees of the Congo forest stretching for 1000km into the distance, DRC</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_xvHv_j26kE" width="320" youtube-src-id="_xvHv_j26kE"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Passing a riverside village on the Kasai river, DRC </i></div></i><p>After a while, the forest on the western bank suddenly gave way to what looked like kilometres and kilometres of plantations. Palm oil. This is the giant Brabanta plantation where Unilever (then known as Lever Brothers) was born, where William Lever invented Sunlight soap and where the soap cottage industry still thrives. You can buy crude bars of soap in every little village in the Congo. We stopped at a nearby village and dozens of jerrycans of palm oil were loaded onto our ship. When asked, some young guys smiled and said, “if you lived here you would also steal palm oil from the plantation.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAvQJmUyd4fkhor8wVPXSl-PTVIkkLKSI8qrWd9zFToz-O8NYiOJd9gnXLfuZ3C-YGjza4qr7Ydx39AZipudhqJHMhFAdTqKa6sufTdVfK_vFR2HjiXVDtiEWhwRf_RKMI381eCI3F63PB/s1024/africablog416.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAvQJmUyd4fkhor8wVPXSl-PTVIkkLKSI8qrWd9zFToz-O8NYiOJd9gnXLfuZ3C-YGjza4qr7Ydx39AZipudhqJHMhFAdTqKa6sufTdVfK_vFR2HjiXVDtiEWhwRf_RKMI381eCI3F63PB/w400-h300/africablog416.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishing, Kasai river, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizdu0ykQn66ig9h9HjO-6xZj-9loQaKfx1Jl9gpJJVSH_6i6cIHOWZwL8IoCLfpQs0FRxNvH1vcWRTdiZW31H6uvY_yFQ77sDpcqphcgCgkC-0r7_uY-O_ZM4DPp1xM7Lnx_cGo1tMEHw7/s1024/africablog424.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizdu0ykQn66ig9h9HjO-6xZj-9loQaKfx1Jl9gpJJVSH_6i6cIHOWZwL8IoCLfpQs0FRxNvH1vcWRTdiZW31H6uvY_yFQ77sDpcqphcgCgkC-0r7_uY-O_ZM4DPp1xM7Lnx_cGo1tMEHw7/w400-h300/africablog424.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A less luxurious boat, Kasai river, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RBep7x29zg0" width="320" youtube-src-id="RBep7x29zg0"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Glad we didn't catch this boat, Kasai river, DRC</i></div></i><p>On one day there was a lengthy delay at one of the river ports. It turned out that our ship was getting a bit of a shakedown by the local Customs officials. The DRC might be the only country where one has to pay Customs Duties when you transport goods into another province of the same country. As with the more common “road checkpoints” that pollute the continent, the modus operandi is to threaten to spend days inspecting the ship and its cargo, or to pay a “fee” for instant processing. Things got quite heated for the Captain and his crew, but within a few hours we were on our way again. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdjboK8Zghv4wiwpEuJk3dxT_l4wOa6TmwbkaHu-segV_4cUiKGdgv6YdwDXSAw4vUUAOGtPlNajKgVi-lmLjVijMN94Z9qsnEZOv9QRvEc-yJMgx3cSA0s1hm7p-uN27J9gRDU-uzwyX/s1024/africablog414.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdjboK8Zghv4wiwpEuJk3dxT_l4wOa6TmwbkaHu-segV_4cUiKGdgv6YdwDXSAw4vUUAOGtPlNajKgVi-lmLjVijMN94Z9qsnEZOv9QRvEc-yJMgx3cSA0s1hm7p-uN27J9gRDU-uzwyX/w400-h300/africablog414.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paying customs at this port to enter a new province took long, DRC<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fgJdmkS8nYI" width="320" youtube-src-id="fgJdmkS8nYI"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>More sights and sounds while sailing down the Kasai river, DRC</i></div></i><p>On the fifth day, the large Kasai River began to mix with some clearer waters. We were heading west and were about to merge with the Congo. The river we’d been on was big, but this one was different; we were merging into a mighty one. Everyone was on deck appreciating the moment. These traders and sailors had done this journey many times but when we reached the Congo river, it was still a special moment and everyone stood in appreciation and awe. The Congo is ironically called “le Fleuve” (the Stream) while all other rivers are called “les rivieres” by the Congolese. There were huge kilometer countdown boards on the side of the river counting down the kilometres to Kinshasa. As we sailed the last couple of days down the Congo with the DRC on the left and the Republic of Congo on the right, it was noticeable how much better living conditions and infrastructure were on the Republic of Congo side. Oil riches, a small population and 22 years of peaceful, though authoritarian, rule make a big difference.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM4hp5O1vnuHp-el1g73sSf-k0OK1CAQckPQp1O7UESvwzpoqxurqJDzIIIh6lLh5cfjuHGmU02jyUvuXAEZjAMBPCJghDpgxnOJnGrk7ia_urq0I2lZcB7TLk9J3epE-XbDP1TEY09WxS/s1024/africablog413.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM4hp5O1vnuHp-el1g73sSf-k0OK1CAQckPQp1O7UESvwzpoqxurqJDzIIIh6lLh5cfjuHGmU02jyUvuXAEZjAMBPCJghDpgxnOJnGrk7ia_urq0I2lZcB7TLk9J3epE-XbDP1TEY09WxS/w400-h300/africablog413.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doing laundery on the Mama Zalima, Kasai river, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDn3shUWGpTRLp1Pa6eah4_q9v3AeFnp4mcqGa7bSevv5InYpZPZyzCBr2iAzXvIYcJiQoM8rnJ3f_O49SfpbSllEry7NWAybmpdxoGRqQ78ejOfO1TNQzGnjOlt6nQQ2ZyDzOtC7XenMw/s1024/africablog422.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDn3shUWGpTRLp1Pa6eah4_q9v3AeFnp4mcqGa7bSevv5InYpZPZyzCBr2iAzXvIYcJiQoM8rnJ3f_O49SfpbSllEry7NWAybmpdxoGRqQ78ejOfO1TNQzGnjOlt6nQQ2ZyDzOtC7XenMw/w400-h300/africablog422.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of our friends on the Mama Zalima, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBCkg7t7o7VS5k1JZkJ7UN9ZXubehbFqoDGd28llLGSeZvb2y6pjEERyQ2jN5KOuR0Rr0YyM3PXlfKVFUgeNtzu-5quiLwD1kSzzEbOBev8FaQ7o6FdlSZ8rWmYHb3FqlZCa6pGryBdZJ/s1024/africablog423.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXBCkg7t7o7VS5k1JZkJ7UN9ZXubehbFqoDGd28llLGSeZvb2y6pjEERyQ2jN5KOuR0Rr0YyM3PXlfKVFUgeNtzu-5quiLwD1kSzzEbOBev8FaQ7o6FdlSZ8rWmYHb3FqlZCa6pGryBdZJ/w400-h300/africablog423.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our cabin on the riverboat, Kasai river, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LhGpH9CuozY" width="320" youtube-src-id="LhGpH9CuozY"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A tour of our river boat, Kasai river, DRC</i></div></i><p>On the eighth day tall buildings appeared in the distance, surrounded by the polluted haze of the big city. We were excited. We were ready to be off the boat, to see the legendary city of Kinshasa, the second biggest city in Sub-Saharan Africa (after Lagos). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyT0ta6nv8a9-IVlI7v0LLkaNyxJ1Mglr7rAxyLKaA2KSqWF0RICsJVS-bCRCfRq_M-f4ib3GFjV5Nj6Y7NuFVl6Q7Gd9aoEBIvMZvFiip21xps-tWjcXcVq2enRkVXuc4PzYKvomBbi7Q/s1024/africablog421.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyT0ta6nv8a9-IVlI7v0LLkaNyxJ1Mglr7rAxyLKaA2KSqWF0RICsJVS-bCRCfRq_M-f4ib3GFjV5Nj6Y7NuFVl6Q7Gd9aoEBIvMZvFiip21xps-tWjcXcVq2enRkVXuc4PzYKvomBbi7Q/w400-h300/africablog421.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hooray! Kinshasa!!! DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZU3nQDEhWsMVLkHD10UPiVDqbA6ciGan2EfLh_VV34ijyS4uhwcFhH2K9nRqoJxUnEjxJr354avabaBxxq1LibSw5maVmkxno2rWPrmJ_LeCyAzC169vZr9Zfu-muoQVKxwR_H24hXZH/s1024/africablog420.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZU3nQDEhWsMVLkHD10UPiVDqbA6ciGan2EfLh_VV34ijyS4uhwcFhH2K9nRqoJxUnEjxJr354avabaBxxq1LibSw5maVmkxno2rWPrmJ_LeCyAzC169vZr9Zfu-muoQVKxwR_H24hXZH/w400-h300/africablog420.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Papa Gabi and his team, Mama Zalima, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />For some reason our ship couldn’t dock when we arrived so we just had to wait. Everyone else seemed to be hopping across the barges and getting paddled across to the port in piroques. That was too risky for us, the crew said, and they tried to get us to be patient and wait till the boat could dock. We waited patiently for another couple of hours until we’d had enough. It was a five minute paddle in a piroque, we were made of sterner stuff, we would take the risk. So we ignored the concern and just took our things, hailed a piroque and bid a fond farewell to our boat family. After the necessary stops at the immigration office and the head of police, which was less painful than usual (no money requested), we were in the thick of Kinshasa’s traffic-jammed chaos. </p><p>We jumped into a taxi and headed for the area known as Ngiri Ngiri where we’d managed to find a little one bedroom flat, the cheapest accommodation on AirBnb. Every Congolese we spoke to raised their eyebrows when we said we were staying in Ngiri Ngiri – we were not sure why. The flat was comfortable enough and had some solar energy which was useful since the government electricity seemed to come on for just a few hours a day and often only in the middle of the night. You had to make sure that you had plugged your devices in before you went to sleep so that they could charge a bit overnight. While our flat was fairly unremarkable, the moment you stepped out the gate, it felt like you had entered another realm. Our street was dark and a little quieter than other parts of the city with only a few motorbike taxis racing up and down and a half-decent side-walk that we could walk along. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cZHnn3X6z50" width="320" youtube-src-id="cZHnn3X6z50"></iframe></div><i style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Backstreet markets of Matonge, Kinshasa</i></div></i><p>We were told to head for Assossa Avenue where all the action was. As we neared Assossa Ave the road disintegrated into giant pools of water and piles of plastic litter which you had to weave your way around. At the same time, motorbikes, cars and pedestrians materialised in their chaotic multitudes and you had to constantly swivel your head in every direction to make sure there wasn’t a motorbike hurtling towards you in an attempt to dodge a swamp, a pile of bricks, a car, another person. As we turned into Assossa we entered full Kinshasa chaos with music and heaving crowds of people everywhere. By chance or through planning genius, this part of Kinshasa has sidewalks on either side of the road as wide as the road itself. As a result, every sidewalk is filled with chairs and tables creating a wonderful atmosphere of restaurants, bars and street food. Many of the bars have set up giant flat screen TVs to attract patrons wanting to watch European football. We found a good spot in the thick of things, that became our “local”, where we ate delicious, huge chicken thighs with rice and veg for about $3 which we could wash down with a choice of Congo’s famous beers. People-watching paradise. Further explorations found a man and a soft serve machine making delicious ice creams. We would invariably hang out in this area for a few hours at night before braving the chaos and heading back home to our apartment.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/laDSDYtVplI" width="320" youtube-src-id="laDSDYtVplI"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Driving through Kinshasa, taxi view, DRC</i></div></i><p>The days that followed were spent wandering the streets of Kinshasa as if in a psychedelic fever dream. To walk from Ngiri Ngiri to the party capital of Matonge was… motorbikes rushing at you from behind and in front, side walk in OK condition, slabs of concrete above deep storm water drains with pitch black sludge, occasionally an island of thousands of empty plastic bottles in a drain, did they collect here by themselves or is someone collecting them, we are in the remote control section now, the next 50m of sidewalk is lined with traders selling used remotes for TVs, aircon, hifis – who buys these, how does it work, do you just ask if you have a remote for xyz TV and the guy digs through his pile, will the remote even work, how would you test it, can't stop and ask as there are people pushing from in front and behind and motorbikes hooting hooting, now we’re in the used furniture section, fancy coffee tables and TV tables, all glass and mirrors, where are these from, surely not used goods from within Kinshasa, do rich countries export old lounge furniture, my arm is grabbed, hey you show me your documents, the flash of some official looking ID card, my passport is in the hotel, ooohhh big problem, here’s a photocopy, nooo we need original, another man appears, smart but relaxed, what’s the problem here, they haven’t got their documents, where are they from, South Africa, but there’s no problem with South Africans, the officials begin to argue with the smart guy, we grab the passport copy and march off hoping not to be called back, and we’re back in the ceaseless flow of people on a mission, and now its old appliances, old washing machines and fridges, from where, is it worth the shipping from overseas, oh the musical instrument section, nice, brand new electric guitars, drum kits, monster speakers and amps, trombones, trumpets, wow the Congolese music industry is BIG, and the people know their equipment, none of those terrible distorted sounds from over-amplified speakers, crisp powerful music, whoa a soldier with a big gun in the road, standing in front of a small empty red car shouting and waving, what’s that about, why is the car in the middle of the road blocking everyone and where are the car people, baguettes, so many baguettes, broken computer and broken smartphone section, heaps of them, can they be fixed, hardware section, we need a washer for our water filter, no washers, just pieces of rubber to cut your own washer, beautiful Congolese women tall and thin with the cool spiky hairstyle, how does one look so elegant in this chaos, people walk fast here, no SA languid strolling here, minibuses have people riding on the back bumper as standard, do they pay or are they just hitching a lift, bike crashes into a car, the car driver doesn’t even bother to look, drives off, is this the only city where minor crashes and scratches are so frequent that people don’t even seem to notice, equal number of cars with steering wheels on the left as on the right, cheap imports, turn left, a backstreet, a road seemingly made from crushed plastic bottles, a layer of charcoal dust covers everything, fruit, veg, men coated in white powder, carrying sacks of manioc flower from the grinding machine, Mundele!, Chinois! a toxic sludge river hard to cross, what a mess, ooh beautiful fabrics, must buy, make a dress, turn again, back on the crazy road and oh, what’s this, the Matonge musical monument, the famous junction of Kasavubu and Victoire avenues, the party capital of Kinshasa, pumping music in all directions, people photographing themselves in front of the monument, nightclubs, hotels, lights, chaos, how to cross the street and not die, food stalls, roasted meat, manioc wrapped in leaves, a side street, traffic jam, an endless line of outdoor bars and clubs on either side of the road, each a different pumping beat, beer price signboards, people dancing, dancing, ”Ndombole!” cars and bikes squeezing through, beautiful people dressed up, looking chic in the chaos, music music from every direction, and then back to Ngiri Ngiri, dark, no lights, no electricity, the food stalls and shops lit with torches and candles, moving moving with the neverending flow of people, big river rushing straight across the road, in the middle of a giant city, the only way forward is along a narrow strip of concrete blocks, dozens of people balancing, moving in both directions, focus, don’t fall in the water, motorbikes and cars splashing as they pass, and then a left turn and the quiet road and our apartment, and you enter the silent calm space. And the fever breaks… Aaaahhhh….. until you venture outside again, into the throbbing, moving, noisy, sensual overload that is the crazy, chaotic, wonderful fever city of Kinshasa.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4PkKITLiNeo" width="320" youtube-src-id="4PkKITLiNeo"></iframe></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Vibrant Matonge by night, Kinshasa, DRC</i></div></i> <p></p><p>On our last day we got to see the other side of Kinshasa with a friend and his wife who work at the Reserve Bank. We got to see the university and the smart side of town and ate a delicious lunch at a restaurant overlooking the mighty fleuve. It was clear that money was being spent to upgrade the city, a monumental task considering the backlog but then the Congolese are not scared of a challenge. Some big thinkers and some big doers will be needed to imagine how this city can be transformed into a functional city while thousands flock there from the rural areas on a daily basis. Incremental, gradual change will not do. Boldness will be needed. But wow, what a city. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoECLXPRuIe-AuktRRdmHjP1ztBarvgr12dM7zB-aADNMWGlQNID1wEgFIlhW6KwLJvHo6BOD_xNrAg76UFDKvc663cNqnoCkhiIG3HhMn9xQ71HTLXGKDWffKEgXCLYBpw-SUGtrdYPm/s1024/africablog427.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoECLXPRuIe-AuktRRdmHjP1ztBarvgr12dM7zB-aADNMWGlQNID1wEgFIlhW6KwLJvHo6BOD_xNrAg76UFDKvc663cNqnoCkhiIG3HhMn9xQ71HTLXGKDWffKEgXCLYBpw-SUGtrdYPm/w400-h300/africablog427.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Central Kinshasa, looking good, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />And then suddenly, finally it was time to leave the Congo. We would be flying out, the first flight on our trip. With most borders in West Africa closed, travelling all the way on land wouldn’t be possible. Flight and visa wise, Ghana turned out to be the easiest option to go to next. After all this crazy hard travel, a flight seemed like a portal into the organised world. Or so we thought. Not in Kinshasa. A blow by blow airport story could never do the stress and frustration justice so we won't even try. Suffice to say that at 1pm, when we should have been walking the streets of Accra, we were $500 poorer and in the air high above Nairobi with a full scale shouting conflict, flying shoes, and “angry” Congolese in their play-fight mode shouting at a Lebanese guy who had offended someone, the poor air-hostesses looking like they were going to faint and genuine concern that the pilot would do an emergency landing in Nairobi! </p><p>The only other thing we’ll say about that experience here is: never underestimate the ability of the Congo to suck you in her mighty jaw, swirl you around, chew you through and spit you out until you feel like someone grabbed you by the hands, spun you around until you’re dizzy and as you stumble and fall to the ground you find yourself giggling while you fall flat on your face. </p><p>Congo, thank you for a truly unforgettable adventure. What a country! We will be back.</p><p><br /></p><p>Song of the month:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yfCWGHlMxKI" width="320" youtube-src-id="yfCWGHlMxKI"></iframe></div><br /><p>Newspaper article - Dave wrote this piece on the DRC for the Daily Maverick:</p><p><a href="https://www.dailymaverick.co.za/article/2021-06-01-time-for-south-africa-to-take-a-fresh-look-at-the-drc/" target="_blank">Time for SA to take a fresh look at the DRC</a></p><p><br /></p><p>PS: If anyone of influence from the DRC reads this blog, PLEASE buy the Kananga SNCC train people some spares for their train. Just a few new rubber pipes and clamps would save a huge amount of time and suffering for the tens of thousands of people who use the train every month.</p>Dave Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15005938262421761891noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-81743265684415598312021-05-14T16:02:00.002+02:002021-05-21T13:50:17.866+02:00Our Africa Moves: #3 "What is your mission? Pourquoi ?"<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-K-v-MiETjrpelgsyCv4mgaB_KmeY6jRMowGt2OlNT6MvmByaT9WNbWp3PzNKDp__WpNOMuGZYYJ0o6H-cgYZEOQ0ZJdrHhHFT0sRUdZqZKyxbqfHWcZA6cS4pnlnLIArfp54sV1j0x5P/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_152021_108_resize_91.jpg" style="display: none;" />
<p><i>“What is your mission? and Pourquoi? (Why?)” </i>asked the Commander of the Congolese National Intelligence Agency (ANR) branch in Mutshatsha. </p><p>We were being interrogated by six people in the courtyard of our little hotel a day after arriving in this nondescript Congolese village having entered the country from Zambia via a little-known border post by motorbike taxi. </p><p>Why indeed? </p><p>When dealing with a local ANR commander while speaking only basic French and Swahili, it’s best to avoid the philosophical complexity of such a question and stick to our straightforward answer that worked a charm, every time:</p><p>Dave: “I crossed the DRC in 1998 by foot, truck, dugout canoe and river boat which was a life-changing experience. Whenever I describe the Congo, my stories are very different to the only Congo stories one sees on TV which are about war, corruption and Ebola. My wife now wants to see for herself who is telling the truth.”</p><p>This answer charmed the various officials and the police/soldiers/random-people-with-guns and also made them a (tiny) bit embarrassed to ask for a bribe and thus confirm the “corruption” part of the international stereotype. Rejane’s foreign feminine presence was also such a novelty that these officials - always men - struggled to appear both chivalrous and intimidating at the same time. But, most importantly, we were not scared of them and we never pay bribes so our task was merely to communicate this in the most friendly way possible and emphasise that even if they forced us to wait days we would never pay. </p><p>Our first major interrogation ended after a few hours with the Commander giving the owner of our hotel a dressing down for not having informed the Intelligence Agency when supposedly “the first tourists ever” to come to Mutshatsha walked into his hotel. We then departed together and the Commander demanded a beer at the bar for his time, which we politely but firmly refused. </p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-863a4f01-7fff-04f9-eb23-a0a4f0e2c9e9" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qpzDCD9QE8jK_BhMoSYPhtNSty-JIx95ZS7Xumg2JYzDRJw2IOz2TwO5lQFuS1NzfbillEHmzjRGvCniSoHiWDgByp9ltf0j_3Etq2FsiPUCZxOX6qLFyDTMJO8YgXM6BzJE5lyvXsCN/s1280/IMG_20210512_150707_687_resize_68.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qpzDCD9QE8jK_BhMoSYPhtNSty-JIx95ZS7Xumg2JYzDRJw2IOz2TwO5lQFuS1NzfbillEHmzjRGvCniSoHiWDgByp9ltf0j_3Etq2FsiPUCZxOX6qLFyDTMJO8YgXM6BzJE5lyvXsCN/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_150707_687_resize_68.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intelligence officials also like selfies (he didn't ask for a bribe)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>While we certainly weren’t “the first tourists ever”, it felt that way for most of our travels through rural DRC. Soon after arriving in Mutshatsha we were asked to ‘take away’ a homeless man lying on the side of the road. We were told that he had malaria or was mentally ill or was affected by a witchcraft spell. It seemed that since the only other visitors to Mutshatsha in the distant past were missionaries or aid workers, we were expected to be able to heal the man physically and/or spiritually. To the confusion of everyone, we had to politely refuse the obligation, not being endowed with either international aid resources or spiritual healing powers. The 'ni-hao' greetings we often got and children shouting ‘Chinois, chinois!’ made us think that the only other visitors the town might be familiar with are Chinese businessmen and contractors. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ltt7L-rPaLZzEZgnVEVd41Y_LhFLDGcqGlPvBIxN2suM43Gal5Xf8Mhp5PkFkSJEAb9Vg-PxomD_Trd_E94ZSALtck-HYRmIMJvwIQjJVDzjccH7jY8tlDTRzQJmbU_nWKp62taH4HwD/s1024/IMG_20210512_140430_793_resize_96.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ltt7L-rPaLZzEZgnVEVd41Y_LhFLDGcqGlPvBIxN2suM43Gal5Xf8Mhp5PkFkSJEAb9Vg-PxomD_Trd_E94ZSALtck-HYRmIMJvwIQjJVDzjccH7jY8tlDTRzQJmbU_nWKp62taH4HwD/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_140430_793_resize_96.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mutshatsha</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Mutshatsha is a small town (in the DRC it is referred to as “un petit village”) who’s main claim to fame is that it has a train station along an occasionally still-operating train line. This train station provides the town with electricity for a few hours per day which provides power for a single street of small shops, hair salons and a cellphone tower.</div><div><br /></div><div>We knew in advance that it would be more than a month before we would find a functioning bank, so we had brought US dollars cash with us from South Africa. Fortunately US$ are used interchangeably in the DRC with the local Congolese Francs at a fixed exchange rate that everyone knows. Alas, we were shocked to find that the Congolese are very fussy about which US$ notes they will accept: they want only the most recently printed US$ notes with the latest security features. As luck would have it, the vast majority of our US$ were older notes that none of the local shops would accept. So we were unexpectedly stuck in a place without enough money and no obvious way of getting more money.</div><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndkPVrvUwDTC3fS4wCsmfU4vPs-6inYQ5DbWnw084tS0ZfhtV0WY0i3om2TRuQh4m6c-78GZ7CRkRe65VqNMhz7qq_5BFOJId3Q2KM2Gdp0iE9Jjij4_Lv8YdZtagpNeI_6_5NONEvVYy/s1024/IMG_20210512_140334_482_resize_18.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndkPVrvUwDTC3fS4wCsmfU4vPs-6inYQ5DbWnw084tS0ZfhtV0WY0i3om2TRuQh4m6c-78GZ7CRkRe65VqNMhz7qq_5BFOJId3Q2KM2Gdp0iE9Jjij4_Lv8YdZtagpNeI_6_5NONEvVYy/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_140334_482_resize_18.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School in Mutshatsha</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><p>Fortunately, the mobile money revolution that is so visible in Zambia has reached the DRC too and, in the south of the country, Airtel Money is widely used. Initially it seemed like there was no way to transfer money from our bank account to our Airtel phone but then we discovered the World Remit app that allowed you to instantly transfer dollars from your credit card to your DRC Airtel Money account which you could cash relatively easily at little shops and kiosks in the town. At some shops you could even pay for your purchases with the Airtel Money directly. Crisis averted!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQfNEr0s9vtqtM4o0R-joS3nxiNgvzeErprzBbEcCkImeLSHqxks4y4-CF8cZW3wLeNYf9zd1ZC-l4wLBIzVHWvn4v4tNQRlq41B_QFS4AmnPApO_Wfli3rhrIw7iGoVpckAN18Q3NAGPb/s1280/IMG_20210512_150523_085_resize_85.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQfNEr0s9vtqtM4o0R-joS3nxiNgvzeErprzBbEcCkImeLSHqxks4y4-CF8cZW3wLeNYf9zd1ZC-l4wLBIzVHWvn4v4tNQRlq41B_QFS4AmnPApO_Wfli3rhrIw7iGoVpckAN18Q3NAGPb/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_150523_085_resize_85.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mutshatsha main road</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The next couple of days were restful, walking up and down the 50m that is the town centre and seeing how the spaza shop stocks and prices differ in a small Congolese town compared to their Zambian counterparts. Rejane began her cooking challenge with whatever ingredients she could find: it was either we cooked or we had to eat the only menu option at the two restaurants in town: a bit of goat served with two dry, heavy balls of fufu (nshima/pap), chopped chillies and some boiled cassava leaves (“pondu”) on the side. </div><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyDrF4KeyThys1luuMQ3EpdzYXutNPwlwLKGSjGtjadLo3_-WpiDWc-QZrC29M_RlyYjEO29E8r2Y4va_9s5I8-Ghg0Pu7_4T7PrCeMa3XA29cvOS96FNkYQ6SVuJTH0xeRkmmfKZK2Lc/s1024/IMG_20210512_140530_151_resize_13.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyDrF4KeyThys1luuMQ3EpdzYXutNPwlwLKGSjGtjadLo3_-WpiDWc-QZrC29M_RlyYjEO29E8r2Y4va_9s5I8-Ghg0Pu7_4T7PrCeMa3XA29cvOS96FNkYQ6SVuJTH0xeRkmmfKZK2Lc/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_140530_151_resize_13.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Special, off-road truck-buses owned by the DRC government. Unfortunately heading in the opposite direction to us.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><p>Rested, we were now ready to move on from the border town and deeper into the Congo. On our first day in Mutshatsha, there had been two trucks passing through and then nothing, not one vehicle for two days going in the direction we were headed. The road from Kolwezi to the east of us was so bad that all the trucks were stuck stuck stuck in deep mud. No vehicles could make it through except motorbikes…</p><p>There was nothing we could do but find a motorbike taxi again and settle in for the ride. The road was better than the one from Zambia to Mutshatsha but that meant that the motorbike driver increased the speed considerably. While it did feel good to cover the next 100 odd kilometers in four hours rather than six, it was rather jaw-clenching with three people, luggage and no motorbike helmets to be found anywhere.</p><p>On the way we passed trucks deeply stuck in giant, smelly mud holes. We later found out that it is quite normal for a truck to take three weeks to complete the 300km from Kolwezi to Kasaji on this, the main provincial highway.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggY_jy5nZKXqmjXiWAG7Vuol3sugFWuujgn1_cfyYloPZd8DsiseL5IqWJ3x97MHUG2RWVvtNidBVfQX3C3l_t3EVW80d369HmoEcJAZSeZC-SEL2xGip-WU5Trl53LZY7SuXOpOqEllob/s1024/IMG_20210512_150620_136_resize_65.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggY_jy5nZKXqmjXiWAG7Vuol3sugFWuujgn1_cfyYloPZd8DsiseL5IqWJ3x97MHUG2RWVvtNidBVfQX3C3l_t3EVW80d369HmoEcJAZSeZC-SEL2xGip-WU5Trl53LZY7SuXOpOqEllob/w400-h400/IMG_20210512_150620_136_resize_65.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Truck stuck on the main highway in Lualaba province, DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36gNToINaE-q3VgfmTLc70dV20Tt1703yngVQBA8TKw-aCzRKAlo3esNtbFDksBoXJg7rsipC0R_Y7Ga9frFcIEpMoznKEPveZ_BcEYc5CNmkFELznjfeaOr9cXeJJc0anJ8ecPicrONI/s1024/IMG_20210512_150951_895_resize_2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36gNToINaE-q3VgfmTLc70dV20Tt1703yngVQBA8TKw-aCzRKAlo3esNtbFDksBoXJg7rsipC0R_Y7Ga9frFcIEpMoznKEPveZ_BcEYc5CNmkFELznjfeaOr9cXeJJc0anJ8ecPicrONI/s320/IMG_20210512_150951_895_resize_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is why it can take a truck 3 weeks to cover 300km</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div>We reached Kasaji in the late afternoon and found a basic ensuite room for $12 a night. It felt like a treat to have an ensuite room again. Unfortunately, the bed sank in the middle, which seemed to be a feature of most beds in rural Congo causing us to roll into one another at night. The bathroom had a flush toilet and a bucket shower and fairly reliable electricity. </div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUXIR2puZxGPPeWODTWI01Yl9qpkEkRW-7HcwGzuEMOA2RTNObQ9fLI7KRl2V3bEy5PgKd0JpoacKJfHlWLG2mecdMPzeW3jZd8kPLHd87mwlG-7_x8UVKzkkUq-iIbLAD0BOYhqk5Hoi/s1024/IMG_20210512_151026_245_resize_7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUXIR2puZxGPPeWODTWI01Yl9qpkEkRW-7HcwGzuEMOA2RTNObQ9fLI7KRl2V3bEy5PgKd0JpoacKJfHlWLG2mecdMPzeW3jZd8kPLHd87mwlG-7_x8UVKzkkUq-iIbLAD0BOYhqk5Hoi/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_151026_245_resize_7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Congolese friends in Kasaji</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>In Kasaji we met a lovely young Congolese couple who were on a mission to find and trade gold. The extraction and trade in minerals seems to be a confusing mixture of official government activities, forays by neighbouring countries to score some easy pickings and civilians who make finds in and around their villages. We even met a young guy who had dreams of coming to South Africa as soon as he could find some gold to pay for the trip. Make no mistake, the DRC has a lot of minerals - while we were there, a small village in eastern DRC struck gold with slightly chaotic results: <a href="https://www.bbc.com/pidgin/tori-56263481" target="_blank">news article about gold mountain (from BBC Pidgin).</a></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UjpeiYZycq1ricLxOPdhd2bBAfrRXM3oTuoNeiTkkYwpr2gj6CWX-tBCtgHIzb3SZxITsgZM4lp7aCpgs5THJs7c8l3QF6tMsrpkhQWNeK7AsYU4tevv14vTAroq_5jzstrOKfHMUulP/s1024/IMG_20210512_151141_453_resize_24.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UjpeiYZycq1ricLxOPdhd2bBAfrRXM3oTuoNeiTkkYwpr2gj6CWX-tBCtgHIzb3SZxITsgZM4lp7aCpgs5THJs7c8l3QF6tMsrpkhQWNeK7AsYU4tevv14vTAroq_5jzstrOKfHMUulP/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_151141_453_resize_24.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our guesthouse in Kasaji</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><p>Kasaji had a nice food market. Here we were introduced to one local treat called Kikanda. It is locally known as the “African polony” and is a vegan “meat loaf” that it is made from crushed groundnuts and forest orchid tubers. While the food variety was limited, our Congolese diet was very healthy with few processed foods and not even one chocolate to be found in all the rural areas we travelled through. The markets were not close to the diversity of those in neighbouring Zambia but the vegetables we did find included: tomatoes, onions, spring onions, chillies, a good variety of green leaves, lots and lots of groundnuts and palm oil for cooking. Starch: fufu (a hard not very tasty pap made with manioc flour) is ubiquitous, rice (you have to cook your own or wait for the time it takes the restaurant to make it specially), wonderful fresh rolls and baguettes. Meat: goat is most common, then pork but you can find chicken and beef although not all the time. Lots of fish, particularly in towns near the giant rivers. Fruit: bananas, avocados (these are everywhere and cost as little R0.70/$0.05), pineapples and mangos (although we were at the end of the mango season). Excellent locally grown and processed coffee is available everywhere and very cheap, about R30/$2 a kilogram (you would pay at least 10 times that in South Africa). A sad result of the very bad roads is that one never even hears about the existence of Congolese coffee. The only thing that was hard to find was dairy - perhaps evidenced in the sadly bandy legs of little children which could be from calcium deficiencies. We also saw cases of polio in teenage children in the more remote villages. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw8fu0bp03BrdvJfRbAonjyptn7SOYvzwG64qbG7EjZzXeGc191o9_Zip3PNzCLhfwO-oALTjdoqgRWqTETYQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Buying Kikanda in the Kasaji market</div><p> Kasaji also brought another demand to visit immigration and the National Intelligence Agency. While on the way to the offices to deliver our documents for inspection, Dave spotted an Indian man. This was cause for some excitement as our spices were running low and there was no way to replace them, there being only stock cubes, salt and chillies to be found in the markets. Rejane wasted no time visiting his shop. After a little chit chat about our Indian travels, enquiries were made about how one could obtain some spices. He didn’t sell any in the shop but his wife had lots of spices in the house of course. His wife, who is Pakistani, was called from the house through the back. She was very excited to see Rejane and offers of tea, lunch, dinner and a place to stay for as long as we liked were made. She didn’t speak any French and the last visitors she’d had had been two years previously. When we recognised the pictures on their walls to be that of the Aga Khan, they were very impressed with the knowledge we’d gained of the Ismaili Islamic sect from our travels in the Wakhan and Bartang regions of Tajikistan, where it is the dominant religion. We were thoroughly fed and more spices than we could possibly carry were pressed upon us. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsl55WEAggvWU2DDMLHj5esiDxL_XgImzUF1QnJOlWnWv5L0qLPihGTUkoTe-JfDMH0fcFryd1lXRrAFKfkaHfNDLLLnG6FjywMF2YmRRa9XRVHyNF-w56cSR-vKgaJMGeXq0R3vtOWgZd/s1024/IMG_20210512_151106_553_resize_81.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsl55WEAggvWU2DDMLHj5esiDxL_XgImzUF1QnJOlWnWv5L0qLPihGTUkoTe-JfDMH0fcFryd1lXRrAFKfkaHfNDLLLnG6FjywMF2YmRRa9XRVHyNF-w56cSR-vKgaJMGeXq0R3vtOWgZd/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_151106_553_resize_81.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical small shop in the DRC. Everything has to come down those terrible roads. And you can pay with Airtel (mobile phone) Money.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>After the few days’ rest we needed to recover from the hair-raising motorbike journey, we were ready to move on again. This journey was relatively uneventful except for a moment when we almost slipped into a deep mud hole but were saved at the last minute by grabbing hold of a tree that happened to be within reach… in retrospect, toppling into a mud hole with a heavy bike on top of you could have been quite a serious accident… but in the DRC there is simply no time to spend being retrospective with all the challenges in your face, all the time. The motorbike’s engine also got flooded by a particularly deep river crossing which delayed us for an hour or so while we repaired it.</p><p>The next stop was the vibrant and beautifully lush town of Sandoa. A wonderful town to ‘promenade’ in (‘promenading’ very cleverly is a verb in French) with a palm-tree-lined main road and old crumbling colonial buildings, including a lovely Cineplex that had been resurrected to broadcast Canal+, a French satellite TV station, on Sundays. The main road had eroded away exposing the foundations of the old buildings. Congo is many things, and one of these things is that it is a living example of what becomes of towns, villages and a country when no maintenance is done to infrastructure for 60 years. Once again we were celebrities with scores of children following us through the town and crawling under the gate of our hotel for a peek. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbr7NwE5rArD7LdowS23OxFet3ZWPS6i4D2j-H4nRAAr1vm2koaLg-TcXHGQmrdfz8ZXbeiKm_O67irqDhhqOu9ea_lrmwOc3RnOXeCgyaW_EVXAz313HH5AkE0RnVjIEeuz05K_LD11Uv/s1024/blog3pp31.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbr7NwE5rArD7LdowS23OxFet3ZWPS6i4D2j-H4nRAAr1vm2koaLg-TcXHGQmrdfz8ZXbeiKm_O67irqDhhqOu9ea_lrmwOc3RnOXeCgyaW_EVXAz313HH5AkE0RnVjIEeuz05K_LD11Uv/w400-h300/blog3pp31.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sandoa main road</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1b1pml3e7mXfUoE_BBwjxIlU_R6yu43Ggr9v7gyhvURF8550zTAp2059wsftTlleggMxqTFjFBR13L5R7RvzkQguUCCKDBX2ksjr91cGn1MeNLjGKgRo_M5CRY6Op9HNMGPM6J81oelm/s1024/IMG_20210513_142225_384_resize_36.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1b1pml3e7mXfUoE_BBwjxIlU_R6yu43Ggr9v7gyhvURF8550zTAp2059wsftTlleggMxqTFjFBR13L5R7RvzkQguUCCKDBX2ksjr91cGn1MeNLjGKgRo_M5CRY6Op9HNMGPM6J81oelm/w400-h300/IMG_20210513_142225_384_resize_36.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Cineplex" in Sandoa</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We would be asked what our mission was in every village or town that we stayed in, and even some that we were just passing through, by National Intelligence Agency officials, immigration officers and policemen. Every village and town has representatives of all three of these arms of the DRC government. In colonial times, immigration offices (DGM) were set up in every town to monitor and restrict movements during Sleeping Sickness pandemics (caused by tsetse flies). Sleeping Sickness is no longer a problem but the many immigration offices remain. The National Intelligence Agency was most likely deemed necessary during the periods of war and due to the ongoing insecurity in parts of the country. The policemen didn't seem to care too much about us but they were curious and we would sometimes be delayed at the rudimentary tree-branch-boom gates that they set up at the entrance to their villages, for a chat or for them to demand a bribe from our motorbike drivers. All motorbike drivers are supposed to have vehicle papers, that none of them ever seem to have, and so a bribe has to be negotiated. </p><p>At almost every one of the encounters we had with these government officials there is a polite request for a drink or something for the work they have supposedly done for us. This work being an interrogation of our mission and the painstaking copying down of all the details of our passports. Less often, the bribe request is aggressive. One soldier in camouflage patted his machine gun while Dave explained, as always, that it was completely impossible for us to pay a bribe. When the realisation dawns that we are of the view that we don’t need to pay them anything, incredulity sets in. One officer asked: “Je dois boire de l'eau?" “Must I drink water?” to which Dave replied:”Yes, water is very good for health!”. A bit of a waiting game might then begin until they finally realise that we have more time to spend on waiting out the stalemate than they do. Occasionally one had to be a little more aggressive and, picking the right moment, stand up, take back one’s documents, say goodbye and walk out the door briskly, hoping that they don’t call you back. This worked most of the time.</p><p>In their defence, there was a time in the past when these officials received no salary at all and they were expected to earn a living through fees charged to citizens for their “services”. Times have changed and government officials are now earning salaries but, unfortunately, the bribe culture has stuck and even the poorest Congolese are expected to pay something whenever they cross the many checkpoints or if they require some official document or government assistance.</p><p>The endless waiting for officials to do their work allowed us plenty of time to contemplate and reflect on their main question: So what is our mission? </p><p>Why do we travel the way we do on public transport in some of the most remote corners of the world, often with extreme levels of discomfort? There are a few reasons:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>We are interested in the way people live the best lives they can, the challenges they have to navigate to earn a living and to provide in the best way possible for their families. You simply can’t learn this when you stay in a resort or travel in a way that removes you from the local population,</li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>We find that one understands one’s own home and challenges when you can put it into a global context. It is sometimes hard to appreciate the history, politics and complexity of a place unless you’ve walked the streets and engaged with its people. You begin to understand the complexity of your own country and the global context of its challenges. You learn new ideas, how to do things better and how not to do things. The work we do in South Africa at the Bulungula Incubator is important to us and this kind of travel enhances our ability to do that work. </li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>One gets to see the extremes of human endurance in the face of deprivation and also the strength of humanity, human compassion and the scope for connectedness, often when you least expect it. </li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>It's a reboot for the brain. After a few days of lying on the beach one’s mind inevitably wanders back to the daily problems of work and life. When you’re transported into a totally different reality, a world you don’t understand, where everything is unfamiliar, sometimes even the language, your brain power is marshalled to the present and getting through the challenge in front of you. Your mind has to clear out the debris of the daily work and life stress that accumulates in our regular lives, just to figure out how and what to get for dinner and how to get safely from one place to the next. </li></ul><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Moving on from Sandoa, we felt like we were now experts in motorbike travel. Once again there was no other way to travel. It was about 200km to Musumba. Motorbike travel wasn’t comfortable but it got you there, albeit after many hours of jaw-clenching stress. Getting going was a little slow as usual with the motorbike driver doing all sorts of servicing to his vehicle, filling up of petrol at the roadside petrol stalls and making a few inexplicable trips back and forth to his house. We could never figure out why this all had to be done on the morning of a trip. Anyway we just relaxed into it: we had been told that we had about 6 hours of travel ahead of us so we’d arrive in Musumba in the late afternoon.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxkGRKXvHP4IeR4jLB7069aF3JMlVrWm0F7ygHycUAYJS1xmL34APZ0GwK3hzRR9qGglAqG6qTDHNlUCSwYjA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sandoa to Musumba - after a few accidents</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As soon as we got going we realised that the quality of the road was on the bad side of Congolese roads, which is saying a lot. We pushed the bike through rivers, teetered on the narrow bits of road left between deep mud holes, balanced through slippery mud and worst of all kept hitting deep, soft sand in which the bike was prone to skidding and falling over. We fell off the bike four or five times that day - it’s all a bit of a blur to remember. Dave hit his head on the first fall but other than breaking his wireless earphones, he was just a bit stunned from the fall. A couple of falls later and Rejane had her leg pinned against the hot exhaust pipe resulting in a nasty burn. The driver offered her some thick engine grease to cover the wound, but we decided to rather wait until we could get the bactroban and bandages out of our backpacks. And it wasn’t just us: we passed the scene of a collision of two bikes, probably due to a driver losing control in sand that resulted in a passenger mournfully nursing his broken, bleeding toe. After three fairly excruciating hours, we had covered all of 50kms! Still 150km to go... We even thought about walking the rest of the way but that would take days so we resigned ourselves to going as far as we could in the daylight. This meant camping at one of the tiny forest villages we passed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvh8FO6XOknUt3e7xX8YhheNkrv4YXp-lpPQyjF6t9lpVEZWXAGSY6lGxlIOiz2eFQprUbCS1xasXLSm_5SngZWSws8N9_huOF-FuEWCRCSWR7J6RLFcCEiZjwuSonz1nYE8cIjpQ6i6FH/s1024/IMG_20210512_151851_640_resize_72.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvh8FO6XOknUt3e7xX8YhheNkrv4YXp-lpPQyjF6t9lpVEZWXAGSY6lGxlIOiz2eFQprUbCS1xasXLSm_5SngZWSws8N9_huOF-FuEWCRCSWR7J6RLFcCEiZjwuSonz1nYE8cIjpQ6i6FH/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_151851_640_resize_72.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stopping for the night en route to Musumba</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzPXWJGSzoYpnAyO_6bjpI_VEMVwB_VZSwZvh8BwiU2W2z-QetNJoWeiLqllU0-Pq0IbkQrLEBS5byr9MsB_A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Our motorbike chauffer thought this situation was funny and asked to film it.</div><div><p>While we were merely celebrities in the larger villages, we were treated like psychedelic unicorns in the smaller ones. Large crowds gathered, encircling us to stare in fascination as Dave dressed Rejane’s burn wound and we erected our tent. Despite being so remote, there were nevertheless a few camera phones about and our every move was photographed - a welcome change from the days when travellers were the only people with cameras and felt awkward taking photos. After washing in a nearby stream we had a basic dinner of fufu with some kind of meat we couldn’t identify in a sauce and of course the ubiquitous pondu (pounded cassava leaves) you got with every meal. There was sand everywhere and even the fufu was a bit crunchy. We were grateful though to be washed, somewhat fed and largely in one piece, sleeping in the safety of a village. We fell asleep to the sounds of singing, light drumming and some rowdiness from the local shebeen.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh16sbkV1qV0fxypx8WH6YM7JRt0CNq-r2cRT3VPE3eJcwAHlC868hqe2C1inh7AicMhSQANm-vEY_KqwJhhnEL7rx_69pYzqUzXZi0PoZArYeAsStZelH4lpVfNKa25ufeFxdQYsWiuiDF/s1280/IMG_20210512_151226_987_resize_74.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh16sbkV1qV0fxypx8WH6YM7JRt0CNq-r2cRT3VPE3eJcwAHlC868hqe2C1inh7AicMhSQANm-vEY_KqwJhhnEL7rx_69pYzqUzXZi0PoZArYeAsStZelH4lpVfNKa25ufeFxdQYsWiuiDF/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_151226_987_resize_74.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rural DRC "petrol station"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div>The next day we put on our bravest face to take on the 95kms ahead of us. Our driver kept promising that the road would get better soon but that never materialised. As we travelled deeper into the Congolese interior on ever-worsening roads, we realised that our “three-people-plus-big-luggage-on-one-bike” style of travelling was becoming increasingly rare. The few other motorbikes we saw had mostly just the driver with one passenger. After another couple of nail-biting hours we insisted on finding a second motorbike so that we could at least redistribute the weight and make it easier to balance the bike. Despite assuring our driver that his fee would in no way change if we used an additional bike, he kept insisting that it was not necessary as the road was about to improve and become “tres bien”. We dug our heels in and eventually we passed a village that had another motorbike we could hire. As a result, the last 70kms to Musumba was much, much better. Dave stayed with the original driver and only had one more fall. Rejane had a much better driver who knew the road really well and could relax into it and enjoy the ride; it's amazing how one begins to recalibrate one’s assessment of risk!</div></div><div><br /></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw3yqLZzXIzHS4bzRKtE1lvGGe5CcGUsJYWpqNjBYIouC7w3AvKJNIRuF7fILhhpWDRdKmckT1_QpbBWWU9pg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Typical journey on a motorbike taxi</div><div><p><br /></p><p>By 11am we reached Musumba and we decided that our one-motorbike journey experiences were now behind us.</p><p>Musumba is the “royal capital” of the Lunda people who stretch from the DRC into Angola and Zambia. The town is bigger than others in the region and stands out for having a rather smart and effective electricity system, thanks to an old Belgian missionary who has lived in a neighbouring village for almost 50 years. The warm and welcoming Frère Jaak runs the Catholic Salvatore mission in Kapanga which was founded in 1955. Frère Jaak arrived in 1976, when he was a young priest, not yet ordained, in his 20s. He remained through the Mobutu years and uprisings by the Katanga Tigers in 1977 and 1978 and even when white people were targeted in massacres in Kolwezi near where we had started our journey. Fifty years later he is one of the few white missionaries who remain in the country and we were told by many local people that he speaks the local language with a deeper fluency than most local people. In addition to a school, hospital and new chapel, Frère Jaak’s most impressive and appreciated legacy is the installation of hydro-electric generators in a nearby river that feeds a large region with reliable electricity. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpdWa7dH3f47-gVMfwU2OgsVtv1zhBGKVkPNWhPrQAClBCZxav5He_6TE-D0UogOG695AdaQcC3AQR_Pr1nRbNHlX4V2kNiPsPLU-czF_4YnofZ_1mYpDzoDb-9HPtRF0AZR_wMO5IkMw0/s1024/IMG_20210512_152429_757_resize_84.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpdWa7dH3f47-gVMfwU2OgsVtv1zhBGKVkPNWhPrQAClBCZxav5He_6TE-D0UogOG695AdaQcC3AQR_Pr1nRbNHlX4V2kNiPsPLU-czF_4YnofZ_1mYpDzoDb-9HPtRF0AZR_wMO5IkMw0/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_152429_757_resize_84.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frère Jaak on the right, Kapanga</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><p>The DRC suffers from acute energy poverty. A country of over 90 million people, it has only 2.75GW of electricity generating capacity and the country’s total consumption of power is considerably less than that of the City of Cape Town. Only 19% of all Congolese have access to electricity with that number falling to just 4% in rural areas. Almost all this electricity is generated by hydro-power, most notably the Inga dam on the Congo river.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNzmwfzD2xtlvdlS2wXPj04qGRx_UaE-knfNLyh3FXENV4iPryiJaYxkx7AzmXGy6WlDWTsVYSDNAxXyBmoS6EWLUO51GPQTqEXyZYAe5erawKSU8e0UyypCszOSznFKdAXVzYGx_9Fha/s1024/IMG_20210512_152534_434_resize_87.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNzmwfzD2xtlvdlS2wXPj04qGRx_UaE-knfNLyh3FXENV4iPryiJaYxkx7AzmXGy6WlDWTsVYSDNAxXyBmoS6EWLUO51GPQTqEXyZYAe5erawKSU8e0UyypCszOSznFKdAXVzYGx_9Fha/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_152534_434_resize_87.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our guesthouse in Musumba</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoqrLGiEWo0gDyhxuu1d_4uQNXesXgRdkv9C7olyzYq7IfBWhZpCzAxwiisIhla_M4_nkOHYQ9cMma99iZmkf3kp6J4DDTUxv_diVAJyhNdiTx9KmohHi7bEVAive6B6zOvxjA9LJbSsHT/s1280/IMG_20210512_152508_595_resize_0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoqrLGiEWo0gDyhxuu1d_4uQNXesXgRdkv9C7olyzYq7IfBWhZpCzAxwiisIhla_M4_nkOHYQ9cMma99iZmkf3kp6J4DDTUxv_diVAJyhNdiTx9KmohHi7bEVAive6B6zOvxjA9LJbSsHT/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_152508_595_resize_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collecting water at the communal tap at our guesthouse</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Despite suffering from such electricity-poverty, it was bizarre to see in places like Mutshatsha - which did have intermittent electricity - that people would leave all their energy-inefficient lights on, even during the day. After making enquiries, we discovered that households pay a flat rate per month for the connection (about $15 per month) and then can use as much electricity as they want. So, as any economist would tell you, there is no incentive for people to save electricity thus exacerbating the country’s energy shortages and resulting in daily power outages. SNEL, the state-owned electricity company, is a long way from having the ability to install and monitor electricity meters and so the country with one of the worst cases of energy poverty, is also one where people often waste electricity without consequences.</p><p>The sole exception to the above problem is Frère Jaak’s electricity grid in Musumba/Kapanga which charges users per (prepaid) unit of electricity and is thus both reliable and sustainable. On our daily missions around the town, one could see the impact of reliable electricity, not just in terms of benefits to households but also visible in a multitude of small businesses using the electricity to do welding, carpentry, vehicle repairs and food processing. Read more about <a href="http://elkap.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=96&Itemid=348&lang=fr" target="_blank">this project here</a>.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKSrRat27DcuMbjG5oA501zrkWIpdRmxfm7qmB5AAziI3tgtQoALEMevjDxuCYvynb2nTzHLXHMPjNVqud2hftYssl6x5QgzdUvWGiEtxIXn6-MqNZwxpkaHy67AeMfWbXctz84B1W460Q/s1280/IMG_20210512_152127_943_resize_43.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKSrRat27DcuMbjG5oA501zrkWIpdRmxfm7qmB5AAziI3tgtQoALEMevjDxuCYvynb2nTzHLXHMPjNVqud2hftYssl6x5QgzdUvWGiEtxIXn6-MqNZwxpkaHy67AeMfWbXctz84B1W460Q/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_152127_943_resize_43.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shopping in Musumba market</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8W4DAW1VqLWQlhsDvtzPJ-t-cSvh8x8sU3RKWnq_HWsvKsUIlFQ16hr-wEg0FitS5-v1M4QrYfTvH4C47X9OSdeWD-haCEJV4A3CtHo-B9N_rw6VOxcAja0rrxa8Pzo1OZ3Hxa0TLPCP/s1280/IMG_20210512_152355_705_resize_29.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8W4DAW1VqLWQlhsDvtzPJ-t-cSvh8x8sU3RKWnq_HWsvKsUIlFQ16hr-wEg0FitS5-v1M4QrYfTvH4C47X9OSdeWD-haCEJV4A3CtHo-B9N_rw6VOxcAja0rrxa8Pzo1OZ3Hxa0TLPCP/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_152355_705_resize_29.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The local baker in Musumba</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />Frère Jaak treated us to a generous and tasty lunch at which we were joined by some of the young Congolese priests studying at the mission. They provided some insight into the current political climate in which there is some hope for positive change under new president Ettiene Tshisekedi - the first person in almost 60 years to come to power democratically.</p><p>In Musumba, there is a large central “plaza” area with an enormous television installed by the local government. Every evening, hundreds of people fill the area watching various much-beloved South American soap operas and the odd movie creating a festive, communal atmosphere. We hung out there a few times, but generally became such a centre of attention that we would move on to find somewhere more quiet. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8t-Ve46a03dXzFhfVOAQoutbEW9w9K5zrE4xvLbol_eG4VWSlztJPN5zRlSSEseNf1CAKWrXKjxI41RQak4ZCiSUl6HsDN_Fpy5JvgfV8rNQclciK_4tyQKiIN88VJCktrhGwgblPJXbv/s1024/IMG_20210512_152048_078_resize_72.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8t-Ve46a03dXzFhfVOAQoutbEW9w9K5zrE4xvLbol_eG4VWSlztJPN5zRlSSEseNf1CAKWrXKjxI41RQak4ZCiSUl6HsDN_Fpy5JvgfV8rNQclciK_4tyQKiIN88VJCktrhGwgblPJXbv/w400-h400/IMG_20210512_152048_078_resize_72.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Musumba central plaza with big TV</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />Our five days in Musumba were otherwise spent visiting the markets to buy meat and veggies to cook and watching vibrant daily life passing by the verandah of our little guesthouse. The fact that Musumba’s only link to the outside world is the horrific road we had travelled on means that almost all traffic on the bustling main road consists of motorbikes transporting people around the town and bicycles heavily laden with goods being pushed by exhausted men. Very occasionally, a 4x4 vehicle would drive past but the fact that no other form of car can actually get to Musumba means that cheaper smaller cars are totally non-existent.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxxYinXJbLo8U1bi4MYeJ7E6t9mJNCNHuiFFSLQaw0CiuxAGF91mqj2WzgHEeQs5mazTwZsU0elNWMKsdaH2w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;">Daily life in Musumba slowly passing by our verandah</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx2oOZsQlqYekECDc_9HTNCCrM1jPJepP9PDBmGxrx5PEl3Nwuzdd2mh-WZwHSseGnFdjaE0CKtVU0bHT_7Jw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;">We've seen kids playing this dancing game throughout our travels. We have no idea how it works.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div><div>While we don’t want this blog to become merely a series of stories of the infrastructural collapse of a failed state, we do need to tell the story of some unsung heroes who keep the rural towns functioning: the bicycle transporters.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-K-v-MiETjrpelgsyCv4mgaB_KmeY6jRMowGt2OlNT6MvmByaT9WNbWp3PzNKDp__WpNOMuGZYYJ0o6H-cgYZEOQ0ZJdrHhHFT0sRUdZqZKyxbqfHWcZA6cS4pnlnLIArfp54sV1j0x5P/s1280/IMG_20210512_152021_108_resize_91.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-K-v-MiETjrpelgsyCv4mgaB_KmeY6jRMowGt2OlNT6MvmByaT9WNbWp3PzNKDp__WpNOMuGZYYJ0o6H-cgYZEOQ0ZJdrHhHFT0sRUdZqZKyxbqfHWcZA6cS4pnlnLIArfp54sV1j0x5P/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_152021_108_resize_91.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bicycle transporters: the backbone of the DRC's rural economy</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div><br /></div><div>The rural towns of this part of the DRC have the dubious honour of being probably the only places in the world where all the petrol and diesel used by trucks and motorbikes is transported to the area by bicycle. A typical bicycle chauffeur in Musumba will spend about four days cycling his single speed bicycle down the 450km of terrible roads we had just travelled on until he reaches Dilolo, a town on the Angolan border. There he will load ten jerry cans with 20 litres each of petrol or diesel onto his bicycle resulting in a load of 200kg. He has to reinforce the frame of his bike with branches of strong forest trees to prevent it breaking under the heavy load. He then proceeds to push this bike - cycling is not an option - for the next ten days through mud and soft sand until he reaches Musumba. If his bike should topple over on a bad stretch of road, he would be unable to lift it upright by himself, as a result he will usually travel in convoy with a couple of other bicycle transporters so that they can help each other. At the end of this epic two week journey, he will sell the fuel for just $50 more than he paid for it in Dilolo.</div><div><br /></div><div>“But what about the trucks? Don’t they transport fuel?” you may ask. The problem is that the roads are so bad that the trucks can only transport goods that are either light (e.g. powdered milk and other processed foods) or high value (beer, batteries, etc). It is not worth it for a truck driver to spend three weeks stuck in mud holes transporting fuel as the profit at the end of the journey would be too little. So every litre of fuel consumed in this huge region is transported by hundreds of bicycle transporters, weaving and heaving their bikes through thick sand and mud. As we passed them on our motorbike journeys, one could only admire their incredible strength and determination while at the same time lamenting the fact that journeys that used to take hours in the 1960’s now take weeks.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dySWTFLh8HgTpRlJDUXamlY5J-pp7CBh3BOZw9H7GC4704ksBgOYggYGuLGGA6ga6qLnyjkBKdJVNwQW0A3Aw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Another day, another motorbike journey...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of truck drivers, spare a thought for them too. We would occasionally pass a truck that had been stuck for weeks in a particularly bad mud hole. The only option open to the driver and his guys was to stand waist deep in the stinking mud and jack the vehicle up a few centimetres and then cut down a nearby tree and slide it underneath the truck and then jack it up again and repeat. Eventually the truck would be lifted out of the hole and the truck could move forward a few hundred metres, if they were lucky, and then enter the next mud hole. There is no way around the mud holes as either side of the “road” is wet, muddy forest. After spending two or three weeks of suffering, the truck would complete its 200km journey and limp into the town. The driver would unload the cargo and then turn around and head straight back into the same morass of mud holes to collect another load. When we looked into the faces of these truck drivers, they seemed to all share a calm, clear-eyed fierceness unlike any we’ve ever seen. To pass those roads once in your life is perhaps an adventure. To knowingly head into that degree of suffering on a daily basis takes a special kind of mental fortitude. We couldn’t help thinking that the National Geographic reality TV shows that document the world of extreme truck driving in the ice-fields of Canada need to come spend some time in the DRC with the most hard-core truckers on Earth. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Moving on from Musumba we opted for the two motorbike option to get to Luiza. Inexplicably, the motorbikes that we had painstakingly arranged the day before failed to arrive, so we had to make a last minute plan with two other bikes who only agreed to take us as far as the provincial border. On the way we had to cross a big river where the motorised ferry had long died and the only option is now a large, rather expensive dugout canoe that can transport two motorbikes with passengers at a time. </div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlZcfvDIlK2DmB0FukC4VEnWFpVIaJuMog27KPJN6A2QpvT3lua1qi7m1iN2mDv6_z-Kaq5hXKqxjsS86WORh1NJT_WeQhmOQd6W85UyuRd6U1gw8ah2WWSPIjjOF6CNkCmECgexIBNma/s1024/IMG_20210512_152638_287_resize_57.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlZcfvDIlK2DmB0FukC4VEnWFpVIaJuMog27KPJN6A2QpvT3lua1qi7m1iN2mDv6_z-Kaq5hXKqxjsS86WORh1NJT_WeQhmOQd6W85UyuRd6U1gw8ah2WWSPIjjOF6CNkCmECgexIBNma/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_152638_287_resize_57.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old river ferry is no more</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkYRNe8YwZCFsJTiDTCQMsCj41yJ1Wx9X-Xe8t9kNhGUrHu6IT_fy5o8Eqnvhc-ii55xoaSd77tkJ9fcIOu6dpwWZEb94KUH_Iv6rguTbWA_jOzh4wIbUz6Hmco1IB_0DD3hSuQzcZ7ZLT/s1280/IMG_20210512_152729_229_resize_28.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkYRNe8YwZCFsJTiDTCQMsCj41yJ1Wx9X-Xe8t9kNhGUrHu6IT_fy5o8Eqnvhc-ii55xoaSd77tkJ9fcIOu6dpwWZEb94KUH_Iv6rguTbWA_jOzh4wIbUz6Hmco1IB_0DD3hSuQzcZ7ZLT/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_152729_229_resize_28.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new ferry</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx4RDTPX3gI5oM_J71C8SiWI1ReA1C6gXcWlhobfxNAVe8gI0lKNQYRwQ45fSqEye8tFHAByVRkK8Tfwj5nKQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Crossing the river with our motorbikes</div><div><p> </p></div><div><p>After a few more hours, thankfully without incident/accident, we arrived at the village near the provincial border where we were dropped off. There we were at a distinct negotiation disadvantage with the few motorbikes in the village wanting to overcharge us. An appeal to the village elders and led to a fairer price and we were on our way again. We soon reached the “border post” of the neighbouring Kasai province. The DRC must be one of the only countries in the world where citizens have to pay import/custom duties when they travel from one province to another. At this border post a group of bicycle transporters were busy paying “taxes'' for the sacks of goods they were transporting. It would be interesting to know how much, if any, of these taxes reach the provincial government. The border military/police/immigration tried to shake us down for money and when we refused they emptied our backpacks onto the ground in search of who knows what. In the end, we were allowed to continue on our way with the unhappy officials none the richer. </p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxfvyDWSqXvQrr6POycMiecZmpyCLdPZE07ms2oYid9R13RZfYlUw8zjiIwAOsOSJe6ThtiqXIfJHtV224fBA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Passing through a village en route to Luiza</div><div><p>After some emergency repairs to one of the bikes that repeatedly broke down, we travelled rapidly through a bustling village with lots of police/soldiers milling about and as we exited the other side, without being stopped, we thought we were in the clear until a motorbike with an armed soldier came chasing after us, shouting that we needed to return to the village to be interrogated. There we found a fairly festive atmosphere with soldiers and police, many clearly drunk, trying to decide whether they were happy to see us or wanting to scare us into giving them money. Dave was taken off for discussions in a separate shack while Rejane had to endure the tipsy though mostly friendly attentions of various soldiers, one of whom had family members in South Africa, who he was hoping to join just as soon as he had found some gold in the forest. Given that our papers were in order, Dave had to give the soldiers the usual spiel about why we were in the DRC and why we don’t pay bribes. The soldiers tried a new trick in claiming that the motorbikes and their chauffeurs were under our control and thus their lack of documents were somehow our fault, but after an hour of banter and quite a few photo shoots, we were on our way again with neither us nor the chauffeurs having paid anything. These delays mean that we had to travel the last two hours of the journey to Luiza at night, but our chauffeurs were skilled and we had no accidents.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJBTjV6Rzy8dgmdC7F9UUA_8G_XK0IBjP366ks7plnHlRETAhK-VZvfhKkmVgyyOec8PNafLQWPefMQK2uPbYHUlA5IiKI0CKNu9PX8TKprmCrITzBxCEB8lvT8IFZUmDq89RsLTMPSLx6/s1280/IMG_20210512_152808_523_resize_33.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJBTjV6Rzy8dgmdC7F9UUA_8G_XK0IBjP366ks7plnHlRETAhK-VZvfhKkmVgyyOec8PNafLQWPefMQK2uPbYHUlA5IiKI0CKNu9PX8TKprmCrITzBxCEB8lvT8IFZUmDq89RsLTMPSLx6/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_152808_523_resize_33.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Congo, your interrogators want selfies 😅</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUnQd7nOM1NCJePEk0w2zinYtxCZ4Rwf8N1ZciJpCFoONn-1RP1MEBnXRsKvPQbfA-KbP0h2M9eCEG9vMxNnDfAHzq-Ezx08J4OXHWqGxheKD64s6fxQ5b1_jFn0JqcoIDB-ad14Q69mY/s1024/IMG_20210512_152904_168_resize_84.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVUnQd7nOM1NCJePEk0w2zinYtxCZ4Rwf8N1ZciJpCFoONn-1RP1MEBnXRsKvPQbfA-KbP0h2M9eCEG9vMxNnDfAHzq-Ezx08J4OXHWqGxheKD64s6fxQ5b1_jFn0JqcoIDB-ad14Q69mY/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_152904_168_resize_84.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><div>Luiza is tiny. We were shown to the only hotel in the village which had rooms signposted in French “$5, non-negotiable”. The room was the standard cement block with a small double bed that sank in the middle, a strong blue USAID mosquito net and an outside bucket shower and toilet area. Luiza felt different. Just crossing a provincial border in the Congo felt like one had entered a different country. The goods in the market were different and the people were different, less friendly, somehow. The infrastructural and bureaucratic barriers to crossing provincial borders seem to so discourage the movement of people that different rural provinces seem to have their own distinct culture over and above the normal differences associated with the ethnic differences that often overlap provincial borders in Africa. We were definitely assumed to be Chinese in Luiza with “chinois, chinois!” the signature tune as we wandered about. As people who have travelled widely in China, and who love that country and its people, we were initially taken aback when being called “Chinois”. But we soon embraced our new identity and enjoyed the bizarreness of the situation, especially since we had never even seen a Chinese person in the DRC.</div></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxv5XawA0detbmRhwdXU4hW0dsfvIFUObSrlHsZTcvSWBDpTKaIfaQmHnMTRWKZLq4NTZhBTOE70JAP85bC3w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Kids coming to check out the Chinese</div><div><p> The Congolese are attractive people, tall, slim and elegant and the women have the coolest hair-styles. While Dave was used to being the tallest person in the Zambian crowds, this certainly was not the case in the DRC. The Congolese are also vocal and extroverted and not at all quiet and deferential like most Zambians. Initially, we often thought that we were witnessing the beginning of a violent fight when in fact the Congolese seem to specialise in dramatic arguments that seem furious but end in smiles. The decades of having to make your own way without any help from the government has also made people incredibly self-reliant and not easily intimidated. Even teenage boys being shaken down for bribes at police checkpoints would aggressively stand up for themselves, not in the least afraid. The DRC is a sleeping giant of human energy - they lack only the infrastructure upon which to build their dreams.</p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyDa5km8LivaqWG7nwCk2fS62V-3iNaaAthwsSVI6ZE5I1EYlXR0u8XS2cSmpLr35FpcvmfToU3Ews7-eBV7Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">A tour of our guesthouse in Luiza</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQTRDoTB-A6kbzQaWhiJuS43-V4J9_1_KB66tHeUpqxK2P5_-TMo0S7Xn7XAKPm3lkfTYSsY4a7A5jzqNdHMKJ0xH3TsGHuV9PEssCn7jQJm0EOJIZLFjOrluQSVvdr5twtDnuwl6OoyC/s1024/IMG_20210512_153014_878_resize_91.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikQTRDoTB-A6kbzQaWhiJuS43-V4J9_1_KB66tHeUpqxK2P5_-TMo0S7Xn7XAKPm3lkfTYSsY4a7A5jzqNdHMKJ0xH3TsGHuV9PEssCn7jQJm0EOJIZLFjOrluQSVvdr5twtDnuwl6OoyC/w400-h400/IMG_20210512_153014_878_resize_91.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luiza's innovative phone fixer repairing Dave's earphones</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgM2kIao3_YALBGjI8wpnZ7SRDcejt4ir2DWnLcGZyD3xX8VNlMR_NwttT_UmAZzgMKH7BB_BeZTnQ_8MkfCZ3Qe_hDxcupqEW5lcUOEMTSCUH2RkHabPHtGut7N4mmnRdU-LYe6qZq72y/s1024/IMG_20210512_152945_068_resize_46.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgM2kIao3_YALBGjI8wpnZ7SRDcejt4ir2DWnLcGZyD3xX8VNlMR_NwttT_UmAZzgMKH7BB_BeZTnQ_8MkfCZ3Qe_hDxcupqEW5lcUOEMTSCUH2RkHabPHtGut7N4mmnRdU-LYe6qZq72y/w400-h400/IMG_20210512_152945_068_resize_46.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heating his soldering iron in the fire</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />Travelling in this part of rural DRC, it would be impossible to know that there is currently a global Covid19 pandemic. In our first four weeks we saw perhaps five people wearing masks. Most government officials wore no masks in their offices. In one of the early immigration offices, there was a temperature check at the door, but when we tried to present our negative Covid test from Zambia, the official wasn’t interested and said that he had just tested us for Covid and pointed to the thermometer. Fortunately, almost everything is done outside where the risk of transmission is much lower. There were certainly lots of people coughing - wet coughs - but when we pointed this out to the people who claimed that there is “no corona in the DRC” they merely replied that this is normal for the rainy season. Those wet coughs may not be Covid19, but they are most likely a flu or cold virus transmitted in the same way. So it seems probable that some Covid19 is circulating. It wasn’t clear whether it is actually possible to test oneself for Covid19 in this region - the giant Kasai province has the questionable achievement of only having one positive Covid test since the beginning of the pandemic. The long motorbike rides certainly gave us lots of time to ponder what was going on. Besides unproven theories on possible forms of immunity that might exist, it is perhaps also worth noting that the global fatality rate for over-70 year olds is one in twenty. Given the poverty and lack of health care in rural DRC, perhaps the death rate for over 70’s is normally higher than one in twenty. In which case, the few people who reach this age would not be dying at a significantly higher rate. Certainly we did not meet a single person in the entire month who thought that Covid19 was present in rural DRC let alone killing anyone. If a tree in the forest falls unheard, does it make a sound? Given that there is minimal access to health care in the region - no oxygen at all, no testing - and that globally it has been almost impossible for poor countries to lock the virus down, perhaps the Congolese are better off living fearlessly, in denial. But then you look at a church, full of people singing, and you wonder... what is the right thing to do in this situation… </p><p>After Luiza we looked forward to seeing Kananga, our very first Congolese city, four weeks after entering the country. It was to be our last, long motorbike journey. Thankfully, it was injury free although we did get caught in a rainstorm that turned the road into a slippery mess. We also encountered very deep sand with a few trucks badly stuck and bicycle transporters struggling to push their way forward. While the first two weeks of travel had alternated between grassland and forests, the last two weeks of the journey was dominated by grasslands with just the occasional forested stretch. The tiny villages we passed along the road had beautiful home-made cane furniture and many had attractive, little flower gardens out front. The primary economic activities were growing a few palm trees for palm oil, the farming of manioc/kasava, maize and coffee. As we reached further north there were some cattle farmers.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhFE1yeyOPN5d4rff_4O7wv5KjeRaQWPkmKswmMgTPerFKZE-R8jtoPghBzAGrO3qmZCow2LVxorG8UEQlJVR3HYVCEHC16uUkQetI7dNkkI_Y7Mmge45rz2VZS9ow52snChM0Y6POcdZ/s1280/IMG_20210512_153119_783_resize_83.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhFE1yeyOPN5d4rff_4O7wv5KjeRaQWPkmKswmMgTPerFKZE-R8jtoPghBzAGrO3qmZCow2LVxorG8UEQlJVR3HYVCEHC16uUkQetI7dNkkI_Y7Mmge45rz2VZS9ow52snChM0Y6POcdZ/w320-h400/IMG_20210512_153119_783_resize_83.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our motorbike chauffer bought these dried fish en route</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-lnrry3djmH_pWkL5NnJlVVIE83fXJcLN4yx1eMXwgfepvBLffdoDL5T7vaTuTZx7h_KBHXfnbH4HOZajdricOAJn3vqQZkJptPOQTZ94wdhomVZthKSRvhfULSHincUGQUCBFDvRNRiB/s1024/IMG_20210512_153157_089_resize_17.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-lnrry3djmH_pWkL5NnJlVVIE83fXJcLN4yx1eMXwgfepvBLffdoDL5T7vaTuTZx7h_KBHXfnbH4HOZajdricOAJn3vqQZkJptPOQTZ94wdhomVZthKSRvhfULSHincUGQUCBFDvRNRiB/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_153157_089_resize_17.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical village between Luiza and Kananga</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzz8AIc5JOyuMzPQh2k1ryCObNMozVIAvDU-i9zEPN4PuPreoOylOU6gEdXFh8_p5frm68B7t9apvNm2qRfAg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Difficult sand driving and bicycle transporters</div><p>On the outskirts of Kananga we came to an imposing checkpoint where one of our chauffeurs instructed us to go along with his story that we were on our way to meet the provincial governor and thus he should not have to pay whatever fee/ bribe was expected of him. This was a bit awkward as we weren’t in the habit of lying to the police so we just pretended not to speak any French and talked rapidly in English. This seemed to confuse everyone and at least allowed us later plausible deniability that we knew what our chauffeur had been talking about. After passing the checkpoint we were soon entering what felt like a giant city, after the past few weeks in small villages, which had wide tar roads and an abundance of motorbike and pedestrian chaos in every direction. Slightly disoriented, we managed to find an affordable hotel and so, after 900km of crazy motorbike adventures, we ended the first phase of our Congolese travels. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXa37oxId-FMTrNQlUFvb8X9faU9WtkgVfLfdgvqDcXvEcGEvBbGV19b2M6GitfL2RvadVKbQO8guJjzk0oTBeGKrvWCBxe1sXtknr1nM5hFQtJlCuXYW29OIMYyukX2q5os10DLy3a3Oh/s1093/IMG_20210512_153236_567_resize_93.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1093" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXa37oxId-FMTrNQlUFvb8X9faU9WtkgVfLfdgvqDcXvEcGEvBbGV19b2M6GitfL2RvadVKbQO8guJjzk0oTBeGKrvWCBxe1sXtknr1nM5hFQtJlCuXYW29OIMYyukX2q5os10DLy3a3Oh/w375-h400/IMG_20210512_153236_567_resize_93.jpg" width="375" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kananga: our first DRC city</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxAeHqhpha1RFbdPQ6Xzu8RxdagPQi5Vd9WHrqV9clM8GYpKkgVyMj2U6DnerZj4tNkbkJKTuakbSuvNqyT8A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;">Kananga: everyone hustling and bustling</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0YqRChY65oDNT0v4KzMWo_E0K7igL7td_cCNnQPkA7AxUNJu2WaXDjIZznpleLZfJyDoep_pgNDHxzsE7-KAbjvPg_Khr-bsjVgxAOaAvULSBxhKilPRjrICHLpPrVwap8Y2P6i0ICdJ/s1024/IMG_20210512_174158_669_resize_43.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz0YqRChY65oDNT0v4KzMWo_E0K7igL7td_cCNnQPkA7AxUNJu2WaXDjIZznpleLZfJyDoep_pgNDHxzsE7-KAbjvPg_Khr-bsjVgxAOaAvULSBxhKilPRjrICHLpPrVwap8Y2P6i0ICdJ/w400-h300/IMG_20210512_174158_669_resize_43.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Kanangan bicycle transporter with 400kg of bricks on his bike</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>••Congolese song of the month (takes 90 seconds to get going):</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yVj-mH808gA" width="320" youtube-src-id="yVj-mH808gA"></iframe></div><p><br /></p><p>••Book of the month (having read a lot of books about the DRC, this is the best): </p><p><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/da/book/show/21112533-congo" target="_blank">Congo: The Epic History of a People</a></p><p>by David Van Reybrouck</p></div>Dave Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15005938262421761891noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-30949829713885200962021-03-19T16:36:00.002+02:002021-03-19T17:40:37.183+02:00Our Africa Moves: #2 the pedicle and the deepest lake<div>Following our aquatic adventures on the mighty Zambezi, our next mission was to head north to investigate the feasibility of crossing to Congo (DRC) at the small border post near Mwinilunga. The big question was whether or not there were navigable roads and public transport options to the nearest DRC town. If not, we would have to consider the larger, more easterly border crossing that would take us via Lubumbashi. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglrf5srSBa4rB5N5xrQCPXtbwMcz69dUH9CxlBqwP_GU7P1HZsxV9KPpH5Eaked6rnS151-1zBrStxdm0nKe7JUwgkJBWtX4piL6Tp9sdYd70J0CHwtYUz07Lyi-q03Qncd54bKSwzuTT/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_162254_078.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglrf5srSBa4rB5N5xrQCPXtbwMcz69dUH9CxlBqwP_GU7P1HZsxV9KPpH5Eaked6rnS151-1zBrStxdm0nKe7JUwgkJBWtX4piL6Tp9sdYd70J0CHwtYUz07Lyi-q03Qncd54bKSwzuTT/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_162254_078.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All bus stations in Zambia have lots of these heavy-duty wheelbarrows for helping passengers transport heavy produce.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>While Mwinilunga was pretty much straight north of where we were in Zambezi town, we first needed to go via the town of Solwezi to collect our passports that had been couriered back from South Africa. Because we’d been so incredibly busy before we left home, we hadn’t investigated the DRC visa process, assuming that we could apply for them while in Zambia. Alas, this was not so, as due to Covid restrictions, DRC visas could only be applied for from SA. This meant that we had to courier our passports to a South African visa agency and then travel without our passports in Zambia for almost a month. Fortunately the Zambian authorities are very tourist friendly so they were happy to accept photocopies of our passports and Zambian visas as proof of legality. After excellent and affordable service from the Zambian branch of Fedex we were able to collect our passports complete with three month DRC visas from the Fedex office in Solwezi.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHtaq2h0Un_ow_N76RdWL5Ly8bntr9iblHdANcgCkuBM15Yt3gRbB77IQBqOu_l2lCTFAUpn2CQ5yoOSnPHDIvJ-hbE6Maej4w1REeU9sYmZL6UmFGKsLCQQOAtieG5MM5d4zqvLzxv55/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_163223_814.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQHtaq2h0Un_ow_N76RdWL5Ly8bntr9iblHdANcgCkuBM15Yt3gRbB77IQBqOu_l2lCTFAUpn2CQ5yoOSnPHDIvJ-hbE6Maej4w1REeU9sYmZL6UmFGKsLCQQOAtieG5MM5d4zqvLzxv55/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_163223_814.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical Zambian bus station scene</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Solwezi is a fast growing city, home to an enormous mine. Copper is to Zambia what oil is to Saudi Arabia; the economic history and success of the country has been heavily dependent on this important metal. Northern Zambia and southern DRC straddle one of the world’s richest deposits of copper and the economic fortunes of the country mimic closely the rising and falling price of this metal. More than 10% of all the copper in the world is mined in this one region.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxaN5TyIMZanDPmXUYXkBHcIWBWfGEwi2H7Y99SRTPtSp24IVpvvmGiGx3onnTDwT5aSAK5g7zZ4I2Hsn-z_A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>At independence in 1964, Zambia had only three doctors, one engineer, 90 university graduates and about 1000 high school graduates. The economy was dominated by just a few thousand white Zambians. President Kenneth Kaunda initially had significant success with improving the education system; doubling secondary school enrolment and tripling primary school enrolment within just four years. The economy grew quickly thanks to the high copper price. However, things deteriorated as Kaunda chose the path of the one-party state and nationalised all the mines leading to economic stagnation and public dissatisfaction. The fall in copper prices after the ending of the Vietnam war added to the problems. The state-owned mining company used its revenues to expand into a broad range of industries leading to state owned dry cleaners, crocodile farms, tractor assembly and hunting safari businesses, most of which ran at a loss. In response to growing public discontent, Kaunda re-introduced multi-party democracy in 1991 and lost the next election overwhelmingly to Frederick Chiluba’s trade union-backed MMD party. Chiluba immediately embarked on a process of privatising the hundreds of state owned enterprises - including the copper mines - but sadly the privatisation process was comparable to the process that unfolded in the USSR with many dodgy deals and evidence of wide-spread corruption. Since then, there have been multiple democratic changes in government and two presidents have died while in office. Unfortunately the poorly managed privatisation process has meant that Zambia has not benefited as much as it could have from tax revenues generated by its numerous copper mines. The stand-out exception is the First Quantum Minerals copper mine in Solwezi. This one mine pays almost as much tax as all the other mines combined. In addition, FQM funded the establishment of seven excellent schools catering to a broad spectrum of Zambians - from the poorest, to the elite. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dave’s cousin connected us with friends and colleagues who are based at one of these schools, the excellent <a href="https://www.trident-college.com/">Trident College</a> in Solwezi. It was a treat for us to be staying in a proper home for a few days again and have home cooked meals in a well stocked kitchen. After a few fun and comfy days with our new friends, we packed our bags with our freshly laundered clothes and caught the Power Tools bus to Mwinilunga, famously the pineapple capital of Zambia and located close to the DRC border.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJC0MkcaLyantI-lU4Q60Wdl4VVLMyLYmISQY5iNGS64Ny3AhIG_xpkwvJtWOKv6CjYR5-VpPwtJ2Mqrov8zivViiwhsVBCbMQCF3UP4REZgE-CP2-ORVpIcluoEM_ZsIZurZxzO1Cn6Y/s1040/blog2IMG_20210312_162333_066.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJC0MkcaLyantI-lU4Q60Wdl4VVLMyLYmISQY5iNGS64Ny3AhIG_xpkwvJtWOKv6CjYR5-VpPwtJ2Mqrov8zivViiwhsVBCbMQCF3UP4REZgE-CP2-ORVpIcluoEM_ZsIZurZxzO1Cn6Y/w394-h400/blog2IMG_20210312_162333_066.jpg" width="394" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Road-side potato sellers</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Once there we began to ask around for Congolese traders who could advise us on the possibility of crossing from there to the DRC. We found a friendly Congolese known as “Papa Ladis” who ran a shop in Mwinilunga and frequently travelled back and forth between Zambia and the DRC. He gave us the low-down on two possible crossings near Mwinilunga: the tiny one which connected to the DRC village of Mutshatsha and a larger, more frequently used crossing to the DRC city of Kolwezi. The problem with crossing to Kolwezi would be that we would later have to travel the notoriously bad stretch of road linking it to Mutshatsha so we decided that we would opt to cross directly from Zambia to Mutshatsha thus bypassing the bad road. The problem with the Mutshatsha crossing is that it is only possible on a motorbike as the road has been so neglected that it is impassable to any other vehicle. Nevertheless, Papa Ladis confirmed that it was do-able and that was all we needed to know.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we had collected our passports in Solwezi, the good news was that we had indeed been issued with 3 month DRC visas but the unexpected news was that the entry date was stipulated as being only in two weeks’ time. These additional weeks gave us an opportunity to explore Zambias’ far northeast and Lake Tanganyika in particular. This involved crossing the breadth of the country from west to east for thousands of kilometres. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzhRBb4LnDRxbbp1OOtUaimfpnJ9nEcEQTfK6yXpvWISZCbCzAhWH3V4ZgBW_7oF_hiJ29-aeb8QoqwPcSnlsPSx_MqD-r4RLzWLEnN9rkmif-39oNbOhj0hdp6KnaQZU4z07VG0Kig6A/s1024/blog2blog202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzhRBb4LnDRxbbp1OOtUaimfpnJ9nEcEQTfK6yXpvWISZCbCzAhWH3V4ZgBW_7oF_hiJ29-aeb8QoqwPcSnlsPSx_MqD-r4RLzWLEnN9rkmif-39oNbOhj0hdp6KnaQZU4z07VG0Kig6A/w400-h300/blog2blog202.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most small Zambian towns have these awesome little solar stalls with lots of cool stuff for villages that are living off grid.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Zambia has a peculiar shape thanks to the notorious Berlin conference of 1884 which divided up Africa amongst various European powers. The Belgian Congo was given land deep within Zambian territory due to a lack of obvious natural boundaries and the Belgian desire to have access to a swampland area famous for good game hunting opportunities. This area is known as the <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Congo_Pedicle">Congo Pedicle</a> and has proven quite disruptive to travel within Zambia as it requires either taking a long route around the pedicle to reach Zambia’s northeast or a trip across the pedicle - and thus into the DRC - with the immigration hassles that entails. Zambia has struck a deal with the DRC whereby Zambia is responsible for maintaining the 100km road within this sparsely populated part of the DRC in exchange for the DRC ensuring that Zambians can transit with a minimum of immigration requirements. Unfortunately, the requirements for foreigners transiting in a similar fashion is unclear, so we opted to take the much longer route within Zambia that circles around the pedicle. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so the long mission towards Lake Tanganyika began. The upside of going the long way around the pedicle was that we got to visit another family friend en route. The first long travel day ended in the large copper mining city of Kitwe which sees mosly business travellers and thus lacks affordable accommodation. After wandering around with our backpacks late at night we finally found an affordable option nestled in between a couple of Chinese hotels and casinos in a leafy suburb. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next day we continued our journey to Ndola where we connected with another of Dave’s cousin’s wonderful contacts who runs the beautiful <a href="https://nsobegamecamp.com/">Nsobe Camp</a>, farm and impressive community school. This was particularly interesting for us given the similarities with our own work back home at the Bulungula Lodge and Bulungula Incubator. We could share our experiences with many similar deep rural development challenges; it was all very interesting and inspiring. After a few more fun, happy days living in a beautiful house overlooking the animal-filled forest and working farm, we set off again on our journey around the pedicle.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KW_I3VNL_aCj7Yfjp7hiYfAClVwBb_F_J7RsQAUV12vgB_4tnPriDHT5pqYeS3nSM2_F6dLzPkV1NYZJGg_ycOuMBiaO5L30WP_8-W573ZvFH0eccTzZyeYp0SmQZznaH7Mv8QivyDwV/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_162524_540.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8KW_I3VNL_aCj7Yfjp7hiYfAClVwBb_F_J7RsQAUV12vgB_4tnPriDHT5pqYeS3nSM2_F6dLzPkV1NYZJGg_ycOuMBiaO5L30WP_8-W573ZvFH0eccTzZyeYp0SmQZznaH7Mv8QivyDwV/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_162524_540.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjivTrJ6-W3Im0cAShroE5LPbyWNp1gXfiYrp8upqrWZNJkGFO-wefqqfUsgt74PF-dvtMCZsHqwZiWdLOW60xQmlPROHV5gJ7sURnXJBoiOHDpQhTzC5nF6aqJgGwLixpwucOn4LHdjlg0/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_162457_114.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjivTrJ6-W3Im0cAShroE5LPbyWNp1gXfiYrp8upqrWZNJkGFO-wefqqfUsgt74PF-dvtMCZsHqwZiWdLOW60xQmlPROHV5gJ7sURnXJBoiOHDpQhTzC5nF6aqJgGwLixpwucOn4LHdjlg0/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_162457_114.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beautiful Nsobe Camp - a wonderful place to stay while supporting amazing community work.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Continuing on towards Mpulungu, a village on the shores of Lake Tanganyika, our journey took another day and a half, the last stretch in a minibus with a box of chicks chirping all the way to the lake. By now, we had become experts at securing window seats which, combined with our religious wearing of N95 masks, has kept us healthy throughout the journey.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCoTFs_-Kp7jHAaogwnohWaF3enqud2k7H4DF4bNht64dcryRGxG5gLSXD0QXa9GQgXRVOEr2sUfaCKV68U67letFmpWByG9m4pHfO9mcpLfPzfIaoMS07O6LDfsi8E3RAx_Lb7aTsP0NV/s1024/blog2blog221.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCoTFs_-Kp7jHAaogwnohWaF3enqud2k7H4DF4bNht64dcryRGxG5gLSXD0QXa9GQgXRVOEr2sUfaCKV68U67letFmpWByG9m4pHfO9mcpLfPzfIaoMS07O6LDfsi8E3RAx_Lb7aTsP0NV/w400-h300/blog2blog221.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful lake Tanganyika</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Mpulungu is a quiet, pretty fishing and rice growing village right on the shores of the spectacular lake. The blue water stretches out so far that it feels like one is looking out at a calm and placid ocean. Lake Tanganyika is the deepest lake on the planet and holds 15% of the world’s fresh water, second in volume only to Lake Baikal in Siberia. </div><div><br /></div><div>While travelling in the Covid-era certainly has its inconveniences, these are somewhat compensated for by the ‘Covid’ accommodation bargains which have enabled us to stay at much more luxurious lodges than we normally enjoy on our long trips. We had the beautiful <a href="https://www.laketanganyikaresort.com/">Lake Tanganyika Resort</a> all to ourselves and needless to say we decided to enjoy it for a few days longer than we planned. We spent the days lounging on our gorgeous verandah and taking many dips in the lake while making sure we were a good distance from the thick reeds that might shelter a croc or two! Evening brought candlelit dinners and beautiful sunsets. Walks through the vibrant Mpulungu village were interesting: the homesteads are built close together despite being surrounded by significant tracts of unfarmed land. Back home we are used to large spaces between and within homesteads but in Zambia, where livestock is rare, save one or two goats, houses are clustered together leaving open land that doesn’t seem to have any particular reason for being unused. The area close to the lake is mostly undeveloped, naturally beautiful and pollution free with surprisingly few tourist establishments. From what we could gather, there was our small lodge, with three (luxurious) rooms, another lodge we’d seen advertised on the internet, but which we couldn’t see from where we were, and another remotely located one that you had to take a long boat journey to get to. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM5sXPHP-q5dKXyg5cz6GvT2IrcgJ_nlODuDQNo_yZu59D-07h494nsQ_BbOgID71FoLCrLwIPz4WUXS2An40rReZ34BlJjA-Y8ig3g_CuxeKT_e5hTQRBCDvbgOZz4gizgQevTKsq5-5A/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_163106_371.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM5sXPHP-q5dKXyg5cz6GvT2IrcgJ_nlODuDQNo_yZu59D-07h494nsQ_BbOgID71FoLCrLwIPz4WUXS2An40rReZ34BlJjA-Y8ig3g_CuxeKT_e5hTQRBCDvbgOZz4gizgQevTKsq5-5A/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_163106_371.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Tanganyika Resort</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOHVyKN64IzK6uz30aJ2mfcV8zWMTK8gTw0O0GFIUAS4s2giL2id4fKxdu2m2njVxQeO8RjGaakDZyuj1beYmoM9v3C2o3P84LayWmJsdRotA5JXOwqTh6EgN2YmRPruSTazXxCSKH_Fn/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_162704_927.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKOHVyKN64IzK6uz30aJ2mfcV8zWMTK8gTw0O0GFIUAS4s2giL2id4fKxdu2m2njVxQeO8RjGaakDZyuj1beYmoM9v3C2o3P84LayWmJsdRotA5JXOwqTh6EgN2YmRPruSTazXxCSKH_Fn/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_162704_927.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOMMWgp_e35SQWleqtDIfsXYgKkHxJXALKV3oCnhxy0UM0enJdY7pJYpbh7LIbyyK_Qc8nyoUrtYReXcDHcWYOT3AI51MZELY52MnDjTCam49vV87lJM2stDlqe5JwGkLSnUaJ1JTNAlf/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_162628_672.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOMMWgp_e35SQWleqtDIfsXYgKkHxJXALKV3oCnhxy0UM0enJdY7pJYpbh7LIbyyK_Qc8nyoUrtYReXcDHcWYOT3AI51MZELY52MnDjTCam49vV87lJM2stDlqe5JwGkLSnUaJ1JTNAlf/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_162628_672.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>The huts in the village had verandahs lined with colourful pot plants of much variety that rendered the mud wall and grass roof dwellings a pretty picture. We reckoned this was the happy upside of the dearth of domestic livestock - in SA pot plants wouldn’t last a day with all the goats and cows around. The dearth of livestock remains a bit of a mystery - in South Africa about half the domestic livestock is owned by rural subsistence farmers, a wealth estimated in the region of R50 billion for cattle alone. The only significant herds of livestock we’d seen in Zambia was in the Western parts of the Zambezi, on the Barotseland plains. The best explanation we’d been given was that the grass was not good for grazing although it all looked like pretty sweet grass to our eyes. Most homesteads have an additional hut structure outside which has a grass roof supported by about 10 wooden poles and this serves as an attractive cooking and relaxation area that allows the cool breezes to blow through.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another interesting difference in this part of Zambia was the significant presence of Islam. This made sense with the large muslim population of Tanzania, just across the lake, and the 1000 year-history of the Arab slave trade that reached deep into the African interior until the early 1900’s. The ‘Muslim Church’, as it was refered to locally, had built large, well-run schools, houses for their communities and was busy constructing an enormous new mosque. We’d grown quite jealous of very low costs of building in Zambia. A decently built classroom-size building with fired clay bricks and a zinc roof can be had for the equivalent of about R30,000 ($2,000). We’d pay 10 times that in South Africa. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wkY-V846V1KEh3SP6dueXQT8Kflg-eKsNIPpxepdzW4EH7xKonj5F4ILepGogr6E32CivRM1oYjTVptyZH0u4Bx5UDKC53YPk8JYIlvVW_MtUuAD_jq1P7IL0FdPz7n7fvT0GeHT3yyu/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_162839_024.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wkY-V846V1KEh3SP6dueXQT8Kflg-eKsNIPpxepdzW4EH7xKonj5F4ILepGogr6E32CivRM1oYjTVptyZH0u4Bx5UDKC53YPk8JYIlvVW_MtUuAD_jq1P7IL0FdPz7n7fvT0GeHT3yyu/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_162839_024.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8PHvh_zeWEtdcYfsEiIMQQ-p-KHEz5V9f29TW27ttC6f3quxqakMoX4f-MrisV0LjH4B7_3fl4rS5Rr4trJTGMH9Yf31-jnW2SpEk8GJGXw1PGWNSE2qnerthwz8iPG2etKInbJPHw5Ef/s1024/blog2IMG_20210312_162550_465.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8PHvh_zeWEtdcYfsEiIMQQ-p-KHEz5V9f29TW27ttC6f3quxqakMoX4f-MrisV0LjH4B7_3fl4rS5Rr4trJTGMH9Yf31-jnW2SpEk8GJGXw1PGWNSE2qnerthwz8iPG2etKInbJPHw5Ef/w400-h300/blog2IMG_20210312_162550_465.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bit of luxury at Lake Tanganyika Resort</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtO0lf4xIVaawD0ungdJg1SEyK-1ry0YBn05QCUlYROBA_gjQcCRjfscyqpen74porwfdiKwFjzldkU_1jvujPlv65tlDarV9GkPzk2avwLqC1NZIg0KkBLzFlD5cdLQimoN_VgecnW-XL/s1024/blog2blog222.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtO0lf4xIVaawD0ungdJg1SEyK-1ry0YBn05QCUlYROBA_gjQcCRjfscyqpen74porwfdiKwFjzldkU_1jvujPlv65tlDarV9GkPzk2avwLqC1NZIg0KkBLzFlD5cdLQimoN_VgecnW-XL/w400-h400/blog2blog222.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>At Mpulungu harbour we saw perhaps 100 giant trucks waiting to offload their cargo. On further inquiry this cargo turned out to be mostly cement to be loaded onto ships destined for Bujumbura, Burundi on the northern edge of the lake. Thus this giant lake continues the tradition of millenia connecting diverse peoples in a never-ending ebb and flow of culture, commerce and religion. </div><div><br /></div><div>Close to the village homesteads and rice fields we found the vibrant little town centre and fishing harbour. One of the great successes of Zambia’s post-independence economy has been the development of a strong, active entrepreneurial class of Zambians running all manner of businesses. While in South Africa shops stocked with cell phones, hardware, household appliances and groceries would invariably be owned by immigrants from South Asia or other parts of Africa, in Zambia these are almost always Zambian-owned and run. A huge transformation from the colonial era when most businesses were white-owned. These Zambian businesses have wonderful names… our top 10 favourite shop names:</div><div>*Patience pays </div><div>*Suffering gives knowledge</div><div>*Days are numbered Grocery</div><div>*Sweet of my sweat Barber Shop</div><div>*The Blues only God knows</div><div>*Don't condemn just advise Hardware</div><div>*No condition is permanent Grocery </div><div>*Bible Believing Baptist Church </div><div>*Why always me? Barber Shop</div><div>*Life is a Journey Agricultural Shop</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the unique challenges faced by small businesses in Zambia is the dire shortage of small notes. Pity the person who wants to buy something for K5 but only has a K100 note. The shop-keeper invariably has to walk around the market trying to find change and sometimes even refuses the sale. We never got to the bottom of why there was such a shortage of small notes while there’s an abundance of large notes.</div><div><br /></div><div>In between the relaxation at the lake, we had a full day mission to the impressive Kalambo falls, the second highest waterfall in Africa that forms the land border between Zambia and Tanzania.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVoHJiZ2hgKjOCyhPuh2EIPOlKZ2AF-gMhS7W0a17Np9O9gSDNdhG-r_avmskWlqmjQKgMadVP5tUgJKXc0QhRApniQaj7kEQET-XYIPP4Ec6ogx71L1s_utQ1vPenGtGLEVx4IGtczmf/s1280/blog2IMG_20210312_162952_440.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVoHJiZ2hgKjOCyhPuh2EIPOlKZ2AF-gMhS7W0a17Np9O9gSDNdhG-r_avmskWlqmjQKgMadVP5tUgJKXc0QhRApniQaj7kEQET-XYIPP4Ec6ogx71L1s_utQ1vPenGtGLEVx4IGtczmf/w320-h400/blog2IMG_20210312_162952_440.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kalambo falls - 2nd highest in Africa</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xsO_aOZOSJlMRw9v2E1E_QrQ56k-L38Qg3HIEO2Hj0aB9IE_8XxqDb6CzxBUTDnylIqtE8Q_wxU3eIAtaUyUKpBMbdf0UY7UGkEUyzUb9rdnxPa5S6KcYqNtldxZ4IrDhAVFkYwDyfP5/s1280/blog2IMG_20210312_163018_428.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xsO_aOZOSJlMRw9v2E1E_QrQ56k-L38Qg3HIEO2Hj0aB9IE_8XxqDb6CzxBUTDnylIqtE8Q_wxU3eIAtaUyUKpBMbdf0UY7UGkEUyzUb9rdnxPa5S6KcYqNtldxZ4IrDhAVFkYwDyfP5/w320-h400/blog2IMG_20210312_163018_428.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzHYnMeUO-dxOThofhCsmqtoPQQro1X2E70nPfzasNCNnuvPVDqV4dkkugOUcD1apT_rPpvP3BzHYdR6NK85w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Zambia has lots of dangerous snakes and thus people are obsessed with cutting the fast growing grass where these snakes may hide. This job is the preserve of the ubiquitous “slashers” who cut the grass with a panga bent at a right angle at the bottom. These slashers can be seen everywhere cutting the grass with rhythmic golf-swings including along the national highways. We only saw a weed-eater a couple of times on our whole trip. These slashers typically earn the minimum wage of about $2 per day and this highly inefficient method of cutting grass is clearly a major job-creator. Though one cannot help thinking that by that logic one would create even more jobs if the slashers were given scissors instead… Perhaps this level of inefficiency is a valid trade-off for the many jobs created but one hopes that as the economy grows, there will be fewer people needed in this job of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with the occasional moment of terror when a snake appears and is summarily decapitated. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw43kXPiOImPdZD-XgKEQXyTetG65kA_WKy3AsfZkr1V-F0FDb1QLCJ_rlm-hzxybj2wTIWEEoHBY0-Wfk0BA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>All in all, Mpulungu looked like a nice place to live: natural beauty, a quiet rural life (our hotel rooms had no locks on the doors), good farming, lots of fish and international commercial trade to boot.</div><div><br /></div><div>Having filled our boots with luxury and relaxation, we were ready to begin the trek back west towards Mwinilunga and the DRC border. This time we couldn’t resist the temptation to take the shortcut through the pedicle, which would mean crossing into the Congo and out again, like all the Zambians do. The local Power Tools bus office assured us that foreigners can do so and that all that was required was to pay the standard 30 kwacha transit fee. So we got ready to board the bus at 4am and see what would happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>At about midday we passed through a busy bus station near the pedicle border and a bolshy tout started questioning us and telling us that there was no way we would get through without paying a $50 transit visa fee. We had travelled too far to turn back now and we figured that our DRC visa’s validity date was the next day anyway, so the worst case scenario would be having to spend a night at the pedicle border and then to enter with our valid multiple entry visa the next day.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we got to the Zambian border post, the officials were very helpful. They phoned the Congolese side, at their own expense, and the Congolese immigration confirmed that it would be ok to cross using our DRC visa one day early. So we were waved through by the Zambians, our passports unstamped. Then it was back on the bus with our fellow Zambian passengers across to the Congolese side. This was where the crunch was going to come, if indeed it was to crunch. At the Congo border the Zambians all lined up and began to pay the 30 kwacha fee each (about R20). We were directed to the more serious looking desk. Dave dusted off his French neural-connections and began talking about the wonderful time he had travelling through the Congo in the late nineties and how he was looking forward to sharing the re-visit with his wife in a week or so once we entered the DRC near Mwinilunga. All we wanted for now was to cross the pedicle and stay in Zambia for one more week. The officials, duly charmed, said we could pass and all we had to pay was the 100 kwacha ($5) standard foreigner registration fee that appears to apply to other African migrants...no talk of the $50 we’d been warned about. Phew! Round one had gone well. Now for the border posts on the far side of the pedicle. On the other side, there was no fee for the Zambians to pay and they walked straight through the gate. We tried to do the same with no luck. We were pulled out of the line by a decidedly unhappy looking Congolese official. Rapid French ensued with our passports waved about: we were not allowed to cross because on entering the pedicle we should have been stamped out of Zambia and then stamped into Congo so we could be stamped out at this side and then stamped back into Zambia. That was not our fault, we protested. 'Well!', said the intimidating downturned face, 'what could be done about it?' We then offered to put up our tent and wait until a solution could be found because there wasn’t one available in our wallets. No, no, no we couldn’t camp in no man’s land because there is "a lot of COVID in South Africa" (despite us being the only people in the immigration office wearing masks and the fact that we had left South Africa two months ago). The waiting game began but now we were holding up the bus. When the bus conductor came to check up on the delay, we said we didn’t want to delay all the other passengers and he should offload our bags as we needed to sleep at the border post until the stamp issue could be resolved. Bless him, he was determined not to abandon us. Thankfully, the intimidating official wasn’t keen on continuing the game of chicken and handed our passports back with an upturned nose. We’d done it! No bribes paid. But then at the last minute someone demanded a COVID test (having not asked any Zambians for the same) All we had were our now 2 month old COVID tests that we had had done before we left SA. These were photocopied without a glance and duly filed..and that was that...we were through! We returned to our fellow bus passengers who, instead of being put out for having been delayed, were thrilled that we did not pay any bribes. They were quite incensed at the shakedowns we’d been confronted with. </div><div><br /></div><div>Travelling through the pedicle one is struck by how much harder life was there. The huts were, like Zambian huts, also made of ant hill mud bricks and grass roofs but they are much smaller and more often than not there would be just one lonely, drab one all on its own in the bush. Zambian homesteads are in villages with at least a few huts to a homestead and evidence of basic necessities. Not in the pedicle area of the Congo. There was no cell phone signal at all, certainly no electricity and what seemed like a dearth of access to any schooling or healthcare. There was just lots of thick bush with a few isolated huts here and there. We reflected on the development one can see in Zambia over the past two decades. The efficiencies that flow from cell phone and road infrastructure are obvious to see. While there is much to be done for Zambia to improve its roads, they are mostly good enough for big passenger busses to connect all major towns and for traders to move products to all parts of Zambia quite cheaply. </div><div><br /></div><div>The road from the border to Kitwe was a horrendous mud bath and after such a long day we held thumbs tightly to get through. The Power Tools bus driver did an amazing job and we made it to Kitwe happy that we already knew where a cheap room could be found.</div><div><br /></div><div>After Kitwe, we had a half day ride to Solwezi for an encore at our friends’ cosy home (and washing machine). We could also have the necessary COVID tests done in Solwezi that are required on entering the DRC despite Papa Ladis assuring us that it was definitely not necessary. After some back and forth to try and find a place to test - the government hospital had completely run out of test reagent - we got tested for almost half the price charged in SA and had our negative test results the same day. </div><div><br /></div><div>The benign COVID situation in Zambia and many other African countries remains a bit of a mystery. We read this <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/03/01/why-does-the-pandemic-seem-to-be-hitting-some-countries-harder-than-others">excellent article</a> which perhaps points to some answers. Another <a href="https://thenewdaily.com.au/news/2021/03/04/covid-19-deaths-link-obesity/">article</a> points out that countries like SA, UK and the USA with high rates of obesity have 10 times more deaths. Zambians in general are amazingly slim thanks probably to their lower incomes resulting in the consumption of less sugar and processed foods. Lastly, it is clear that many people who do die here of Covid are never recorded (as shown in<a href="https://twitter.com/BogochIsaac/status/1362382516104146946?s=19"> this article</a>) but nevertheless we found medium-sized towns that had recorded fewer than 10 positive cases in the whole year.</div><div><br /></div><div>Zambia’s second wave peaked at about 1800 cases per day and is now down to fewer than 400 cases per day and fewer than 5 deaths per day. In smaller Zambian towns conversations about Covid typically involve people saying they’ve heard about it on the radio and have seen no evidence of it among people they know and where they live. The bars and nightclubs are busy and we're sad not to be willing/able to join in the fun. We remain just about the only people wearing masks in indoor public areas (except in some large shopping malls where their use is mandatory). </div><div><br /></div><div>In Solwezi, we also needed to do one more uniquely Zambian shopping experience: visit the local DAPP shop and replace one of Réjane's t-shirts which was beginning to take strain. This non-profit company has branches throughout the country selling secondhand clothing donated by people in rich countries. For as little as $1 or $2 you can buy second hand brand name clothing in good condition - we saw excellent Levi jeans for $1! There are also second hand shoe stores where you can buy used Merrells, Skechers, New Balance and other smart shoes in good condition for $10. When a DAPP store receives a new consignment of clothes, prices for everything in the shop is set at $5 per piece. After a day or two when the most desired items have been bought, the price drops by a dollar per day until after a week or so the price for everything is $1. If you’re lucky to be an uncommon size, like Dave, then you get to buy unwanted sizes in excellent condition at the lowest price. In South Africa the import of secondhand clothes is illegal as it is correctly believed that it will destroy the local clothing manufacturing industry. This is what has happened in Zambia where apparently 20,000 jobs were lost when the importation of free secondhand clothes was first permitted. However, thousands of jobs have since been created in the retail sector and, more importantly, the incredibly low prices of quality second hand clothes has made the poorest Zambians considerably richer as the buying power of their few kwacha has been dramatically increased. It is noticeable that even in the poorest parts of Zambia, people are rarely seen wearing the threadbare and broken clothes common in the deep rural areas of South Africa. Economically speaking, if you decrease the price of something by 90% it is the same as increasing their income by 1000% so in Zambia one needs to consider that while 20,000 people lost their manufacturing jobs, all 17 million Zambians became richer in the clothes-buying department.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then it was back on the Mwinilunga bus to return to a town and guest house where everyone knew our name and where delicious pineapples cost just R3 ($0.20). The welcome back to Mwinilunga was warm and after a repeat visit to our friendly Papa Ladis, we were on the back of a bakkie (pick-up truck) towards the border town of Ikelenge. When bakkie transport is used as public transport, it has no canopy and no seats. Half the load bin is piled with goods and the other half is standing-room-only for about 10 passengers. For the standing room space, where you place your feet at the start is where they stay in position for the entire trip (this one was 4 hours) - there is absolutely no room for them to move 2cm in any direction. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjysjeTfIUXalr71_uHl40UCtL9tiICgz1MPbec4LTKQfn0vpg6g6uPgTy0SJ67egsHFtITowQZPwUol3gSFyztN8RGbZYQ1zguvjnizf_dvJxWyr8Do1gq5nwqF52TsxGQWtCAEb8p0HOA/s1280/blog2IMG_20210312_163249_186.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjysjeTfIUXalr71_uHl40UCtL9tiICgz1MPbec4LTKQfn0vpg6g6uPgTy0SJ67egsHFtITowQZPwUol3gSFyztN8RGbZYQ1zguvjnizf_dvJxWyr8Do1gq5nwqF52TsxGQWtCAEb8p0HOA/w320-h400/blog2IMG_20210312_163249_186.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On top of the pick-up truck to Ikelenge</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Once in Ikelenge we had to make a turn at the source of the Zambezi river which was just a few kilometers out of town. The mighty Zambezi that we had adventured on a month before turned out to originate from a little puddle in the ground! The area is now a Natural Heritage site in a thick, wet forest. The puddle that is the source seeps out as a tiny spring from the forest floor and then audibly bubbles along the ground, hidden by a thick bed of forest leaves before gathering momentum and forming a tiny stream from which one can drink cool, delicious water. A revelation for travellers accustomed to the massive himalayan glaciers that are the source of Asia's large rivers. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxiI_vIr8YbTAwtmhTsT7JU3xivUK-5ShvmJNBc_VxyTk_tq999nVwUFyvx8YxmDhDkvc-n6l0iXt5Oc6cLIQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">* The source of the Zambezi river *</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Pilgrimage to the Zambezi source successfully accomplished, we had to get to the serious business of negotiating our transport across the border in the morning. The only option was to take motorbike taxis, no vehicles being able to navigate the terrible road. It made sense to us that we’d need two bikes, one for each of us with a backpack at the back of each. Unbeknownst to us, at that point, we were coming across as someone who was trying to hire two cars to transport two people when everyone and all bags could fit into one! The first price we got was therefore astronomical, befitting people who had so much money to spend they wanted more vehicle space than was really necessary. After we realised this, we began to ask how one 250cc Boxer motorbike could accommodate a driver, the two of us, and two large backpacks. “No problem at all” we were assured, that was the way everyone travelled! So that’s what we did. Our transport search complete, we fell into bed in our little room at the Sacred Heart Catholic Mission guest house to spend our last night in Zambia.</div><div><br /></div><div>We hadn't planned to spend almost two months travelling 8,000km in Zambia on this trip, but we're so glad we did. This fascinating country and its gentle, friendly people have much to offer travellers and we came away optimistic for its future. The lack of formal employment opportunities over the last few decades has resulted in a highly entrepreneurial society with everyone busy with some economic activity, be it productive small scale farming or basic manufacturing or retailing. Hopefully the government can find the correct balance between creating an attractive environment for investment in the mining industry while at the same time securing a fair share of the profits to invest in physical and social infrastructure. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qByBdiO18yP0DC4FvZsR_aryjAuyNS3oh_p64ZTBQugBuNAcdusGsAErwzF2ddVomEFGsPGo3l3ttBQ7K4cjhsHoNAISVduT6NthqHe2-oyoRFwTbDUH7kRjnAio_5Yf6UC0mdjAaZUt/s1280/blog2IMG_20210312_163317_244.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qByBdiO18yP0DC4FvZsR_aryjAuyNS3oh_p64ZTBQugBuNAcdusGsAErwzF2ddVomEFGsPGo3l3ttBQ7K4cjhsHoNAISVduT6NthqHe2-oyoRFwTbDUH7kRjnAio_5Yf6UC0mdjAaZUt/w320-h400/blog2IMG_20210312_163317_244.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our transport to the DRC</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyhqFfrPSNHXftf9r1FTpU9d_Ceh3NVXD4BAhM25eavAE9TNa5Seae1N_RdzrgEdtIWXJfk18wiU6Hi7Dpz9Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>The next morning we loaded our bags onto the motorbike and set off. The road was bad, very bad. But wow, did Chris, our motorbike driver, know the road! He swerved this way and that, ducked through the bush, pushed his loaded bike through a raging river and lifted it through mud swamps, this being the R5611 international road from Zambia to the Congo border. The landscape was kilometers of forest with a few mud hut villages along the way. At one point we passed a man who looked like any of the other farmers going to their fields. Our driver stopped and introduced us to him. He turned out to be the Zambian border official who simply wished us a good journey. We asked about needing an exit stamp for Zambia but he just smiled and said that he didn’t have one and that they would do it all on the Congolese side… OK then! So we carried on through the bush and eventually came to another village, that looked like all the others, with a few thatched mud huts and an old man sitting on a stool with a young woman, a baby on each of their laps and toddlers playing around the legs of the chairs. The driver stopped to the amazed look of the old man. We thought he looked amazed that we were stopping at his hut but it turned out that he was the Congolese border official and had never seen tourists coming through - he was only used to the back and forth of Zambians and Congolese. He had no choice but to process us so he led us inside the little 2m x 2m hut that had a desk and table and a black A4 Croxley lined school book. He carefully and neatly recorded all Dave’s passport details in the book. Rejane’s details were seemingly not necessary for the book but, just in case, they were recorded on a loose piece of paper that was tucked into the book. With intense concentration, both passports were carefully stamped and signed. The issue of COVID tests was not mentioned. After a shy request for a gift that we politely refused, the motorbike pushed on forward and we were now in the DRC! A few hours later we emerged in the village of Mutshatsha...</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwOvDE3vNX6L0dETroc6vWF5uwDWzZtXrOis4c_OuSSXJl7Ob_PMR-TRiJX0LjV6v3zPBCzhWlRPAb5ZkIYFw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='480' height='399' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxOh5PpDq3YJLViQ-5aIV9LBNrFB05ZNA1IZ9gX44dIcwLJxuyRfH8oENCY-0nRFvnvxKKtwQmfXuon5nF9DQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIw7WwZeaVn3PRAecgU_wbX1JJDSSChyphenhyphen6-Qy6aJFe1i1B5VJE8LQpeO5T75jkh6ID23Wu8K5WitSZ5XVipX8ZRsdybVDZKEsltPfyCngzzBWQMQmvY6uMdOJw5GyC_WMg1ZGt83l_K3oT/s1280/blog2IMG_20210312_163458_168.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXIw7WwZeaVn3PRAecgU_wbX1JJDSSChyphenhyphen6-Qy6aJFe1i1B5VJE8LQpeO5T75jkh6ID23Wu8K5WitSZ5XVipX8ZRsdybVDZKEsltPfyCngzzBWQMQmvY6uMdOJw5GyC_WMg1ZGt83l_K3oT/w320-h400/blog2IMG_20210312_163458_168.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The road from Zambia to the Congo</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgftatkqgsLjO0yEuXZtKnpoyYRMDZ6th-uAWcO3DTej7tcIvHbN0e_2W5ROwgGkQA7-LvoMzYV55Vtu0SNPGUYkS7cXXznOYf2xh4Xw7tBC4F_df3nLQmMbFm9b3kS9lec5s2KA3B2R80o/s1280/blog2IMG_20210312_163358_022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgftatkqgsLjO0yEuXZtKnpoyYRMDZ6th-uAWcO3DTej7tcIvHbN0e_2W5ROwgGkQA7-LvoMzYV55Vtu0SNPGUYkS7cXXznOYf2xh4Xw7tBC4F_df3nLQmMbFm9b3kS9lec5s2KA3B2R80o/w320-h400/blog2IMG_20210312_163358_022.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRg4PBVGX5mEDg4aUEZkrPf7facE8hVdGlMv4XuMGWClALjzIWA3DM9fxl4_UES_CZbCLj3qOQgVbByoYWvcep7lAx3SRtlJ1trhFfLQFA3Co7sk52jP4s3zboTKMuRGG_2VvKewPY8_Py/s1280/blog2IMG_20210312_163423_860.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRg4PBVGX5mEDg4aUEZkrPf7facE8hVdGlMv4XuMGWClALjzIWA3DM9fxl4_UES_CZbCLj3qOQgVbByoYWvcep7lAx3SRtlJ1trhFfLQFA3Co7sk52jP4s3zboTKMuRGG_2VvKewPY8_Py/w320-h400/blog2IMG_20210312_163423_860.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>The sight and sounds of the wonder-filled DRC, our interviews with local intelligence agents and the crazy, crazy road trips will have to wait until our next blog. Stay tuned! </div><div><br /></div><div>Our Zambian song of the month:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6HWlHD6YZsU" width="320" youtube-src-id="6HWlHD6YZsU"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dave Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15005938262421761891noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-3127836086471805362021-02-16T15:46:00.001+02:002021-03-19T14:57:54.377+02:00Our Africa Moves: #1 better to go with the Zambezi's flow<div><br /></div><div>Our one year trip began with a COVID test. It was negative and we were good to go. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you remember one thing from this blog entry, it should be this: definitely try sailing the Zambezi in a Sesepe boat but make sure you’re heading downstream! But we get ahead of ourselves, that travel lesson was to come in 3 weeks’ time…</div><div><br /></div><div>Every five years we go backpacking for one year - a life-style that requires a lot of planning. While Covid19 has tried its best to thwart everyone’s plans, we had to choose between travelling in 2021 or not at all. We chose to travel. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEvzjiIdUFY_vBdGIXwkacq-KKgoVUEhK6xtxzCmzzNkmc-1ZSyBerRlxDtksCYuZLrNcBhC_GmZrjdRxbYr71r-BXk-1owuZHHwPbehaBRCDClz6GMB6ptsb6fPUcsNZSA23XmjnMyGB/s811/IMG_20210108_082010_044.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="811" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEvzjiIdUFY_vBdGIXwkacq-KKgoVUEhK6xtxzCmzzNkmc-1ZSyBerRlxDtksCYuZLrNcBhC_GmZrjdRxbYr71r-BXk-1owuZHHwPbehaBRCDClz6GMB6ptsb6fPUcsNZSA23XmjnMyGB/w400-h400/IMG_20210108_082010_044.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 1, bus 1</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Of course Covid19 has added a layer of ethical complexity to a decision like this - we have done our best to protect ourselves, and more importantly, to protect others. Our biggest fear would have been to spread the SA variant beyond our borders - but we were super careful prior to leaving, had a negative Covid test 72 hours prior to departure and were extra careful in the days that followed. The reality we have found as we’ve moved northwards is that besides shopping malls in capital cities, there is little meaningful preventative action being taken to stop the spread of the virus. South Africa looks like a beacon of Covid19-fighting excellence when compared to some of our neighbours. If this virus is going to spread through our continent it will do so because of zero precautions on public transport and not because of travellers. Truck drivers and day traders are moving across even supposedly closed borders quite freely without a Covid test in sight. </div><div><br /></div><div>The start of our journey was a relatively comfortable bus ride, albeit 24 hours long, from Cape Town to Windhoek. The lush Cape landscape turned into desert in a couple of hours and stayed that way. Having lived most of our lives on South Africa’s coast, it took some time for the vastness of the desert landscapes to sink in. We wore our N95 masks throughout the entire journey, not even taking a sip of water while on the bus. This strict policy required a scramble during the few short loo breaks to ensure that we could gulp some food and water before the impatient bus continued its journey. Hooray for padkos! Adding to the challenge was the South African curfew which meant that the bus had to race to get to the border in time. With the airconditioning not working, it was a hot ride and took commitment to keep those masks on all the time, especially when no-one else was doing so. </div><div><br /></div><div>It took a few hours at the Namibian border to get through immigration, customs and health checks despite there being very few people. After that, it was a long straight road through the rainy night until we reached Windhoek in the early morning. There we were met by an old friend, Lisa, and her partner Paul who have built a magnificent off-grid eco-house in the bush shared with two very hospitable half-wolves. After a few sociable days swimming in their natural plunge pool, enjoying the sunsets and cooking lovely meals together, we packed up their well-equipped 4x4 and headed towards the Caprivi strip. We had been led to believe that Namibia was a desert, but it rained on every one of our 10 days there and was thus surprisingly green.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Caprivi landscape was interesting: wooded and green and lined with small, neat homesteads with huts made of sticks and anthill mud. The huts are shorter than the ones back at home with thinner thatch that is sewn together at the apex rather than held in place using a tyre/ponch as we do in the Eastern Cape. Most homesteads are attractively fenced using reeds. The Caprivi strip has huge tracts of land reserved for game parks and conservancies, mostly unfenced areas in which wild animals roam freely (including big cats, elephants, buffalo, hippo, hyena and crocodiles) that could, if they chose, come right up into the villages.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSS01MLcRTo3nKJ0ZGTKDk0LoWyWAzObpOrJ2IH56kh4d7eBplUY5PcPD6sVoHw-bpML7XaKxxSL7pJfj8GLgejBfqrbYl7DN63fYROvX2Gq1MbwxrDUXyUA_WAuoN_aSMHWK0yn_667m/s1024/IMG_20210214_122937_186_resize_9.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSS01MLcRTo3nKJ0ZGTKDk0LoWyWAzObpOrJ2IH56kh4d7eBplUY5PcPD6sVoHw-bpML7XaKxxSL7pJfj8GLgejBfqrbYl7DN63fYROvX2Gq1MbwxrDUXyUA_WAuoN_aSMHWK0yn_667m/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_122937_186_resize_9.jpg" title="Lisa and Paul and their 4x4" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paul, Lisa and their 4x4</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Travelling in Lisa and Paul’s 4x4 we got to see beautiful remote campsites in which our little tent felt very vulnerable to prowling predators! Camping in these areas is typically done in 4x4 roof top tents, not little 2 person tents like ours! When we asked a park manager whether our tent on the ground might be vulnerable to baboons or lions, he just giggled and said he had no experience with campers like us, so he didn’t know! Turned out the only attack our little tent had to deal with was the heavy rain. Unfortunately, it didn’t hold up too well. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpFnv2pFNFJZ-mKKc9_hq9z6W7xK2kco_imkyWpJsv_W9f7kSFTCpJquhSOYE4oxjB_qMz0pl2ZrGeQs9MiPSASFRbHSHEvir96AcNeZmMib3Rxq2IJuyQxNduFOIhyphenhyphen3eOPxGIPCXRX3m/s1198/IMG_20210214_122236_452_resize_72.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpFnv2pFNFJZ-mKKc9_hq9z6W7xK2kco_imkyWpJsv_W9f7kSFTCpJquhSOYE4oxjB_qMz0pl2ZrGeQs9MiPSASFRbHSHEvir96AcNeZmMib3Rxq2IJuyQxNduFOIhyphenhyphen3eOPxGIPCXRX3m/w343-h400/IMG_20210214_122236_452_resize_72.jpg" width="343" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North Face tent enhanced with black plastic</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>(Spare a thought for the travellers heading towards the Congo rainforest who decide to invest in a new and expensive North Face tent only to find that it leaks like a mosquito net and North Face’s helpful response being that the life time guarantee will be honoured if we send the tent back to them at a courier cost of R2500!! The leaking was solved with a 3m x 3m piece of thick building plastic from the local Chinese shop inserted between the inner tent and the fly sheet which is 100% waterproof but added a kilogram to a backpack that must be carried for the next year.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzFrgFONvi0Eep5TCY1eG87fie5SjsMF7Ye6uWDZkuob0StIne-f4lqN3sXJZT7MveHSS2uUppHIKMzy8e-E_vdoqNtZLzzeXM9Fl9iEisugWImFZSLpm_9AZKcpsrdYcuPl6_YNIaWJZ/s1024/IMG_20210214_122709_328_resize_89.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzFrgFONvi0Eep5TCY1eG87fie5SjsMF7Ye6uWDZkuob0StIne-f4lqN3sXJZT7MveHSS2uUppHIKMzy8e-E_vdoqNtZLzzeXM9Fl9iEisugWImFZSLpm_9AZKcpsrdYcuPl6_YNIaWJZ/s320/IMG_20210214_122709_328_resize_89.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful forest bathroom at Ngepi Camp, Namibia</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>The Caprivi area has many beautiful camp sites in stunning locations along the rivers with excellent camping facilities. One of our favourites was Ngepi Camp which overlooks the crocodile-and-hippo-filled Cubango river. They have beautiful natural showers and toilets nestled in the forest and even a swimming cage in the river that allows you to swim without fear of attack by the numerous wild crocodiles. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHra8QuSMk8KRTsKq_8tPmVvZBdr_MYZalaELAkBunnUuF3yN6kn5snzuBr4VlO2WqD-q7ihy0bF1frdGO7KZQoElU8G9L_NRBPEzKLbScIgyasJKQKf0nP6aF2UzzU4icBIRIEqcu7g8i/s1024/IMG_20210214_122329_882_resize_91.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHra8QuSMk8KRTsKq_8tPmVvZBdr_MYZalaELAkBunnUuF3yN6kn5snzuBr4VlO2WqD-q7ihy0bF1frdGO7KZQoElU8G9L_NRBPEzKLbScIgyasJKQKf0nP6aF2UzzU4icBIRIEqcu7g8i/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_122329_882_resize_91.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crocodile cage swimming pool Ngepi Camp</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjjmykNFTbjLyNf8G0JiSjUiIG0T1OeaIVEojR2-97Gnx0jS2uNY96c7lRNyRA6TVQyujs7I27v3iBs8AoTzreWCC6baM0pZLbfNFkRIEKOGdnCb8vD1oaevd1ocVtU6lEdP0rOLAVitD/s1280/IMG_20210214_192255_321_resize_86.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidjjmykNFTbjLyNf8G0JiSjUiIG0T1OeaIVEojR2-97Gnx0jS2uNY96c7lRNyRA6TVQyujs7I27v3iBs8AoTzreWCC6baM0pZLbfNFkRIEKOGdnCb8vD1oaevd1ocVtU6lEdP0rOLAVitD/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_192255_321_resize_86.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>We headed on to a natural conservancy area where private companies have leased land from the local community and set up camps there. Many experts in the field of community tourism and conservation regard these conservancies as the best way to ensure that beautiful, wild spaces materially benefit the neighbouring communities who own the land. Namibia is a world leader in this style of conservation tourism. As we drove into the conservancy along a muddy road, we met a vehicle coming the other way driven by the high-spirited “Mr Moringa” who waggled his eyebrows excitedly and told us in a strong German accent that he had “found mushrooms” and that we should come camp at his place and eat them with him. We were not clear whether these were the local version of the delectable “ikowa” (termitomyces) mushroom or the “magic” variety, but decided that either way it sounded like fun. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BdAXRwi1dwIAnA2jdgTN5cv0AXZ4aBevtgqqygdIvki3OwgxHbqF7uyQ8Ezgmd4DfMPPi-sQtVSIZ8W5ne_blE2CjsogCNyJS3Ygw14S2_BMI1WmIrjqtXijumwTe6_UI4wA0AebEwyA/s1024/IMG_20210214_122813_634_resize_41.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BdAXRwi1dwIAnA2jdgTN5cv0AXZ4aBevtgqqygdIvki3OwgxHbqF7uyQ8Ezgmd4DfMPPi-sQtVSIZ8W5ne_blE2CjsogCNyJS3Ygw14S2_BMI1WmIrjqtXijumwTe6_UI4wA0AebEwyA/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_122813_634_resize_41.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mushroom party with Mr Moringa and friends</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>As it turned out, Mr Moringa had put a bounty on ikowa-type mushrooms in the neighboring village and got phone calls when these unpredictable mushrooms emerged. As with their Eastern Cape “ikowa” cousins, these meaty mushrooms are without doubt the most delicious in the world - but sadly have never been successfully farmed as they only exist in symbiosis with termites. Whoever gets that mushroom farming right one day will be rich. We had a fun-filled evening with Mr Moringa and friends eating mushrooms and listening to wild stories of how the Moringa plant cures every problem known to man. We also heard the first of many dissident theories on Covid19 in Africa that emerge from a tourism industry destroyed by the absence of international tourists. While the South African tourism industry has suffered terribly from the travel restrictions necessary to contain the spread of the virus, at least South Africa has a significant domestic tourism market that generates some income. In countries north of the Limpopo, tourism is almost entirely dependent on non-existant international tourists and have received no support at all from their under-resourced governments. They listened jealously to our talk of monthly UIF-TERS payments and other forms of support. South African tourism has suffered lightly in comparison. Couple this hardship with daily deaths from Covid often in single figures and it is perhaps understandable that there is a lot of scepticism around Covid19 science. Having lost family and friends to the virus, we try our best to put a good word in for the scientific consensus, but it gets little acceptance from a tourism industry in despair. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMKynotdgH-5dDuGShygoRlzsXkrYQjvOPyBwukEGBjocyzIDvChIxmHPuOiBUm8YWzRIawEbQUdcgjgC1-ya54dOiJgItQ5E8_BdMEqfsdeVCbQCYOTj5NpHHMAFafkm4N22bb5c55ok/s1024/IMG_20210214_123055_000_resize_39.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMKynotdgH-5dDuGShygoRlzsXkrYQjvOPyBwukEGBjocyzIDvChIxmHPuOiBUm8YWzRIawEbQUdcgjgC1-ya54dOiJgItQ5E8_BdMEqfsdeVCbQCYOTj5NpHHMAFafkm4N22bb5c55ok/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_123055_000_resize_39.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Our days enjoying the quiet beauty of sunsets, expansive landscapes and wild animals going about their daily business took an exciting turn when our 4x4 plunged into a rather large hole, far from any other human beings and in the middle of lion country. Dave got down and began to dig out the wheel and Paul sized up the scrubby bushes in the vicinity hoping we’d be able to attach the winch with some measure of success. While Lisa walked the area looking for a path through the bush free of more large holes, Rejane was occupied with important lion-lookout duty. With luck on our side, the winch did the job and we could pull the truck out. Flocks of crimson bee-eaters accompanied our vehicle as we headed back to camp where we had another impromptu party with Mr Moringa and friends. </div><div><br /></div><div>The week of fun 4x4 travel drew to a close and we bade a fond farewell to Lisa and Paul. We swung our packs onto our backs and crossed the border to Zambia - somewhat surprisingly our 10-day-old South African Covid tests met the Zambian Covid health check requirements. The truck drivers ahead of us in the queue who looked confused when asked for a Covid test were waved through with a shrug and a temperature check.</div><div><br /></div><div>Zambians welcomed us with their friendly and generous spirits. As soon as we crossed the border we began looking for transport to Livingstone and we were offered one for free by someone transporting a second hand car that had been bought in the UK and was being shipped via Walvis Bay to Zimbabwe. The words of the 18th century African explorer Mungo Parks, rang true: “... I was everywhere well-received [by the people I met] ...and the fatigues of the day were generally alleviated by a hearty welcome at night...I found at length that custom surmounted trifling inconveniences, and made everything palatable” ...a statement we have found as true today as it was when travelling through Africa in 1799.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfXONLn4-1TleX3D-5n1R1G2TzdjQOHKcuxo4vdwj8Kx9ORi1Xj_IPmeDGWe4kUPNDeVdyzcZw32oOt1Jv60aHdvUzEJSh_ARQwI_kl6H-VKbZZjcB02BZ3uh7G3k-nDIR4O3euR66pIB/s1126/Screenshot_20210216_154233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="872" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfXONLn4-1TleX3D-5n1R1G2TzdjQOHKcuxo4vdwj8Kx9ORi1Xj_IPmeDGWe4kUPNDeVdyzcZw32oOt1Jv60aHdvUzEJSh_ARQwI_kl6H-VKbZZjcB02BZ3uh7G3k-nDIR4O3euR66pIB/s320/Screenshot_20210216_154233.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Having travelled through Zambia in the 90’s and early 2000’s the improvement in the economy and infrastructure is impressive. Zambians are bubbling with energy and resourcefulness. Everyone seems to be farming or doing some kind of trade: well crafted furniture is ingeniously made from the local hard woods and welding and maak-a-plan Macgyvering of all sorts goes on in the markets. People are incredibly resilient, patient and focused in pushing through adversity. It feels as if the future might be one with much upside, if the politics can right itself and focus on sensible policies that harness the entrepreneurial energy of its creative people.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjckaCn2z8y2ry4wFh7JVJjYEFwlDaFZhPWsu7hB2j0qG2WZZPxGQ57d-WPao8wri_yVtbCreP5nLCtWwv5oEkcdIVtLvG6HzDBR8qYKbvbqanFMg-rOu7dlQe7-L5o30HUfK2-VE-xVVEN/s1280/IMG_20210214_125331_418_resize_83.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjckaCn2z8y2ry4wFh7JVJjYEFwlDaFZhPWsu7hB2j0qG2WZZPxGQ57d-WPao8wri_yVtbCreP5nLCtWwv5oEkcdIVtLvG6HzDBR8qYKbvbqanFMg-rOu7dlQe7-L5o30HUfK2-VE-xVVEN/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_125331_418_resize_83.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Road-side furniture makers (Mongu, Zambia)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HzFaZDSeQjI6VrJaGfeCnqMqrS-xpJ8o2xGzBFiyBdJh9Op8U7E7_Klwb3t5jjUZpOFJrOQhem3cE60sNDTpmnERjUD7mMIDCls3x8h1vzJ1O5XVYL3mrmXintPpz4Dx237ulyPnLZ4F/s1024/IMG_20210214_125448_021_resize_43.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2HzFaZDSeQjI6VrJaGfeCnqMqrS-xpJ8o2xGzBFiyBdJh9Op8U7E7_Klwb3t5jjUZpOFJrOQhem3cE60sNDTpmnERjUD7mMIDCls3x8h1vzJ1O5XVYL3mrmXintPpz4Dx237ulyPnLZ4F/w400-h400/IMG_20210214_125448_021_resize_43.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home made lathe</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSiJRsmnkFclmJcicJ6eck9Sj11FQAaIAIZ-ZO9NSyn4nU8hPmJwXguHhpfQGLkoilWBbD2-_LaUG-EUbc2F5VjXjbqAnkd_SlP_xSYVuzRFT2XfJh2fBMcN5TrkyGsHIfwYLX-KJxFiM/s1280/IMG_20210214_125604_041_resize_1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSiJRsmnkFclmJcicJ6eck9Sj11FQAaIAIZ-ZO9NSyn4nU8hPmJwXguHhpfQGLkoilWBbD2-_LaUG-EUbc2F5VjXjbqAnkd_SlP_xSYVuzRFT2XfJh2fBMcN5TrkyGsHIfwYLX-KJxFiM/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_125604_041_resize_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finished product: R3500 for 2 chairs and a couch (hardwood)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>The road from the border to Livingstone turned out to be a rather bumpy ride on a very potholed road. Metres-wide potholes that occured every few metres were so treacherous that most vehicles drove on the grass next to what was left of the tar road. It took us 5 hours to travel the first 100km and then the road became perfect and we completed the next 100km in one hour. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY7jHj3_0trFtRM73slkJF5o_XQhS0WaUvVO4oeire0TYvokOGf2HXvh-9Ef8-ADjgMsATUmI6X_7lRqJXJtsCvV3JuD34VMBt0_t7c4QdAgKhNgqy4k-S77f4Nu2HeE_AFv1IbTC87WKg/s1280/IMG_20210214_124558_754_resize_96.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY7jHj3_0trFtRM73slkJF5o_XQhS0WaUvVO4oeire0TYvokOGf2HXvh-9Ef8-ADjgMsATUmI6X_7lRqJXJtsCvV3JuD34VMBt0_t7c4QdAgKhNgqy4k-S77f4Nu2HeE_AFv1IbTC87WKg/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_124558_754_resize_96.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Other travellers!! The only ones we met in a month.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>In Livingstone we stayed at the beautiful and comfortable Jolly Boys backpackers which had a few dedicated kayakers on their annual pilgrimage to the mighty Zambezi and where we met the only other travellers we would see the whole month (three friendly Frenchies). They had all travelled down from the north of the continent, two of them had hitch-hiked the whole way. It was great to swap stories and to feel that at least we weren’t the only people travelling across Africa in 2021. It was a treat, as always, to see Mosi-oa-Tunya/Victoria Falls which, after the heavy rains, was cascading at a mind blowing 1 million litres a second. On leaving the falls, it was heart-wrenching to see the desperate lines of curio sellers and tourist guides sitting hopelessly waiting for non-existent tourists. At one of the most visited tourist attractions in Africa, perhaps 10 tourists visited the whole day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwDASjG-kDfnGGqOOKz4lN_cpoEcbsMsx3uPXr70IU54JBSDiWx3fgQ_RrWDBwzI1UAHGUibYX-NXcECbMZgA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNqDSiHiuTgrdPndBDo4ogTVXg86XGhKybHslRgyjv6Jx_W9cktD_ttCSEqxRV_XtreKtjDNV0kt4oYLn1jlWS_z96LrKK6fzy9fKk-SXSmEHb3vmL_3aIsfaDlILZWQ7xYFvvFJWvsV1/s1024/IMG_20210214_191612_766_resize_71.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNqDSiHiuTgrdPndBDo4ogTVXg86XGhKybHslRgyjv6Jx_W9cktD_ttCSEqxRV_XtreKtjDNV0kt4oYLn1jlWS_z96LrKK6fzy9fKk-SXSmEHb3vmL_3aIsfaDlILZWQ7xYFvvFJWvsV1/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_191612_766_resize_71.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our favourite Zambian bus: Power Tools</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>After a restful week in Livingstone, we were headed west, with a brief stopover in Lusaka. What was a pot-holed road plied by “chicken buses” (think old-style Putco buses) 20 years ago is now a smooth highway with air-conditioned buses with names like “Power Tools”. Lusaka has been similarly transformed with multiple malls and ever-improving infrastructure. Long gone are the days when the backpacker could only afford to stay at the Sikh Temple, now Lusaka is overflowing with affordable accommodation options. Zambia has a home-grown version of “Uber Eats” called Afri-Delivery which provides an excellent service. South Africa’s influence is obvious with numerous gleaming malls having been built and many well-known South African stores visible.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_G1hd9dtTdjQYTXHZWqP1t64BoGILMCOJjg7WHCyeKrXJGrqD3zgMw6JP45SOWUsnZ9niEcyjjqXB5FPLvP_eIhO8jP9LDaL0UxS__sErlVqKzS_NGb8BK7frY-0PQX54skM4DMaxzNQ7/s1024/IMG_20210214_191520_994_resize_1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_G1hd9dtTdjQYTXHZWqP1t64BoGILMCOJjg7WHCyeKrXJGrqD3zgMw6JP45SOWUsnZ9niEcyjjqXB5FPLvP_eIhO8jP9LDaL0UxS__sErlVqKzS_NGb8BK7frY-0PQX54skM4DMaxzNQ7/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_191520_994_resize_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Airtel (red) and MTN (yellow) mobile money booths</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>On every street corner in Zambia there are countless Afritel and MTN booths where one can send and receive money through your phone (in a similar way to Mpesa in Kenya). Charging just 1% cash withdrawal fees, this has made sending money around the country incredibly easy and one is also able to pay for groceries at bigger shops using your Airtel/MTN money balance. The large number of these booths does make one wonder how anyone makes enough money; often one can find 10 booths lined up next to each other offering the same service and 100m down the road another 10 booths. </div><div><br /></div><div>While on the subject of mobile phone companies, a pleasant surprise has been the cost of data in Zambia: R7/US$0.50 per GB for prepaid data. Namibia has similar prices. South African telco companies - nudge nudge… </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKBPDLDMQyG8OLYBe_oh3qjRB9W4KyF-tl0JBWZEIS-4sA-fAlbD9jo5WmZ4eqhNRrqDXZvfJauHXQ9jzgKXvlkqGJubXW6T1H8dFzfJTGbJ2Ra9yeJroSAdsI-HtgSj3wB8pcqgyyY52g/s1280/IMG_20210214_124702_150_resize_29.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKBPDLDMQyG8OLYBe_oh3qjRB9W4KyF-tl0JBWZEIS-4sA-fAlbD9jo5WmZ4eqhNRrqDXZvfJauHXQ9jzgKXvlkqGJubXW6T1H8dFzfJTGbJ2Ra9yeJroSAdsI-HtgSj3wB8pcqgyyY52g/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_124702_150_resize_29.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mid-size bus to iTezhi-Tezhi</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>From Lusaka we headed out on a crowded, non-Power Tools bus towards the nature reserves of Kafue on the excellent Great West highway. The road became a muddy mess when we turned off the highway towards the small town of iTezhi-tezhi passing trucks stuck in big mud holes after the heavy rains. Our mid-sized bus was packed to the hilt with passengers and goods, with the 10% of passengers who were wearing masks mostly choosing the popular chin-sling style of non-protection. We are certainly going to test the effectiveness of our N95 masks! </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zuw7hbQl2LnbPgLxHit9POsxC_Tj7d97celbN6FVSNQeFtKA1DBAUjPa-GOdM7I6jejZ_YX6X4wHZCV75GFzyobhWcBzuEL7HIrRvXyEpCAWT3-NjM5C2zbTkwEJ562V7z0VuFkFSdB0/s1280/IMG_20210214_124743_974_resize_43.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zuw7hbQl2LnbPgLxHit9POsxC_Tj7d97celbN6FVSNQeFtKA1DBAUjPa-GOdM7I6jejZ_YX6X4wHZCV75GFzyobhWcBzuEL7HIrRvXyEpCAWT3-NjM5C2zbTkwEJ562V7z0VuFkFSdB0/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_124743_974_resize_43.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bad road to iTezhi-Tezhi</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>On arrival in iTezhi-tezhi, we were greeted by a spectacular sunset and a pretty campsite on the edge of the large dam that made the trip feel completely worthwhile. We had a swimming pool, hot showers, a bar and a restaurant all to ourselves. We decided we’d stay for a bit, chill and enjoy. Mornings began slowly doing our few bits of laundry and making coffee on our little spirit burning stove. The afternoons were spent reading our Kindles with dips in the swimming pool. Entertainment was provided by naughty monkeys pulling the thatch off the chalet roof tops, aggressive alpha baboons terrorising their troops and fat dassies that wouldn’t sit still long enough for a decent close-up pic to be taken. In the evenings we practiced cooking on our little stove and turned out surprisingly delicious meals. At night we would sleep in our (expensive, plastic-improved North-Face-crap) tent to the sounds of nature which was dominated by blood curdling screams of monkeys which we were told was either due to them “just being scared” or because of them being preyed on by leopards. Our nights were a little less restful when we found elephant droppings two metres from our tent and the regular bellowing of hippos just below us. The fact that the lodge chef was brutally killed by elephants four years ago not far from where we were camping added to the tension. Living within unfenced conservancies certainly comes with its own risks.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-ilVWXi6JSkNtI2pIspNTrQbPT5liZ2vETGgV1Ho3hGisLKIEuy7eb7wk00-uuC2Hyh_XAN9J6fSF1d0twpwuL0COVDZSpZWA1EjuhSKU0xQKfM-HBuSj0wBGMnatL_USul22HqOA1SW/s1024/IMG_20210214_124913_985_resize_2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-ilVWXi6JSkNtI2pIspNTrQbPT5liZ2vETGgV1Ho3hGisLKIEuy7eb7wk00-uuC2Hyh_XAN9J6fSF1d0twpwuL0COVDZSpZWA1EjuhSKU0xQKfM-HBuSj0wBGMnatL_USul22HqOA1SW/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_124913_985_resize_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Kalala camp</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>On the last night, when we decided to treat ourselves to a restaurant dinner, we were joined by the owner of the camp who told fascinating stories of when he was contracted by Nordic nations to supply meat to the ANC and SWAPO in exile in Lusaka. He spoke highly of the gentlemanly Oliver Tambo, the strict vegetarianism of his friend Kenneth Kaunda who loves nuts and is now too old to eat his veggies raw, as he preferred, and the swash-buckling arrogance of some of the other freedom fighters. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjarfFTdsAeLvc9oMGaxkUNr1FhEd_lsXZ9pcoAIT7O2qNtHE0A6V5rTwRLnVGRg2887qOcBCk26SHPNdgyF_6oKpTOAY3Ef4mKe_PXyjdnggCNnz1zRl-XXrVdYMPbz3nDGldYc62JWHNn/s1024/IMG_20210214_125033_891_resize_55.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjarfFTdsAeLvc9oMGaxkUNr1FhEd_lsXZ9pcoAIT7O2qNtHE0A6V5rTwRLnVGRg2887qOcBCk26SHPNdgyF_6oKpTOAY3Ef4mKe_PXyjdnggCNnz1zRl-XXrVdYMPbz3nDGldYc62JWHNn/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_125033_891_resize_55.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>It has been revealing to hear how unimpressed Zambians are of South African construction and engineering companies who were seen to be expensive (paying their staff first world salaries) and delivering sub-standard products. Our host, and many other Zambians, spoke highly of the Chinese and Indian contractors who Zambians describe as “serious” - not surprising when one sees giant highway overpasses in Lusaka being built by a large Indian company in less than three months, a gleaming local hydro-electric power plant built by Tata Energy and a number of big Chinese firms rapidly building good roads across the country. The days when South Africa was admired as a construction power-house are long gone. The dismissal by many South Africans of Chinese and Indian contractors as sub-standard sounds like snobbish ignorance. South Africa needs to up its game if it wants to be seen as anything more than a source of efficient retail outlets. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FB6HGc4JUD_c3vsCQpp4itsoSe8Kbp5pd5y0UpVroVdcqzOxwJYM1CnPGz39mj9Jcr6sgRRlwXup4okinX5L9dBh0Sur4BT0b209ZkIO4VeASLURFctziyDBLBLVCbRooqZMdD_3bLiM/s1280/IMG_20210214_124833_524_resize_67.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FB6HGc4JUD_c3vsCQpp4itsoSe8Kbp5pd5y0UpVroVdcqzOxwJYM1CnPGz39mj9Jcr6sgRRlwXup4okinX5L9dBh0Sur4BT0b209ZkIO4VeASLURFctziyDBLBLVCbRooqZMdD_3bLiM/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_124833_524_resize_67.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mastering our Trangia alcohol stove</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>To keep going north we would have to go back out on that demon of a muddy road in a squashed bus so when the lodge owner offered us a ride on the back of his bakkie, we took it. It would probably be more comfortable than the rickety old bus but it was likely to rain. We took the offer anyway and at 6am we were off, covered in our poncho rain suits and settled in between the groundnuts, maize, fruit and veggies sourced from the local farmers for his shops in Lusaka. Bouncy, windy and wet at the back of his truck, we were still more comfortable than we had been on the bus.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQH0XRFGtooXNYMrS0KjsYHn7Duu0pprS03IDer-YQOuzPD4YpzDgejYuOLoWE_BhWRZtWkt0umdt30piAuHUCP8PbfYOYkNOQD-KMDW9l8wTMJuGmSSt0OFJTcHfKfZr-3jcBx7-tm9w/s1280/IMG_20210214_124951_958_resize_88.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQH0XRFGtooXNYMrS0KjsYHn7Duu0pprS03IDer-YQOuzPD4YpzDgejYuOLoWE_BhWRZtWkt0umdt30piAuHUCP8PbfYOYkNOQD-KMDW9l8wTMJuGmSSt0OFJTcHfKfZr-3jcBx7-tm9w/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_124951_958_resize_88.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Better to be on the back of a truck than in a crowded bus</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>We reached the junction after about two hours and then caught a Power Tools bus for another six hours to reach the town of Mongu. The capital of the region, Mongu has a Shoprite and a PEP Store. For the rest of your shopping, you had small local shops and markets along a dusty main road. The small restaurants had little variety, but the meals were delicious: rice, nshima (pap) or chips with chicken, beef or fish with some green vegetable - pretty much the same restaurant fare is found across Zambia, only the quality differs. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK__6rhsRvwf9zvPDAcSQfD0kzfRDGVonUpcGS5DE2RnHrlGopRCXQ2hD0h-_Qc0XKerN3Nzzad08Isl6trFxqpR01o0Pj6X9r0F4kEA6CbfcgoZX7UkRRNG1LMa5OR5WBq04C44NeZONb/s1280/IMG_20210214_125225_636_resize_73.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK__6rhsRvwf9zvPDAcSQfD0kzfRDGVonUpcGS5DE2RnHrlGopRCXQ2hD0h-_Qc0XKerN3Nzzad08Isl6trFxqpR01o0Pj6X9r0F4kEA6CbfcgoZX7UkRRNG1LMa5OR5WBq04C44NeZONb/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_125225_636_resize_73.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical restaurant meal: nshima with fish/chicken</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Mongu is a vibrant town with atmospheric music emanating in the evenings from many tiny barber shop shacks at which it seems more beer is drunk than hair-dos are styled. Each barber shop has to invest in an large sound system with a computer and DJ equipment in order to entice customers for a festive haircut which for guys cost about R7/$0.50. At night the local nightclub was pumping and we walked past jealously wishing we could join everyone having fun and dancing like it was 2019.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhzWQE9bl-IJnamAcmRHDJI392QF2SPE83B9gtu4xHZlYLYHg4lixn9hiivK8GtRS8gaht_Iadm582juXCHamI9AuuRqbi8lwLcQ8jYf2Wo7B-i9ATRGKXOaIkar_FzFNqXdmTrNagrAU/s1280/IMG_20210214_170500_685_resize_21.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdhzWQE9bl-IJnamAcmRHDJI392QF2SPE83B9gtu4xHZlYLYHg4lixn9hiivK8GtRS8gaht_Iadm582juXCHamI9AuuRqbi8lwLcQ8jYf2Wo7B-i9ATRGKXOaIkar_FzFNqXdmTrNagrAU/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_170500_685_resize_21.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh produce for sale In Mongu</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>This region is home to the Lozi people who famously live on the Barotse floodplain. These plains are a huge, flat lowland that floods every rainy season much like the Okavango and through which the giant Zambezi river flows. The culture here is for the people to move on to the plains during the dry season for farming, grazing and fishing and then to gradually move away from the plains as the flood waters rise - abandoning their houses to be inundated - and moving to higher areas, like Mongu, that remain dry throughout the year. We had arrived as the waters were rapidly rising and the exodus from the plains had begun. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOt-ykkBeyFqe5x10Fdw8pLlWx5kwYeI7BxfgfK2oZVZ82OsgsnRllWs8VYoW1hFzw8qDriTKX8HAun1muwzHQnDVbDACFltxpxp7BrNbNByF-PvTpbsRi6GI6MWEjcLr9RwGbOLaSOdaF/s1280/IMG_20210214_170616_204_resize_16.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOt-ykkBeyFqe5x10Fdw8pLlWx5kwYeI7BxfgfK2oZVZ82OsgsnRllWs8VYoW1hFzw8qDriTKX8HAun1muwzHQnDVbDACFltxpxp7BrNbNByF-PvTpbsRi6GI6MWEjcLr9RwGbOLaSOdaF/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_170616_204_resize_16.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exploring the mango forest near Mongu</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>From Mongu town we moved on to a homestay in a nearby farming village where we enjoyed walking around under the massive mango trees, seeing farming life and learning a little Silozi language which is similar enough to isiXhosa, for us to follow the general gist of a conversation. The main crops in this region are maize and rice grown on the edge of the flood plains and vegetables grown on the drier, raised areas. The soil is almost pure sand and runs to a depth of 70 metres before becoming rocky. The trees here grow incredibly fast: we saw 10 month-old papaya trees standing 3 metres high laden with fruit and 8 year-old Avocado trees standing 10 metres tall. No doubt the roots can easily travel long distances in the sandy soil to find water and nutrients. Tomatoes are grown in huge numbers, but one could also easily find aubergines, onions, chinese cabbage, rape, green beans, ground nuts, garlic, ginger, wild mushrooms (R7/$0.50 per 5L bucket), cabbage, sweet potato and lots of other veggies. Fruit was much more scarce with even bananas being hard to find some times. The farmers are well supplied even in small villages by little agro-shops that supply all the fetiliser, pesticides, livestock medication and equipment that a small-scale farmer could need. If only we had these little shops in the Transkei! </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R2V-1FQi_cd_01dN03io6deQhCTZECQArrtxYfti0EwCZzc_xv72_JsiRHsabMriVzDz1lVX-pPW12tu9IW-P6aFpAdWcRZU6TYqraQ6YnBXDEi0tYIvx4KHe2c0UTg2qw-oxwFpk_DZ/s1280/IMG_20210214_171130_530_resize_23.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R2V-1FQi_cd_01dN03io6deQhCTZECQArrtxYfti0EwCZzc_xv72_JsiRHsabMriVzDz1lVX-pPW12tu9IW-P6aFpAdWcRZU6TYqraQ6YnBXDEi0tYIvx4KHe2c0UTg2qw-oxwFpk_DZ/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_171130_530_resize_23.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">10 month-old papaya tree in our host's lush garden</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>With the roads on the floodplain being flooded, an option for travelling on to Lukulu, our next destination along the Zambezi river, was by boat. There are fibre glass Banana Boats and long wooden boats with small engines called Sesepes. Banana boats were not recommended for long journeys as they are unstable in the wind so we took a wooden Sesepe. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdR_W7OdXmXmQqxVkM99sTCroAdkVwaj93TFrh4Ycoo_zZIvajiwUROQwRdLpIe7WzKJ_ZUxv5v5QuQ66eo2otZUHBSJbpDzBAeQWgvJlIqmgZT1bV96m7SQAuac0DQF-MewGbx3GUra6u/s1024/IMG_20210214_171306_374_resize_18.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdR_W7OdXmXmQqxVkM99sTCroAdkVwaj93TFrh4Ycoo_zZIvajiwUROQwRdLpIe7WzKJ_ZUxv5v5QuQ66eo2otZUHBSJbpDzBAeQWgvJlIqmgZT1bV96m7SQAuac0DQF-MewGbx3GUra6u/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_171306_374_resize_18.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "port" near Mongu on the Zambezi river</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>After a little confusion and waiting around we caught a skoro-skoro pickup along a beautiful Chinese-built, raised highway into the plains. The highway ran next to a miserable, failed road built by the Saudis that was melting back into the water. At the bridge over the Zambezi we caught a Sesepe boat heading off to the village of Liwonda, where we would spend a night and then travel on to Lukulu the following day. Liwonda was a village literally off the map and on the way all one could see on the banks of the mighty Zambezi river were little fishing settlements with small huts made entirely of grass supported on a timber A-frame. It was re-assuring to see that these huts used a sheet of black plastic sandwiched between the layers of grass as water-proofing much like our piece-of-crap-North-Face tent. The villagers eke out a living catching, smoking and salting fish and doing their best to avoid the many crocodiles and hippos. As we chugged peacefully upstream we admired the quiet, spectacular beauty of the vast Zambezi river and the communities moving and living slowly along it and felt increasingly like we were heading into the middle of nowhere. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78daDTfHQ8CUEQltLQ9D4WyQ3b0JgLqGcLxeyuTNL3Ky_91RWgfvKNwoKhKyoWh1UWCZYGsZZdhXovCjMWJ-7dkQa-7DAzldGKylI3y4xprckleb-7EoXV64QXFcAnYF2JyshJbE_10-c/s1024/IMG_20210214_171414_063_resize_15.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78daDTfHQ8CUEQltLQ9D4WyQ3b0JgLqGcLxeyuTNL3Ky_91RWgfvKNwoKhKyoWh1UWCZYGsZZdhXovCjMWJ-7dkQa-7DAzldGKylI3y4xprckleb-7EoXV64QXFcAnYF2JyshJbE_10-c/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_171414_063_resize_15.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seasonal fishermen's camp on the Barotse floodplain</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWpR-7u5Ov1J7rvqn4NWR7CKCc7i-oORF5VIek4wm1LSoglcfve-Q5E44rpa5WBmASHNdPFlPrzX5JaVyzjh8ZR9VMdxcgP6xvh6a9W9PQfhsK67Fx9vuwe1l9KbbYuYFBG5KDxOhGJxcL/s1024/IMG_20210214_171525_163_resize_68.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWpR-7u5Ov1J7rvqn4NWR7CKCc7i-oORF5VIek4wm1LSoglcfve-Q5E44rpa5WBmASHNdPFlPrzX5JaVyzjh8ZR9VMdxcgP6xvh6a9W9PQfhsK67Fx9vuwe1l9KbbYuYFBG5KDxOhGJxcL/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_171525_163_resize_68.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOK_gwVq-dWmhpXIDLSTXXpBeWGPNd5AY-WWsW8n5TDjWWc4Qu09qV67Xd3iTlAhHIEmjpO85xFHw-i6GujA5Z4FUGf5YYrgEpI7l14bkBdYmZ0Rba2adBFhRNRuDfwzJPwBhbVKdMOqm2/s1024/IMG_20210214_174347_502_resize_41.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOK_gwVq-dWmhpXIDLSTXXpBeWGPNd5AY-WWsW8n5TDjWWc4Qu09qV67Xd3iTlAhHIEmjpO85xFHw-i6GujA5Z4FUGf5YYrgEpI7l14bkBdYmZ0Rba2adBFhRNRuDfwzJPwBhbVKdMOqm2/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_174347_502_resize_41.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sailing North towards Liwonda</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjimS_NB_LUpczqqh3gAWWjfhYZllDeGtNEz_88YpKsYaMncSC0FkH2kXTrpINRf9OWPVwPpXOLz8Txnzk8U7LlCS3SD1KKN1PcnEgFNMdPCKMZqgu7K_viOqamZH5C_FNC4KXjj0SI0qo/s1024/IMG_20210214_174552_716_resize_79.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjimS_NB_LUpczqqh3gAWWjfhYZllDeGtNEz_88YpKsYaMncSC0FkH2kXTrpINRf9OWPVwPpXOLz8Txnzk8U7LlCS3SD1KKN1PcnEgFNMdPCKMZqgu7K_viOqamZH5C_FNC4KXjj0SI0qo/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_174552_716_resize_79.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>After a couple hours of sailing along in the pitch dark, we arrived in tiny Liwonda where we were shown to a very basic guest house that cost R35/$2.50 per night for the room. With the Zambian kwacha having weakened considerably, a plate of food with pap, chicken and a little veg costs R15/$1 and can go down to as low as half that price, for a small piece of beef with pap. You can buy 6 guavas or 3 bananas for 1 kwacha (about R0.70/$5c) - avocados cost 2 kwacha.</div><div><br /></div><div>The boat moving on to Lukulu was ready to leave at 6am the next morning. We had wanted to stay another night and explore Liwonda but it seemed that if we didn’t take this boat, who knew when the next one might come around. We decided not to chance it. Turns out that was probably a good idea. We were soon to understand just how scarce transport was on this part of the river: it could easily have taken a week before the next boat.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1v5MFzNm47YCGg-6EzFeSWihVmGB6We0k_5BKReTxrwNU80Tv9LbyD-r-0xsbxsWpjcevzTJF3rAzht19I9HcEPocA9omE-b1EDBWJh0F6zwA_4vHApA2uV9pK0lUIVtJpQCFq6RKWxc/s1280/IMG_20210214_174822_048_resize_7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1v5MFzNm47YCGg-6EzFeSWihVmGB6We0k_5BKReTxrwNU80Tv9LbyD-r-0xsbxsWpjcevzTJF3rAzht19I9HcEPocA9omE-b1EDBWJh0F6zwA_4vHApA2uV9pK0lUIVtJpQCFq6RKWxc/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_174822_048_resize_7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poling through the reeds to the main Zambezi channel</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZGEWZf4IXJet8Uwe6Bcjckg_3l1Gf9M-UTtSaJXXPZKBGfFndsjlvFBp-2APSinVwP5GopcyLLpTUgkrztQ8ZtPhfEmgbFa7ytC-N9uwH-xP96wYL3Rmdb-Vgs1CyRInOyM8AS70sJoOD/s1280/IMG_20210214_174947_641_resize_94.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZGEWZf4IXJet8Uwe6Bcjckg_3l1Gf9M-UTtSaJXXPZKBGfFndsjlvFBp-2APSinVwP5GopcyLLpTUgkrztQ8ZtPhfEmgbFa7ytC-N9uwH-xP96wYL3Rmdb-Vgs1CyRInOyM8AS70sJoOD/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_174947_641_resize_94.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjaJrrQUpkvZ4YbghKDSvCifyHJ0gpqC0iORJuP2NyUXpgVS0-tWurG0YAD_CAFioNNRDC_tFrJOTN1BwuRHxQG7lW4S1_cDIy6cgpABo9fbA9iZI0fjE9JsyvWEn_OHqrI_oYNsG9Ergt/s1024/IMG_20210214_185121_865_resize_90.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjaJrrQUpkvZ4YbghKDSvCifyHJ0gpqC0iORJuP2NyUXpgVS0-tWurG0YAD_CAFioNNRDC_tFrJOTN1BwuRHxQG7lW4S1_cDIy6cgpABo9fbA9iZI0fjE9JsyvWEn_OHqrI_oYNsG9Ergt/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_185121_865_resize_90.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading north on the Sesepe boat towards Lukulu</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVm6IQP1TkaQGeD3bYrmFRbuR-_92posVdncuu_u9ouAN3cplMOyd31WlRp5GtshS4vdBOA1izmvBCMNq5DCXQ4_HkyDpNw0KOHdhS9ITswTYSkkX7uoHGBO-cWrXMNUWsBn1o6HnZLDQR/s1280/IMG_20210214_185616_469_resize_17.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVm6IQP1TkaQGeD3bYrmFRbuR-_92posVdncuu_u9ouAN3cplMOyd31WlRp5GtshS4vdBOA1izmvBCMNq5DCXQ4_HkyDpNw0KOHdhS9ITswTYSkkX7uoHGBO-cWrXMNUWsBn1o6HnZLDQR/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_185616_469_resize_17.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>The trip to Lukulu started out magical. We were two of just five passengers plus three crew and some salted fish. The skies were clear and we sailed along at a steady, albeit slow pace of about 10km/h. You could walk around the boat, chat to your fellow passengers and cook lunch on the charcoal stove. For us it was a luxurious way to travel. We took in the quiet vastness and thoroughly enjoyed the experience of life on the Zambezi. As we went, we collected passengers who would stop the boat by waving and yelling from the river bank. The river itself was lined with giant beds of grassy reeds that grew taller and taller as the plain filled up with water. The “cockswain”, as the boat driver was locally known, would often leave the main river, pole through a few hundred metres of grass reeds only to emerge in a new river channel that seemed to be preferable as the water was flowing against us more slowly. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8V-ZTOCUDVYxyrcmleIcFAmMiBFllhj6zlmtIhtRCB6gngeQoEhye0UithJMCoK8aTq6pmkE98Xj0nXLjaSgz6nhGdgSYMfuN9Up0H7_ITSDKdYHZRR8OmSgtX310BY1EV-LJh5g4Imx/s1024/IMG_20210214_185812_385_resize_29.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8V-ZTOCUDVYxyrcmleIcFAmMiBFllhj6zlmtIhtRCB6gngeQoEhye0UithJMCoK8aTq6pmkE98Xj0nXLjaSgz6nhGdgSYMfuN9Up0H7_ITSDKdYHZRR8OmSgtX310BY1EV-LJh5g4Imx/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_185812_385_resize_29.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This fishermen's home was about to be abandoned to the rising floodwater</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uUW3gc1vrEo6e1spCKQAru832pFeVnqVTnNkfSjrupohLdeh2BRpmOD9MgCEkvbQppKE-boirEdwbg1aqrNlQFaDmW7t-bF-GJOro24M59e2cKcGVFgX8rLy80elX4RIVIbqQeN2OwrG/s1280/IMG_20210214_190045_064_resize_48.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0uUW3gc1vrEo6e1spCKQAru832pFeVnqVTnNkfSjrupohLdeh2BRpmOD9MgCEkvbQppKE-boirEdwbg1aqrNlQFaDmW7t-bF-GJOro24M59e2cKcGVFgX8rLy80elX4RIVIbqQeN2OwrG/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_190045_064_resize_48.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dried and smoked fish to be loaded onto the boat</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgspg1lBHVXJolOzrXVbwrNGF8JQmatR-t4MaOqn0X5QzHmfzF-1g6zOVs4Z-rPeFdNbs4zHYu-lMs6W5GuMOzXdTMsK2Z1tee1h5S8GOkdjMSi_HibPjYl2EbOSvb2PG8VU0JgQRdO99-H/s1280/IMG_20210214_190204_539_resize_5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgspg1lBHVXJolOzrXVbwrNGF8JQmatR-t4MaOqn0X5QzHmfzF-1g6zOVs4Z-rPeFdNbs4zHYu-lMs6W5GuMOzXdTMsK2Z1tee1h5S8GOkdjMSi_HibPjYl2EbOSvb2PG8VU0JgQRdO99-H/w320-h400/IMG_20210214_190204_539_resize_5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiger fish for lunch</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>For lunch we shared some delicious freshly fried tiger fish and boiled ground nuts. We also got to explore some of the temporary fishing settlements that were being abandoned while the inhabitants loaded their dried fish and joined us on our boat. As the afternoon progressed we loaded more and more passengers and tons of dried fish and one very sick, old man who was struggling to breathe. The time began slipping away with each stop taking up to an hour of loading time and by 6pm, it looked like our journey that was meant to take 12 hours, would probably only arrive long after dark. The wooden benches of the boat began to bite into our behinds and the overloaded boat began to struggle along at half of its already slow pace. We were moving up stream at walking speed when the rain storm blew in. And it rained...for hours...we got stuck in trees, thick reeds, stranded on sand banks and then at 4am, with the rain not having let up at all, the boat ran out of fuel. We estimated at least a three hour wait until daylight when the captain could call someone to bring fuel (we were only five kilometres from Lukulu now). Having not slept at all, we settled onto our bench. There were too many passengers and goods to allow ones legs to stretch out and since the river was too high to get to dry ground, the only relief from sitting in the boat was to stand in the river, in between the reeds in the rain. Not one boat had passed us on this entire trip so there was nothing to do but wait. By 8am, we expected that the fuel would soon be arriving but then we realised that the inept captain was unsuccessfully trying to get a friend to bring us some fuel as a favour. We gave up on the captain and along with some other passengers managed to get another boat to bring fuel and transport us to town. We reached the Lukulu guest house shivering and wet, after 28 hours, having travelled a total distance of 80km. All the passengers agreed that this was the worst boat trip ever and swore never to use that captain again. We had experienced a way of life that one can only be seen by boat and we highly recommend it, but we’d suggest starting in the north and sailing downstream. That way your boat will keep going at a decent pace, even when it runs out of fuel!</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgwjI_DbhLHchaKkya36gDrNlLvo6JxLlXO6IaAjBfzTmWN_KNbn-ENUXniDGpIJx2JkekbBM9L4mFqkT795aUwa2yhTpPwXn9uLdEDCM5PCvo8oPqSpm7SB7m9GA-7Tl90EOasy_2b62/s1024/IMG_20210214_190317_822_resize_73.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgwjI_DbhLHchaKkya36gDrNlLvo6JxLlXO6IaAjBfzTmWN_KNbn-ENUXniDGpIJx2JkekbBM9L4mFqkT795aUwa2yhTpPwXn9uLdEDCM5PCvo8oPqSpm7SB7m9GA-7Tl90EOasy_2b62/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_190317_822_resize_73.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rain and no fuel (about 20 people under the plastic!)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Lukulu, known locally as “the land of plenty” is a bustling one road town split rather strangely into the Old Market and the New Market sections separated by a kilometre of undeveloped Catholic church-owned land. The main form of transport between the two halves of town were motorbike taxis which are a cheap and fun way to travel. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwGv2FU8eaAeeyfnr6hwVqBn7AH8BNH_zSqGvyJ2g6xM65_BZfV6tN3sTP8JuzztK087YV9vqenYToT-c23gA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Our days in Lukulu were spent exploring the markets for ingredients for dinner and trying to find the best sweet snack options. Zambia has surprisingly few snacks for those with a sweet tooth which probably explains the slim, fit figures of most Zambians. We settled on the ubiquitous and tasty Milk-It flavoured milks (R5/$.30), Tennis biscuits and the rarer yoghurt drinks. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbpAOz6_pdcUVZcxmGuVSL_Lz1sBPTjutgAxWYc07o9wemSRNrIEmFrvUnJXvgeK6ckmpjWMcR6BNpXErq7_7jqy-Abap_7dQ0zm49vl1c6fy9_k0VJTNhYA-vn8tWsOS5io_BYTTU1U0/s1024/IMG_20210214_190517_861_resize_10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbpAOz6_pdcUVZcxmGuVSL_Lz1sBPTjutgAxWYc07o9wemSRNrIEmFrvUnJXvgeK6ckmpjWMcR6BNpXErq7_7jqy-Abap_7dQ0zm49vl1c6fy9_k0VJTNhYA-vn8tWsOS5io_BYTTU1U0/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_190517_861_resize_10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for the truck in the background to fill up with passengers</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCjXUuOaK68JVWpcH0PsOSOBK_hM97CuKOsFDWLfQ0vSLmvRJ-zPR3P_ijeTof0jyHIIpd8Qzs6GQeTXRWzexC3BavcvKlRqT8FZxNY-OlZrgVjUI2_efQ9s-vzGCdGPu9OmyBrZdvR3r/s1024/IMG_20210214_190748_342_resize_47.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCjXUuOaK68JVWpcH0PsOSOBK_hM97CuKOsFDWLfQ0vSLmvRJ-zPR3P_ijeTof0jyHIIpd8Qzs6GQeTXRWzexC3BavcvKlRqT8FZxNY-OlZrgVjUI2_efQ9s-vzGCdGPu9OmyBrZdvR3r/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_190748_342_resize_47.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Attractive, leafy homesteads around Lukulu</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zGryE4jfC2jqz3uv0kMZiLv6u_V1k-J9Q4htObEuloOVuw29T296gdWJCmJSDMoKU2gggN7ihsRDFl7oZ4ZyxbA8uLuawziMK4mYTQzjltD_qfoluZu_S5C-bXtrLKLtGyTFeG3l__r0/s1024/IMG_20210214_191104_753_resize_91.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zGryE4jfC2jqz3uv0kMZiLv6u_V1k-J9Q4htObEuloOVuw29T296gdWJCmJSDMoKU2gggN7ihsRDFl7oZ4ZyxbA8uLuawziMK4mYTQzjltD_qfoluZu_S5C-bXtrLKLtGyTFeG3l__r0/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_191104_753_resize_91.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>From Lukulu we had to catch the only public transport option namely an ancient Land Cruiser pickup loaded with goods and passengers on a terrible road that had apparently last been maintained 30 years ago. We admired the attractive, leafy villages shaded by giant mango trees and surrounded by maize and kasava fields as we slowly left the plains, covering 70km in five hours. We crossed the mighty Kabompo river on a ferry and then reached the tar road where we were able to hitch a lift on a passing Power Tools bus and within an hour we were in the attractive small town of Zambezi staying in a lovely - though empty - lodge with a magnificent view of the Zambezi river and the wooded plains that stretch out to the Angolan border in the distance. From here we will head inland and gradually make our way towards the DRC as we continue our journey northwards.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6-7W4THhOLs2MKHx9PHO0gxM35OrBODa9yTx-RZ0cpUXUWmR3v6YHt_oS7l0qbNpUqlikp8LHvvjJugLsMeuZURoIrTORROepcm0EQLugzKf3aVN_ufTSpOsexm0hyphenhyphen1_aqMhvElRAW1V/s1024/IMG_20210214_191425_593_resize_51.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib6-7W4THhOLs2MKHx9PHO0gxM35OrBODa9yTx-RZ0cpUXUWmR3v6YHt_oS7l0qbNpUqlikp8LHvvjJugLsMeuZURoIrTORROepcm0EQLugzKf3aVN_ufTSpOsexm0hyphenhyphen1_aqMhvElRAW1V/w400-h300/IMG_20210214_191425_593_resize_51.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ferry across the Kabompo river</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div>Dave Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15005938262421761891noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-32677605441825325052021-01-10T14:37:00.001+02:002021-02-15T17:12:36.399+02:00Our Africa Moves - travelling slowly together.This year, we'll be travelling around our home continent of Africa by public transport, slowly.<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnK5TvpfCuGELDrJqDbBCL7So0Pqj7N5mNq2JXUYI0QHiDvVMUi9AeXTv2iVyQ_ExOWFVSU-3v0xcNza2ibTySbNs_kFRlYs3pogQ_3kPvvzO3BSq5Gj4OB_rNCMKnPGdrn8wrmEpiaE_j/s1600/1610282233381359-0.png" width="400">
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</div><br></div>Dave Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15005938262421761891noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-18588710036496496262016-03-19T21:30:00.000+03:002019-06-10T12:27:20.025+02:00Cambodia and Vietnam: you beauties!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When departing from the 1000 islands in Laos to Cambodia, we first had to work out how to avoid the local tourism mafia who had neatly monopolised the transport options to the border. Using local transport was somehow “banned” but we managed to find a motorbike taxi man prepared to take us for a generous fee. Unfortunately, as we approached the border the police stopped us and he was taken off to the office – where he no doubt had to pay a bribe.<br />
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We walked to the border where, as expected we encountered the notoriously corrupt immigration officials who require you to pay an “exit fee.” As we had arrived before the tourism mafia buses, we had time on our hands, so we just told the officials that we wouldn’t pay and then lay down on the floor in front on the immigration window using our bags as pillows and read our books. This obviously caused some consternation and more and more officials came to the window to see what we were doing and after an hour they gave us our passports back and we were allowed to proceed to the Cambodian immigration without paying the bribe.<br />
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There the scam continued with a $5 “entrance fee” over and above the legitimate visa fee. We just explained friendlily that there was no way we were paying this and explained that we hadn’t paid the exit tax from Laos. This seemed to shock the officials and they let us through with a suprised smile. The tourist buses were soon to arrive and I guess they didn’t want us blocking the easy $5 per head they were going to make.<br />
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We weren’t sad to leave Laos. While it is an interesting, beautiful country the people even in the remote areas seem jaded by outsiders. To put it simply: people there were not friendly.<br />
In contrast, as we entered Cambodia, there was a tangible, significant change in the social atmosphere. When making eye-contact people smiled and engaged happily – good vibes.<br />
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We headed first for Krati, a steamy city on the banks of the Mekong river. Here we got to boat amongst one of the biggest concentrations of the threatened Mekong river dolphins which frolicked in the deep, clear water.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEienzI59jtu32aLeEg2CTzNAZr8bncCldwllxyZMzac8tZq386mJOjvBxBKxvGszkoahZ64teA_NdmvmOFjt7zl3n1yc26U3vNZO9nknCS9wch25aw0KXdKtPo1CLmV6aEaZYT6cGRRE0FE/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252861%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEienzI59jtu32aLeEg2CTzNAZr8bncCldwllxyZMzac8tZq386mJOjvBxBKxvGszkoahZ64teA_NdmvmOFjt7zl3n1yc26U3vNZO9nknCS9wch25aw0KXdKtPo1CLmV6aEaZYT6cGRRE0FE/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252861%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mekong river dolphins, Krati, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpbRLZ5O2nCDfRin_8H59IfYYLKu09lQQb9PQWbqQU8NcfCT1MfBggcaHtxws_hvcp0ZXeTQcip44IudQbgEnMohUhyFPN4yje2i22baxqtovKtdp7TfmD7TR49wN1ORLfen92tg9KzSV/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252828%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1264" height="598" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpbRLZ5O2nCDfRin_8H59IfYYLKu09lQQb9PQWbqQU8NcfCT1MfBggcaHtxws_hvcp0ZXeTQcip44IudQbgEnMohUhyFPN4yje2i22baxqtovKtdp7TfmD7TR49wN1ORLfen92tg9KzSV/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252828%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Krati, Cambodia</td></tr>
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We took a small ferry boat to the small island village in the middle of the Mekong river and stayed with a family there for a few chilled days: wandering around the island and swimming in the Mekong to cool down.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BJzsh1QjZKn2z0yybWTrQ4mdJoBkQLrviJqU7NW5lYbJcT0FrN8baYgIyNRfvL8_HLwEOpJwgtosxr1rXLGOEcm5LA1S4h466pGJ1_qshBMkawTaxtJcOGsM_xdRk8VN2zgdJJUNzjaK/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252879%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="1136" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BJzsh1QjZKn2z0yybWTrQ4mdJoBkQLrviJqU7NW5lYbJcT0FrN8baYgIyNRfvL8_HLwEOpJwgtosxr1rXLGOEcm5LA1S4h466pGJ1_qshBMkawTaxtJcOGsM_xdRk8VN2zgdJJUNzjaK/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252879%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swimming in the Mekong river, Krati, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIyIS9ONHQgpvL-VA6GmTDSKC4bV9LPu0QrFHs5NSP0pHEEvIfyJ9MbflIRhEQVrbSBn-WPNF576rDunb8UHc41CTaFwqBDR6j0VsurwzSnYb41K6APAo9ukPmtL1C8_Va9Z4HFUs1xLb/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252867%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1184" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIyIS9ONHQgpvL-VA6GmTDSKC4bV9LPu0QrFHs5NSP0pHEEvIfyJ9MbflIRhEQVrbSBn-WPNF576rDunb8UHc41CTaFwqBDR6j0VsurwzSnYb41K6APAo9ukPmtL1C8_Va9Z4HFUs1xLb/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252867%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our homestay on the island near Krati, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHAXKE07mmWRK1n1jGja-XAkOpyIuUsI8BZGBb2D1PULTjUUqMYfOaNGRAn1eNmewFwmwsejdRg6F5jOlQliqeMWsKx-4Wh4_mIZpyS7oYAt7QQOtC4gNA91B4wr4qU0CoMGxJiggqtfDb/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252862%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHAXKE07mmWRK1n1jGja-XAkOpyIuUsI8BZGBb2D1PULTjUUqMYfOaNGRAn1eNmewFwmwsejdRg6F5jOlQliqeMWsKx-4Wh4_mIZpyS7oYAt7QQOtC4gNA91B4wr4qU0CoMGxJiggqtfDb/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252862%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over the Mekong River, Krati, Cambodia</td></tr>
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Cambodia is HOT! In a humid, tropical country where the temperature never seemed to drop below 35 degrees with 100% humidity: you sweat 24/7. And yet, Cambodians were dressed in jerseys, beanies and jackets. The phenomenon of people born in tropical countries wearing warm clothes in hot weather is well known around the world: but in all our travels in Asia, Africa and South America, this was the most extreme example of the surreal situation where you are dying of heat in the bus and the person next to you is dressed like they’re freezing cold. Cognitive dissonance all day, every day. The other unusual clothing habit is that Cambodian women wear pajamas during the middle of the day, in public as they go about their shopping or other business.<br />
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In Krati we discovered the local thirst quencher: sugar cane juice freshly crushed with a special mobile crushing machine and mixed with crushed lemon in a large cup filled to the brim with ice. Delicious.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEircwcmU1_wlm7tdFqKF-F2NecR-0ILukftnVCYn9vj9tqOxHR3cbdJYvdpmoxVadZxZ9eAJWsKh2gJ3D22BHUsyMYAcR66kLci9GzyBcrVS3uIbLAN-SbplLWhhfBSBs8CQQD8ZUCDCnoh/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252876%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="1280" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEircwcmU1_wlm7tdFqKF-F2NecR-0ILukftnVCYn9vj9tqOxHR3cbdJYvdpmoxVadZxZ9eAJWsKh2gJ3D22BHUsyMYAcR66kLci9GzyBcrVS3uIbLAN-SbplLWhhfBSBs8CQQD8ZUCDCnoh/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252876%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">making fresh sugar cane juice</td></tr>
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After Krati and the island we headed north for a week or so to Rattanakiri where we chilled and swam at a pretty lake and hired motorbikes to visit unimpressive waterfalls.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4r98NW1J-RrzhwcaSTHMvbkfUCPfbpKhcte7Ze1TPd0QQfPliK-PGy7vFrcJTXLZAK2F8ShaJCLI3o0JBPosSS8hROH8icZ-EzsoT5zN91XCTWaImv4nW0HvjhWaxOStVwrVqR-1YdPDP/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252857%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4r98NW1J-RrzhwcaSTHMvbkfUCPfbpKhcte7Ze1TPd0QQfPliK-PGy7vFrcJTXLZAK2F8ShaJCLI3o0JBPosSS8hROH8icZ-EzsoT5zN91XCTWaImv4nW0HvjhWaxOStVwrVqR-1YdPDP/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252857%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake near Rattanakiri, Cambodia</td></tr>
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We headed South again and arrived in Siem Reap, the location of the legendary, ancient Ankhor Wat temples. We spent a few days here enjoying the vibrant nightlife and markets which were fun despite being a bit touristy. Fried ice-cream! We spent the mandatory day on a tuk tuk visiting the remarkable temples which were the centre of a giant, affluent kingdom about 1000 years ago which subsequently collapsed and was swallowed by the jungle and forgotten. About 160 years ago, the ruins were re-discovered and one of the worlds great cultural treasures was re-introduced to the world. It’s hard to describe the physical scale of Ankhor Wat and do it justice: we spent all day on a tuktuk driving through the forest from one amazing stone temple to another. Each temple was unique: some with giant faces carved in rock looking down on you, others with enormous trees clasping and clambering all over them like god-like octopuses. Even though this is South East Asia’s premier tourist attraction, the scale of it is so vast that one could avoid the crazy crowds and appreciate the ornately carved buildings and luxuriate in the stone cold interiors.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XLuxq1iBz7vhFw9GTMBPW4NJeoZPmjZjZcVNCHUft6e2Hp32mcvwVpsIcYI4GTr2Qio3mAi4SGfe0aS9FVrMnrwUJOhKpmVzHiPZ4ooNanSqm902w7NPpDsCFrHWMKjOHO4XaSDny6vf/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252824%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1280" height="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XLuxq1iBz7vhFw9GTMBPW4NJeoZPmjZjZcVNCHUft6e2Hp32mcvwVpsIcYI4GTr2Qio3mAi4SGfe0aS9FVrMnrwUJOhKpmVzHiPZ4ooNanSqm902w7NPpDsCFrHWMKjOHO4XaSDny6vf/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252824%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ankhor Wat, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DNAkt0c0CbTPZ9MvlzvLvy3fadltmCkb0nvH2a2dNiTqLvTZbzWzyFZzACdgCKjGNvGGb8qDUD_qKJ1PxXRQqwaby782zYDCcuf-QUA-MzFoCoyNDWkWiWu2VqUI_1TgAwPP9g6ux3Q1/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252816%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1072" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DNAkt0c0CbTPZ9MvlzvLvy3fadltmCkb0nvH2a2dNiTqLvTZbzWzyFZzACdgCKjGNvGGb8qDUD_qKJ1PxXRQqwaby782zYDCcuf-QUA-MzFoCoyNDWkWiWu2VqUI_1TgAwPP9g6ux3Q1/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252816%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ankhor Wat, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNUO8TJpFlLvmsQTTKPlcBuj1LBrgPYF4stxJ7f_imhNlhP5rCbwnFEvw2zTIcfwKWou3sLJEfIWBY6tNs5FWl1xbkRAcGLVjPESg_NwwYeg6oxSpWdHvnAiagOhQd_lSzyLJRXTmtGEu/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNUO8TJpFlLvmsQTTKPlcBuj1LBrgPYF4stxJ7f_imhNlhP5rCbwnFEvw2zTIcfwKWou3sLJEfIWBY6tNs5FWl1xbkRAcGLVjPESg_NwwYeg6oxSpWdHvnAiagOhQd_lSzyLJRXTmtGEu/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ankhor Wat, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9huuRmq5CFEGLtZF_34wm3eckMNCBFUZi5OCmktl7OBF6CxeZHq8w0Ualshfhe1DZH6leOWFdG88w6bxbDAFbPZeaSIYz3GtpqcTvtN1jOsutwtYXdL3Jp31B-bVWxteEV64ITUEFPJdD/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252825%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9huuRmq5CFEGLtZF_34wm3eckMNCBFUZi5OCmktl7OBF6CxeZHq8w0Ualshfhe1DZH6leOWFdG88w6bxbDAFbPZeaSIYz3GtpqcTvtN1jOsutwtYXdL3Jp31B-bVWxteEV64ITUEFPJdD/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252825%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ankhor Wat, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNh0YFYvIQqpuZwXY757GKPiKpxRJObeBdIhyphenhyphenmQBmSiAn3SSzWCI6W5C5q6M0Wq6FXMj1jNxzFgiv2GneuJE1ixYcnv0BV8l2crrQV7ouH1BH21rwL8pyPWIc_cxHhKwg7uWX-xODEEhr8/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252896%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNh0YFYvIQqpuZwXY757GKPiKpxRJObeBdIhyphenhyphenmQBmSiAn3SSzWCI6W5C5q6M0Wq6FXMj1jNxzFgiv2GneuJE1ixYcnv0BV8l2crrQV7ouH1BH21rwL8pyPWIc_cxHhKwg7uWX-xODEEhr8/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252896%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ankhor Wat, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXV-W7GENYY05bGzj_f-mkHHiqMXATytPx2alQLSqoCHTV5gPVgi8PjzBNf9DRreVAejqj2fXS-6d8yEtQ7SNMGRC6WrvPL4ct_gKjYGoqD33h5P14g0x24SSssv5LUamvSkU8_2pyZ4f/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXV-W7GENYY05bGzj_f-mkHHiqMXATytPx2alQLSqoCHTV5gPVgi8PjzBNf9DRreVAejqj2fXS-6d8yEtQ7SNMGRC6WrvPL4ct_gKjYGoqD33h5P14g0x24SSssv5LUamvSkU8_2pyZ4f/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25286%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ankhor Wat, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<br />
We headed next to Battambang, another city on the Mekong river. There we watched a fun circus performance by young people from the area. We also met up with other travellers and found out where Cambodians go to chill: a lake with floating rafts where you can buy ice-cold beer and freshly cooked fish while swimming in the cool water. We also visited the famous Phnom Sampeu caves where every evening at sunset millions upon millions of bats swarm out in clouds in search of food. Enterprising Cambodians have set up bars with chairs near the exit point, so you can enjoy the spectacle with a beer in hand ignoring the reality that the occasional fine drizzle one feels is in fact bat pee...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTLIPxtyxjDkQo9SpM31GQSdRm1nEar-T4oS4YFMl84g7y0fvP4UgXYygEOaDVfki1Df2tieQRiF5SHqXTqkSQat-bRM_yRQz03hESGr7Dqzg9dJ0H4cRLmR8ikr9GY8V2yxHVQEZdVz7/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252899%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoTLIPxtyxjDkQo9SpM31GQSdRm1nEar-T4oS4YFMl84g7y0fvP4UgXYygEOaDVfki1Df2tieQRiF5SHqXTqkSQat-bRM_yRQz03hESGr7Dqzg9dJ0H4cRLmR8ikr9GY8V2yxHVQEZdVz7/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252899%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chilling on floating rafts in Battambang, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJgetCBy9MLeCFlBSQWPPAVnkLTe7Cz03J5knwp3pRPFnIvmqBdrsn7J3efXh6Ij187xIz3HN6v0yivAD__GqHA5rpb7v_Nf_rix3twNAGGJSjhoSjE-UOZJRsxa1SBwwQZl1FGTcqFe_4/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252833%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJgetCBy9MLeCFlBSQWPPAVnkLTe7Cz03J5knwp3pRPFnIvmqBdrsn7J3efXh6Ij187xIz3HN6v0yivAD__GqHA5rpb7v_Nf_rix3twNAGGJSjhoSjE-UOZJRsxa1SBwwQZl1FGTcqFe_4/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252833%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Circus, Battambang, Cambodia</td></tr>
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We headed next via Siem Reap (and the famous bar-crawl) to the Cambodian capital Phnom Phen. Despite the incredible heat, we liked this city a lot: crazy, vibrant and friendly. And chaotic! One of the most amazing things about Cambodia is the insane number of motorbikes which operate without any observable traffic rules. An intersection is what we called a “4-way go”. Everyone just drives straight into the melee of chaotic vehicles heading in every direction and somehow wiggle their way through to the other side. Crossing the road as a pedestrian requires you to fearlessly launch yourself into the path of dozens of motorbikes on the assumption that they will somehow avoid you. The key to success is to move absolutely predictably: no stopping and starting and changing your mind but rather just walk at a steady speed and let them dodge you. Watching a mother with baby in arms walk straight into the middle of fast moving traffic without a care while every fibre in your own body screams “you gonna die!” is part of the daily surreality of urban Cambodia.<br />
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The beer brands in Cambodia have a clever scheme whereby in the inside of the lid of every beer one can win prizes: normally beers but also motorbikes and cars. The nice thing is that we would on average win a free beer every four beers, and one could just hand in the lid at any small shop and claim your winnings.<br />
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Cambodia has the most relaxed attitude to marijuana of any country we’ve visited. It is openly smoked in bars, it is advertised on restaurant menus (“happy pizza”) and most things can be ordered with a bit of extra “happy”. It’s not clear why this is the case as other countries in the region are quite strict – some notoriously so. But in Cambodia it seems to be treated, as it should be, like alcohol.<br />
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Dinner time in Phnom Phen involved visits to giant outdoor market areas with tables and chairs and freshly cooked street food washed down with delicious fruit smoothies and beers in mugs filled with ice. Invariably during these pavement dinners, we would meet someone interesting: there was the quirky, elderly Aussie/Kiwi duo with their Cambodian wives and kids and who had settled in Cambodia and started families. When the Aussie would say some sweeping generalisation like “Cambodians are lazy” then the Kiwi would exclaim in frustration to us “you see, that is the difference between Aussies and Kiwis right there!” Another evening we sat down at a shared table and got chatting to mother and her frisky young son who were eating there and despite our protestations she bought us dinner and beers. She was one of the many young people benefiting from Cambodia’s booming economy which has seen huge investment in the clothing and textile industry due to the dramatic increase in wages in China forcing factories to move to lower-cost countries like Cambodia.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKPsqVa0dTCOrXOO0fUA2hh1ZFIrLtHNODmDN-Jb6NToi74GPMGadSER1kSbvif_0Fh0LTBNLjOaXtOMBPDVQygM8eb0tTAcojbOSdWlTuc2ItfHCf9gtvjHpqZXYnSOtDm20PoLQSxWi/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252846%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1280" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKPsqVa0dTCOrXOO0fUA2hh1ZFIrLtHNODmDN-Jb6NToi74GPMGadSER1kSbvif_0Fh0LTBNLjOaXtOMBPDVQygM8eb0tTAcojbOSdWlTuc2ItfHCf9gtvjHpqZXYnSOtDm20PoLQSxWi/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252846%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being treated to street food in Phnom Phen, Cambodia</td></tr>
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The ice economy is a big part of Cambodian life with trucks and tuktuks delivering giant blocks of dripping ice to the little shops and street vendors. The myriad street vendors in Cambodia don’t have fridges, instead they have cooler boxes supplied once a day by an ice vendor. Ice is such an integral part of Cambodian life these days, it is hard to imagine life before the ice machines came. Cambodia sans ice would be another level of hot!<br />
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Cambodia is insanely cheap! Double rooms with aircon and en-suite could be had for as little as $6/night. Street food and drinks cost less than $1. A cold beer with ice cost 50c!<br />
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A visit to Phom Phen is incomplete without a visit to Tuol Sleng. And to understand both what Tuol Sleng is and the dark cloud that lurks silently, malignantly in the background when describing modern day Cambodia, one has to understand what happened in 1975. One has to understand what was the Khmer Rouge.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfX0l9GqgW1GgUjfGbpuZ4Aogy4VEWHmXP6cB8UqHGnwNSeYnFSX1k5y8VpVa9BfHpYlQt41j7CvBKbZZHsSqaQCK-JM60zr8ZeB4cdtzhRlZfWGlS8xgAj6PE6J81aLalp0no7c-91vZ/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252871%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfX0l9GqgW1GgUjfGbpuZ4Aogy4VEWHmXP6cB8UqHGnwNSeYnFSX1k5y8VpVa9BfHpYlQt41j7CvBKbZZHsSqaQCK-JM60zr8ZeB4cdtzhRlZfWGlS8xgAj6PE6J81aLalp0no7c-91vZ/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252871%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuol Sleng, Phnom Phen, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Victims of the Khmer Rouge, Tuol Sleng, Phnom Phen, Cambodia</td></tr>
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We had heard vague mentions of the Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge during our lives but it was a part of history that was simply filed under the heading “bad guys doing bad **** before we were born.” Now that we were in Cambodia, what the Khmer Rouge was and what it did, emerged in all its horror.<br />
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In short, Cambodia enjoyed two decades of peace and prosperity after independence from France in 1953. But the USA’s invasion of Vietnam led to Cambodia being used by the Vietnamese as a route to smuggle weapons to their fighters in the South which in turn led to devastating bombing raids by the US air-force in Cambodia. The instability that followed led to a coup which culminated in the coming to power in 1975 of an indigenous Cambodian revolutionary movement called the Khmer Rouge (the Khmer are the dominant ethnic group in Cambodia, and thus the movement was named the “Red Khmers”).<br />
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Within days of coming to power, the Khmer Rouge implemented one of the most radical and brutal restructurings of a society ever attempted by human beings in the modern age. The goal of the revolution was to convert Cambodia into a giant, peasant-dominated, agrarian cooperative untainted by anything modern or foreign. Within days of coming to power, the Khmer Rouge ordered that everyone in the cities, including the giant Phnom Penh, should just leave by foot and walk into the rural areas. The ENTIRE capital city was abandoned and the city dwellers including the sick, the old, the young walked without food or water for days, with many collapsing dead en route. Those who survived were herded into labour camps where they worked as slaves for the Khmer Rouge for 12-15 hours per day and being fed twice daily with a watery rice porridge where the slaves described being able to count just eight grains of rice being in the average meal. The Khmer soldiers began to systematically perform mass executions, often with axes and hammers, of anyone who was educated or could speak a foreign language or even wore eyeglasses. The bodies filled mass graves that became known as the killing fields. The beginning of the revolution was proclaimed as Year Zero and in the four years of Khmer Rouge rule, 1.7 million people were slaughtered. The cities remained empty. Imagine: for four years a modern city in a tropical country totally deserted and taken over by nature and decay. The horror was ended in 1979 when the Vietnamese invaded and overthrew Pol Pot and his followers.<br />
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This history was graphically on display in Tuol Sleng Museum which had been a high school before but was converted by the Khmer Rouge into the largest detention and torture centre in the country. Bizarrely, the Khmer Rouge meticulously photographed all their victims before they were tortured and killed and the walls of the building are lined with these close-up photographs of men, women and young children with the haunted looks of someone about to be murdered. Horrific. A sobering day of reflection and a warning to those who carelessly throw around the word “revolution” without a clear idea of what that can bring.<br />
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Amazingly, Pol Pot and his generals fled to Thailand and were recognised by most of the world, including the United Nations, as the legitimate government of Cambodia for a further ten years. The Vietnamese were criticised for their intervention!!<br />
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One would think that this recent history would permeate modern day Cambodia’s political and cultural life and yet it is as if Cambodians have completely buried the experience. Chatting to Cambodians born after the Khmer Rouge, it was noticeable how few of them had asked their parents about what had happened, which side had they been on, who had been killed in their families and who had done the killing. It felt like people regarded it as old history, yet everyone who is forty or older today lived through it. Millions of people were murdered and yet, besides a few token prosecutions in the past few years, almost no-one was held to account. In fact, if you didn’t go and seek out this history, you could quite easily visit Cambodia and never know that anything dramatic had happened. Incredibly, the Cambodians regularly expressed their hate of the Vietnamese who are seen as the regional bullying power – and gave them no credit whatsoever for liberating them from the Khmer Rouge. This gave us as South Africans with a traumatic history lots to think and talk about.<br />
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From steamy, vibrant Phnom Penh we headed towards the southern coast to a town called Kampot where we chilled in a riverside backpackers with an eclectic mix of travellers in a joyful stoner haze, feasting, playing cards and periodically discussing whether we should go anywhere today. The first week we spent moving about 50m between our grass hut on stilts and the restaurant on the deck on the bank of the giant river. But after that, as our friends gradually dwindled we got slightly more adventurous and missioned around on a motorbike visiting the strange, other-worldly development at the end of a fun winding forest road up the mountain and also discovering a remote restaurant deep in the rural villages where Rejane did cooking lessons. After ten days of doing very little, but having lots of fun in Kampot, it was time to leave Cambodia.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREhDEqGUap7jS-s0bWOtTmHOD_1iNSoyp3Gt_nA68PTleGqW6HLER5bGWAttx5AJH1v5_1B6OFzKO3RqTWcamJqfojyArPO7ZXmf95cSbrBi6k5DJhCG3RT4JJd3gw3UoIOd4Pe8JIdRs/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252894%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1216" height="622" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREhDEqGUap7jS-s0bWOtTmHOD_1iNSoyp3Gt_nA68PTleGqW6HLER5bGWAttx5AJH1v5_1B6OFzKO3RqTWcamJqfojyArPO7ZXmf95cSbrBi6k5DJhCG3RT4JJd3gw3UoIOd4Pe8JIdRs/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252894%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very lazy days spent on this deck at Kampot</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGLdTPaoZjRMQtz2U9z6HtCxtcxAKYtLZxnRRTpyl-PF6Es7eE2R4eXl940l5XwcShj-88acx7XWgwGJv7Ppw8D16Rl53h7dRDlHl3MO_yNWermDoh5XTgqg19x69IRsAacMVPs2tkXrc/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252855%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGLdTPaoZjRMQtz2U9z6HtCxtcxAKYtLZxnRRTpyl-PF6Es7eE2R4eXl940l5XwcShj-88acx7XWgwGJv7Ppw8D16Rl53h7dRDlHl3MO_yNWermDoh5XTgqg19x69IRsAacMVPs2tkXrc/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252855%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kampot, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4xhyphenhyphenTrD2mijQEWCcMSOPx4ACRUZIBcQGiSxpN6oghtZVO8bUJ95OESsg3xpcEXDawSwz8je266Mp8Iodq0xmnKeETB5_ixX6RZLnj37WLLAG4mqGmbeHn2GXTEMGxpTpDrC_OIS4Krd72/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252866%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4xhyphenhyphenTrD2mijQEWCcMSOPx4ACRUZIBcQGiSxpN6oghtZVO8bUJ95OESsg3xpcEXDawSwz8je266Mp8Iodq0xmnKeETB5_ixX6RZLnj37WLLAG4mqGmbeHn2GXTEMGxpTpDrC_OIS4Krd72/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252866%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our accommodation, Kampot, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pUBdaE6_6ZQ80aGXZQfyuzrXx5u-ZfNZYfD_tkmlydc7mzkOcEYcthRg6Va5JSexEknaZ1ATk6F1T24VY3Bvyyx0FNtn02sDgxlU-TAvEda5-CmAOF6ne7nV28azejYePuVmNTxqcE1g/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1280" height="592" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7pUBdaE6_6ZQ80aGXZQfyuzrXx5u-ZfNZYfD_tkmlydc7mzkOcEYcthRg6Va5JSexEknaZ1ATk6F1T24VY3Bvyyx0FNtn02sDgxlU-TAvEda5-CmAOF6ne7nV28azejYePuVmNTxqcE1g/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fixing a puncture, Kampot, Cambodia</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3DoEuaS-Q6HDArtC6js75sHvF7XIwSgOx4Iz2Dm5Y9Tq_7oBPAgUxj9bgrVG8lSpK37vXZ1jMM4ofzz-IMwd0T9vglCIIob8jQe4B_hYFQu99oSjOEG-CJhtXGU9dh7wwgeixj4ttvsv/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252874%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="1280" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW3DoEuaS-Q6HDArtC6js75sHvF7XIwSgOx4Iz2Dm5Y9Tq_7oBPAgUxj9bgrVG8lSpK37vXZ1jMM4ofzz-IMwd0T9vglCIIob8jQe4B_hYFQu99oSjOEG-CJhtXGU9dh7wwgeixj4ttvsv/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252874%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seafood market near Kampot</td></tr>
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Our abiding memory of Cambodia is the friendliness of its people. Cambodians never failed to return a smile or a greeting – and despite the steady growth in tourism numbers, we never felt as if Cambodians were jaded nor that we were being merely tolerated as a necessary evil. After the relatively boring and unfriendly Thailand and Laos, we had our travel mojo back! Thank you Cambodia!!<br />
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Crossing from Cambodia to Vietnam was relatively painless and our first stop was Phu Quoc a touristy, nightmare island which we hurriedly left. It has beautiful beaches, and Goa-style beach restaurants but mostly catered to the fly-in package tourist market. We quickly headed on to the Mekong Delta region... or at least we planned to move quickly until we heard about “Tet”. While Vietnam is generally regarded as a well-organised, well-run country – all the guidebooks warn that you should not visit during the chaotic Vietnamese New Year known as Tet. As luck would have it, we had arrived as Tet was about to start and the entire country’s transport and hospitality industry was about to go into meltdown. Bus tickets were hard to find and were triple the usual cost and desperate travellers could be seen late at night wandering the streets hopelessly in search of a bed to sleep. On the upside, the country was electric with positivity and colourful, good vibes – Vietnam at its most awesome was on show!<br />
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We somehow managed to negotiate our way onto a bus to the Mekong Delta region where we stayed in a lovely riverside homestay outside of the town of Can Tho. Here we reflected on the past year’s journey that had us unintentionally following the Mekong River from its source in the snowlands of Tibetan plateau where it is known as the Lancang river, down through China into tropical Laos, Thailand and Cambodia and ending here on the coast of Vietnam. Here, the giant river divides into a mass of smaller rivers and islands like the roots of a giant tree reaching into the ocean. These islands and rivers are densely populated with fishing communities living in houses perched on stilts above the mud and using their junk boats as transport. It is certainly not pristine beauty – but messily vibrant. The breakneck pace of economic development along the length of the Mekong river has put this ancient eco-system under threat but nevertheless this mighty river flows with its fish, dolphins, silt and melted ice from the inhospitably freezing moonscape of Tibet and it still provides a vital means of survival for the millions of people who live by fishing and farming along its 4300 km length.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj342PKIBpQLu8lX6zsigS8Q2wNwskSoKQF1RCuLmLFThUjdRiXqLZ-A0RwmZMe6G2fdH7bgscBIYaV9NK5OPR1EST0TrkogQIp9JNKOUwueF4zXqffC9XoNi7MzL1J0UNXul6MGfIWa4VK/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252889%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="1008" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj342PKIBpQLu8lX6zsigS8Q2wNwskSoKQF1RCuLmLFThUjdRiXqLZ-A0RwmZMe6G2fdH7bgscBIYaV9NK5OPR1EST0TrkogQIp9JNKOUwueF4zXqffC9XoNi7MzL1J0UNXul6MGfIWa4VK/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252889%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">market area, Can Tho, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNL9s42JMvIQwidcaLlWtBrp0O000IqOHuPsY483Viw1FVdhwOL-XJEDXwkqnxHiDmzw9m_KbnZjIUYCME7bv9v_EwJcRP974o8ELA_FaFnFZmDP144DDRHLQyWH32rZWARAII9bFxuG3/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1152" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNL9s42JMvIQwidcaLlWtBrp0O000IqOHuPsY483Viw1FVdhwOL-XJEDXwkqnxHiDmzw9m_KbnZjIUYCME7bv9v_EwJcRP974o8ELA_FaFnFZmDP144DDRHLQyWH32rZWARAII9bFxuG3/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We walked past these guys cock fighting, Can Tho, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7iVA9B5r1VEUNs0-sOcW20ES3-m2AemmEDgURIikQ7VzREL5OEp460RXjAihEBsRGZCOAx7SGotWvwJuS-9Y7h_0I8B4NRj_Y4kiix7Vn73m5h3yD624lgSVIJ_WITHw9QlVRmrgSFayI/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252860%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7iVA9B5r1VEUNs0-sOcW20ES3-m2AemmEDgURIikQ7VzREL5OEp460RXjAihEBsRGZCOAx7SGotWvwJuS-9Y7h_0I8B4NRj_Y4kiix7Vn73m5h3yD624lgSVIJ_WITHw9QlVRmrgSFayI/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252860%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mekong Delta area, Can Tho, Vietnam</td></tr>
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In Can Tho we spent days walking in every direction to get a feel for how things worked in Vietnam. Generally when we enter a new country we spend a few days walking the markets, testing the foods, understanding prices, discovering the secret delicacies and working a little of the language until we feel that we’ve got the basics mastered. One of our first delightful discoveries was the Vong bars: bars made up of dozens of hammocks strung up on the side of the road where you can go chill with the Vietnamese and enjoy a cheap beer with ice in your own hammock. Nice!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5iZR3g8g_kAEbBh5X6TmXx4IG2_Sm0mNiW051_D-PspoaI_WklZ3G6K83EUYiy8ToK8YIG2cdiXVkAiqMW7ohDWrormm3P-sZB5cY1tlpzjxB3TKUS-Dm92VfOCSxJMb8QewzbAV_atF/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252890%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="1280" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5iZR3g8g_kAEbBh5X6TmXx4IG2_Sm0mNiW051_D-PspoaI_WklZ3G6K83EUYiy8ToK8YIG2cdiXVkAiqMW7ohDWrormm3P-sZB5cY1tlpzjxB3TKUS-Dm92VfOCSxJMb8QewzbAV_atF/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252890%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vong (hammock) bar, Can Tho, Vietnam</td></tr>
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At our homestay in Can Tho we got to taste some delicious Vietnamese cuisine with our favourite being various meat and veg dishes wrapped in a fresh lettuce leaf as if eating a roti or a salomie in South Africa. There are basically two types of street food restaurants in Vietnam: those serving Com (rice-based dishes) and those serving Pho (noodle soups). All the stalls conveniently have Pho or Com conspicuously sign-posted which makes traveller life super easy. Such yummy food. The Vietnamese also make delicious cheap baguettes, and iced coffee is everywhere.<br />
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Can Tho town was dressing itself up for the Tet festival and, like the rest of Vietnam, it had covered itself with beautiful flower-lined walkways where families would photograph themselves in front of various colourful displays depicting Vietnamese life and made from bright flowers.<br />
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With luck, we got bus tickets and set off for Ho Chi Minh City (formerly known as Saigon). We booked ourselves into hostel in the viby part of this attractive city. Ho Chi Minh City is unusual in that it is giant, modern city and yet everywhere you look there are gigantic, monster trees typically only seen deep in the jungle towering above you. A giant highrise building will face an equally giant tree with a canopy 40 or 50 stories high and these trees create cool shade throughout the city making it comfortable to walk everywhere. We spent our days in HCMC admiring the Tet flower displays and enjoying various events. We wandered through various parks, one of which was remarkable for having two live white rhinos with giant horns living in a display with minimal security. It was bizarre to think that rhinos in South Africa need 24 hour armed protection due to the Vietnamese demand for rhino horn and yet in Vietnam these same rhinos live peacefully. The parks were set up nicely for families: various entrepreneurs had brought games and fun activities for children to enjoy for a small fee.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7l25DWP11qUL_DzSg88iAVT1bpUHg4aTquuJbR8AHBAsWr1y8oOiWwmsvrXuL4ERIeW3DyaD42tyVTdV1FbgmUS1E5hEi9UuEm_R8ZHCEdItVKuxKh3r4X4kFfsVT1hHN6jKwq0kBdpye/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252875%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7l25DWP11qUL_DzSg88iAVT1bpUHg4aTquuJbR8AHBAsWr1y8oOiWwmsvrXuL4ERIeW3DyaD42tyVTdV1FbgmUS1E5hEi9UuEm_R8ZHCEdItVKuxKh3r4X4kFfsVT1hHN6jKwq0kBdpye/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252875%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some South African vibes in Ho Chi Minh city, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBmKanKVlkiaA3_6YA5IwYXgAfNPVA3Ot5tIkXim-xZO1-bJXrYCTaUObVNIm3WKoSBctb0ERk5dtc1R9bZGDS-PZICXwb3YoaxMm-00CzZCQTbl-ogrHedlfZFaOfFUnAbQ9S_Grm4r2B/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252848%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBmKanKVlkiaA3_6YA5IwYXgAfNPVA3Ot5tIkXim-xZO1-bJXrYCTaUObVNIm3WKoSBctb0ERk5dtc1R9bZGDS-PZICXwb3YoaxMm-00CzZCQTbl-ogrHedlfZFaOfFUnAbQ9S_Grm4r2B/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252848%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giant trees in the centre of Ho Chi Minh City</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoivy8aGY_EQQl43-DcF-tDE_HbxubWnNIKV84MlRPVjEGFvLJ9ALc4oq60gVJHdXmXd4Y7bnKkmGQHmuWAZBY34mbojwXK97SVG1y0DUHJ2pQQUB9WkxFj2WL5y1w3Rv8DgYObq3O2MrA/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252864%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1280" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoivy8aGY_EQQl43-DcF-tDE_HbxubWnNIKV84MlRPVjEGFvLJ9ALc4oq60gVJHdXmXd4Y7bnKkmGQHmuWAZBY34mbojwXK97SVG1y0DUHJ2pQQUB9WkxFj2WL5y1w3Rv8DgYObq3O2MrA/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252864%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scooter traffic jam in HCMC, Vietnam</td></tr>
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We visited the museum where we learnt about the legendary Vietnamese leader, Ho Chi Minh, an impressive, idealistic man about whom we knew little. He inspired this poor, small country to defeat the global superpower in war. The Vietnamese have always been a fiercely independent people and may well have the most impressive military history having been one of the only nations in the world to defeat the far bigger and wealthier armies of the Mongols, the Chinese, the French and finally the USA in war. As one Vietnamese friend explained: “when we are attacked, we stand together like no other nation.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21jBY8kVhU_5qbwceasEOIyjxrCr04pO_XdofJJOyEjFWg2aulZyyksqVUPVkXuM5Sz0o3-wePHcTCEB_Wb9DhaDs8uemVaGBSXcfzV39dPzdd2_bdo1Kzqkt2IVfK3TyujOUwS-k0SWk/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252870%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21jBY8kVhU_5qbwceasEOIyjxrCr04pO_XdofJJOyEjFWg2aulZyyksqVUPVkXuM5Sz0o3-wePHcTCEB_Wb9DhaDs8uemVaGBSXcfzV39dPzdd2_bdo1Kzqkt2IVfK3TyujOUwS-k0SWk/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252870%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rhino chilling in Vietnam (the epicentre of the rhino horn trade)</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Kp4HN43GKp23oV3hKmJh5P1fZRrcrSS7qxA7-g2kmseLjbFUaQZJeeAKAeYLK1Ts15SZQ4wHiNP946BRiC-SBMBy3Hdrto6UMSlAghK9BAkyGfw7nhxHmiuOJdZeIL4nOyrZGs5JtF5l/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252863%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Kp4HN43GKp23oV3hKmJh5P1fZRrcrSS7qxA7-g2kmseLjbFUaQZJeeAKAeYLK1Ts15SZQ4wHiNP946BRiC-SBMBy3Hdrto6UMSlAghK9BAkyGfw7nhxHmiuOJdZeIL4nOyrZGs5JtF5l/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252863%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memories of our India motorbike trip (Tet display) HCMC, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZZVqIX4B4NyWBpCbudMVsoB_AoHxCTxTEyTN6SIJ92lp9kg7HAZeZjGm2Fl_S-3Px5u5ON8Psq5HUUmJqjTNnHlr0TKU0QrsX1wLamJjLRqoqpFV2XepNwZwl_oqiyWjtPAMnBa4xUW0/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252869%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1280" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZZVqIX4B4NyWBpCbudMVsoB_AoHxCTxTEyTN6SIJ92lp9kg7HAZeZjGm2Fl_S-3Px5u5ON8Psq5HUUmJqjTNnHlr0TKU0QrsX1wLamJjLRqoqpFV2XepNwZwl_oqiyWjtPAMnBa4xUW0/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252869%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rejane x 4, Tet display, HCMC, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCanmBp7wWVWxbrHyje2L8IoqlWy7avs505vn6AiFlGbPWItMV6aU_mM1ER6W5YvNA9mP877cTiPCm8aUV2cHaUUZ9Mj11GjKfcOSaDoZqKJST2DrRwgo_edFreK63rKrNOwWRH7sUMur/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252845%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCanmBp7wWVWxbrHyje2L8IoqlWy7avs505vn6AiFlGbPWItMV6aU_mM1ER6W5YvNA9mP877cTiPCm8aUV2cHaUUZ9Mj11GjKfcOSaDoZqKJST2DrRwgo_edFreK63rKrNOwWRH7sUMur/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252845%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flower display at Tet Festival, HCMC, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCiMeikC1ro-dIKNdfIuf2FJvZ9LhDEVnJQKQVmicS2v7Rk1FNvyY884v23sVaZKP1wa8AWhTd1zMbe1Z53MVoC_Lotd5HP2x3gjVSXCkXMeijCRICLpXqB9RoN1OlD9Q7Sp5VfAKT6sD/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252895%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCiMeikC1ro-dIKNdfIuf2FJvZ9LhDEVnJQKQVmicS2v7Rk1FNvyY884v23sVaZKP1wa8AWhTd1zMbe1Z53MVoC_Lotd5HP2x3gjVSXCkXMeijCRICLpXqB9RoN1OlD9Q7Sp5VfAKT6sD/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252895%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Organised kids activities in the public park, HCMC, Vietnam</td></tr>
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From HCMC we squeezed on to a bus to the hilltop town of Dalat where we found Tet in full swing. We could only find dorm beds there and the town itself was heaving with Vietnamese tourists crowding the markets and tourist sights. We did a day tour that took us to see the flower farms and the coffee plantations and got to try the famous Chon coffee made from beans that have been swallowed and then defecated by weasels... tastes very strong and quite bitter... and it’s expensive. We also visited an insect farm which produces insects for restaurants and ate fried crickets which tasted pretty good: a bit like a chewy biltong. Dalat seems to specialise in way-out architecture. We visited the Hang Nga Crazy House which is the creation of a Vietnamese woman who wished to push the boundaries of surreal architecture. The giant house is an incredible maze of caves and passageways which curl around hypnotically and emerge in remarkable, decorative cave-like rooms that now provide upmarket hotel accommodation apparently favoured by Russian clientèle.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVvTv0w9dJvLF9-cQl_iY7rPiD9i0B0dZFixeNIgAK8APzk-p8Lwin5j7uGfX4TmIXIC2ksYPi4FEaRS9ORxo_ox0mgwuMV736sF6rCMXxb37KdzPMGrLPXzjOz-TCZltCiwMZvTljOuL/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252844%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1232" height="614" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVvTv0w9dJvLF9-cQl_iY7rPiD9i0B0dZFixeNIgAK8APzk-p8Lwin5j7uGfX4TmIXIC2ksYPi4FEaRS9ORxo_ox0mgwuMV736sF6rCMXxb37KdzPMGrLPXzjOz-TCZltCiwMZvTljOuL/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252844%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flower farm, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMCyUWA2vQU0ZYZXj5TAeZRZnYfB5mx2mHOvCS2zUBHFVrOvpldPAZ2hx8jElnM060c4z-wJ4pQFpLvspQhq_7QvHk6dJc8k4dr4kbour5xSNmtmuqAl3Fkw3bR8jsOMXFW-bAm0C4GNw0/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252881%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="1184" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMCyUWA2vQU0ZYZXj5TAeZRZnYfB5mx2mHOvCS2zUBHFVrOvpldPAZ2hx8jElnM060c4z-wJ4pQFpLvspQhq_7QvHk6dJc8k4dr4kbour5xSNmtmuqAl3Fkw3bR8jsOMXFW-bAm0C4GNw0/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252881%2529.jpg" width="614" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hang Nga Crazy house, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9NwqfeuDvDw7j_4hS4992fkefX_k8NpBMQkhqELTsyiavh9a1fVPkUyTCYUHky-mMIBSvWe9JS6da1F3UgS8JIzWj5OTJmaLt0jzOLH-Lyfc6YRQbsqOYGJByy2MMtMQQDZqMykTIGIq/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1120" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9NwqfeuDvDw7j_4hS4992fkefX_k8NpBMQkhqELTsyiavh9a1fVPkUyTCYUHky-mMIBSvWe9JS6da1F3UgS8JIzWj5OTJmaLt0jzOLH-Lyfc6YRQbsqOYGJByy2MMtMQQDZqMykTIGIq/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hang Nga Crazy house, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_C_Tm6QSgVG-27-t7srZeQgPFWsOcMi7pz50vm3nIXIaqvGSsxewBb8qj_ht8PyFKwSQXKmqf9ZzcYw2AZ-S8VGpOIWlYXgeWanHdpQKtQ3_9SEymF0MTt8B-oYjJIHpSx8Pn00s8Ccg/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252883%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_C_Tm6QSgVG-27-t7srZeQgPFWsOcMi7pz50vm3nIXIaqvGSsxewBb8qj_ht8PyFKwSQXKmqf9ZzcYw2AZ-S8VGpOIWlYXgeWanHdpQKtQ3_9SEymF0MTt8B-oYjJIHpSx8Pn00s8Ccg/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252883%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hang Nga Crazy house, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOKSMNTOhitzK9Kcx4A7fWShmX0S3KuBoVQVeIBVx1z7-ehzw4R8rIjXWdDRcnnNYCxHLo2Y1tYwI8wM02ki-VYZ59XDgtY4dqEXhxLz1ETc4Y129JGdRf_pKSrSSGpWo2vXh47bu6RN5J/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252836%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="1168" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOKSMNTOhitzK9Kcx4A7fWShmX0S3KuBoVQVeIBVx1z7-ehzw4R8rIjXWdDRcnnNYCxHLo2Y1tYwI8wM02ki-VYZ59XDgtY4dqEXhxLz1ETc4Y129JGdRf_pKSrSSGpWo2vXh47bu6RN5J/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252836%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cricket farm, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPYflVScpxS5CPhmHryETNVi2K-Gu0dh9mseOOooWV3g43VDEusgjduMecvseXtwWoDYJFq6cq1NjmQmwPrUxSKLvWA0rDfhRP30pFsiPMgUlkv8rgAKDpkf7DOoWe9gq9n7G2RdB20nj-/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252839%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPYflVScpxS5CPhmHryETNVi2K-Gu0dh9mseOOooWV3g43VDEusgjduMecvseXtwWoDYJFq6cq1NjmQmwPrUxSKLvWA0rDfhRP30pFsiPMgUlkv8rgAKDpkf7DOoWe9gq9n7G2RdB20nj-/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252839%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating fried crickets, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjob45IrnxPY2p04FPv1DXIc3UFGTRJCltDUjQS35xRKlKr3_B5hiVSe13m23ewaTUsNNhBs7KUzROk4JZSTbVsNxFBKU7-hMDINo-SjQDC-u_wNpy_ZcM2QPy9PHQMGj-aP3MXeMJHWHxM/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252892%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="1280" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjob45IrnxPY2p04FPv1DXIc3UFGTRJCltDUjQS35xRKlKr3_B5hiVSe13m23ewaTUsNNhBs7KUzROk4JZSTbVsNxFBKU7-hMDINo-SjQDC-u_wNpy_ZcM2QPy9PHQMGj-aP3MXeMJHWHxM/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252892%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The weasel who makes the coffee, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<br />
In Dalat there is also a similarly crazily-designed restaurant/bar which takes you on a similar maze of passages and cave-rooms each with different, bizarre décor and furniture. But without doubt the highlight of Dalat is Linh Phuoc Pagoda temple which is said to be the most beautiful temple in South East Asia (and we agree). Made from recycled pottery and ceramics, it is garishly colourful with incredible sights at every turn. The giant Buddha statue standing perhaps 15m tall and decorated from head to toe in bright yellow flowers was perhaps the most impressive thing we saw there. As one exits the temple, we had mixed feelings about the incredible wooden furniture made from monster trees. Some giant tables perhaps 20m long, 2m wide and 1m thick being just a single slab of wood from a single tree. Deforestation is a major problem in SE Asia – and one hopes that these incredible slabs of wood will in future be left alive as trees.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAc4LUNLyP9xTimGl4hDZR4bovrAVpkBnwfIPyvRDruho15_UVqLM2KHmEMl01FQOBWrXnKfo8NgzdMASyBClVO6b3HlaYnqTfv_OsforUmmudmxFpzNgXIPU5p8c_5BawRisPxlggCXKK/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAc4LUNLyP9xTimGl4hDZR4bovrAVpkBnwfIPyvRDruho15_UVqLM2KHmEMl01FQOBWrXnKfo8NgzdMASyBClVO6b3HlaYnqTfv_OsforUmmudmxFpzNgXIPU5p8c_5BawRisPxlggCXKK/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linh Phuoc Pagoda temple, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwromyZSoZX6IPkFrZ8rqDTy5_oxY5r6I7rxWLI7zkEF9xLUbWJCFs56k9IcVYuYz3QlBF0Mris3-1KOQ-kZJ33ozBwvs1NR7UiTDbseBO4ITa1QM9S0cJb7Cney38Ba-sT7M7-1uNyffU/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252847%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwromyZSoZX6IPkFrZ8rqDTy5_oxY5r6I7rxWLI7zkEF9xLUbWJCFs56k9IcVYuYz3QlBF0Mris3-1KOQ-kZJ33ozBwvs1NR7UiTDbseBO4ITa1QM9S0cJb7Cney38Ba-sT7M7-1uNyffU/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252847%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddha made from flowers, Linh Phuoc Pagoda temple, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEhB-Lr_2PsHkTliGRk2zuYHlWTM_CsQBYxpiOiFwu4flctbTSCOf9SeOVi8uOU-kkCsoEYPF9ej31m4OLJAC4ftJfDvQuLydc3T78gnZCUwFJ0CaUdAttIKHsaEhK6Cm-v4da1xhDz4-/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252843%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEhB-Lr_2PsHkTliGRk2zuYHlWTM_CsQBYxpiOiFwu4flctbTSCOf9SeOVi8uOU-kkCsoEYPF9ej31m4OLJAC4ftJfDvQuLydc3T78gnZCUwFJ0CaUdAttIKHsaEhK6Cm-v4da1xhDz4-/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252843%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close-up of flower buddha, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWgzexXUrVJfZ9Ogkt58Jy4BIrFDrFw7Vtl8HiDvZQ87CnYbNPFIvyWeSAnvruArpQ2MeQO7vuTWOQW12bDH7qVzj20haobgYKjjh6E7DNMxFmpW4j3pDI6j0gvWVghq-gX52AjnOkxNI/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252849%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1185" data-original-width="1248" height="606" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWgzexXUrVJfZ9Ogkt58Jy4BIrFDrFw7Vtl8HiDvZQ87CnYbNPFIvyWeSAnvruArpQ2MeQO7vuTWOQW12bDH7qVzj20haobgYKjjh6E7DNMxFmpW4j3pDI6j0gvWVghq-gX52AjnOkxNI/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252849%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giant wooden furniture made from monster trees...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As we exited the temple, we saw a little sign pointing the way to hell down below. We entered and found ourselves yet again feeling utterly surreal as we wandered through underground caves depicting all sorts of scariness and evil illuminated with macabre red and purple lighting and writings on the walls no doubt explaining how one should avoid ending up in this place in the long-run.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLui5qokltp-2eQjWaVt4ndwCcmCiZ9Tv5I7xuelawjJ4Kdpk99-8VlTbOdt26mlBnvNQZJIACvNpGWpy7hk2Oy2V5-CylpVQFiHZm_LZJvAW1OO-L7kMHB1ysDPw78jxuyJmK1MmJK7S/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%2528102%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLui5qokltp-2eQjWaVt4ndwCcmCiZ9Tv5I7xuelawjJ4Kdpk99-8VlTbOdt26mlBnvNQZJIACvNpGWpy7hk2Oy2V5-CylpVQFiHZm_LZJvAW1OO-L7kMHB1ysDPw78jxuyJmK1MmJK7S/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%2528102%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Hell beneath the temple, Dalat, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In Dalat, as everywhere in Vietnam, the motorbikes swarm chaotically in every direction. Our favourite Vietnamese tourist T-shirt said:<br />
<br />
“Vietnam traffic light rules:<br />
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Green: you can go<br />
Orange: you can go<br />
Red: you still can go!”<br />
<br />
And so it was. Crossing the road in the big cities was even more intense than in Cambodia and the Vietnamese pedestrians added a new road crossing trick that we quickly adopted. Just step into the road of sure-death-traffic-mayhem and stick your hand out as if ordering people to stop and just walk fearlessly. The key to this technique is not to wait for the vehicles to stop – instead just launch into the fast moving traffic and thus indicate that if they don’t stop you’re willing to die. Watching young children do this was at once thrilling and terrifying to watch.<br />
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We moved on from Dalat to the lovely coastal city of Hoian which has become one of Vietnam’s most popular destinations. The town has beautiful architecture and a lovely pedestrian atmosphere with thousands of little shops selling weird and wonderful things. Vietnam may have the best variety of things we would have liked to buy of anywhere we’ve been in the world. And cheap too! We wandered about this lovely town for a few days enjoying the street-side cafes and coffee shops and scouting out the local hangouts where prices were better. Those of you who feel like you want to go live somewhere beautiful and cheap for a few months: Hoian is the place. You can teach English there too.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2f1__2nVnXE1xwkMwPeRy3g1vV2nBV_UWvZxP_j9l0AOGccWCSQoD47e_bzVSAcgcvKf-QzEHmVUEfWB6vhWzzRR5qjZYbN2VFFso3SQu95JOyYqfrTmel6SgW08_xvIEtxKHY5YcPJf/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252854%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2f1__2nVnXE1xwkMwPeRy3g1vV2nBV_UWvZxP_j9l0AOGccWCSQoD47e_bzVSAcgcvKf-QzEHmVUEfWB6vhWzzRR5qjZYbN2VFFso3SQu95JOyYqfrTmel6SgW08_xvIEtxKHY5YcPJf/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252854%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoian, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSSiNkLk4I9irXY_NtYOUqGmMgdbwONm_cXpQbL3sfKsXdhU4D0yC-M0YdMhnkHFvaB82mxaQc0V5EJ9ptSQGIh3bshCd1w2EE4ZivPdjv30t1e7cwUrd4mwmoh6yrkQi10JfUJ-cJKowL/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252818%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSSiNkLk4I9irXY_NtYOUqGmMgdbwONm_cXpQbL3sfKsXdhU4D0yC-M0YdMhnkHFvaB82mxaQc0V5EJ9ptSQGIh3bshCd1w2EE4ZivPdjv30t1e7cwUrd4mwmoh6yrkQi10JfUJ-cJKowL/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252818%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoian, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgYchYh8lo9NNaYguqwnz0Vbz0UQaDMW7F9S6oVynU89M5o_nWPwkaxHEhCECHIWLDr2zMF96P6bpgT92nmzjgQ4cozDvO7iyRzxXecLd6fcnoPtu_hYOEq0uS4LyEAMZSZSULdWw4MFIY/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252815%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgYchYh8lo9NNaYguqwnz0Vbz0UQaDMW7F9S6oVynU89M5o_nWPwkaxHEhCECHIWLDr2zMF96P6bpgT92nmzjgQ4cozDvO7iyRzxXecLd6fcnoPtu_hYOEq0uS4LyEAMZSZSULdWw4MFIY/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252815%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoian, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglrVH1l9W-5lTCRohDeUlV8vzSEDlrmGLy1Lji9NdVTLiunWmixJssc4PCOIRJvY1cbKOiG4xfs5OTy_JodysxOsQbGlNAFKkGJ3ZUL2eFm9-ohNWY4CXeS2cqleU1xrmMOfQ-EXEeSbd1/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252873%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1280" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglrVH1l9W-5lTCRohDeUlV8vzSEDlrmGLy1Lji9NdVTLiunWmixJssc4PCOIRJvY1cbKOiG4xfs5OTy_JodysxOsQbGlNAFKkGJ3ZUL2eFm9-ohNWY4CXeS2cqleU1xrmMOfQ-EXEeSbd1/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252873%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School building, Hoian, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4NANX7sVaGDOAzg6MffJUUt-UCdf0KJ0A_Cm16FONLxJqQsRC3ms_BxVw7Mw23p9ieAgtwYtXkzaaADrd6T5rr427BhQvB4I8ftKHfqd72nLfOV_NdLSBUoSq3oVhxmV1UD1JhS_qstWA/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1200" height="630" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4NANX7sVaGDOAzg6MffJUUt-UCdf0KJ0A_Cm16FONLxJqQsRC3ms_BxVw7Mw23p9ieAgtwYtXkzaaADrd6T5rr427BhQvB4I8ftKHfqd72nLfOV_NdLSBUoSq3oVhxmV1UD1JhS_qstWA/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoian, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
From Hoian we mistakenly booked ourselves on the fractionally cheaper but massively crappier slow, ****** sleeper train without mattresses to Hanoi. We seemed to be the only people who made this mistake as the train was empty...<br />
<br />
And then we arrived in Hanoi, wonderful Hanoi, and all was forgotten. What a city! After missioning through the bustling streets we eventually found our friendly hotel in the Old Quarter of the city. As planned we met up with Laura, a friend from SA who came to travel with us for two weeks. We walked all over the city, appreciating the incredible energy and creativity of the entrepreneurs that filled every corner of this vibrant, crowded city. Communist Vietnam is booming economically – following in the footsteps of China, its mighty Northern neighbour.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13ApzV3aEXEVOc0DxOXa4PfjUsKH_RZtZgACWV2bapaO6oaVNvxWJsR8_ErptmrcCGvpncAXDS9N6b_nP7E16i0tu7G16_v4S6fs7cNbl_qdg3mc_e7Rq6I3ERKqoFlzxFHbkWuDGNbyV/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252888%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1280" height="592" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13ApzV3aEXEVOc0DxOXa4PfjUsKH_RZtZgACWV2bapaO6oaVNvxWJsR8_ErptmrcCGvpncAXDS9N6b_nP7E16i0tu7G16_v4S6fs7cNbl_qdg3mc_e7Rq6I3ERKqoFlzxFHbkWuDGNbyV/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252888%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCyfWVpNLyCot_ROCBSR99UeYBpUlMHSA-V1uAV0SJCtLDdkc_gh4wo3QN3emUjMoETGg1eZoRdAqugeyDVY656h6GUM9q5OjGw1414iJcxWV7I_tOG-smwK_35OT_qHavPC-_CDOU6YC/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252851%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCyfWVpNLyCot_ROCBSR99UeYBpUlMHSA-V1uAV0SJCtLDdkc_gh4wo3QN3emUjMoETGg1eZoRdAqugeyDVY656h6GUM9q5OjGw1414iJcxWV7I_tOG-smwK_35OT_qHavPC-_CDOU6YC/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252851%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOQGirAOE4Wxm17dch0qABiCabGJEjpsJt5V8U7ZPPmBr3SxAtzHd7TK1HyCzqdKS53T9oeZ7uXDhnV1o2d6TScQQEpgApNRXmK2xp74psvjZMRp8lkf1OQkaT2ql3oWjD25rHgYn5Rv6_/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25289%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOQGirAOE4Wxm17dch0qABiCabGJEjpsJt5V8U7ZPPmBr3SxAtzHd7TK1HyCzqdKS53T9oeZ7uXDhnV1o2d6TScQQEpgApNRXmK2xp74psvjZMRp8lkf1OQkaT2ql3oWjD25rHgYn5Rv6_/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25289%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiT8aV2MpZrEEgPe0mDhqOpcr8EIsbUuDNA68MhSyMvqRMwD6drlAAwm8eGUfox3TxAslM3ESkPYtp-IPFJ-1xO7LSQtSn_j_cursxpNMZPNC0gT7v-3gVaEAP3lLtFIsd-f5fqTZz434_/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252834%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiT8aV2MpZrEEgPe0mDhqOpcr8EIsbUuDNA68MhSyMvqRMwD6drlAAwm8eGUfox3TxAslM3ESkPYtp-IPFJ-1xO7LSQtSn_j_cursxpNMZPNC0gT7v-3gVaEAP3lLtFIsd-f5fqTZz434_/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252834%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-8ggEHGRaJTCUhIhckr0JAOW4NNODGLxeS0w6XINq31AyYkBM8oDvphl2NSccqlf89YyZGp2mtCJs96OIDuM_0ZMhHgdxeJ7-4BJNmeIgNIOavR84ax3qa6dknJt8eO6MV-UY5D3EDSZ/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%2528101%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0-8ggEHGRaJTCUhIhckr0JAOW4NNODGLxeS0w6XINq31AyYkBM8oDvphl2NSccqlf89YyZGp2mtCJs96OIDuM_0ZMhHgdxeJ7-4BJNmeIgNIOavR84ax3qa6dknJt8eO6MV-UY5D3EDSZ/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%2528101%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mannequin market, Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We visited Hanoi’s Temple of Literature built and dedicated to Confuscious in 1070 and used as a university for government mandarins. Besides the usual gardens, ponds and ornate Chinese-style temples there are giant carved stone stellae each set on a stone tortoise honouring the men who received their doctorates in the triennial exams dating back to 1442. Here the complicated relationship between Vietnam and China is obvious. The Vietnamese are vehemently anti-Chinese and see themselves as a totally separate nation. They even adopted the latin-type script to differentiate themselves from their giant Northern neighbour. Yet in their own revered Temple of Literature, the stone stellae are carved in Chinese script which they cannot read, and we smiled as the Chinese tourists had to translate what was written on the stellae to local Vietnamese visitors. It was obvious to us that Vietnam has deep and ancient ties to China and yet today, Vietnam has formed a strong economic and military alliance with its former arch enemy, the USA, as defensive strategy against the next super-power. When a Chinese oil drilling platform moved into Vietnamese waters recently, the Vietnamese were so enraged that citizens murdered random Chinese citizens in Vietnam in retaliation. This turned out to be a brutally effective strategy - the Chinese hurriedly moved the platform back to international waters.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykrzAayV5FdCO16-wd_Y-rdwgI45lNNoIxqemE_lCUFSPYPRsES5TDEYTqhJlxJKTuTVzbl-UKk3VT55i12EMxALcP2lHYjA2VN2S_TLZjMhm94ArIxGSYs7GmnVqZGFegwn_IQVAxQjR/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252880%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykrzAayV5FdCO16-wd_Y-rdwgI45lNNoIxqemE_lCUFSPYPRsES5TDEYTqhJlxJKTuTVzbl-UKk3VT55i12EMxALcP2lHYjA2VN2S_TLZjMhm94ArIxGSYs7GmnVqZGFegwn_IQVAxQjR/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252880%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Temple of Literature, Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_t-z6iUn5VZ-Sl-BLRooCzawfjugoTDqn6XAd7Ydkh0u6EYtSmPH0NLCdLV0cXbmUp23zV_tRjzq6FfgfZEitsgiab_MWIsqX45Rs0Y3jK3sySa6fzVpg36YlrAGDooxCYk2Dc3UEcwj_/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252885%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1072" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_t-z6iUn5VZ-Sl-BLRooCzawfjugoTDqn6XAd7Ydkh0u6EYtSmPH0NLCdLV0cXbmUp23zV_tRjzq6FfgfZEitsgiab_MWIsqX45Rs0Y3jK3sySa6fzVpg36YlrAGDooxCYk2Dc3UEcwj_/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252885%2529.jpg" width="536" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Temple of Literature, Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We chilled in roadside beer cafes with super cheap “bia hoi” and soaked in the hustle and bustle. Down one street one would find the mannequin area with naked mannequins of every shape and size eerily staring out at you, down another street would be the cardboard box area while another street would have farming equipment and recycled electronics. Interspersed would be Com and Pho restaurants, fresh veg and flower markets, furniture stores, funky old propaganda poster stores, coffee shops, phone shops, hand made clothing... And as night fell colourful strings of lights lit up the trees in the parks and walkways that surrounded the Hoan Kiem Lake that is the heart of the city. At night the Old Quarter became festively chaotic with chairs and tables strewn in every open space and filled to the brim with young people – local and foreign – eating, drinking and chattering loudly.<br />
We left Hanoi and headed for the mountain village of Bac Ha near the border with China. This region is famous for its “hill tribes” a diverse collection of short, stocky people who live all along China’s border with South East Asia. We stayed in a wooden stilted homestay with a super-friendly host who fed us delicious food and gave us useful info about the area. The region’s market days are famous and we were lucky to attend two beautiful markets in the surrounding villages.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitX4w9WxQTPY3lRqWnjqzxnotSGvTRvc0di1McOnaj0hZs_myXxbUvKqLcnrnsopnApa5RH1K6m5WS_PvnOaoEzXfBxPxQPVWvfdtqJ1Yns7ED2MClbuVLpA6L8qSolI7k5DpJg8gkvGrO/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252838%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1152" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitX4w9WxQTPY3lRqWnjqzxnotSGvTRvc0di1McOnaj0hZs_myXxbUvKqLcnrnsopnApa5RH1K6m5WS_PvnOaoEzXfBxPxQPVWvfdtqJ1Yns7ED2MClbuVLpA6L8qSolI7k5DpJg8gkvGrO/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252838%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Enjoying bia hoi with Laura, Hanoi, Vietnam</td></tr>
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On the first day we headed to the Can Cau market which was bustling with Flower Hmong and Blue Hmong people in stunningly colourful costumes as they animatedly traded food, clothes, livestock, songbirds and various other things with their neighbouring villagers. Of course in this situation one resists the touristic desire to snap photos shamelessly of these beautiful people only to later regret the lack of photos... The next day was market day in Bac Ha town itself which was even busier and more colourful than Can Cau. The sheer number and range of items on sale as well as the strikingly bright costumes was a feast for the eyes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpHKzII0OtI0XaS2-feVLD26jHEqU5jLOS-hGmVUDHPbZxuupaHKRpbMD3old2_gQbfk4_BrdFvVk3DdSCaWdeMrnsjGQofX5QAoFso3D1o9jaMZr4on-toB_s6lXPPB8gW0J5UjXsaG_B/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252827%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpHKzII0OtI0XaS2-feVLD26jHEqU5jLOS-hGmVUDHPbZxuupaHKRpbMD3old2_gQbfk4_BrdFvVk3DdSCaWdeMrnsjGQofX5QAoFso3D1o9jaMZr4on-toB_s6lXPPB8gW0J5UjXsaG_B/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252827%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgog5pGCWD9DwHqZh2byHG_cARwjjlbl0tCcfRQzS0Y3JK2OZvVN9iMdfsScyNl59awQOBjIGfkEaSKULswCQUinEPv_-ey6Y218KvBKi5OB15DO6zvcqoMzmd_LVRkhIsYL8ohsy1JY-aH/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgog5pGCWD9DwHqZh2byHG_cARwjjlbl0tCcfRQzS0Y3JK2OZvVN9iMdfsScyNl59awQOBjIGfkEaSKULswCQUinEPv_-ey6Y218KvBKi5OB15DO6zvcqoMzmd_LVRkhIsYL8ohsy1JY-aH/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day, Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzfRFKS1-uFVhwbMmimufTUsjpQFvbxEMC3-QMKrv7ah4HGN7P0W6rA8VLz46xHd7ilxjzqtWyP9QGGrerM1-F0vIGHUR3NRY-gUBBGPziRKuhATh8VyXKsrMJT0NCkVaDa68SyUw46fi1/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252831%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1232" height="614" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzfRFKS1-uFVhwbMmimufTUsjpQFvbxEMC3-QMKrv7ah4HGN7P0W6rA8VLz46xHd7ilxjzqtWyP9QGGrerM1-F0vIGHUR3NRY-gUBBGPziRKuhATh8VyXKsrMJT0NCkVaDa68SyUw46fi1/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252831%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day, Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHoBEz376llFYBkED4ALHe0vI8fLoxHTg1UpKZPmtlelKVw7UalONmri6dQpX4l7jEpRzocH6Dl9u3xwknBgSxOpaJinJhlD_WK4wLFq9Aow7N_Xouq9LcjgP9kYlQNxbf6XB19igO2M0/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="672" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHoBEz376llFYBkED4ALHe0vI8fLoxHTg1UpKZPmtlelKVw7UalONmri6dQpX4l7jEpRzocH6Dl9u3xwknBgSxOpaJinJhlD_WK4wLFq9Aow7N_Xouq9LcjgP9kYlQNxbf6XB19igO2M0/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day, Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdfiQwcKrTPR6ZCS5NdEi1Xu2joL2OislL-qf3W4aIXIEjalAnSFKxnvQc4iVwQ7ST8sKQGNvS_bZLq1HGuTY5kwWn5_1HJMYYYAJON5PZGXVm7979logf8VR3SA7pA_i-Vf9fV2sem7D/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1280" height="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdfiQwcKrTPR6ZCS5NdEi1Xu2joL2OislL-qf3W4aIXIEjalAnSFKxnvQc4iVwQ7ST8sKQGNvS_bZLq1HGuTY5kwWn5_1HJMYYYAJON5PZGXVm7979logf8VR3SA7pA_i-Vf9fV2sem7D/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day, Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4_lKSUICnAIvON4HiR1j-I9m8kLgXndxy1t6mGiBJ_qqomHTXjVAQMA1EQpwt3YNpFGswBGO_p5hy2lBcaW-kHzZ7_AzwLRFEOd-Itf5pbAovwDxzDhISYmhHzlG-5Rt8vjuIWrdWvmDE/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="816" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4_lKSUICnAIvON4HiR1j-I9m8kLgXndxy1t6mGiBJ_qqomHTXjVAQMA1EQpwt3YNpFGswBGO_p5hy2lBcaW-kHzZ7_AzwLRFEOd-Itf5pbAovwDxzDhISYmhHzlG-5Rt8vjuIWrdWvmDE/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day, Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRi8p29s_yndp7BzGijwS9ksNkBLabVOZ_2vg8Oc6H5EuRy-pndHew6NiaZmJOXEXcQwEjDXH1UMccm1G-ohwQWTRfBlH3p3atdbsd44qfM2E-scLJzspPHd163XvYxIWH5b8wxv-SfU_/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1216" height="622" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRi8p29s_yndp7BzGijwS9ksNkBLabVOZ_2vg8Oc6H5EuRy-pndHew6NiaZmJOXEXcQwEjDXH1UMccm1G-ohwQWTRfBlH3p3atdbsd44qfM2E-scLJzspPHd163XvYxIWH5b8wxv-SfU_/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day, Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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This is also where Dave managed, after a one year search, to buy his Mai Xat Gao, his rice mill! Dave is as far as we know, the first rice grower in South Africa, which is great until you discover that growing the rice is the relatively easy part. Once it is harvested, the rice husk is incredible difficult to separate from the rice itself – by hand it could take an hour to prepare enough rice for one plate of food! For the past year, we’ve been visiting villages in China and other parts of Asia trying to find out how to solve this problem. We found the old, pre-industrial technology to still be in operation in remote parts of Laos and this involved pounding the rice in with a mortar and pestle. Unfortunately this often breaks the rice grain into smaller pieces. The modern solution is a rice de-husker known as a Da Mi Ji in China or a Mai Xat Gao in Vietnam. The problem is that these machines typically weigh hundreds if not thousands of kilograms and are designed to process tons of rice per hour. What Dave needed was a small Mai Xat Gao that could be taken back with him on his flight to South Africa.<br />
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And here in Bac Ha, finally, we found one. Weighing 50kg and costing less than $200 it was perfect. A complicated negotiation in sign language with the bemused Hmong farmer selling the machine followed: he naturally found this transaction very strange. We loaded it on to his motorbike and took it the post office who promptly explained that the maximum weight of any single parcel was 30kg. This forced Dave to take the machine apart two create to parcels weighing 25kg each and repackaging them. But miraculously this worked out and all was sorted just in time to catch the last bus out of Bac Ha.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycq9WJhRFMHvdEy6Nw2TxLtBPwdzqgUEvpdbTivWbTe23ybrwi_4MxlP-eEoCM8Xdq_rR6ZoSYAi1SzrAcPDPPhfX5m32f294t0GQd7ru5PJpWSQrGTmM1Z654Eh2WZOkQelFhVmqMW5l/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252897%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1280" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycq9WJhRFMHvdEy6Nw2TxLtBPwdzqgUEvpdbTivWbTe23ybrwi_4MxlP-eEoCM8Xdq_rR6ZoSYAi1SzrAcPDPPhfX5m32f294t0GQd7ru5PJpWSQrGTmM1Z654Eh2WZOkQelFhVmqMW5l/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252897%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day, Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6j6RozmH7aRniMEIcA8UzA_ch9F0Ihq6yfwz_uXtb_PU1P7hX5A83Q9YPjqs5r_VY3hGItzaZjZnXAf1qm5pV9MKPEnyK2WhIHFUTfU9lmfWgH_yOdsmQVBpJ6TsRv2O8zC0TDtNXcNN8/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252891%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6j6RozmH7aRniMEIcA8UzA_ch9F0Ihq6yfwz_uXtb_PU1P7hX5A83Q9YPjqs5r_VY3hGItzaZjZnXAf1qm5pV9MKPEnyK2WhIHFUTfU9lmfWgH_yOdsmQVBpJ6TsRv2O8zC0TDtNXcNN8/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252891%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day, Bac Ha, Vietnam</td></tr>
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After a rather convoluted journey we found ourselves in our next mountain top destination called Sapa. Here we stayed in a newly built homestay which was part of some complex sort of social enterprise which involved multiple businesses and connections and which the hippy-esque Vietnamese volunteers who hosted us seemed to support passionately but the workings of which we never really understood. Sapa in autumn was misty and cool and we stayed only two chilly nights, enjoying an informative hike around the surrounding hill tribe villages with a friendly local guide. Interestingly, in the rural villages around Sapa, villages on opposite sides of the same stream have different hill tribes and totally different languages even though they’re just a few minutes walk from each other. Incredible cultural diversity in a small area. The tour ended with lunch at a village house and shots of strong local spirits.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5RKJP2JbQrBDmYGxDCje_7XOYJ5lX2ANaNzv039GM_gz5esjTlFpLs_CVL8bnmpWjQIww5Fe8vr1yBzfyXZ4MIEbOT_deJl1kkKPuqtnmvU6-3Lb0ONLoXH-KEUOMIWs7Z1iRNLfxPqR/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252886%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="992" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd5RKJP2JbQrBDmYGxDCje_7XOYJ5lX2ANaNzv039GM_gz5esjTlFpLs_CVL8bnmpWjQIww5Fe8vr1yBzfyXZ4MIEbOT_deJl1kkKPuqtnmvU6-3Lb0ONLoXH-KEUOMIWs7Z1iRNLfxPqR/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252886%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Craft sellers on walking tour, Sapa, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaV2_YKXg7q467XYYPqTfyt5jjlE8f43iVirz2UY9fv0WiIXKups5p0DAZuYSi6xv0D4sQWuU1zbEgqdLRzTKxnoXmW4Xt-_RVmOEFTxw3M_GqJGtx7AXccGFfS_EBsiLfdIrf0fNzQHL/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252872%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1056" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaV2_YKXg7q467XYYPqTfyt5jjlE8f43iVirz2UY9fv0WiIXKups5p0DAZuYSi6xv0D4sQWuU1zbEgqdLRzTKxnoXmW4Xt-_RVmOEFTxw3M_GqJGtx7AXccGFfS_EBsiLfdIrf0fNzQHL/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252872%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">craft seller on walking tour, Sapa, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBWRI7lIfMbEKDJCtEkj8tQ-Zxv7n8gp8LjHy4NDNBvSbdrNV4dQX8gMHucVrPpssLu0x1nxgkeeW7fovqLjo0FiSBDDj-6xqxfaplISDzfRgXBcImeoxc7KhyEYpNplNcUcJnRZYtJKr/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252840%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1232" height="614" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBWRI7lIfMbEKDJCtEkj8tQ-Zxv7n8gp8LjHy4NDNBvSbdrNV4dQX8gMHucVrPpssLu0x1nxgkeeW7fovqLjo0FiSBDDj-6xqxfaplISDzfRgXBcImeoxc7KhyEYpNplNcUcJnRZYtJKr/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252840%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shots of the local fire water, Sapa, Vietnam</td></tr>
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We left Sapa and after an uncomfortable night bus ride we found ourselves in the early hours of the morning at Haiphong port where we were to catch a boat to our next destination. We chilled on the pavement and befriended an old, blind man who had a streetside coffee stall that operated through the night. Oh to live in a country where a blind man can run a business without fear at night in a dodgy part of town where he has to trust his customers to pay him correctly.<br />
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When the sun rose we caught the first boat to Cat Ba island, our final destination of our year-long trip. And it didn’t disappoint. The island is located in the giant Halong Bay which is one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. The striking karst mountains of China’s Guilin here appear as an extraordinary myriad of vertical cliff islands surrounded with white sand in a turquoise sea. Not even photos do this incredible place justice. We stayed our first night in a bizarrely designed lodge which was part of the homestay social enterprise we found in Sapa. But despite its incredible location, the dingy rooms with a rat problem forced us to stay elsewhere and we found a fantastic sea front apartment with incredible views of the sea. We spent a beautiful day kayaking, swimming and boating through the breathtaking islands and visited a few of the floating villages.Here and there one would come across collections of rafts, sometimes a handful, sometimes as many as a hundred of them which all had houses built on top. Some had small gardens comprising potted shrubs and even pet dogs and all were permanently inhabited by fisher people. We visited one of these floating homes which was most remarkable for the monster holy fish that they kept in a giant net under the raft. By removing floor boards, and gently pulling the net, this monster fish could be pulled to the surface and it was truly gigantic. Perhaps the size of a cow and possibly a species of Grouper.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHWtDeqSeJng8F0ZtHopoT7yufSp0C02q49Qdbw5J6eFq3wS0PO_OUxABZ9iIFAtZEp4SX9UvoBYrNr2MgN7JInkQZvyihf0Mdr9kB0WqIvV2UNHtwuWZfmltLDPiL7uAaSD2I7Kbc1l9/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHWtDeqSeJng8F0ZtHopoT7yufSp0C02q49Qdbw5J6eFq3wS0PO_OUxABZ9iIFAtZEp4SX9UvoBYrNr2MgN7JInkQZvyihf0Mdr9kB0WqIvV2UNHtwuWZfmltLDPiL7uAaSD2I7Kbc1l9/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252813%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeU2ao2hpu_yWt6sx1k5zEDGNjEbodzPZXBuQvQlGpsLJln2LUYvJZOE1NNymy1XdI7iggUr6W0gbVwPyQj313SfRLFPOGnLl9GxluwoSspAcQ47wGoDZjGcg8h-Lwp1oH_EUsXWIsLL_/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252877%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeU2ao2hpu_yWt6sx1k5zEDGNjEbodzPZXBuQvQlGpsLJln2LUYvJZOE1NNymy1XdI7iggUr6W0gbVwPyQj313SfRLFPOGnLl9GxluwoSspAcQ47wGoDZjGcg8h-Lwp1oH_EUsXWIsLL_/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252877%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Cat Ba Island, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaSNTpQYnutLRY-0AXI7K8f_N_-H2VnvkdAj692IAOF0noM-QO89v0Zg4VmYM5-NL4dDh78jur7y1ilO-IFRz1Mcq6dTKdB4dHSeW4rwn5Hd8x4u98jvjHp354od1K1FNFyXoeIJLBeyC/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252821%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1280" height="576" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTaSNTpQYnutLRY-0AXI7K8f_N_-H2VnvkdAj692IAOF0noM-QO89v0Zg4VmYM5-NL4dDh78jur7y1ilO-IFRz1Mcq6dTKdB4dHSeW4rwn5Hd8x4u98jvjHp354od1K1FNFyXoeIJLBeyC/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252821%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEq2DfXdIGl4HQYJwhZEnhPsmFHq9K-IjVLwKQgZuKSyssmHBTLNChlCewwcp9ddmdwfOd9X8-4wSiHeU7dr8QYE7A5LHMOuSav36ZYsN9U_o9w79ednGev_iAdxrP3cjbczmagwTxIxt-/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252850%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1264" height="598" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEq2DfXdIGl4HQYJwhZEnhPsmFHq9K-IjVLwKQgZuKSyssmHBTLNChlCewwcp9ddmdwfOd9X8-4wSiHeU7dr8QYE7A5LHMOuSav36ZYsN9U_o9w79ednGev_iAdxrP3cjbczmagwTxIxt-/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252850%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUa5l_-sZphjGArXlxo-t_qjy4D38MfonDfJAmipb-9RbnqxxPtvypopRpzH9S2UL7HbnVOT6wEKa_RpEddATJT0DBhNlnik5eXG2D_d0M6wN2pzwf4cgn4OYXIw9umsFWCsUELp4bjLi/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252856%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUa5l_-sZphjGArXlxo-t_qjy4D38MfonDfJAmipb-9RbnqxxPtvypopRpzH9S2UL7HbnVOT6wEKa_RpEddATJT0DBhNlnik5eXG2D_d0M6wN2pzwf4cgn4OYXIw9umsFWCsUELp4bjLi/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252856%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFWWSxlIYeCinwMcBHuNmQzvpBXxorTNmWmTrkwX25QWoEd2_jHisXQT8-TnivBk1Apgn2fCZcw9AxrRZB5hRnDxBeNfqvsEMU1fDTrktu2Ax9XQ5wGOWQKw_jaIEyzU3d1FXby9AlPtK/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252842%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTFWWSxlIYeCinwMcBHuNmQzvpBXxorTNmWmTrkwX25QWoEd2_jHisXQT8-TnivBk1Apgn2fCZcw9AxrRZB5hRnDxBeNfqvsEMU1fDTrktu2Ax9XQ5wGOWQKw_jaIEyzU3d1FXby9AlPtK/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252842%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0NB1CYV-IrpePmeAfYf1E6_MonGA8EmkQVcLdf2-9ochUlnEmJFrFa47f67jyrT0hEUqnWkgYJzaWwGvO9unImSByXf2_I3vsjWFpFl0q_WXtIgiSNe9l8YYbmxAJSb9XqDtlxUWNVac/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252820%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1280" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0NB1CYV-IrpePmeAfYf1E6_MonGA8EmkQVcLdf2-9ochUlnEmJFrFa47f67jyrT0hEUqnWkgYJzaWwGvO9unImSByXf2_I3vsjWFpFl0q_WXtIgiSNe9l8YYbmxAJSb9XqDtlxUWNVac/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252820%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil56g0hYZYN1GNikefwGfbc5Kje46ojaL2RskPMp2d-JF_2X4f7MxQ6dK9Ec-5bJLU2chJTvvYUFABOivKEAqGgdRG9ue9laCKJQVNZstujFuPpWHlPvuxoZ1aQU5bmQxMZRlBrYsaKMDK/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252819%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil56g0hYZYN1GNikefwGfbc5Kje46ojaL2RskPMp2d-JF_2X4f7MxQ6dK9Ec-5bJLU2chJTvvYUFABOivKEAqGgdRG9ue9laCKJQVNZstujFuPpWHlPvuxoZ1aQU5bmQxMZRlBrYsaKMDK/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252819%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0nxHIheltjIKHOV-vhBbcjhi0dYwwhJGT187r4_TXxhukS4VsNIanup7yy0xqmg6rncWu2bWbokWcZFTetj8wtvRlrWd3cFL-_7PWO63LBNCH9kOesnuWo1jtpG9SnXIw_C_re1HZPcW/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0nxHIheltjIKHOV-vhBbcjhi0dYwwhJGT187r4_TXxhukS4VsNIanup7yy0xqmg6rncWu2bWbokWcZFTetj8wtvRlrWd3cFL-_7PWO63LBNCH9kOesnuWo1jtpG9SnXIw_C_re1HZPcW/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2eMsOp__K9cCg1ODQVvZ6ekd8di3QXeDhyeGA_phqDFYdAsIqbOvfit1CRk2_73hfXjO4qPs_1Bx11Y8vpEVo8AFB4V5_3oeVb5ys62dkCbIDepaAQxvjorO7iXw9s9E6lxRAqGClO-mD/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25288%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2eMsOp__K9cCg1ODQVvZ6ekd8di3QXeDhyeGA_phqDFYdAsIqbOvfit1CRk2_73hfXjO4qPs_1Bx11Y8vpEVo8AFB4V5_3oeVb5ys62dkCbIDepaAQxvjorO7iXw9s9E6lxRAqGClO-mD/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%25288%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoibhhG6RH70vq4er7Zwh_OBvicyyBdUcXhBOVz94w6l6Q-R4zErb4CsqDyt7dlGFQ_Mh3VuzfiJJVz2LDesMEnZ-0XSmMd3woVrVeXuqe18aAGqI7TzNwX4gAQroBlPHdnxeOwoLbxb1t/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%2528100%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoibhhG6RH70vq4er7Zwh_OBvicyyBdUcXhBOVz94w6l6Q-R4zErb4CsqDyt7dlGFQ_Mh3VuzfiJJVz2LDesMEnZ-0XSmMd3woVrVeXuqe18aAGqI7TzNwX4gAQroBlPHdnxeOwoLbxb1t/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%2528100%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island and Halong Bay, Vietnam</td></tr>
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We bid farewell to our friend Laura and spent our last day of holiday lazing on a beautiful Cat Ba beach reading our Kindles.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhWYdYMceFQj5xxq-UjSn2mCvwPvEkxi4EYKsFJ8EsxdVDXjNK2KH2zEcwQp5Pvz8IrkGYboy89fwld1shyphenhyphenbIP5kLnJqV0GCDFNVCvAJYDiGjgfFpllLECTvBTv5-v01ZJf_vxWMIuNUZ/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1280" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhWYdYMceFQj5xxq-UjSn2mCvwPvEkxi4EYKsFJ8EsxdVDXjNK2KH2zEcwQp5Pvz8IrkGYboy89fwld1shyphenhyphenbIP5kLnJqV0GCDFNVCvAJYDiGjgfFpllLECTvBTv5-v01ZJf_vxWMIuNUZ/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">View from our $10/night hotel, Cat Ba island, Vietnam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8SgizoE-zBceTQall5hLbf2_xUuBIxCLitx9vL2wzsyqT-zQBVAoKYyvHm5rlcfbwUPDJper0MsmQBOGVKVi7eZbLBuJUqfz_N_HLgN_IJmlIx4O3v8db2SmryirezkJkVfL2QTumWby3/s1600/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252858%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1280" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8SgizoE-zBceTQall5hLbf2_xUuBIxCLitx9vL2wzsyqT-zQBVAoKYyvHm5rlcfbwUPDJper0MsmQBOGVKVi7eZbLBuJUqfz_N_HLgN_IJmlIx4O3v8db2SmryirezkJkVfL2QTumWby3/s640/blog9+2.1487882986+%25281%2529+%252858%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cat Ba Island, Vietnam</td></tr>
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And then we sailed on another boat back to the mainland and returned to Hanoi for two more energising nights in this great city. There we found our Rice Mill safely delivered to our hotel and Dave spent a day getting it packaged for our flight home. By wonderful co-incidence, visitors to Vietnam get double the normal baggage allowance (46kg) when returning home so it seemed we could get the mill home at no cost.<br />
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However at the airport there was drama when the check-in woman explained that no single item could way more than 23Kg which forced us to unpack the rice mill and take it apart further and then stuff random parts of steel into our backpacks. This seemed to solve the problem only to have us summoned to customs as we passed through security to explain the suspicious steel objects that were appearing in our bags in the X-Ray machine. With a little friendly persuasion in pidgin Vietnamese we got it through and we were on our way home.<br />
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Vietnam was a fun, crazy, diverse, magnificent end to another wonderful year trip.<br />
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As always, there was nostalgia on our way home over our months in wonderful, friendly China and our more tiring and epic travels through the Stans of Central Asia. And while South East Asia had been disappointing initially we had ended with two great months in Cambodia and Vietnam. And then we were home, first in beautiful Cape Town and then home home in even more beautiful Bulungula. And our lives then entered a different kind of wonderful whirlwind in our incredible community and thus this blog update appears almost one year late. But for posterity we write it, more for ourselves than for anyone else. Lest we forget.Next year trip: 2021. Continent: Africa.</div>
Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Hanoi, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi, Vietnam21.0277644 105.8341597999999520.968477399999998 105.75347879999995 21.0870514 105.91484079999995tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-33580060819747452812016-02-03T19:04:00.000+03:002019-06-10T12:26:05.676+02:00Fear and Loathing on the Banana Pancake Trail<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As epic an adventure as we'd had over the previous few months, they'd been relatively hard going with not much lazing about: our bus and train trips had been long, there had been many days of walking with our backpacks due to a lack of transport, and the languages had not been easy to negotiate. So we looked forward to our upcoming South-East Asian leg for a bit of a holiday within our holiday. We looked forward to shorter travel distances, more travellers to hang out and party with, and the ease of movement and language that comes from being in a popular tourist destination. Sure enough, we found all these conveniences in buckets but, alas, there was a high price to pay. A price we found to be just too high for the sake of easy travel.<br />
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Our arrival in Thailand was a rude culture shock. The tourist industry is such a massive part of the economy and numbers of western tourists are so many relative to the local population, that the impact has been very negative. This typical backpacker route through South-East Asia is aptly called the 'Banana Pancake Trail', so named for the popular pancakes that can be found everywhere in the towns and villages en route. Pancakes are not part of the traditional local cuisine but traders have worked out that they are much loved by tourists so they have become ubiquitous, giving birth to a sarcastic name for this well trodden tourist route.<br />
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The first problem you encounter on arriving in Bangkok is that it is the mission of every Thai person working in the tourist industry to make it very, very hard for you to get off the pancake trail. Local bus stations and boat piers in both Thailand and Laos seem to have been intentionally located kilometers from the centre of town, even in one-street towns with plenty of open space. This forces you to take an exorbitantly priced tuk-tuk (three-wheeler taxi) to and from the bus stops or boat piers or, alternatively, to buy your onward tickets from your hotel or a travel agent. While the hotel-bought ticket is convenient and cheaper than going directly to the bus stations, you are inevitably put on bus/boat transport that has not a single local person and only other tourists, making us feel like part of a package tour for the first time in our lives! These buses then drop you off straight at your next hotel or in the "tourist accommodation areas" limiting your interaction with local people. Any attempt to escape this circuit ends up costing you quite a bit more in time, hassle and money.<br />
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In addition to feeling like sheep being herded from place to place, Thai and Lao people have lost a lot of their natural friendliness towards tourists. You are often treated like a number and a bother in many restaurants and hotels. It is quite common to get no response at all when greeting a local person in the street (even in the local language) rather than to get the friendly smile and enthusiastic responses we became used to in our previous travels.<br />
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It is not hard to see how this happened. Tourism has exploded in this region over the past few decades. During the high season, in the popular destinations, western tourists outnumber locals. As tourism grew and everyone wanted to get in on it, there was much promotion of the sex industry (Thailand) and drugs and alcohol (Laos). Add in poor management and regulation from the local authorities and you have an explosive, toxic mix of drunk and drugged tourists walking around in very skimpy clothing (to the point of being offensive) and regularly losing their lives in the drunken Mekong River accidents. Local people naturally began to see many tourists as lazy, crazy, disrespectful drunks that are a bad influence in their villages and towns but who need to be tolerated for the sake of an income. One certainly wouldn't bother to smile at them or return a greeting.<br />
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The lack of information distributed about Buddhist customs is another problem fueling faux pas by tourists. In Thailand and Laos, every day before sunrise the local monks, dressed in their orange robes go on a winding procession through the towns and accept gifts of sticky rice, money and sweets from the local devotees. It is customary to kneel while you offer the gift to the monks and it is not permitted to rise above a monk or to step in his shadow. Most tourists of course know none of this and local traders, seeing another opportunity to make an income, set up stalls selling offerings for the monks to tourists and put out chairs for the tourists encouraging them to sit along the route. If one is not Buddhist, it is not recommended to participate in the offering ceremonies but to rather watch unobtrusively and just observe the proceedings. We learnt these rules from a small sign in a temple that we had happened to visit but most tourists, encouraged by the locals themselves, break every rule in the book: standing up and towering over the monks to hand over offerings, taking selfie pictures and turning a solemn religious proceeding into a spectacle. We can't imagine this endears them to the general population. Better management and dispersement of information by local tourist authorities would go a long way to helping tourists to respect local customs and allow the local communities to continue their ancient traditions as authentically as possible. Unfortunately the general laissez faire attitude of the governments in these countries is not conducive to proactive intervention and both the tourist experience and local culture suffers as a result.<br />
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On a more personal note, this experience has been a lesson to us that we far prefer travel in places where there are few tourists relative to the local population and where you are more of a insignificant witness to daily life rather than the main focus of it.<br />
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These revelations aside, we decided that since we were here, all we could really do was to go with the flow and enjoy it all as much as possible. So we decided to join in and check out the infamous all-night party street of Khao San Road in Bangkok...the most striking feature of which are the ladyboys you meet. Ladyboys (or "Kathoeys") are transsexuals or transvestites who are normal part of Thai life. While you certainly meet kathoeys at parties, you will also see them during the day busy with their "normal", boring service jobs as part of society where they are not 'othered' but instead accepted and normalised. We found this wonderful and very interesting. We asked a Thai friend, who we know from back home, and who happened to be visiting Bangkok from her home in Singapore, how Thailand has come to be so progressive with regard to kathoeys. Her response was very interesting: she explained that in Thai culture, men with feminine attributes are seen as more attractive than typically male or macho ones. So a kathoey, who may even be heterosexual, is seen as just at the extreme end of feminine men. The only ugly part in this scene are some western tourists who openly leer at kathoeys and act aggressively towards them at parties and in the streets.<br />
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After a wild time in Khao San Rd we left crowded, congested Bangkok,and caught the fanciest local bus we've ever seen (complete with a backrest with an electric back massaging mechanism) and ended up in a quiet part of Koh Phangan Island which is in the south of Thailand. Koh Phangan has become renowned for its crazy full moon beach parties but, thankfully still has some unspoilt areas that have yet to receive electricity and mass tourism. We spent a week lazing on the sandy beaches and hammock flopping in our lovely wooden bungalow in a remote part of the island called Than Sadet. Of course we had to experience the full moon party phenomenon and danced all night to what has become a rather conventional - though still wild - party with multiple dance areas lining the beach, playing pop music and interspersed with little stalls selling buckets of alcohol cocktails and snacks. Unfortunately, when we returned to our guest house, a thief had gotten into our room and stolen a wack of cash - but thoughtfully left all our other valuables untouched. Obviously the full moon party is a good time to burgle rooms as it is safe to assume that tourists are at the party and have left their valuables behind...<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAoglD0u3bQYdVMVAdi6dKf1cwEpMKsgN124TBINMQ4yN-5OPcvQj3Ev3JStbk8_kFG0INg3BuiQPnY1IbmeFbtQN8HkGW9AKgE_6Alh3szb5CKgKLGyAbV_vCWklcmfUU41eIcNRLmtPx/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252837%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAoglD0u3bQYdVMVAdi6dKf1cwEpMKsgN124TBINMQ4yN-5OPcvQj3Ev3JStbk8_kFG0INg3BuiQPnY1IbmeFbtQN8HkGW9AKgE_6Alh3szb5CKgKLGyAbV_vCWklcmfUU41eIcNRLmtPx/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252837%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Than Sadet, Koh Phangan, Thailand</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0WuTDg0U90lqNdZHktWlld2VZB9n0bofcFrySIz7GbNc9yy6QxIv4fb_IWyk_U2GYRLkquUyfKMC0XN2tgj1JZ9mtPgTIsGyvAlnxykHZJGBH2OdPEk5l_HDehPZr9VMqbqAgn6-KjxR/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0WuTDg0U90lqNdZHktWlld2VZB9n0bofcFrySIz7GbNc9yy6QxIv4fb_IWyk_U2GYRLkquUyfKMC0XN2tgj1JZ9mtPgTIsGyvAlnxykHZJGBH2OdPEk5l_HDehPZr9VMqbqAgn6-KjxR/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise after full moon party, Koh Phangan, Thailand</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZZAi5j49StCV5-vz9wRDaTReFrKzQkUjsKllYqCesm2s2qWsR_gSg85QgMNnwRR7MjLYxF_dYL9zv99UcyYa6o2sK4pR9MJBUqWuEJhSwZVeNRLJhaxfAgrGGxJYIFqTFDNrVRiQ08BV/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZZAi5j49StCV5-vz9wRDaTReFrKzQkUjsKllYqCesm2s2qWsR_gSg85QgMNnwRR7MjLYxF_dYL9zv99UcyYa6o2sK4pR9MJBUqWuEJhSwZVeNRLJhaxfAgrGGxJYIFqTFDNrVRiQ08BV/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our bungalow, Than Sadet, Koh Phangan, Thailand</td></tr>
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After Kho Phangan we high tailed it to Nong Kong which is is in the very north of Thailand, on the Laos border. There the activities are rather more sedate with daily meditation sessions on offer and lovely sunsets over the Mekong river. We visited the enigmatic Sala Keoku sculpture park where a Buddhist devotee and his followers have constructed a remarkable collection of strangely beautiful statues<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bGR0a2elar7I4sf1y7vBVERXvaLP5mtO1BGvXY2X88B_C8FMf3bD26wyCc8ZP8e7EuF5R7nj0z0m_SNT-yT3MwIZVR0zNJAkxlf6u6aVl-kTEd82iHtBfLMu84UU6Juq4ZSoB1aleEOv/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bGR0a2elar7I4sf1y7vBVERXvaLP5mtO1BGvXY2X88B_C8FMf3bD26wyCc8ZP8e7EuF5R7nj0z0m_SNT-yT3MwIZVR0zNJAkxlf6u6aVl-kTEd82iHtBfLMu84UU6Juq4ZSoB1aleEOv/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sala Keoku sculpture park, Nong Kong, Thailand</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizBVaB9nZV-OKFvHAWrDWYulNp94C9YXjcOLf7w4jFzM6VGHb9_sRC9Kl-eVVdWLndM-XqqHjoBKhcXQ49MCM07uY2Q6hHfdUkff5VAfhZOn3uRLojD5KaXPUScjmZvD2-qb1Uqk8_pPrG/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizBVaB9nZV-OKFvHAWrDWYulNp94C9YXjcOLf7w4jFzM6VGHb9_sRC9Kl-eVVdWLndM-XqqHjoBKhcXQ49MCM07uY2Q6hHfdUkff5VAfhZOn3uRLojD5KaXPUScjmZvD2-qb1Uqk8_pPrG/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sala Keoku sculpture park, Nong Kong, Thailand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23aocOgUXuXibAfnwkUsp8uptSUQ1nfvZJ_jUHkg9p4EAmbg5zeCDay_A_w2QWGg2NdsrtC5UIimc2Ay4QikmQYVdX1Cn1TapqDXZjVwrVucpLk-eQPuQ_5OybSYOUenemf29tdF4WgnV/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23aocOgUXuXibAfnwkUsp8uptSUQ1nfvZJ_jUHkg9p4EAmbg5zeCDay_A_w2QWGg2NdsrtC5UIimc2Ay4QikmQYVdX1Cn1TapqDXZjVwrVucpLk-eQPuQ_5OybSYOUenemf29tdF4WgnV/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sala Keoku sculpture park, Nong Kong, Thailand</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3opFpOTIGoHZziRQGmBmt8vhY4RGiWtaaTqLPHXOd1sZ8T-YVkkeTLR1c3IHhC0_knK7IFnv15i2a3EnBlDl7PYL36Z6VPk9m42edpn_1GQtfDdxnW45PsqC4RIkk0dCO3LUdpH-3tgDx/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3opFpOTIGoHZziRQGmBmt8vhY4RGiWtaaTqLPHXOd1sZ8T-YVkkeTLR1c3IHhC0_knK7IFnv15i2a3EnBlDl7PYL36Z6VPk9m42edpn_1GQtfDdxnW45PsqC4RIkk0dCO3LUdpH-3tgDx/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sala Keoku sculpture park, Nong Kong, Thailand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKF5Y4_1Va7JeWrwDTnLrcs-VBwU2arexvM2SEDWMQnY1xrPp69z8WIAYO00nhyphenhyphen8BvLjCPg2rVXzoB82OCIP75JVJcgRwyxjOwAmABZ_zPKhVC2YmWIMtvmuBRiNLHGtAImffDM2ccrZSg/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKF5Y4_1Va7JeWrwDTnLrcs-VBwU2arexvM2SEDWMQnY1xrPp69z8WIAYO00nhyphenhyphen8BvLjCPg2rVXzoB82OCIP75JVJcgRwyxjOwAmABZ_zPKhVC2YmWIMtvmuBRiNLHGtAImffDM2ccrZSg/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sala Keoku sculpture park, Nong Kong, Thailand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Although we were just across the river from Vientiane, the capital of Laos, we decided not to cross the border there but instead to head first to northwest Thailand. Our first stop took us through the touristy town of Chiang Mai, which didn't hold much charm for us and, after just one night, we headed straight to Pai. Pai still has a rural, hippie village feel with the accommodation built around rice paddies and with the some lovely natural hot springs and waterfalls nearby. One has to use a scooter to seek out the best local spots away from the more touristy ones but that was relatively easy to do. In the evenings, when we had the munchies, we headed straight to the night market known as "Walking Street" which offers an incredible range of delicious meals at super cheap prices. Pai also has lots of great live music performed by an eclectic mix of travellers who end up living for months in this pretty, laid-back town. Having thoroughly enjoyed these lazy indulgent days in Pai, it was time to head to Laos.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlAjeLWSLFhD0aDAM7MY3hG-pP6lg-wo5V30_ppUPEmtm3l6aXHEfbD7Bn_68qSGdJIY-3pLpzuyVCnpG42WiFpPtWEn0H5GniTkoYE-naVXRPsR5TShs3Oucjo1B_wLaJyYKFfEZj1i0T/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252844%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlAjeLWSLFhD0aDAM7MY3hG-pP6lg-wo5V30_ppUPEmtm3l6aXHEfbD7Bn_68qSGdJIY-3pLpzuyVCnpG42WiFpPtWEn0H5GniTkoYE-naVXRPsR5TShs3Oucjo1B_wLaJyYKFfEZj1i0T/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252844%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pai, Thailand</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-Fj5yTdfZxnt6LfHAd8uLkSsPMeX1JBKfJKvPqsvYTaPnYJy1Y9silUooXc0BdNGin7487WxqiOsXO6Vg7cT8j728Ggj-zH44JKo5HBrUNrJTTlU9ub3eNslnrsnAbvZQ2dVlmCX6rYE/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252831%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-Fj5yTdfZxnt6LfHAd8uLkSsPMeX1JBKfJKvPqsvYTaPnYJy1Y9silUooXc0BdNGin7487WxqiOsXO6Vg7cT8j728Ggj-zH44JKo5HBrUNrJTTlU9ub3eNslnrsnAbvZQ2dVlmCX6rYE/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252831%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stoned in the hot springs, Pai, Thailand</td></tr>
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We headed for the border at Houay Xai where the crossing was thankfully easy and hassle-free. After an overnight in the border town, we boarded the two-day "slow boat" that would take us to Luang Prabang meandering along the Mekong River with an overnight stop in the village of Pak Beng. This trip, though touristy, was pleasant with beautiful views of river side villages and Laos' still verdant tropical forests.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0hTsZsLLRiCQUf0S7MS5IQOmKnsekLDEjXb_ncIdyeq8vTQ9wZnuK_d6dpAaVqg3AtgUo3_CMZ1Vg7ABcOMk8aScpl8oU_xxjEh3woLIYedrI9MihP5jFaFCcsG7eib_DhtKeE5ddW6Ke/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252842%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0hTsZsLLRiCQUf0S7MS5IQOmKnsekLDEjXb_ncIdyeq8vTQ9wZnuK_d6dpAaVqg3AtgUo3_CMZ1Vg7ABcOMk8aScpl8oU_xxjEh3woLIYedrI9MihP5jFaFCcsG7eib_DhtKeE5ddW6Ke/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252842%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Slow Boat to Luang Prabang</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuR7-kLGFLmfpLrh_vytvssvOmLM3BPSHLBg7Up16LDMbUBgHJ9UI5PYXcgpzOw_MMHskFSeplEmAOs9jMXOG0NdX85pWmH1DovKPvExIv2oo5xTqPvP-ibBe_BbCQck2TgUK6cfm1lxqm/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252811%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="848" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuR7-kLGFLmfpLrh_vytvssvOmLM3BPSHLBg7Up16LDMbUBgHJ9UI5PYXcgpzOw_MMHskFSeplEmAOs9jMXOG0NdX85pWmH1DovKPvExIv2oo5xTqPvP-ibBe_BbCQck2TgUK6cfm1lxqm/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252811%2529.jpeg" width="594" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Slow Boat to Luang Prabang</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmMzGKn7Q-em_4FPxyXqhkX91klwn5fy0fHox1go9kt5b6haNKxTlAtXM6a6SAMYlXEICve5vSijktixttVs_la48oayqBTkul5Xx9YjuMV5MR6kM0jP2TgYUA0TqauoGaxT-B5f4f-Ld/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25284%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmMzGKn7Q-em_4FPxyXqhkX91klwn5fy0fHox1go9kt5b6haNKxTlAtXM6a6SAMYlXEICve5vSijktixttVs_la48oayqBTkul5Xx9YjuMV5MR6kM0jP2TgYUA0TqauoGaxT-B5f4f-Ld/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25284%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Slow Boat to Luang Prabang</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRRP-Yws4E-k1dnoNh0ZmNJ2dOGgGIIedZX__TMGcOzaJZyDQY3rXfMVMNFq9IUlsOsd0WBE2TNRg6JTdytoPsM7Vw9cEM30n4huD4XKeL5k14qklqKXoNVT7GbHe7JRUVrQtI-389VxL/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252845%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRRP-Yws4E-k1dnoNh0ZmNJ2dOGgGIIedZX__TMGcOzaJZyDQY3rXfMVMNFq9IUlsOsd0WBE2TNRg6JTdytoPsM7Vw9cEM30n4huD4XKeL5k14qklqKXoNVT7GbHe7JRUVrQtI-389VxL/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252845%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Slow Boat to Luang Prabang</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQEBowhYZzd0lV-dDJwhME5Z1fBwjI2ANAM0YZUoKd0K18a9ybthBKKzxaeMfP8w55pgiC_YJgiS4XPAaE8u1-ijlOfb6sUCdLCmvXACOg3cKwoevA-o1XxkFibzVCBzHeubojzE9vUZB9/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252832%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQEBowhYZzd0lV-dDJwhME5Z1fBwjI2ANAM0YZUoKd0K18a9ybthBKKzxaeMfP8w55pgiC_YJgiS4XPAaE8u1-ijlOfb6sUCdLCmvXACOg3cKwoevA-o1XxkFibzVCBzHeubojzE9vUZB9/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252832%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Slow Boat to Luang Prabang</td></tr>
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Luang Prabang is a Unesco World heritage town with dozens of beautiful temples and old colonial French buildings that have been well restored. While this makes for pretty accommodation and restaurant options, the heritage part of the town was out of our budget. The rest of the town is nothing special and with the focal point now a 2km long covered tourist-only night market, it is fast losing any Laotian authenticity. Worse still, local religious traditions have become marred by locals wanting to monetise whatever they can and tourists who have not been informed by local authorities of appropriate behaviour, ignorantly stepping all over the sacred traditions. Besides the truly breathtaking waterfall in the middle of the forest where we chilled and swam for half a day, we found Luang Prabang disappointing and we decided to head off instead to the more remote villages in northern Laos.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQRvMnZ7RqvrTpcDwQb79kMdxG485h1r7AOjiaiD9oTZC8pdT7FsEe2oBeZwQUueGyGtWc4aXUwyqm9A2XTuB0t-b-NxTU9VJpgM59_FQU8eM5QoQr9lNTCvUFFbbR4XBEwkU7GbPR_nr/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252836%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQRvMnZ7RqvrTpcDwQb79kMdxG485h1r7AOjiaiD9oTZC8pdT7FsEe2oBeZwQUueGyGtWc4aXUwyqm9A2XTuB0t-b-NxTU9VJpgM59_FQU8eM5QoQr9lNTCvUFFbbR4XBEwkU7GbPR_nr/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252836%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Luang Prabang, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijfKRRtoexheDNr0JE5XCRZ20TFVZVFa20nFkETaQedNPFlMFfZ3T6Q6h8sDAGd2_rLwybQ7MoKcSPrgvsihN-zf2Tu6t65nipbuxB0Z2jT1SmAMIgWFN8lJkZ6r96ROdAR6V11Uclx6KT/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijfKRRtoexheDNr0JE5XCRZ20TFVZVFa20nFkETaQedNPFlMFfZ3T6Q6h8sDAGd2_rLwybQ7MoKcSPrgvsihN-zf2Tu6t65nipbuxB0Z2jT1SmAMIgWFN8lJkZ6r96ROdAR6V11Uclx6KT/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Luang Prabang, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmIMyYZN2z7aTlaq3qJtox-EiBSnGp3_nLABf1ImCIoT5lt25x32CJh-8ypTWKj3qE7DLEMFiLapMIHZn0xJdU3prJUOhoMfxBgdDyhdwToW5mAOJWbQFeFHcOVNhjfD3d68gDiPk1XMAv/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252833%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmIMyYZN2z7aTlaq3qJtox-EiBSnGp3_nLABf1ImCIoT5lt25x32CJh-8ypTWKj3qE7DLEMFiLapMIHZn0xJdU3prJUOhoMfxBgdDyhdwToW5mAOJWbQFeFHcOVNhjfD3d68gDiPk1XMAv/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252833%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source of Kuang Si waterfall, Luang Prabang, Laos</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfEWcatNYIbxWhvSXnaAkqXByD8veqQ4MqgVZYw_wNP_4J1MP5PIEhDIR7Ibdj-ImIBTEugRXVp085gZzlzkCg-8teVs8ftm4CG7l8tryHU8smxS1zmlMLAPrMnwm99ZR4oW-Z4m9mUxPl/s1600/2.1454508652.kuang-si-waterfall-near-luang-prabang-laos.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="848" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfEWcatNYIbxWhvSXnaAkqXByD8veqQ4MqgVZYw_wNP_4J1MP5PIEhDIR7Ibdj-ImIBTEugRXVp085gZzlzkCg-8teVs8ftm4CG7l8tryHU8smxS1zmlMLAPrMnwm99ZR4oW-Z4m9mUxPl/s640/2.1454508652.kuang-si-waterfall-near-luang-prabang-laos.jpeg" width="484" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kuang Si waterfall, Luang Prabang, Laos</td></tr>
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Our first stop in the north of the country was in Nong Kiaw, a small riverside village which has escaped most of the tourists throngs. The weather had now turned a little rainy and our grass and bamboo hut by the riverside, although charming, was a little chilly. There were some nice hikes in the area and we could see that the local people were becoming increasingly friendly and more laid back, as is often the case as one moves away from the transaction-only nature of relations that beset very touristy areas. This seemed promising and we knew we had to get more remote. The only way to do this was by boat upriver to the inaccessible village of Muang Ngoi.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkLAKrOae1UGQC0tF1QYhIUGVOU-Kzn9GfXFkbghH4NoDghQdujBvBl0uSgRfak41FR_ScvSAfiWCp9-3htAIA9h_kdDXsr77iImjf95mN5CbjwTUFgQRtmOCufm4YRWQouMqwX8dBANp/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252846%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkLAKrOae1UGQC0tF1QYhIUGVOU-Kzn9GfXFkbghH4NoDghQdujBvBl0uSgRfak41FR_ScvSAfiWCp9-3htAIA9h_kdDXsr77iImjf95mN5CbjwTUFgQRtmOCufm4YRWQouMqwX8dBANp/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252846%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muang Ngoi, Laos</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2l8Z9njOPjjK2by2w8GsOMcbOAjtv0Zi3AlmuMHiW3h7zAsCu6DSVDZkPQ_-l0Oik9amE4ND1DF8_G8qf5KsbPcAkrVBCGVacugRbQt5Uf__HjLnmu4Kmj64me6-ayvKzo_Ru1AWj5yQF/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252843%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2l8Z9njOPjjK2by2w8GsOMcbOAjtv0Zi3AlmuMHiW3h7zAsCu6DSVDZkPQ_-l0Oik9amE4ND1DF8_G8qf5KsbPcAkrVBCGVacugRbQt5Uf__HjLnmu4Kmj64me6-ayvKzo_Ru1AWj5yQF/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252843%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muang Ngoi, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy1k2OZz1et6d3KUrD3Ag_oqep-kzIVr6ggoIIZ6eu1lXDzokydPb_4fIVxJeDMLwg0MCMeB-oneFJKxhhdNWU2E4a5Us9pfInSLckIl_9x9O6BXhiFrTR1fgE73mmDWK1Iwteg6AwTNbz/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252847%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="1184" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy1k2OZz1et6d3KUrD3Ag_oqep-kzIVr6ggoIIZ6eu1lXDzokydPb_4fIVxJeDMLwg0MCMeB-oneFJKxhhdNWU2E4a5Us9pfInSLckIl_9x9O6BXhiFrTR1fgE73mmDWK1Iwteg6AwTNbz/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252847%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">village near Muang Ngoi, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKidsolpKLCijR7A7z5TFmLPkcLYzH_6-tqQqA0M2tHckcDrJIn-fxZubpZrklPTq1y9dHKbJVaCa0lij9rEUnn-uEbNwaeLTwePHRJEWrl38o8NYvFZAXhVENPv2Y0xLnomaPTBOdJNN1/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252828%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKidsolpKLCijR7A7z5TFmLPkcLYzH_6-tqQqA0M2tHckcDrJIn-fxZubpZrklPTq1y9dHKbJVaCa0lij9rEUnn-uEbNwaeLTwePHRJEWrl38o8NYvFZAXhVENPv2Y0xLnomaPTBOdJNN1/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252828%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">roasting chicken feet, Muang Ngoi, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNEDsXYQkMyBUmNyrduD1LtRrU3iF56b91JK2vfHBXw0SbqAIahnYvg2cuQTfP6Cys2pwC2_E-x3Pt_utHZC_2tnogq-2mQHsV1c6KOCafzETG03X1FVbqlUCeSl4zbGcTcuoOLkhaEhD/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252815%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCNEDsXYQkMyBUmNyrduD1LtRrU3iF56b91JK2vfHBXw0SbqAIahnYvg2cuQTfP6Cys2pwC2_E-x3Pt_utHZC_2tnogq-2mQHsV1c6KOCafzETG03X1FVbqlUCeSl4zbGcTcuoOLkhaEhD/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252815%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New year celebrations near Muang Ngoi, Laos</td></tr>
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Walks through the surrounding villages of Muang Ngoi, during the New Year celebrations of the Akha peoples meant invitations to sample home-brewed 'Lao Lao' whisky and local food. This more authentic atmosphere was definitely more to our liking and we decided to hike the 20km to Ban Phon, a tiny village that has no river access. Here the New Year celebrations were also in full swing and we enjoyed an afternoon of local singing that sounded a little like Mongolian overtone throat singing. On arrival we were immediately invited into a homestay by a mother and her two lovely and surprisingly confident little girls who were about seven years old. They followed us around most of the time and at one point challenged us to a local game played with some kind of beans or seeds and that Dave mastered far too quickly for their liking :) We sat around the fire at dawn the next morning roasting veggies and watching village life go by while Rejane had her hair twisted into an attractive new style! The family were very welcoming and fed us well. The single blanket on the floor that served as our bed, in a room bare of any solid furniture and no toilets around, was the most basic we'd experience on our Asian travels so far.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgdT5ji3f-JOjdNQuAeSjzBGYeyj8cgLFUzhVe9zfruKLB3l_FEC1pSVSut2LwnCSW8nhjHVFSXG9805OQtkpk5OHMUFNZN6JZtvuwVJfz37__k3WO07Mr-3wwqMSU3G0XEOBT-uDHSgv/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgdT5ji3f-JOjdNQuAeSjzBGYeyj8cgLFUzhVe9zfruKLB3l_FEC1pSVSut2LwnCSW8nhjHVFSXG9805OQtkpk5OHMUFNZN6JZtvuwVJfz37__k3WO07Mr-3wwqMSU3G0XEOBT-uDHSgv/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Akha new year celebrations, Ban Phon, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwdtXxkuuwx20qY1hBGg6JAbBa8UL0LpfYFYeQgalrcDgRJ8zstLEs3qIXNJnkhJoQjnnXPWAJs_r6c2UOYv0swiGx8gNaq98_Qy22YIbgCBgvAvcwnnu3IzOx6XFWRRy5o9emCFfBKE2G/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwdtXxkuuwx20qY1hBGg6JAbBa8UL0LpfYFYeQgalrcDgRJ8zstLEs3qIXNJnkhJoQjnnXPWAJs_r6c2UOYv0swiGx8gNaq98_Qy22YIbgCBgvAvcwnnu3IzOx6XFWRRy5o9emCFfBKE2G/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Akha new year celebrations, Ban Phon, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBDgocdFueCOD0eDVxkLzP5YdWCU_ddreLsOLzhRv8fBgHDJDTy1LFKunTvveWysHugvsEe-PW1wFac9KphuhvWSNtfQQ-O9YPr8_liQWDb1qBpICIjraLaOYkLLs8eZeGKknhRfh6U673/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252848%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBDgocdFueCOD0eDVxkLzP5YdWCU_ddreLsOLzhRv8fBgHDJDTy1LFKunTvveWysHugvsEe-PW1wFac9KphuhvWSNtfQQ-O9YPr8_liQWDb1qBpICIjraLaOYkLLs8eZeGKknhRfh6U673/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252848%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">village life, Ban Phon, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0nmwm2XbCC906ruOcXtzuiDrthQEXa44_7jXF01AVRiKagJiMmDoxeHRsUdoMRBqAsqQyq8NBGkOwqVvZVykfnSAtPyLsiBPt00wqTXPT9NenZrbQtf-HTnZBZ7P9v-rUpMzNvGmKXp4/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0nmwm2XbCC906ruOcXtzuiDrthQEXa44_7jXF01AVRiKagJiMmDoxeHRsUdoMRBqAsqQyq8NBGkOwqVvZVykfnSAtPyLsiBPt00wqTXPT9NenZrbQtf-HTnZBZ7P9v-rUpMzNvGmKXp4/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">village life, Ban Phon, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr62491pIYDLzhW20vMb_zRpT6BEZe92DsH_NjRyqBnS_bpuOKXG526V1gcteS05Dd0FBAHgEZMy1ZJ6EWs3M1JaR9x06SknCa-BEIdmMJ3gg92OTThqmP-qt4ceP04UjBdQTAdh-ffzvC/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252829%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1120" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr62491pIYDLzhW20vMb_zRpT6BEZe92DsH_NjRyqBnS_bpuOKXG526V1gcteS05Dd0FBAHgEZMy1ZJ6EWs3M1JaR9x06SknCa-BEIdmMJ3gg92OTThqmP-qt4ceP04UjBdQTAdh-ffzvC/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252829%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our host's kid making a morning fire, Ban Phon, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfTiAM2bVaNkWiAQ_TIcVT7C5DQPCICXQB1NIzVVJmFWpy3449Elu7WMg3bllkkp-0YMf6FjpdoOtdfWWkQNSnhI8dnPjD8DzUQUZINu-Zj4LHGEC8gama0teORbYYFUNpzRTrwL_9pX3/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25289%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfTiAM2bVaNkWiAQ_TIcVT7C5DQPCICXQB1NIzVVJmFWpy3449Elu7WMg3bllkkp-0YMf6FjpdoOtdfWWkQNSnhI8dnPjD8DzUQUZINu-Zj4LHGEC8gama0teORbYYFUNpzRTrwL_9pX3/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25289%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">village life, Ban Phon, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGd5vWfeHd3UK8awN_B9GKruSnNgDNMwDztIQtDYCziXuH86Dlk_8YXlY9Tnm6lBcYd9gT8s-rq0YrzwIwyp5dIVJ4z7deDvws3TlJpPfEybXtHb8wjSXdI1vXIv8dJN2Vk8jnP3tB3D6/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252851%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGd5vWfeHd3UK8awN_B9GKruSnNgDNMwDztIQtDYCziXuH86Dlk_8YXlY9Tnm6lBcYd9gT8s-rq0YrzwIwyp5dIVJ4z7deDvws3TlJpPfEybXtHb8wjSXdI1vXIv8dJN2Vk8jnP3tB3D6/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252851%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">village life, Ban Phon, Laos</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUgC_2RJHPP3o_LhI38a9A6YTXaRmQt_-6QMpMZgLl_rloZesWWeHeK_629IrB253eqw3yCt6LIoSzYjYZ92I2ZyDkppc3UHzuU-zVOJx-8Px5_Gf1jzwMVmFf-UJgl0hFBAasDqIwyxAu/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25286%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUgC_2RJHPP3o_LhI38a9A6YTXaRmQt_-6QMpMZgLl_rloZesWWeHeK_629IrB253eqw3yCt6LIoSzYjYZ92I2ZyDkppc3UHzuU-zVOJx-8Px5_Gf1jzwMVmFf-UJgl0hFBAasDqIwyxAu/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25286%2529.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">village life, Ban Phon, Laos</td></tr>
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We walked the 20km back down the road and the next day caught a boat followed by a local bus which took us even further north to the densely forested area of Luang Namtha. Here we splashed out for a guided tour through thick bamboo forests and were treated to a picnic forest lunch eaten off wild banana leaf plates with chopsticks fashioned out of bamboo on the spot - delicious!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVspS1Hu2TnFcFJNAb2sPs3sSDhARxp0NJWdcXEP2MNMw3vWkx-O2oz4brmHT-gk7ncHK5lGruMx-EkhSU-BZr1DMWBH-BwMAxuzHXbh3a0yHvJXmkfg5pWlUJq_9hr9UWrn4CNjok9ct7/s1600/2.1454508652.forest-lunch-on-banana-leaves-luang-namtha.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVspS1Hu2TnFcFJNAb2sPs3sSDhARxp0NJWdcXEP2MNMw3vWkx-O2oz4brmHT-gk7ncHK5lGruMx-EkhSU-BZr1DMWBH-BwMAxuzHXbh3a0yHvJXmkfg5pWlUJq_9hr9UWrn4CNjok9ct7/s640/2.1454508652.forest-lunch-on-banana-leaves-luang-namtha.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bamboo forest lunch on banana leaves, Luang Namtha, Laos</td></tr>
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We were travelling with a new Chinese travel-buddy which was great timing as our last spot on our northern route was close to the border with China and Myanmar where some Chinese is spoken. This trip took us into the infamous 'Golden Triangle' located in the centre of the old opium trade route. While this trade is supposed to have been all but stamped out, arrival in the city immediately brings out a handful of little wizened old ladies who press the brown putty-like stuff on you pretty much every time you step foot into the street or even out the door of your room. Ventures around the area took us into the villages of the Akha people, who were also celebrating their New Year and so more exhortations to sample the 'Lao Lao' and join in a meal. There appeared to be a fondness for steak tartar-like dishes of uncooked spiced minced meat and bowls of roughly chopped chunks of raw red meat and bone swimming in blood - we managed to stick to the rice and veggie dishes washed down with the ubiquitos BeerLao! The celebrations continued into the evening where the graceful, slow-moving dance steps involving daintily walking around in a big circle with men and women side by side, delicately twirling their hands became too much for us to bear and we couldn't resist adding a bit of African butt-shaking flair much to the amusement of the crowd. The children didn't bother to hold back and guffawed at these strange foreigners who were already a spectacle for just being present.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHpw7yR9kKyyNKsaPIUPcYwjHnLNcsIQWKLJZum0-ublwim5NZUd_MnJgCXrBDtQuYBHp9BuvlYccdvVH_JJ-tm863UKw7eqm9gslJU3WfAIKjPU6vQ8VcyTYQxQivHB2dpV4xcDk75iae/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252827%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHpw7yR9kKyyNKsaPIUPcYwjHnLNcsIQWKLJZum0-ublwim5NZUd_MnJgCXrBDtQuYBHp9BuvlYccdvVH_JJ-tm863UKw7eqm9gslJU3WfAIKjPU6vQ8VcyTYQxQivHB2dpV4xcDk75iae/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252827%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old ladies looking at pictures of Bulungula</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvi7Ky32D5WJegbP4w13ibrNKuY9kr-wIhGa5OC-lP53Y6vnZQz0AAsDGCwfnbnhYkljfvQWRv5y5fRDvz29PeJpJ7rQPcWz-6ayt3Xblkt7jEl5AUIEk8S3aRhYTNCLhvhZkdaKCsZeM/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252816%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvi7Ky32D5WJegbP4w13ibrNKuY9kr-wIhGa5OC-lP53Y6vnZQz0AAsDGCwfnbnhYkljfvQWRv5y5fRDvz29PeJpJ7rQPcWz-6ayt3Xblkt7jEl5AUIEk8S3aRhYTNCLhvhZkdaKCsZeM/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252816%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Akha new year celebrations, near Muang Sing, Laos</td></tr>
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Having satisfied our craving for some authentic Laotian experiences, it was time to get back on our way towards the south and, unavoidably back onto the Banana Pancake Trail. Anyway New Year's eve was coming up so a bit of a party was in order. Vang Vieng is a beautiful village on a clear river surrounded by the dramatic Karst landscapes of East-Asia that we've come to love. Tubing down the river with leisurely stops at the numerous bars and restaurants along the banks made for a very pleasant afternoon. In years past Vang Vieng was a notoriously deadly tourism disaster zone with a tourist dying every two weeks on this tubing trip as the riverbank bars competed to attract customers with increasingly dangerous river swings and slides combined with alcohol and drug freebies that inevitably ended in regular drownings. Amazingly it took years for the government to intervene but when it did, it managed to shut down most of the most dangerously wild activities while not killing the vibe entirely. Tubing is still fun, and shots of Laolao are still dispensed, but the atmosphere feels relatively under control. Strangely, Vang Vieng restaurants find it necessary to have dozens of giant flat screen TVs playing endless reruns of the Friends sitcom which some tourists seem unable to get enough of... a bizarre way to spend one's holiday...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMNJMi6RWyCyoMVCaBB38zLIDgURiOPEhP3I3WurkXk5vzTlG8kECvvyrO9F7BEJr9inOH7FZTYIXkzRLgkdkHIvBQr-h_B-qAwmvvNwnV65Bx_2SMhsAtJ6APQA_ALBTN1EDvsrvXuSQ/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMNJMi6RWyCyoMVCaBB38zLIDgURiOPEhP3I3WurkXk5vzTlG8kECvvyrO9F7BEJr9inOH7FZTYIXkzRLgkdkHIvBQr-h_B-qAwmvvNwnV65Bx_2SMhsAtJ6APQA_ALBTN1EDvsrvXuSQ/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tubing down the river, Vang Vieng, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-VVmWvYRqUxnIDmKMVmT9HYYcSxu6PivZ-mVpt9joQ_onY5YkM_zphkaF5TVWYg0ULXCr6w_4xWRuSYRKj2puFyZ9U_sKLgYAleR13pPbMq0zjL_MlRja2DOCmjJWVfs-evZOzbnF_rhS/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252839%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-VVmWvYRqUxnIDmKMVmT9HYYcSxu6PivZ-mVpt9joQ_onY5YkM_zphkaF5TVWYg0ULXCr6w_4xWRuSYRKj2puFyZ9U_sKLgYAleR13pPbMq0zjL_MlRja2DOCmjJWVfs-evZOzbnF_rhS/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252839%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tubing down the river, Vang Vieng, Laos</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sUmaEEdSVgj3ucl6LyOrjO3B6lmlAy8CADAi5cCFRb9mlXBzHgL9D8HjZsw9_csLVGKNc5fwLiu2pbUOP2AF9FlYxlTqXdNDL_Ax_nmcsROBe96nnlx5q46PsspBeQkiIV8XuPCh3qeb/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252840%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sUmaEEdSVgj3ucl6LyOrjO3B6lmlAy8CADAi5cCFRb9mlXBzHgL9D8HjZsw9_csLVGKNc5fwLiu2pbUOP2AF9FlYxlTqXdNDL_Ax_nmcsROBe96nnlx5q46PsspBeQkiIV8XuPCh3qeb/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252840%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vang Vieng, Laos</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis74DxCqnRo7_2keZNvndge8HsLn0ZpEP3LkCoZjGNq9d-gURvbSQ5witvvOc-m9agtViSxiPa6_SS8GiNFYPZGyQAawxSNsMLUmUm3HKSOl7EVktBrzxaf4SC1XiHkmeDKsyGR0rXyx6c/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252818%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="896" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis74DxCqnRo7_2keZNvndge8HsLn0ZpEP3LkCoZjGNq9d-gURvbSQ5witvvOc-m9agtViSxiPa6_SS8GiNFYPZGyQAawxSNsMLUmUm3HKSOl7EVktBrzxaf4SC1XiHkmeDKsyGR0rXyx6c/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252818%2529.jpeg" width="476" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cave at Vang Vieng, Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3-MrgEzbGI-wgVQ_RLaNlsR9M5WqPgD2VY-XaqkDSwXJCsi8Rj7InTh75MlEi5ObaC8lvm5QsjtvWFevLzzCQrzPSkkBeeG86KentM2PU7dY-2PZjSrH9wAdzSPj6DPTFf_yheWKlcioW/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252849%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3-MrgEzbGI-wgVQ_RLaNlsR9M5WqPgD2VY-XaqkDSwXJCsi8Rj7InTh75MlEi5ObaC8lvm5QsjtvWFevLzzCQrzPSkkBeeG86KentM2PU7dY-2PZjSrH9wAdzSPj6DPTFf_yheWKlcioW/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252849%2529.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cave, Vang Vieng, Laos</td></tr>
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Riverside dining at tables built on stilts in the river and a cracking good New Years eve party made a few days at Vang Vieng a great holiday spot. However with time running out on our 30 day visa, we couldn't afford more than a day's recovery from the New Years Eve party before the obligatory stop in the country's capital: Vientiane.<br />
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Vientiane is a low-key, capital city on the banks of the Mekong of which Graham Greene is alleged to have said: "what is the point of travelling 8000 miles only to find Vientiane at the end of the road". We found that description a bit harsh but nevertheless spent just one night there enjoying a riverside dinner watching the sun set over the Mekong. The next day we visited the excellent COPE museum which provides information about the impact of unexploded cluster bombs on Laos. Few people know that during the time of the Vietnam War there was a parallel "Secret War" in Laos during which the USA dropped roughly the same number of bombs on Laos as were dropped during the entire Second World War in Europe! Many of these bombs were cluster bombs which each release hundreds of tiny "bombies" of which typically 30% fail to detonate. These bombies are scattered across the country in forests and farmland and kill or maim 300 people in Laos every year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB5EHqZcWicqSUK2PEQJk9pXQSrZlXAaz0KLITgD_bS3biHenBbUK_PpQF8RKpLYIyDzDgXBSyrvOZktLMTOM-gZoGOyvPmDhy14IRAZhacM1j8_0hHhRx57R6BWDrtZqqF9PqGXrvWOs6/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252834%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB5EHqZcWicqSUK2PEQJk9pXQSrZlXAaz0KLITgD_bS3biHenBbUK_PpQF8RKpLYIyDzDgXBSyrvOZktLMTOM-gZoGOyvPmDhy14IRAZhacM1j8_0hHhRx57R6BWDrtZqqF9PqGXrvWOs6/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252834%2529.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Stop cluster bombs" sculpture, Vientiane, Laos</td></tr>
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In addition to some powerful videos campaigning against the continued use of cluster bombs today, there were very informative exhibits on the work being done by the MAG organisation to rid Laos of the millions of remaining undetonated bombs as well as on COPE's efforts to help people who have been physically disabled by these barbaric weapons.<br />
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From Vientiane it was an uncomfortable overnight bus on Laos' terrible roads to our final destination: a chill-out spot on the 4000 islands. These islands are situated in the middle of the Mekong river and we chose to base ourselves on the 'happy' island of Don Det where Mary Jane enhancements to your pizzas, brownies, fruit shakes and even fried rice are printed on the food menus! The accommodation was simple, stilted bungalows overlooking the relatively clear, green river and there were a plethora of restaurants where all the usual backpacker goodies were offered by mostly unhappy-looking local folk.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gflb_05iGygL7L9BwI0sudk_KVuy9PvwFlizMVUeasASbUc8NHbKuhtmZWaIduzB1I2KcAdjp9E1XEVVKWEQZ-M7fMnXY-gcHRDNvGBU_zu2nfpUBOhcacIAVQzPnMFWtUZ2-P6cQVB1/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252819%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gflb_05iGygL7L9BwI0sudk_KVuy9PvwFlizMVUeasASbUc8NHbKuhtmZWaIduzB1I2KcAdjp9E1XEVVKWEQZ-M7fMnXY-gcHRDNvGBU_zu2nfpUBOhcacIAVQzPnMFWtUZ2-P6cQVB1/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252819%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Det (4000 Islands), Laos</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpeEPEHPTxA1uD2wB5rVHL4BUozhmyrGGVcHYfJPKy10eRtWQg5SohnMzK1RCmSrNryUVfSGXbmhywhlSvoFvP5oG6AGuxMjflSoAbMeAMfaHbA5mbCQZy8LXHucBu2pDHuL5e0toP50Y/s1600/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252850%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpeEPEHPTxA1uD2wB5rVHL4BUozhmyrGGVcHYfJPKy10eRtWQg5SohnMzK1RCmSrNryUVfSGXbmhywhlSvoFvP5oG6AGuxMjflSoAbMeAMfaHbA5mbCQZy8LXHucBu2pDHuL5e0toP50Y/s640/blog8+2.1454508652+%25281%2529+%252850%2529.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don Det (4000 Islands), Laos</td></tr>
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Luckily five days of complete relaxation in Don Det fortified us for dealing with the frustrating shenanigans around the border crossings in the region. The first challenge was getting to the border without taking the 'package tourist' transport and not having that 'sheep-like' feeling of being herded from pillar to post. The first step, taking a boat off the island was easy enough but getting a tuk-tuk or taxi to drive you the 20kms to the border was much harder. Most tuk-tuk drivers refused but after much looking around and some back and forth negotiation of prices, we found someone desperate enough for the money. Why there had to be such a song and dance for a 20km ride soon became clear when the driver stopped 3kms short of the border post and wanted us to walk the rest of the way. Through his handcuff hand motions we understood that the police would hassle him for taking tourists on an independent ride to the border, instead of us using the 'tourist transport' run as a monopoly by a local company. When the police arrived, we made a big show of giving our tuk-tuk driver our last few notes, that were not worth much (even though we'd already paid him in full earlier) in order to help him fool the policeman into believing that we hadn't paid much for the journey and so that he could escape being forced to pay a hefty bribe.<br />
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That was just the first step. Next we had to exit Laos. In order to be given the exit stamp, a 'stamp fee' of USD $2 was demanded. We heard about this scam in which no receipts were available and so a standoff began: us lying down on the floor with our heads on our backpacks looking very comfortable while reading our books... After an hour or so, the increasingly alarmed officials realised that we were not going to pay and we were stamped out and quickly waved on our way before the tourist buses full of sheep ready to be fleeced arrived.<br />
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The Cambodian border was no better and after a bit of haggling, we explained to the surprised Cambodian official that we had not paid the Laos exit stamp and we definitely weren't going to pay for anything other than the $30 required for the Cambodian visa. He gave in and stamped us in and waited for the imminent arrival of easier tourist prey. A little perseverance and doggedness against participating in the corruption that besets many developing countries, chalked up a small victory for the good guys, along with a saving of about R600.<br />
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And as we entered Cambodia the mood changed immediately with smiles and positive vibes a refreshing change from our past 2 months in Thailand and Laos...<br />
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Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Vientiane, Laos17.9757058 102.6331035000000617.7340278 102.31038000000007 18.2173838 102.95582700000006tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-50564710424796988422015-11-29T19:56:00.000+03:002019-06-10T12:25:17.296+02:00China: somethings old and somethings new<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As this will be our last Chinese blog, we've decided to jot down some general (and a little controversial) observations of this fascinating country at the end of the travel-blog below...<br />
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After the debacle at the Kazakh border, the friendly 'Ni hao!' from the Chinese immigration official was a soothing balm for our frazzled nerves. We were quickly stamped in and in two ticks we popped out into the hustle and bustle of a Chinese market. Now, the only question on our minds: what to have as our first meal back on Chinese soil??? We found our hotel as quickly as possible and headed straight out to the restaurants...oh, it was good to be back...<br />
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Yining, the border town, wasn't particularly interesting - the usual delicious Chinese food notwithstanding - so we opted to head out towards the historically important town of Kashgar. Along the way we stopped off in Aksu where the mood seemed tense with lots of police around; we later found out that there had been a terrorist attack nearby by Uighur separatists who are fighting for Xinjiang to be independent of China. The road we travelled hugged the borders of Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan with stunning mountain views interspersed with rolling grasslands dotted with nomad homesteads.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvfs0gfafiQMYZ9rQkX_zO7sFDuT3rwmocL1z4JV0eycA1uGMlsx-ie_Lc3IG59H_v1wOj2IH0-ZfWuoPkDV5PvdxU-6g2KEWLdazIryysbmyJUYEY-oIjOZbludeFtcbi_vtHAF2eMiZ/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252838%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWvfs0gfafiQMYZ9rQkX_zO7sFDuT3rwmocL1z4JV0eycA1uGMlsx-ie_Lc3IG59H_v1wOj2IH0-ZfWuoPkDV5PvdxU-6g2KEWLdazIryysbmyJUYEY-oIjOZbludeFtcbi_vtHAF2eMiZ/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252838%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Road to Kashgar, China</td></tr>
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After a few long bus trips we arrived in legendary Kashgar: the exotic trading bazaar on the Silk Road that has lured travellers for millennia. We were meant to have come through here four months before on our way to Kyrgyzstan but were forced to fly instead due to frustrating visa requirements.<br />
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Kashgar has always been the Silk Road gateway to and from China located as it is at the westernmost border of China and Central Asia, Today it remains a vibrant city with a largely Muslim Uighur population who run the largest and most diverse bazaar we've ever seen. The hardware section alone had Dave drooling and the selection of LED light bulbs (for just half a dollar) was incredible!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAj2I3cyR9qd5hUGtMX75hFE_FvbwzesbCgfAYQWyLO4sQlBw-AAOe7LYuxYPZ29_kpFMr48h4Lm5JhFKC5R9zCf3SZRHKoWTEXcst_kIE1E9vC9sMQuloHkfojwNzA6iuWRlvD0d01EE/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAj2I3cyR9qd5hUGtMX75hFE_FvbwzesbCgfAYQWyLO4sQlBw-AAOe7LYuxYPZ29_kpFMr48h4Lm5JhFKC5R9zCf3SZRHKoWTEXcst_kIE1E9vC9sMQuloHkfojwNzA6iuWRlvD0d01EE/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar Bazaar, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeJ82UBICjms7JrkYVibsMNOh2fGhvglukQK0J1Zo7FrsUxZnvi8wcQoPkPCVw9dsrM31PHniy4w5fXiCLn6h5UybZKBSBP2DOBUnzInotC3VWm3F9EcduDM6p3o1jT0g0LYFuB_33vX4/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252827%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmeJ82UBICjms7JrkYVibsMNOh2fGhvglukQK0J1Zo7FrsUxZnvi8wcQoPkPCVw9dsrM31PHniy4w5fXiCLn6h5UybZKBSBP2DOBUnzInotC3VWm3F9EcduDM6p3o1jT0g0LYFuB_33vX4/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252827%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar Bazaar, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgddeXrIhRtng5rkuxdUno-CR10jscyatIqNFujdAya-9cAnQA_2Du9Hls_YRc6r1ukxNzh-nNpoHzGrTA39NYfcejM9550mw1YS1LsRm4rB7rExPjypQZ5x9i21OA7mN_MjJUtIZWwS397/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252828%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgddeXrIhRtng5rkuxdUno-CR10jscyatIqNFujdAya-9cAnQA_2Du9Hls_YRc6r1ukxNzh-nNpoHzGrTA39NYfcejM9550mw1YS1LsRm4rB7rExPjypQZ5x9i21OA7mN_MjJUtIZWwS397/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252828%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar Bazaar, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY503sXzx4v_4GveuwB8dB3xLBcL5G9hXhOBF62E-UB_spcLPwaaGwqswOYH1_Oq7VTacchXU4iAX1XItkwPk5WGzIeoNGUj7iTdTbRrattaOf0eRY1HXKlUSqiHm9W8lpWPjzDrUWvyQJ/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252829%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY503sXzx4v_4GveuwB8dB3xLBcL5G9hXhOBF62E-UB_spcLPwaaGwqswOYH1_Oq7VTacchXU4iAX1XItkwPk5WGzIeoNGUj7iTdTbRrattaOf0eRY1HXKlUSqiHm9W8lpWPjzDrUWvyQJ/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252829%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar Bazaar, China</td></tr>
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As one may expect of a border region town, it has delicious fusion cuisine and large, interesting markets. Every night of the week, the food markets teem with the sizzle, smoke and steam of outdoor stalls offering Central Asian-type plov/pilau, barbecued meats, hand-pulled noodles, an uncountable variety of Chinese rice and noodle dishes, homemade ice-creams for dessert and freshly squeezed pomegranate juice to wash it all down. All at super cheap prices. The bland Central Asian cuisine seemed like a distant bad dream. Yum!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXdWmBFwlUaOSYwFojYQ9LbiKTp4PPmIDOSJZ4lIayGN05_Lo1xDp-lr8bm6UbiXtYqY8xm3lt7TPZMUt3x5X80F6wBRvKa7oLP9a6wK9Z4fBqDCSBHG6_-Aj-Bjrxs6IK-21TZdd_lgHa/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252824%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="848" data-original-width="848" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXdWmBFwlUaOSYwFojYQ9LbiKTp4PPmIDOSJZ4lIayGN05_Lo1xDp-lr8bm6UbiXtYqY8xm3lt7TPZMUt3x5X80F6wBRvKa7oLP9a6wK9Z4fBqDCSBHG6_-Aj-Bjrxs6IK-21TZdd_lgHa/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252824%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typically bizarre sight in Kashgar, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ukFXXcF-xwcliIuJwCKnHxRYfzLzLRS7qxiyW0FNGaz_-_6l3FFVCGRKellzyTFP8gYRGwOpI-oO_SqWtwUz_KaOD7PNpKupN45tuqFEraMFFt7zkSeQuS03qOJYcGIxyre-ljIiLZqK/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25289%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ukFXXcF-xwcliIuJwCKnHxRYfzLzLRS7qxiyW0FNGaz_-_6l3FFVCGRKellzyTFP8gYRGwOpI-oO_SqWtwUz_KaOD7PNpKupN45tuqFEraMFFt7zkSeQuS03qOJYcGIxyre-ljIiLZqK/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25289%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPU0vvD1EFRal92jUApWa0HXTspyUpgfgMUIX-47z1bC7lx63joQFAuie1rjhmKkcdl9sh0mBNpwtT_HHObAhSsMmxY9YR7ME9hAegbhSRE_u2xiLEGh0fNc_wzUgt4-6BLFn6WCwqpdW/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="656" data-original-width="656" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPU0vvD1EFRal92jUApWa0HXTspyUpgfgMUIX-47z1bC7lx63joQFAuie1rjhmKkcdl9sh0mBNpwtT_HHObAhSsMmxY9YR7ME9hAegbhSRE_u2xiLEGh0fNc_wzUgt4-6BLFn6WCwqpdW/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25286%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAW2nazN5D_YSLSfe2PRo7L0l7HUIKF9sh7cCDqtjG6Ms61K7cc4ynsja2cvmpIbw9_OxWQF2WOHyklgniEjQmZgfmglt0D9yb0i7QzJMg2L9TAAukilA4A77WcFZNbOjtuoYwRqjAU-Sy/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252832%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAW2nazN5D_YSLSfe2PRo7L0l7HUIKF9sh7cCDqtjG6Ms61K7cc4ynsja2cvmpIbw9_OxWQF2WOHyklgniEjQmZgfmglt0D9yb0i7QzJMg2L9TAAukilA4A77WcFZNbOjtuoYwRqjAU-Sy/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252832%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtUdRfBcGXNfHFHtFqOFPOq7IM2C9sxtkMVc5s1DR95-QMWeAxqZkSGpMfXzwdj85-qkzD0khDEFtjd-NJLTzPIqXqgoIYpG9Qqq4hU_-ahphS1mK6NOCt7JF3puusutszhFtfTzFNjDH/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252860%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="992" height="608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxtUdRfBcGXNfHFHtFqOFPOq7IM2C9sxtkMVc5s1DR95-QMWeAxqZkSGpMfXzwdj85-qkzD0khDEFtjd-NJLTzPIqXqgoIYpG9Qqq4hU_-ahphS1mK6NOCt7JF3puusutszhFtfTzFNjDH/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252860%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUg_Cz7gGJlWvpRNjaNi5zmbJiDZCr4SPukjDkvQ2QGoaRaNsLkKu7O4LGwPVC4EMQVnyjQG5uw7PcQ3BBMzVFOjh3Z72gRQ-x1XdZdvJ0HCO0w_Jchx8O159UsbgziDWp9Nb8-6-1w3ZR/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252846%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUg_Cz7gGJlWvpRNjaNi5zmbJiDZCr4SPukjDkvQ2QGoaRaNsLkKu7O4LGwPVC4EMQVnyjQG5uw7PcQ3BBMzVFOjh3Z72gRQ-x1XdZdvJ0HCO0w_Jchx8O159UsbgziDWp9Nb8-6-1w3ZR/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252846%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making fresh pomegranate juice, Kashgar, China</td></tr>
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On the weekend we went on a confusing journey that finally found us in the region's famous Sunday livestock market. Here all manner of livestock from camels to yaks and sheep, with the fattest bums you've ever seen, are bought and sold by weather-beaten nomadic herders from the plains surrounding Kashgar.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyGF-45opGFZy34PCw2lEFpUnZQ2yTViWaJczRthnmVOTTNeeigp0v3DU5qNkJeHtyIV2liXygWs8hpaG8KmynGvdX_C4zEGNK-1i7EvG_fhhrbUpNRk7d3dxLTjNOYS4vNB6M8nBfc_h6/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252856%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="784" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyGF-45opGFZy34PCw2lEFpUnZQ2yTViWaJczRthnmVOTTNeeigp0v3DU5qNkJeHtyIV2liXygWs8hpaG8KmynGvdX_C4zEGNK-1i7EvG_fhhrbUpNRk7d3dxLTjNOYS4vNB6M8nBfc_h6/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252856%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar Sunday Livestock market, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkjE0faurQ-3WgG6wa62a6qKh-cvU6l4ejRCVqESGBl7hShLx3NmjX7y4crziOnS5id6YxcispyqtI1s6nkjLu0-Ct2drJHhsR2zTDKVz8P2BIBAcwAhBvHRv3Af5-FdQcwzEZ3ts0SG3L/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1008" height="598" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkjE0faurQ-3WgG6wa62a6qKh-cvU6l4ejRCVqESGBl7hShLx3NmjX7y4crziOnS5id6YxcispyqtI1s6nkjLu0-Ct2drJHhsR2zTDKVz8P2BIBAcwAhBvHRv3Af5-FdQcwzEZ3ts0SG3L/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar Sunday Livestock market, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0GY0jkCZdy1NUa4nButYtZlrsu19pYxcYzifLCXTZ6aBgamL_GKa83ZEazylST-aIbglKLY2ySy-27Ab7rSDwJVcQP088abJfBTj_pXybRCmrXI46_znZkFSamR6S1TZ0SEHHy2HWNg-/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="912" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0GY0jkCZdy1NUa4nButYtZlrsu19pYxcYzifLCXTZ6aBgamL_GKa83ZEazylST-aIbglKLY2ySy-27Ab7rSDwJVcQP088abJfBTj_pXybRCmrXI46_znZkFSamR6S1TZ0SEHHy2HWNg-/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar Sunday Livestock market, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNLV04wMoRVUXdy9Fnz2UGRttW80yXd6j0FJccH8pcZjcIF-1MqDORGKmFPYtIMP8H8sk11s2UjBjlM7bXJN3eWHzOOerxn6hV_Tlwvo1X5MGKSgFiAKl8gzhoNeXQOJ4JOvB8ba82LNq/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252861%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="832" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNLV04wMoRVUXdy9Fnz2UGRttW80yXd6j0FJccH8pcZjcIF-1MqDORGKmFPYtIMP8H8sk11s2UjBjlM7bXJN3eWHzOOerxn6hV_Tlwvo1X5MGKSgFiAKl8gzhoNeXQOJ4JOvB8ba82LNq/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252861%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Kashgar Sunday Livestock market, China</span> </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1152" height="524" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOALgW6de2e8AqlzXaVE0ifWfDt0mI8P0KKjU3q3t_GeMRmh4Yl9l5zFSaM0ZTIDdk2AuVrCTpewPWFUL9sI-esIDqhAhJh1i-J00FmAVyYoe3s4kBdWppWhCSoSc6FMaH5W-LzbymSsKJ/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kashgar Sunday Livestock market, China</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOALgW6de2e8AqlzXaVE0ifWfDt0mI8P0KKjU3q3t_GeMRmh4Yl9l5zFSaM0ZTIDdk2AuVrCTpewPWFUL9sI-esIDqhAhJh1i-J00FmAVyYoe3s4kBdWppWhCSoSc6FMaH5W-LzbymSsKJ/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOALgW6de2e8AqlzXaVE0ifWfDt0mI8P0KKjU3q3t_GeMRmh4Yl9l5zFSaM0ZTIDdk2AuVrCTpewPWFUL9sI-esIDqhAhJh1i-J00FmAVyYoe3s4kBdWppWhCSoSc6FMaH5W-LzbymSsKJ/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
We very reluctantly left this fascinating town and drew in a deep breathe before boarding a 60 hour train trip (!), to cross this vast country from its Western edge to the capital, Beijing, in the East. Before we boarded, the ultra strict train security discovered our scissors in our backpack which we were forced to leave behind... Security is very tight in this region ever since a large group of Uighur separatist terrorists attacked civilians in Kunming train station and knifed 33 people to death.<br />
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After almost three days on our scenic train journey through deserts and then rural farming districts we eventually reached Beijing. Beijing is a rather spread-out city, with no real 'city centre' or downtown area. It is a tourist's dream filled with historical sites of the Imperial era, still-vibrant 13th century hutong neighbourhoods of narrow alleyways, old foreign quarters with Western colonial era buildings, the famous, massive Tienanmen Square, the impressive 2008 Olympic Park, and the tranquil Temple of Heaven. We spent a whole and rather tiring day traipsing through the enormous Forbidden City until one ancient (albeit always beautiful) article of crockery, furniture or clothing from this or that Imperial Dynasty began to look pretty much like another. The 'city' is well preserved and the gardens where the 'Sons of Heaven' emperors frolicked, the temples where they worshipped and the rooms they held court in are impressive.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbUOn7Ch2096RUjF302azSbdwjn6ndBeJhjIpQlWA93TpiZ-wgC3lKPg146oE0xz-vKNKDIBJJJqp86N-5z7Bf86t24IhLo_YtQFIcdNjBzNcicgdZ0J_3W1_RjJ8hGreWt2-99B9tIY_/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252850%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcbUOn7Ch2096RUjF302azSbdwjn6ndBeJhjIpQlWA93TpiZ-wgC3lKPg146oE0xz-vKNKDIBJJJqp86N-5z7Bf86t24IhLo_YtQFIcdNjBzNcicgdZ0J_3W1_RjJ8hGreWt2-99B9tIY_/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252850%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tienanmen Square, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4dq7OJzcmSAwDkCWOcmrrQgXQ43lYfZqFccA3f0qbEuBg8HYtFoasoadSQHjysTbja0qEjSpUBgDTlz-87veDx5t9fz4AEMsLA0gO0NOGWoi7UOuoMnV-5aGkiqrcNyEwC8Hy-TE1fEf/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-4dq7OJzcmSAwDkCWOcmrrQgXQ43lYfZqFccA3f0qbEuBg8HYtFoasoadSQHjysTbja0qEjSpUBgDTlz-87veDx5t9fz4AEMsLA0gO0NOGWoi7UOuoMnV-5aGkiqrcNyEwC8Hy-TE1fEf/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ornate antique globe, Forbidden City, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1K6q0sQ9z_gH4W5JVil5lCVCHk3NF6d_HWNb30f-qAo54lSqwHB8rwRgB3_wXTEeUhMi_BK3KJRZ2zQkXekpKWojoT99Ps0vCyMZXQMNDPXLbupMiBXDHuzZ56Tuehtpv4_UsexAt8cYM/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1K6q0sQ9z_gH4W5JVil5lCVCHk3NF6d_HWNb30f-qAo54lSqwHB8rwRgB3_wXTEeUhMi_BK3KJRZ2zQkXekpKWojoT99Ps0vCyMZXQMNDPXLbupMiBXDHuzZ56Tuehtpv4_UsexAt8cYM/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Forbidden City, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyaaTpm8EA__Aho6DZEmKpQsvBAotF4RxwEX2Vs9HwNIa_pMDmwj-hpSHulL0znGOevktYx1E5WCXszBWJE8tE8sGDFyc61M2AhjSjm4Yv-pNR3PwV0P-YM7Z4zvl1cFLor6B_2Xy-kVR2/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252837%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="848" data-original-width="832" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyaaTpm8EA__Aho6DZEmKpQsvBAotF4RxwEX2Vs9HwNIa_pMDmwj-hpSHulL0znGOevktYx1E5WCXszBWJE8tE8sGDFyc61M2AhjSjm4Yv-pNR3PwV0P-YM7Z4zvl1cFLor6B_2Xy-kVR2/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252837%2529.jpg" width="626" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bird's Nest Olympic stadium, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapnsWDpmPe11dUyhleTwfg2fmk8gkwydOZwZNPwtyMyzK4BeRKj6hGUoars5iyQnoyw7nvJ0SgV2ZtYYlxoTQbVMOsW_l4TkoynpTnZR4RVt1I12-2xGE_aDP87st0JgmNmhePIN35LRU/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252836%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgapnsWDpmPe11dUyhleTwfg2fmk8gkwydOZwZNPwtyMyzK4BeRKj6hGUoars5iyQnoyw7nvJ0SgV2ZtYYlxoTQbVMOsW_l4TkoynpTnZR4RVt1I12-2xGE_aDP87st0JgmNmhePIN35LRU/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252836%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olympic Aquatic Centre, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rVAFP_a6ba2v_sRlHaocVazfuaAMdbvUWrnlsXYUJ3WgLSaUCzEIcwWPDEHO2Hu3UIMVcqWLLXSWsOAqbjnE81cHE-piBTSTWYIcau4ezAqTDFOclimISE7JhnsL2dd7Xh_OPI3S8i-n/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252823%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="848" data-original-width="848" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6rVAFP_a6ba2v_sRlHaocVazfuaAMdbvUWrnlsXYUJ3WgLSaUCzEIcwWPDEHO2Hu3UIMVcqWLLXSWsOAqbjnE81cHE-piBTSTWYIcau4ezAqTDFOclimISE7JhnsL2dd7Xh_OPI3S8i-n/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252823%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Chinglish" sign in our hotel, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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Sightseeing at The Temple of Heaven was more relaxing and beautiful with a long marble approaching walkway gently rising, almost imperceptibly, giving one the feeling of slowly approaching the Heavens. Within the Temple of Heaven complex is the amazing Echo Wall: it is so perfectly round that if you speak quietly at one side of the giant circular wall, your voice can clearly be heard 100m behind you as your voice's waves refract perfectly along the arc of the wall.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH43UYcRlnlVJCLqBE4obktTABEdjsEkPMiFw9Q3FNF7gxOj7CxYveOOvb77yEt_y0BChIUh0D10nwpeJDAeDOUM57VXpPvX-MLTKqPH5m_A_9hYYuyB-jl_kJxHQ1KHCfnPP-MviV5Kx4/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252849%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH43UYcRlnlVJCLqBE4obktTABEdjsEkPMiFw9Q3FNF7gxOj7CxYveOOvb77yEt_y0BChIUh0D10nwpeJDAeDOUM57VXpPvX-MLTKqPH5m_A_9hYYuyB-jl_kJxHQ1KHCfnPP-MviV5Kx4/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252849%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Temple of Heaven, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQ3TqQ2MKZoDwcvI6lhtWoWdxDiVBVEoFsC9LWfQOQbsM_ln5W05S6BHpiqRogUaG7QE9mEsyjn39N4JlZ-3-y5HSDVLIcOcf4vpWQnfJbVckdfL-NG3y3BoFPxXxQlft7grOt9vVZ127/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252852%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQ3TqQ2MKZoDwcvI6lhtWoWdxDiVBVEoFsC9LWfQOQbsM_ln5W05S6BHpiqRogUaG7QE9mEsyjn39N4JlZ-3-y5HSDVLIcOcf4vpWQnfJbVckdfL-NG3y3BoFPxXxQlft7grOt9vVZ127/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252852%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wedding photos, Temple of Heaven, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXw07aDbPKV_3YnWBBl96VdYao-fpw_vBJiLGVA49ZP__UodF1JGCI7NFeeK5MvOaNmS_m8x0vas_HhaD2Y2STAUzebT81T5nb_5BMJyaH-ccGmc4OS-jmKFC9lzZuqe9Hm9IFDhLfp0K/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKXw07aDbPKV_3YnWBBl96VdYao-fpw_vBJiLGVA49ZP__UodF1JGCI7NFeeK5MvOaNmS_m8x0vas_HhaD2Y2STAUzebT81T5nb_5BMJyaH-ccGmc4OS-jmKFC9lzZuqe9Hm9IFDhLfp0K/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Temple of Heaven, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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While in Beijing we were fortunate to connect with Rejane's Chinese co-fellows from the Aspen Institute. One of the fellows, Gary Wang, founded Light chaser Animation and had just finished the most ambitious animation movie ever attempted in China: The Little Door Gods in 3D.<br />
See the trailer here:<br />
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We were given a tour of his studio where we learnt that 200 programmers work for three days to produce just one second of the movie! We were also lucky to get a sneak preview of the movie due to be released three months later - the first foreigners to see it :) Watch out Pixar, the Chinese are once again doing amazing things at a fraction of the cost!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2xPPygOpnDqS6whmyaest3FJLo4rU2eG3oqjIJZi9ukY1TPMliZsg3IXr_oWjqgMno-9URRcvLHZuuEJHsCa5Y1XPVht4FRdiTD5OAhxJaYzT1ZKzz9Vp3MocpC6AQEiZ-5ogfOZP7A8/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252845%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="992" height="608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2xPPygOpnDqS6whmyaest3FJLo4rU2eG3oqjIJZi9ukY1TPMliZsg3IXr_oWjqgMno-9URRcvLHZuuEJHsCa5Y1XPVht4FRdiTD5OAhxJaYzT1ZKzz9Vp3MocpC6AQEiZ-5ogfOZP7A8/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252845%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solar powered toilets, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xvRp09luFpXlG_FsK7BAa0aUunXKUdW21Unzxg5v4P4BL0Hnm6lixLp2CN8v39I5PiW47wj2MRUV_rm-qfiVulcC18hg7wv5vLGYKyYsgZ4pV-RH5c7Q7CNENKIg8CQlFiYc8uYSNy72/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252847%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xvRp09luFpXlG_FsK7BAa0aUunXKUdW21Unzxg5v4P4BL0Hnm6lixLp2CN8v39I5PiW47wj2MRUV_rm-qfiVulcC18hg7wv5vLGYKyYsgZ4pV-RH5c7Q7CNENKIg8CQlFiYc8uYSNy72/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252847%2529.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tribute to the street sweepers, Beijing, China</td></tr>
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After a few days of the overwhelming sights, sounds and tastes of Beijing we were beat and ready to move on...<br />
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Next stop on the brilliant bullet train was the Chinese financial capital Shanghai: very different, but no less impressive. The main financial centre of this megacity is split by a branch of the Yangtze River. Lining one side, in an area called 'The Bund', are the majestic old buildings built at the beginning of the 20th century by the merchant, media and financial trading houses of the UK, USA, France, Russia, Japan and other nations. Facing "The Bund", on the opposite riverbank, is a modern extravaganza of giant, sometimes bizarre, skyscrapers which light up from sunset in a neon extravaganza. A special treat in this city, the bustling financial centre of a country that seems to have invented 'bustling', was meeting up with our old Chinese mates from our earlier jaunts in the Tibetan mountains and at the hilarious water festival at the Buddhist New Year. Amongst other things they showed us how the majority of Chinese pay for everything - from snacks in the local store to meals at restaurants - with smartphone Apps linked to WeChat and Alibaba.No transaction is too small: paying with WeChat to buy a sweet for US$0.10 is totally acceptable. These methods of payment have been used for five years already and what is especially cool is that restaurants often give you up to 20% discount if you pay by their preferred App!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtYqCJrlzcl-eoEP-IaPT5NlKwhJdGcPT90HuAp-_T0y-PbKgXktYd3T4GpdKnRj2MAUgw5BN3yievq0EnZ8-_QvKcqGVOhzEodPpE51Ab0fTqQkciRQ-1h4Ee45Z9-rUhiO5LrmBuS2_6/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252855%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtYqCJrlzcl-eoEP-IaPT5NlKwhJdGcPT90HuAp-_T0y-PbKgXktYd3T4GpdKnRj2MAUgw5BN3yievq0EnZ8-_QvKcqGVOhzEodPpE51Ab0fTqQkciRQ-1h4Ee45Z9-rUhiO5LrmBuS2_6/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252855%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Shangahi reunion with our friend Fiona who joined us on the hike into Tibet</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUW5DqV17ji0at04qqjp-LwCBv3-Ae70vNeXg1sZpl33xSdkPmrI69-6KcrYbybcubvm7j2Om5c0uf_bsCqjgN7N0U0ohN3jicW9xiXEQ1gE3Pge1BZZDeO_toE8yz9P_F0YKT_6-9L58y/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252842%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUW5DqV17ji0at04qqjp-LwCBv3-Ae70vNeXg1sZpl33xSdkPmrI69-6KcrYbybcubvm7j2Om5c0uf_bsCqjgN7N0U0ohN3jicW9xiXEQ1gE3Pge1BZZDeO_toE8yz9P_F0YKT_6-9L58y/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252842%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shanghai, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVEajQguzPyCnuCUslyye_waCrqzbkKiebrwxz9C38Li-aajOUhr-CDxxbLAvkQV1PLL6hTHwxMh6_4uI55MDI6qmxCdsh2tc-QFULCH2K0oKYq-KrDFVSgAoJxi5rSb7WAqVD3wnNUmW/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxVEajQguzPyCnuCUslyye_waCrqzbkKiebrwxz9C38Li-aajOUhr-CDxxbLAvkQV1PLL6hTHwxMh6_4uI55MDI6qmxCdsh2tc-QFULCH2K0oKYq-KrDFVSgAoJxi5rSb7WAqVD3wnNUmW/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" width="586" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shanghai, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebuTaJlE_5ftX18_jUm516ftjiqEsZDYwQFQo2Ps0o42dt4dCDIc-bDUJ2yTAEKVta0ADsgyu5qU8cDbWpeuxCeV27MeycVDJ6pVHF6sGVBaPrIVVXZ6TKM9Q-wWyT0dV2gZ0DFKPe8bM/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhebuTaJlE_5ftX18_jUm516ftjiqEsZDYwQFQo2Ps0o42dt4dCDIc-bDUJ2yTAEKVta0ADsgyu5qU8cDbWpeuxCeV27MeycVDJ6pVHF6sGVBaPrIVVXZ6TKM9Q-wWyT0dV2gZ0DFKPe8bM/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shanghai, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpmN5BNsYQhMmWRUsc3zGjqR5Ilu32BLuAYjqwLKqXJlTGrptWOMLVKmJpwVCKOfFEurFSDNmmk5z2aEDppAIA0etqRlpN9bCWWEmV4fNOX1JKy6_VH_01s29wNOZaW8VGFSBXAeC0_ZIJ/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252840%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpmN5BNsYQhMmWRUsc3zGjqR5Ilu32BLuAYjqwLKqXJlTGrptWOMLVKmJpwVCKOfFEurFSDNmmk5z2aEDppAIA0etqRlpN9bCWWEmV4fNOX1JKy6_VH_01s29wNOZaW8VGFSBXAeC0_ZIJ/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252840%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Bund, Shanghai, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfFHlvwd5RaNYgTrfxQPg13J4rQt1D_mE92ZCbN9EjzqmI-1jGnsVmF_soj3ucEG8ulpAznQXAIgFJReI7DyGOX3Y1d5g7IIiz3mRHBWZxV5k13zBxOENnYgECOzB9PelQd4t8deCEDfiz/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252843%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfFHlvwd5RaNYgTrfxQPg13J4rQt1D_mE92ZCbN9EjzqmI-1jGnsVmF_soj3ucEG8ulpAznQXAIgFJReI7DyGOX3Y1d5g7IIiz3mRHBWZxV5k13zBxOENnYgECOzB9PelQd4t8deCEDfiz/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252843%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bullet train station, Shanghai, China</td></tr>
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From Shanghai's giant airport-scale bullet train station we zoomed off at almost 300km/h to Hangzhou, a lovely, cool lake-side city that has been a holiday destination for emperors for thousands of years. With gardens and waterways still preserved and manicured with Chinese efficiency, it continues to offer mere mortals a genteel and picturesque holiday rest that feels like it would still be fit for any Son of Heaven.The beautiful setting makes it a favourite 'Wedding Picture' destination - that uniquely Chinese event in one's life that is completely separate to any actual nuptials. We have friends who have been dating for three years, with no concrete plans to actually get married, but who have nonetheless already had their 'Wedding Picture' day! A Wedding Picture day is an expensive one when the 'bride and groom' dress up in hired wedding clothes, get driven around in fancy cars and have a professional photographer choreograph them in romantic poses and air kisses in various beautiful locations. Hangzhou being a perfect destination for this, we often had three or more Wedding Picture sessions visible at any given time. Another interesting feature of Hangzhou is that all the buses are electric: Chinese company, BYD, is by far the largest producer of electric buses in the world and China is the biggest market for them (they also supply the iconic electric, double-decker, red London buses and thousands of other electric buses around the world). Many cities in China allow only electric scooters and buses which is why China leads the world in electric vehicles.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkztjFlHR4uVZjwG_15p_jstZ8CyeMzwWN0sRvHVdApPfP8LNg-Kukz4pp4lQEr9hB5cJ3LXVagJFjbA7KxVfQu09l7293zwMI3jVu7cfK5vcNKR0IIiDZhHV30nek4NQYki5fsrGoS4yW/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252854%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkztjFlHR4uVZjwG_15p_jstZ8CyeMzwWN0sRvHVdApPfP8LNg-Kukz4pp4lQEr9hB5cJ3LXVagJFjbA7KxVfQu09l7293zwMI3jVu7cfK5vcNKR0IIiDZhHV30nek4NQYki5fsrGoS4yW/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252854%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hangzhou, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Ji9d6iiIdmoX6uBIG6yuyPc5jxoeSln4j5qhNUci2eyf17GRWlLGO_R6FVd28PHRWmVcvd4vXZa7_evHp0k8YEtSx5ZTSAhjOB-1nn5whF7XfsOlA7cGKSRlXNPYEi2cdEecQqLkpLXB/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252848%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Ji9d6iiIdmoX6uBIG6yuyPc5jxoeSln4j5qhNUci2eyf17GRWlLGO_R6FVd28PHRWmVcvd4vXZa7_evHp0k8YEtSx5ZTSAhjOB-1nn5whF7XfsOlA7cGKSRlXNPYEi2cdEecQqLkpLXB/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252848%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tea plantation, Hangzhou, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnDYPGiQ0JRFIL6WVDvxCXikjuW7UBaQOSjwoNTIgMCM8MZy8LC4g5oVpbl8DeCZhyLo0ViWuD7oDvqhhE-Akw7YnLxvCSnNGzPBNagnUVxm4B1dpjDggOThAb5sM4aRNrD5cnxiV9MYU/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252811%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="992" height="608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnDYPGiQ0JRFIL6WVDvxCXikjuW7UBaQOSjwoNTIgMCM8MZy8LC4g5oVpbl8DeCZhyLo0ViWuD7oDvqhhE-Akw7YnLxvCSnNGzPBNagnUVxm4B1dpjDggOThAb5sM4aRNrD5cnxiV9MYU/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252811%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three wedding photo's in one shot! Hangzhou, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbRadQBt5gkuj-s8usGsOlNzqzSC2D9Bg9Fn5h9Zhf8Bpw2lavIge-HDEMhuJaELYRFD3n20p7Ch5YI5SI16Yyr6V_JlYfzJpnbohcv3TlcZwxmzP6v9ikujqkFrFS5Tz52sgqtaFWRmd/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252853%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="752" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbRadQBt5gkuj-s8usGsOlNzqzSC2D9Bg9Fn5h9Zhf8Bpw2lavIge-HDEMhuJaELYRFD3n20p7Ch5YI5SI16Yyr6V_JlYfzJpnbohcv3TlcZwxmzP6v9ikujqkFrFS5Tz52sgqtaFWRmd/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252853%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hangzhou, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwDSYXbMyacTIMVEePgDb9foWpdOQCOVf1TvqwC-WCoy4WFKLSXW0cdQEwyzJy_UstEZCygUQSmLPeT5wfgVtxEM7zUacDktXEw3ZVp1thHYv8Jaw_2wvaM8jy-MSCt1W-fgPza-SCb12/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwDSYXbMyacTIMVEePgDb9foWpdOQCOVf1TvqwC-WCoy4WFKLSXW0cdQEwyzJy_UstEZCygUQSmLPeT5wfgVtxEM7zUacDktXEw3ZVp1thHYv8Jaw_2wvaM8jy-MSCt1W-fgPza-SCb12/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25284%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hangzhou, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugoD0lzC8d_GFLUxxomGSkyjvIZz3vE7n6c0XW9UOTr96y_yLYYjvgTScYa3nMiNRaq072TDweeBslPLZZ7j0SOnxSSuXIt7DYRjgjgTl5xvaUJF2wRh9O-xjnm5e09v08V4pTcqHBUwn/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugoD0lzC8d_GFLUxxomGSkyjvIZz3vE7n6c0XW9UOTr96y_yLYYjvgTScYa3nMiNRaq072TDweeBslPLZZ7j0SOnxSSuXIt7DYRjgjgTl5xvaUJF2wRh9O-xjnm5e09v08V4pTcqHBUwn/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The elderly socialise daily in a Hangzhou park, China</td></tr>
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After the rest and good food in Hangzhou we were excited to meet up with our good friend, Sonja, from back home in South Africa. We chose to meet up in Dehang which was a halfway-ish point between Beijing (where she was landing) and Hong Kong (where we would be going next). It was a tricky destination to choose since China's vastness can quickly get one into long tiring journeys and we were looking for a place not too far away that was beautiful, had interesting villages and good hiking options. We settled on Dehang, located near the area made famous in the movie Avatar for its awesome karst landscapes. Dehang did not disappoint. Because it is a little way away from the 'Avatar' village, it is much quieter but still beautiful and we enjoyed three days wandering around the villages and exploring the rivers and beautiful waterfalls together. We also got to watch an interesting music and dance performance performed by young people from the local Miao minority in a specially built arena which hosts hundreds of Chinese tourists daily. An added bonus was the very cheap clothing and craft stalls around the village where we found some lovely souvenirs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyfCH3N1oBs8Hu0bLSAMMbErtjpVcyeGqOXMfKet6C5ctneIetv51ROYb1J1SuKLbo4pjI8EhNfaEWypDTtEOVXJ9T6gDjPspRetezMq5f9wG4NtB4NTzmuOik1Z4zLHrF_WzBJn7dkhx9/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyfCH3N1oBs8Hu0bLSAMMbErtjpVcyeGqOXMfKet6C5ctneIetv51ROYb1J1SuKLbo4pjI8EhNfaEWypDTtEOVXJ9T6gDjPspRetezMq5f9wG4NtB4NTzmuOik1Z4zLHrF_WzBJn7dkhx9/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dehang, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9FgQncEvHw0Qub35g8C5hrO3P45PFzBzWgK85JSmhhSvJ-q42eIvr7NgZtNxymGPeeYCCNp1ZqeUJFqWPzQGHyDrMqHNyZhTtEP3JOvYBrJP83j-KsGLVtvksVJvUQ2Sj69jDHYWNkF8m/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252844%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9FgQncEvHw0Qub35g8C5hrO3P45PFzBzWgK85JSmhhSvJ-q42eIvr7NgZtNxymGPeeYCCNp1ZqeUJFqWPzQGHyDrMqHNyZhTtEP3JOvYBrJP83j-KsGLVtvksVJvUQ2Sj69jDHYWNkF8m/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252844%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great shopping, Dehang, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPZIzqut4fEWchQ-o9uom4VszdSFIqbW1Qe9cB3mTpojyG37DMeRvdUlGGl1uORglQ6tokCEYDpAQhCw4jxR6KvhtyVNVM0W8MPsmK9e-ibcDAscO9JFr77DahRgNBXxLQeucjTRG2yP4/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252834%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPZIzqut4fEWchQ-o9uom4VszdSFIqbW1Qe9cB3mTpojyG37DMeRvdUlGGl1uORglQ6tokCEYDpAQhCw4jxR6KvhtyVNVM0W8MPsmK9e-ibcDAscO9JFr77DahRgNBXxLQeucjTRG2yP4/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252834%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cultural performance stage, Dehang, China</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheciY9lJJd4pCg0DIBWgvqFDVdDTKBb98J0MrkUJPqq2U5lUSe3FPdJcEKp9EXA1s_Wc7jn9n0ac_wrC2bDQ8B6Og9aB_lvLnOtAEcbgAvzsi2BS1nOGNOPC36tBInMbDlVyxDGE7bbz9z/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252833%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="688" height="624" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheciY9lJJd4pCg0DIBWgvqFDVdDTKBb98J0MrkUJPqq2U5lUSe3FPdJcEKp9EXA1s_Wc7jn9n0ac_wrC2bDQ8B6Og9aB_lvLnOtAEcbgAvzsi2BS1nOGNOPC36tBInMbDlVyxDGE7bbz9z/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252833%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cultural performance, Dehang, China</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgry9mTtkQzmH-PJ90nCBRkq2sHCVOxKiJQiVGmxlCSNYLOWte_S7DZjS3123K03QN9DtBFGsCTDcJSd0fNuhw_Sry4ttwJCpRXvLf5RPtZeCspzlVrqBPLf2SOU97EVh7zNdqrIhO7t2Yq/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252820%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="784" data-original-width="784" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgry9mTtkQzmH-PJ90nCBRkq2sHCVOxKiJQiVGmxlCSNYLOWte_S7DZjS3123K03QN9DtBFGsCTDcJSd0fNuhw_Sry4ttwJCpRXvLf5RPtZeCspzlVrqBPLf2SOU97EVh7zNdqrIhO7t2Yq/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252820%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dehang, China</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4rnbebItpKJW_E8zHpbwlHh_hnWGxmqq2sbBIxIgeeDOWaIvtU9b2pf8kCsbsEB-WW1CmxHnlc-yS6G7WyPmzyesSK255HYKZnnLEsr14LhAVLQEHlRPwItakfNN7N3xAJ0SJO4UYJqwM/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252839%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="672" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4rnbebItpKJW_E8zHpbwlHh_hnWGxmqq2sbBIxIgeeDOWaIvtU9b2pf8kCsbsEB-WW1CmxHnlc-yS6G7WyPmzyesSK255HYKZnnLEsr14LhAVLQEHlRPwItakfNN7N3xAJ0SJO4UYJqwM/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252839%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dehang, China</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6yBITEZ3JTC0bsWPdVPglmMUa6tYBJydm0nbW6_fpJahns_CETT-azZU3HzimmiZmYlI5lSsJVdILY4LN238BH_6Gmt1VkdA2gxQwv9_Zx8T7yXQVd0dnsZoq7Nwa1PDvtjwQ8grLsHUP/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="624" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6yBITEZ3JTC0bsWPdVPglmMUa6tYBJydm0nbW6_fpJahns_CETT-azZU3HzimmiZmYlI5lSsJVdILY4LN238BH_6Gmt1VkdA2gxQwv9_Zx8T7yXQVd0dnsZoq7Nwa1PDvtjwQ8grLsHUP/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252813%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basket-making, Dehang, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcyh2jvzwbjGFUCVuDeLfe9qI4gmkdZqcVgsyt-EY5fkNgAB2hxgAU5jWENVXFsOxfhp4r8l9RW6fpYASC0KxFDLDHbBfx2XQzW8UICiPLNyT4D4tg95iEYJC88PAZAGBRyXGovGoWjIa/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="528" height="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTcyh2jvzwbjGFUCVuDeLfe9qI4gmkdZqcVgsyt-EY5fkNgAB2hxgAU5jWENVXFsOxfhp4r8l9RW6fpYASC0KxFDLDHbBfx2XQzW8UICiPLNyT4D4tg95iEYJC88PAZAGBRyXGovGoWjIa/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing up to the waterfall, Dehang, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0q10FOFkeZZ8I3ErbsJ0S23c9UXc33Fbh9kx85dNnKUly2A1a1p9H1rs29_qMDIRkUDCgnMUwqBhAFAvJsr576-DsGcGz4qp5O7c0kxXr83epkZt0Vsw0j0B50JV0gD8VSV8w1-h9LTjW/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252815%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0q10FOFkeZZ8I3ErbsJ0S23c9UXc33Fbh9kx85dNnKUly2A1a1p9H1rs29_qMDIRkUDCgnMUwqBhAFAvJsr576-DsGcGz4qp5O7c0kxXr83epkZt0Vsw0j0B50JV0gD8VSV8w1-h9LTjW/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252815%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dehang, China</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FzOncsdD9CBCw6nI7b5A3rdBCMPXPrccZoy5U-YSFUz4rjLjx4tjspO25WeJhAqzKm9m4_cw_9zVFFBBlFxeQMjDXH9NC0XOR4DikKkeLHP_DQLQk8b9SQkl0qrc89SKdCGzwMNuVGxY/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FzOncsdD9CBCw6nI7b5A3rdBCMPXPrccZoy5U-YSFUz4rjLjx4tjspO25WeJhAqzKm9m4_cw_9zVFFBBlFxeQMjDXH9NC0XOR4DikKkeLHP_DQLQk8b9SQkl0qrc89SKdCGzwMNuVGxY/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterfall, Dehang, China</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqzBnAxEDHdZScQAy_Z0Jtvw9KZlQui9ne580tivfC6AGF4ecFn2n0I_Rpw0K7mnth5j6o5HyENu4pM3TCG78iFaCP1q6UfaRfk5B5YSzF_W0DYDSYe5C7LHtcDlwuUDn5jXxGnj5PVMg/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252851%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqzBnAxEDHdZScQAy_Z0Jtvw9KZlQui9ne580tivfC6AGF4ecFn2n0I_Rpw0K7mnth5j6o5HyENu4pM3TCG78iFaCP1q6UfaRfk5B5YSzF_W0DYDSYe5C7LHtcDlwuUDn5jXxGnj5PVMg/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252851%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dehang, China</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamVjdTTABJ6WDzYfxpKXNR5ajFKU6T3aHuBuFDRXPRhBsCs0RRTASwsDjY43TuO3tbpkXxt4EC5D_RxojMRsQb-Dp7wX7BRtvuOQmlZX9x8QM76ozZczRRo0ITr5cG9VO1VjXPDQgXzG9/s1600/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252818%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamVjdTTABJ6WDzYfxpKXNR5ajFKU6T3aHuBuFDRXPRhBsCs0RRTASwsDjY43TuO3tbpkXxt4EC5D_RxojMRsQb-Dp7wX7BRtvuOQmlZX9x8QM76ozZczRRo0ITr5cG9VO1VjXPDQgXzG9/s640/blog7+2.1447259251+%25281%2529+%252818%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dehang, China</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But much too soon, it was time to say a quick farewell to Sonja (who we'd see again shortly) and take another overnight train ride as we left the "Middle Kingdom" and had a brief, happy reunion with our Hong Kong friends.<br />
<br />
And then, sadly, it was time to say another farewell to a country that had fed us such a rich feast of amazing experiences, beautiful landscapes and wonderful, friendly people for four months of our journey. China you beauty: we will DEFINITELY be back.<br />
<br />
---End of travel blog on China---<br />
<br />
-----------Now for some general thoughts and musings on our experiences in China---------------<br />
<br />
** Health Warning: this gets controversial and political!!<br />
<br />
Our four months traveling in China, saw us crossing the country from the extreme South (near the border with Myanmar) to the Western mountains that surround Tibet and then North West to the remote border with Central Asia. From there we moved on to explore China's political and financial capitals in the East as well as passing through many villages and cities in the centre of the country. This has stimulated lots of debate between the two of us on development, economics, the meaning of "progress" and all things China.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the first thing that struck us is the impressive diversity of this vast and complex country. China and her people are often (and erroneously) assumed to be homogeneous in culture, language, and ethnicity. That this is not true is obvious once you've visited the country and spent some time getting to know Chinese people. A quick look at Wikipedia finds that the recognized number of ethnic groups is 56 and the number of distinct languages is a whopping 292. That kind of diversity certainly makes South Africa's tally of 11 official languages look relatively few. Even Chairman Mao, who grew up in a small village in Hunan province, is known not to have spoken Mandarin but rather his local language (some sources say that when he did speak Mandarin it was with difficulty and with a thick accent). This ethnic diversity is today celebrated in many well preserved (though touristy) villages, towns and cities. Despite the extent of this diversity, China decided to choose one official language, Mandarin, which has given the nation a unique sense of being Chinese. This seems to foster a unity within diversity that makes one wonder about the path we chose back home where a united sense of being South African seems to slip out of our hands, however tightly we try to hold onto it. Whatever we could practically take from this lesson today is hard nail down but suffice to say that vast ethnic diversity should not be a hindrance to nation-building and a common and united sense of identity.<br />
<br />
The next thing that hits you straight on is the physical manifestation of all those stratospheric growth figures we've gotten used to hearing about in China for the past 30 years. It is breathtaking just how quickly this behemoth of a country has developed. Many people will be familiar with the '500 million people out of poverty in a generation' statistic but to actually see the tangible evidence of this is overwhelming. The implementation of road infrastructure across the country (even to the smallest Tibetan villages), electricity, water, sanitation, bullet trains, modern housing, internet, renewable energy, etc is awesome to behold. China has catapulted a nation of feudal lords and peasants (in living memory of China's oldest grandparents) into a country that feels almost completely middle class - with the resources to spare to pull up perfectly good pavements in order to add 'braille' paving tiles by which blind people can navigate the city streets. It is quite an experience to pass kilometers of wind turbines generating renewable wind energy while bulleting past smoothly on an electric-powered fast train. In all our travels, we saw not one shanty town, met many young Chinese travellers who could quit their job to travel for months because 'getting a new job is so easy' and chatted to many a villager with children studying towards some or other professional career. Another rarity in China is a young labourer - all the kids are busy studying or working in office jobs, so the construction jobs and manual labour is left to those aged 40 and older.<br />
<br />
Of course all this development means fast disappearing traditional village dwellings and customs. While this may be disappointing to tourists, making for less picturesque photos, romantic harking back to the 'old life' would leave people in creaky wooden dwellings without the modern amenities of running water, electricity and sanitation that we all take for granted.<br />
<br />
One of the most powerful feelings we have gotten after travelling in both the most remote areas as well as the more famous destinations is just what an incredible, good-news story China's recent history is. What China has achieved by lifting virtually its entire population out of poverty in a few decades is probably the greatest accomplishment achieved by humanity in thousands of years - if not ever! Yet when one reads foreign newspapers and talks to seemingly 'enlightened' people from other countries, all one hears is negativity and snide comments about 'freedom of speech' or 'pollution' or 'inequality' or some other perceived failing of China. The fact that over 500 million people have moved out of a poverty-stricken feudal existence into a modern society where jobs are plentiful, quality of life has improved dramatically by EVERY measure and the population is more optimistic that life will continue to get better than almost any other society we've encountered is ignored. Rather what most Western critics obsess about are what Chinese people regard as trivialities like Facebook and Google being banned (not exactly true), the plight of various political dissidents, and the Tibet issue.<br />
<br />
One often unheralded achievement by China is the incredible advances made in gender equality. Chinese women's access to education and opportunities is unparalleled in the developing world. A Chinese (or foreign) woman can travel freely by herself anywhere in the country at any time day or night, while her counterpart, in the other "giga-nation", India, is in genuine danger of sexual harassment, assault and all manner of discrimination. Yet China is seen as the totalitarian "bad guy" while India is the "free democracy". If one important measure of freedom in a country was (as we think it should be) what chance a girl born in a rural village has of achieving her potential, it is clear that China surpasses India and almost all other developing countries.<br />
<br />
Of course China is not a perfect society and there are many things that need to improve and change. But the point is that this is a society steadily moving in the right direction with freedoms increasing gradually at a pace that the government feels will not lead to instability. Whenever we ask young Chinese people who have travelled the world about democracy they don't see "democracy" as something that is inherently superior to the Chinese system. They point to the fact that only a minority of democracies in the world can be regarded as successful countries and many of the most recent countries to move from authoritarian governments to democracy have descended into chaos and civil war. They wonder why they should risk everything for a political system that is commonly regarded as corrupted by people, even in the most successful democracies like the USA. Who would dispute Chinese people who say that democracy in the USA looks like a system that claims 'government by the people' but in fact delivers government by corporations and lobby groups and is constantly deadlocked between rival parties thus blocking obvious, crucial reforms and action. What Chinese people are interested in is that stuff gets done and lives are materially and rapidly improved and so far they feel that no political system can match what they currently have. (One French-Chinese friend laughed about French presidents visiting Beijing for 10 years and promising to build a new French school but nothing happens. If the Chinese president promises something like that, government officials ensure that it is completed in months so as to maintain the perception that the Chinese government delivers on its promises. It is inconceivable that the Chinese president would repeatedly promise something as simple as a school for ten years and that it doesn't materialise.)<br />
<br />
While Google and Facebook are 'blocked' you can access them for $5 per month via VPNs which are legal and advertised. Most other websites like Yahoo, Bing, BBC, Wikipedia, etc are not blocked and even controversial Wikipedia topics (e.g. Dalai Lama) are accessible from any internet connection. The reality is that Chinese websites are much better suited to Chinese people: Baidu (China's Google) gives far more accurate Chinese search results than any of the western search engines. Similarly China's equivalents for Ebay and Amazon are far larger and more efficient. Taobao (bigger than Amazon and Ebay combined!) delivers<br />
everything from cars to groceries and as a result the average Chinese<br />
person uses online shopping and mobile payments way more than the average American.<br />
<br />
Of course, the Chinese political system relies on one central, tacit agreement: as long as the Communist Party delivers a better life, the people must not challenge its political supremacy. What this means practically is that you can do whatever business or profession you like, you can travel and study in any country and live wherever you like and basically enjoy the same free lifestyle that most other advanced societies enjoy. Government performance is widely and critically discussed in social media using WeChat (a Chinese fusion of Facebook and WhatsApp who's biggest shareholder is a South African company) and Weibo (Twitter) and no-one you meet is nervous to talk about political issues. The government does try to censor social media if it feels that there is a trending issue that could lead to instability but at the same time it makes heavy use of social media and opinion polls to stay abreast of issues that concern the population. At the moment, most public concern is around environmental issues, food quality and inequality and so this has become the major focus of the current five<br />
year plan. And the Chinese generally achieve what they plan. (We have mentioned elsewhere that China is the world leader in renewable energy.)<br />
<br />
BUT what you cannot do is start a political or social movement that challenges the Communist Party nor can you advocate for any movement that seeks to split China apart (e.g. Tibet). China sees that as the slippery slope to Syrian/Libyan/USSR/etc chaos and a reversal of all the development gains achieved in the last few decades. Of course all societies evolve and China's political system is evolving too. Many Chinese leaders are fans of the Singaporean political and economic model that began in a very authoritarian manner and gradually liberalised and opened up as the society became wealthier and the risk of civil conflict simultaneously receded.<br />
<br />
Often the most powerful, emotional criticism of China surrounds the issue of Tibet. This is a hugely emotive issue where one rarely hears any balanced comment. Ask the average person who chants 'Free Tibet' what the Chinese perspective is and they can only recite the propaganda spouted by the Tibetan Government in Exile. People claim to be passionate about this issue and yet only bother to read one side of the story. People seem satisfied to believe Hollywood's infantalizing Tibetans into some happy little ewok mountain people dwelling for thousands of years free in paradise until without any warning the evil communist Chinese invaded, destroyed all the temples and genocidaly murdered 1.2 million people. Yet when one reads balanced historical accounts, not only are these 'facts' in dispute but some, like the 1.2 million genocide claim, are provably false and yet, despite the Free Tibet movement , themselves admitting that these claims were false, you can still find them printed in their museums and in their propaganda. Just reading the Tibet Wikipedia page would disprove much of the above misinformation.<br />
<br />
The reality is that Tibet was a warrior nation that conquered China and later was conquered by China numerous times for over a thousand years. Its links to China are deep and old. Chinese Princess Wencheng married the King of Tibet and she is credited with introducing Buddhism to the Tibetans in the 7th century. She's is revered in Tibet and there are temples built in her honour. For many centuries the Chinese played an important role in selecting the Dalai Lama - an institution similar to the Pope in that it was largely a corrupt process that saw prominent families sharing out this vitally important position in Tibetan Bhuddism (from the 1600's many consecutive Dalai Lamas were assassinated in their youth by competing Tibetan families and other political forces). As the various Chinese dynasties rose and fell, the borders of China varied with Tibet sometimes inside China and at other times outside its control. In the last 200 years all major powers regarded Tibet as under Chinese control which is why travellers who wished to visit Tibet had to get permission first from Peking. There were times that Tibet was truly independent and there were times that it was totally included within the Chinese empire. As a result, the Chinese claim to Tibet goes far back in history and you can argue in both directions.<br />
<br />
Tibet was also one of the poorest countries on earth: imagine Liberia placed on an incredibly remote, icy plateau 4000m above sea-level where it often snows in mid-summer and you have vague idea of the geography, then layer on top of this a brutal feudal serfdom practiced by the lamas and regular murderous conflicts between the rival Buddhist sects and then Tibet begins to look a lot less like the Shangri-La it was claimed to be. Life expectancy in Tibet in 1951 was just 35 years (now 68). The infant mortality rate in 1950 was 430 out of every 1000 babies (now just 20, South Africa's current rate is 34). Tibetans get 15 years free education, they pay no tax and have never been covered by the one-child policy.<br />
<br />
Now contrast this with people of European descent's historical claim on North America, South America, Australia, etc. As the Chinese say 'we will leave Tibet as soon as Americans return the USA to the Native Americans and Australians return their country to the Aborigines!' The concept of every one of the world's 3000 ethnic groups having their own independent country is absurd and no-one would propose that in any other country (South Africa would have to divide into at least 11 countries, *****ia would divide into over 500 countries...).<br />
<br />
There haa of course been genuine damage done to Tibet, particularly during the Cultural Revolution, but then many Chinese point out that they too suffered terribly during the same period. This wasn't violence inflicted by the Chinese on Tibetans, this was crazy violence visited on all citizens of China, including Tibet. Perhaps the greatest pain Tibetans currently feel about being part of China is that the Dalai Lama is banned from returning. This is sad, and we wish there was a way he could return to the center of the Tibetan religion. The problem is that the Dalai Lama allowed himself to be used by the USA's CIA during their fanatical anti-communist era in the 50's and 60's (he's admitted receiving funds and military support from the CIA) and he is regarded as an unapologetic separatist. Even though the Dalai Lama has stated for years that he does not seek an independent Tibet, only greater autonomy, the Tibetan Government in Exile continues to demand independence. As a result the Chinese government are afraid that, should the Dalai Lama return, he would instigate an uprising that could lead to civil war and chaos. The Chinese strategy is to not risk all the ******** developmental progress, at all costs - they will just wait for him to die and then ensure the 're-incarnated' Dalai Lama supports Tibet's current status as an autonomous region within China.<br />
<br />
The above information, from a Chinese perspective, should at least try to balance the one-eyed view that one hears in the Western world. The Tibet issue is very complex.<br />
<br />
Aside from Tibet, other people lament the poaching of rhinos in Africa for their horns, and conveniently ignore that it is the Vietnamese who are buying most of it. The Chinese have taken significant action on the illegal trade in elephant tusks leading to the halving of the blackmarket price paid for ivory due to a lack of demand.<br />
<br />
Another criticism, China's "colonization of Africa," is equally absurd. European nations and the USA have been extracting Africa's resources for over a hundred years and continue to do so today with Africa showing little developmental benefit. But when China does the same - and pays for it with tangible infrastructure rather than easily-stolen-cash - then suddenly China is some rapacious destroyer of Africa. Many bewail a "Chinese land-grab" in Africa yet the statistics show that there are five other countries who are more active buyers of African land including Singapore, Canada and Portugal. By far the majority of Chinese investments in Africa are in transportation and energy yet it is common to hear that China is pillaging Africa's resources<br />
<br />
Another criticism: China is becoming militarily aggressive and expansionist. China is virtually surrounded by US military basis in Japan (seven!), South Korea, Philippines, Singapore and a defense agreement with Taiwan. Imagine if China opened numerous military bases along the Mexican border with their weapons pointing at Washington! The USA would freak out and call this 'an act of aggression' yet China must sit surrounded by military bases of the most aggressive, military power on earth: the USA has been at war with someone for over 90% of the last 200 years! Yet it is China that is now supposedly aggressive having not been involved in war for many decades.<br />
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The vast majority of Chinese people (as in all societies) want to live their lives in safety, send their children to good schools, have secure employment, access to modern amenities and healthcare, parks to socialise in in their old age, and a sense of freedom to go about their daily business. While we would not personally give up our hard-won democratic system back home, it is hard not to envy the gains and daily standard of living that the Chinese people have attained. So much, for so many, in such a short, short time. If we in Africa could achieve but a<br />
fraction...<br />
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Now you're probably wondering why you're reading all of the above. What has this got to do with travelling in China and happy things in general? The worry we have, and it is evident among many fellow Chinese travellers, is that Chinese people are beginning to experience all the anti-Chinese propaganda as a form of racism. And this is a type of racism not just spouted by the usual right-wing suspects - this anti-Chinese racism is spouted by people (including some of our friends) from across the political spectrum and by people who would never say anything racist about other people. Yet spouting some disparaging stereotype about Chinese people is regarded as acceptable in polite society. This is wrong and will do long term damage to human society. We do not need more racism in the world, particularly not directed towards what is soon to become the world's most powerful country. China is far from perfect, but it is mostly a good-news-story that we as fellow humans should celebrate. And the Chinese should be accorded the same friendship and respect we give all people.<br />
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OK, back to the happy travels :)</div>
Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Changsha, Hunan, China28.228209 112.9388139999999826.438113 110.35702699999997 30.018304999999998 115.52060099999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-68926542637037804002015-10-04T10:48:00.000+03:002019-06-10T12:24:10.660+02:00Apples are from Kazakhstan...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After leaving authoritarian Uzbekistan it was a relief to enter the much more chilled out atmosphere of Kazakhstan without policemen on every corner. Once again we marvelled at how crossing a random border resulted in dramatically different looking people: the Kazakhs are much more East Asian looking than the Uzbeks.<br />
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Kazakhstan has been the most fortunate of the Central Asian countries since independence from the USSR in the 1990's. Soon after independence massive oil deposits were found in the Caspian Sea and since then the income per capita has risen rapidly to above $20,000 per year - four times the next richest nation of Uzbekistan. (Turkmenistan, the hermit-like country which is difficult to visit is actually the 2nd richest Central Asian country.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaBXny80p25VFSbm-taEYjq5-ztHZL9FLumxl9Q2G6kN4mYcAFrqCCCY2Jtzowh3dPLc1P3WfTZeanJ2sUBXpYBOh1OYm2k2sv6NKTN9R0qCQXcc7VEVXTdVJn9vGD2hfJoXl5T99X2oL/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252820%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaBXny80p25VFSbm-taEYjq5-ztHZL9FLumxl9Q2G6kN4mYcAFrqCCCY2Jtzowh3dPLc1P3WfTZeanJ2sUBXpYBOh1OYm2k2sv6NKTN9R0qCQXcc7VEVXTdVJn9vGD2hfJoXl5T99X2oL/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252820%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The world famous "Afri-Cola only to be found in Central Asia</td></tr>
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Kazakhstan's recent fortunes have also been inextricably linked to their charismatic president, Nursultan Nazarbayev, who was the Kazakh leader during the time of the USSR and who was a major player during the negotiations that led to the formation of the independent Central Asian countries. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Kazakhstan endured incredible economic hardships as did the rest of Central Asia. Kazakhstan also experienced a number of additional challenges: more than half the population were ethnic Russians and Ukrainians so there were fears of annexation by Russia. The Soviets had also used Kazakhstan as the testing ground for their nuclear weapons leaving a horrific legacy of entire regions and communities damaged by nuclear waste. Kazakhstan also possessed a large arsenal of nuclear weapons which had leaders across the world on edge. Lastly, almost the entire Kazakh economy relied on heavily subsidised Soviet industries that promptly collapsed along with the USSR.<br />
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Given these challenges, it is remarkable to see how stable and prosperous Kazakhstan has become in just 20 years.<br />
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We first spent a couple of days in leafy Shymkent near the border of Uzbekistan where we spent our routine day or two trying to understand the eccentricities and costs of our new country. In every Central Asian country you will find dramatically different prices for the same products - some will be MUCH more expensive and others much cheaper. Uzbekistan was the land of expensive yoghurt and cheap fruit juice and ice-cream. Kazakhstan is the land of cheap yoghurt and cheap trains but expensive Shashlyk (kebabs). Dairy products, including yoghurt, are available in an impressive range in this region. While at home, and pretty much any country we've visited before, yoghurt is available in non-fat, full-fat or low-fat. Similarly milk is usually found in the form of skim-milk, 2% or full cream and pure cream comes in one type. Not in Kazakhsta!: here you will find a range across the full spectrum: 0%, 2.5%, 5%, 7.5%,10%, 20% ....all the way through to 100% for milk, yoghurt and cream. So if you want to make a really creamy mushroom sauce for your pasta and took, say, the 5% cream off the shelf, instead of the 20%, you may find yourself with a pasta sauce that is too runny but a milk product that is too creamy for your tea! We guess that this incredible range in dairy products can be linked to Kazakhstan's nomadic heritage where everyone relied on the milk products produced by their own herds.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'll have one of those...." Ordering food in Kazakhstan is a challenge</td></tr>
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From Shymkent we headed to the small town alongside the Aksu-Zhabagly nature reserve. There we stayed in a fairly pricey homestay (no shower) run by a friendly Russian lady - when desperate for a wash, we had a hose down in the garden with our swimming costumes on. We spent three days wandering around the reserve which was quite pretty but not spectacular. One of the more interesting things to see were the wild apple trees and berry bushes which are a major source of food for the numerous bears in the area. Apples originate in Kazakhstan. After the baking heat of Uzbekistan, the temperature changed literally overnight from mid 30's to low 20's and we had to wear shoes instead of flip flops for the first time in a month. Summer had ended. With an annual temperature range of -40 to +40, an overnight 10-15 degree change is nothing out of the ordinary.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aksu Jabagly Nature Reserve, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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We headed next by overnight train to Aralsk far in the west of Kazakhstan and the site of what is commonly regarded as the worst man-made environmental disaster of all time. Not wanting to be beholden to the Americans for their cotton supplies, the Soviets decided that the grasslands and desert of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan should be irrigated with water from the Oxus and Syr Darya rivers for growing cotton and wheat crops. These two rivers flowed from the epic mountains we climbed in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan into the middle of the desert forming a giant lake called the Aral Sea. This inland sea was about 400km long and 280km wide and rich in fish and bird life that sustained the communities along its shores for millennia. However, the amount of water that was diverted from the rivers for crop irrigation meant that there was not enough to keep the sea sufficiently replenished. By the 1980's the amount of water entering the Aral Sea was only a tenth of what entered during the 1950's and so the sea began to shrink rapidly. Towns that had had harbours on the sea shore were left stranded up to 80km away from the sea as the remaining water rapidly evaporated away. Fishing communities of over 60,000 people were forced to abandon their traditional lifestyles in search of work in faraway cities.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pondering the Aral Sea, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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We spent a night in Aralsk, the once thriving sea port which is now a dusty desert town. We took a bumpy four hour 4x4 trip through a bleak desert, now complete with its own resident camels, which had once been submerged under a sea. In the middle of the desert we found rusting ships that lay where they once upon a time floated... now more than 40km from the receding waters. In this sad and desolate ship-graveyard, cows rest in the shade among the maritime bits and pieces, while environmental activists have painted poignant ghosts of seafarers on the rusting hulks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9tG9mmBvZ7VfpJ_-Q7anbvup1KhnZ7ZM569vUSrz26z2U1KbesyAioQWTjnZDCMU34c9mXrBlQZBgmWTqyf0eBI3M6HHrFd4n0VjLtbndBr8am_IuwUx1Ms-oea_ZDmfU3PRH0grk3r1/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="928" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9tG9mmBvZ7VfpJ_-Q7anbvup1KhnZ7ZM569vUSrz26z2U1KbesyAioQWTjnZDCMU34c9mXrBlQZBgmWTqyf0eBI3M6HHrFd4n0VjLtbndBr8am_IuwUx1Ms-oea_ZDmfU3PRH0grk3r1/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aral Sea, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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One bit of positive news is that Kazakhstan has taken a proactive approach and built a dam through the centre of what is left of the sea to avoid losing water to the Uzbekistan side of the sea. As a result the smaller, Kazakh part of the Aral Sea has begun to rise again. Unfortunately, the main part of the Aral Sea is in Uzbekistan which is making no genuine effort to reduce the amount of water used for crop irrigation and so the destruction on that side continues.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sea was here.... Aral Sea, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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From Aralsk we caught the train again back through the desert towards the east. On the way we spotted the Baykonur Cosmodrome – and discovered that most of the people who have been to Space lifted off from Kazakh soil. The Soviets chose to launch all their rockets from this remote part of the Kazakh desert and the Russians continue to use this base as part of a long term lease.<br />
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Whenever one travels by train in Central Asia, one has to first find the “Vokzal” which is the Russian name for “train station”. The story goes that when the first Russian engineers visited the UK to learn about these new machines called “trains” they were mightily impressed when they got off the train at Vauxhall train station in London. When they saw the name “Vauxhall” they assumed this was the generic word for “station” so from then on, Russians call all train stations “Vokzals”.<br />
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We spent a few difficult days on trains and dusty buses winding our way north through the desert via Kyzylorda and Zhezkazgan until we finally reached Astana, the recently created capital of Kazakhstan and the venue of the 2017 World Expo.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28a-tf2Oo_opozVIhsXRwCUYuV6G9SYpYKBIxPzWXFKjwR2K5AVcc4yO5uM4oiH5X52BoSKPKuwofqpJhewPB2Hz615DHBBzXC842ht9sKyjESt69252lfSAuVhpPvFevEYE9omFSsMEA/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25289%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="1216" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28a-tf2Oo_opozVIhsXRwCUYuV6G9SYpYKBIxPzWXFKjwR2K5AVcc4yO5uM4oiH5X52BoSKPKuwofqpJhewPB2Hz615DHBBzXC842ht9sKyjESt69252lfSAuVhpPvFevEYE9omFSsMEA/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25289%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Astana, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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President Nazarbayev decided that the old capital, Almaty, in the south-east of the country, should be changed as it left the north of Kazakhstan at risk of being absorbed by Russia due to the high number of Russian people living there. He decided that Astana, a smallish city in the freezing north, would become the new capital and began moving all government offices there in the late 90's. Many people thought this was a crazy scheme that could never work and resented having to move to a city without decent accommodation and restaurants in a brutally cold part of the country. For the first few years many senior civil servants had to sleep in dormitories as they tried to create a capital city out of very little. Fortunately the establishment of Astana corresponded with an increase in government revenues from the recently discovered Caspian Sea oil fields and so began an ambitious project to create Astana as an example of modern, avante garde architecture.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_stZKSKww5Jag2KF73igWtUw8XHiTU1zwmXHZ0lgS3myTxTBJh41zaXjP3ZNrQ0gf5YHicJrO6g-g-uqH_iFi9ymIjpeH1LBmPWTh5XdX75D3aHfCIKsRtqFokyC887sYfgIWsbKd2Sme/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252825%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_stZKSKww5Jag2KF73igWtUw8XHiTU1zwmXHZ0lgS3myTxTBJh41zaXjP3ZNrQ0gf5YHicJrO6g-g-uqH_iFi9ymIjpeH1LBmPWTh5XdX75D3aHfCIKsRtqFokyC887sYfgIWsbKd2Sme/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252825%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khan Satyr shopping centre, Astana, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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The main central boulevard begins with the remarkable Khan Satyr shopping centre. This building was designed by world-renowned architect Norman Foster and is shaped like a yurt (tent) with a special translucent skin that allows heat to enter but prevents this heat escaping. Inside is a multi-level shopping centre with the top level consisting of a tropical sandy beach with palm trees and large swimming pool - while outside the temperature can hit -35 degrees!.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qnS0Cpx53jOxHaq1yJxSvkTJ0JKnFvhYTE7l-6sMUbw4gOc1TBlbaz9i-zAIRdcicH7nImcn8vcZUv8cGsoPEAYkWhBtHo00HOyGQm5-LJJldMqxiAgRA3gCh0zoyS_uwrv5ElEUjIQr/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252821%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qnS0Cpx53jOxHaq1yJxSvkTJ0JKnFvhYTE7l-6sMUbw4gOc1TBlbaz9i-zAIRdcicH7nImcn8vcZUv8cGsoPEAYkWhBtHo00HOyGQm5-LJJldMqxiAgRA3gCh0zoyS_uwrv5ElEUjIQr/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252821%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khan Satyr shopping centre, Astana, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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As we walked down the boulevard more and more strange and amazing buildings would appear - some leaning in unusual ways, others shaped like giant eggs – and all drawing you towards the imposing Bayterek Monument which stands about 100m high and consists of a tall latticed tower holding a giant golden orb which represents the egg of the mythical bird Samruk which is supposed to contain all human desires and happiness beyond human reach. We didn't pay to go inside but apparently there is a mould of the president's hand which, if you put you hand inside it, will blast you with a loud rendition of the Kazakh national anthem.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palace of Peace, Astana, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJbdKCeIM1ByepOCf_nP3ixwzGMeaCoDuW6SRNcJIwi5UQq8dPRGBEec9iVhoO58EqtlMBnueF8rdFVkiJ9SNp7GDnnVr9Ylw2hn4rlEJ83qt1Yx7-e7_kFkit3ERDJNhzHecfUImkQU24/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252824%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1200" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJbdKCeIM1ByepOCf_nP3ixwzGMeaCoDuW6SRNcJIwi5UQq8dPRGBEec9iVhoO58EqtlMBnueF8rdFVkiJ9SNp7GDnnVr9Ylw2hn4rlEJ83qt1Yx7-e7_kFkit3ERDJNhzHecfUImkQU24/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252824%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palace of Peace, Astana, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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On the very far side of the boulevard is the pyramid-shaped Palace of Peace made from glass and steel. This building was also designed by Norman Foster and it hosts the triennial Congress of World and Traditional Religions which aims to bring all religions together peacefully.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkU5MvNF3G4_kVyS64SJWntyndYnPpXUiV2BWjpo5lHz7Nj2MDH3goEci8-VgHZjKdQTtv9uPv-Vaqk_Bj5N6vrUNwJGbCzTdJP3XyZNHILlojA3xILMyIEkAqAKAIiQsW5GXbg1aZmRhn/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkU5MvNF3G4_kVyS64SJWntyndYnPpXUiV2BWjpo5lHz7Nj2MDH3goEci8-VgHZjKdQTtv9uPv-Vaqk_Bj5N6vrUNwJGbCzTdJP3XyZNHILlojA3xILMyIEkAqAKAIiQsW5GXbg1aZmRhn/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Astana, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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----------- And now, the final instalment of our Central Asian history lessons ---------------------<br />
<br />
Central Asia's history is dominated by a single individual who probably had a greater impact on Asia and Europe than any other person in history: Ghengis Khan. His story is so incredible that we are doing it a disservice to summarise it here. The best (and free!) resource on Ghengis Khan that we HIGHLY recommend to anyone who seeks to understand just how amazing he was is Dan Carlin's free podcast: The Wrath of the Khans which you can download free here:<br />
http://www.dancarlin.com/product/hardco re-history-43-wrath-of-the-khans-i/<br />
<br />
(There are 5 parts in all - do yourself a favour and just listen to this story - truly amazing!!!)<br />
<br />
Our very poor summary is that in 1162 a young boy, born to a poor family and who shows early signs of high intelligence but also brutality, grows up to form an army of horsemen, the likes of which had never been seen before. In just 20 years they conquer most of Asia and Eastern Europe forming the largest empire ever known and killing between 10 and 70 million people in the most brutal manner imaginable sowing terror across most of the Eurasian continent. This enormous Mongolian empire - so brutally created - leads to huge advances in civilisation as for the first time East and West are able to trade without fear of robbery en route (no-one was going to mess about in Mongolian territory!) but at the same time the Golden Age of Islam is destroyed as the great Islamic kingdoms in Baghdad, Persia, Khorezm, etc are completely destroyed.<br />
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To understand how the Mongolians were able to do this, it is important to understand that for all of human history until about 200 years ago, the quickest that human beings could move from one place to another was by horse. The Mongolians were perhaps the first people to tame horses (Ukrainians also claim this title) and were certainly the greatest horsemen that ever lived. Their mastery of horse riding was sealed when they invented stirrups that allowed them to ride without using their hands and thus they could shoot arrows in great numbers and accuracy while on horseback - stirrups were the most impactful wartime improvement until gunpowder was introduced onto the battlefield. (Trousers also originate in Kazakhstan - as you can imagine, togas, skirts and wraps just wouldn't cut it in this environment). Each Mongolian rider would travel with twenty horses which he would swap constantly to allow him to cover hundreds of kilometers a day. And all these horses would obey his verbal commands. The impact was as if a civilisation, which had tanks and cars, were fighting civilisations that could only travel on foot. The result was that Mongolian armies of 20,000 soldiers could defeat Asian and European armies of hundreds of thousands with ease.<br />
<br />
Ghengis sent one of his sons to go checkout this place called "Europe" they had heard about. When they arrived in Giorgia and Ukraine with a small expeditionary force, they would send a messenger ordering these giant kingdoms to surrender to the mighty Khan or else face extermination. These giant kingdoms had never heard of this Khan and laughed off these silly nomads and so the Mongols would attack and destroy the opposing armies in days and then proceed to systematically kill every man, woman and child in the city. They had a very simple, but effective way of doing this: if there were 1 million people in the city, they would divide these people equally amongst all the soldiers - for example 50 people per soldier - and then the soldiers would execute them one by one using their swords.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcaXH3-h6N9tB9UQAdEErnUipsruD4n5Z5FAW6qt7oNqxG3P51w_KWS-kVxt43BoCoMNtWyMLxgTzQVr6GzNBZeEZ0xUnDTBgE31qRF-IT-WwZ6TYQl-fm01s7nK5RUvXvMQpZHncMJZL/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcaXH3-h6N9tB9UQAdEErnUipsruD4n5Z5FAW6qt7oNqxG3P51w_KWS-kVxt43BoCoMNtWyMLxgTzQVr6GzNBZeEZ0xUnDTBgE31qRF-IT-WwZ6TYQl-fm01s7nK5RUvXvMQpZHncMJZL/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the steppe, Kazakhstan.</td></tr>
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When the news of this new terror began to spread, in many cases it had its desired effect: entire kingdoms would just surrender peacefully to the Mongols and thus be absorbed into the new civilisation. But many kingdoms just couldn't believe that some lowly nomadic tribe, which was so poor that they wore mouse skins as clothes, could possibly defeat their giant Kingdom which had reigned for centuries as the leading civilisation of the region... and so they would resist, and be defeated and then be exterminated.<br />
<br />
When the Mongols were about to invade what is now Beijing, 60,000 women jumped to their deaths from the city walls rather than be raped and butchered by the Mongols. Travellers at that time reported literal mountains of human bones and entire regions where the earth was oily from decomposed human flesh.<br />
<br />
One interesting result of the Mongol era was that by destroying the Chinese and Islamic empires, the Mongols inadvertently facilitated the rise of the European powers which up until this point had been fairly minor players in world history.<br />
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But again, we must emphasise that the above is a gross oversimplification of a fascinating era. Listen to the Wrath of the Khans, you won't regret it!!! Game of Thrones fans, this is the real deal...!<br />
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---------------------------- end of Central Asian history lessons! --------------------------------------- -----<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiV4Dj-H9mxVXwQG2OSVMm41k4z-g3FI58LeZgdnQdTkXsH1XcP5zEt2lZHTOxbpvMDXpd1wn6CFDRAvyx_K-3jjepNihsCtv1VZfLdXqQcHiNJ_Ld8UbhRLPbT2czLi-B_PDytOJk7-Rg/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="896" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiV4Dj-H9mxVXwQG2OSVMm41k4z-g3FI58LeZgdnQdTkXsH1XcP5zEt2lZHTOxbpvMDXpd1wn6CFDRAvyx_K-3jjepNihsCtv1VZfLdXqQcHiNJ_Ld8UbhRLPbT2czLi-B_PDytOJk7-Rg/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Astana, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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We spent a couple of days in Astana admiring the architecture before heading north again to the small village of Burabay which is in a region filled with forests and lakes. Burabay is normally an expensive tourist destination for Russians and Kazakhs but the tourists had left along with the warmth and so much of the place was boarded up. We wandered around until we found some Azerbaijani guys making Shashlyk and they helped us find an apartment we could rent cheaply. It seems that the region has depopulated significantly over the years and so there are lots of empty apartments that are available to rent.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQImqsg-sP-4QsYnHkAvEQfXE-RL-Ej0T-TyuPmb4hBOZWsdWwrYLX7KQ_CKm7c9e07pw_w3EPtlT-lcrhQK4Y3yAmGQvQ5TGzpPJwk6aJ8OLoWXrWOqVXHEf1oRMIaAERrJOUgIcFk7Yi/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQImqsg-sP-4QsYnHkAvEQfXE-RL-Ej0T-TyuPmb4hBOZWsdWwrYLX7KQ_CKm7c9e07pw_w3EPtlT-lcrhQK4Y3yAmGQvQ5TGzpPJwk6aJ8OLoWXrWOqVXHEf1oRMIaAERrJOUgIcFk7Yi/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burabay, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We spent three days wandering around chilly Burabay enjoying the beautiful views of the lakes surrounded by forests that were slowly changing into their red and yellow autumn outfits. At this point we were further north than the most northern part of Mongolia and we were freezing! Even though it was only autumn... by mid winter temperatures of minus 40 degrees are common here!<br />
<br />
Kazakhstan is supposed to be by far the most expensive country in Central Asia and we had been concerned that we would struggle to travel there on our tight budget that was shrinking day by day as our home currency in South Africa slowly collapsed. But, by a stroke of luck, the Kazakh Tenge underwent a dramatic collapse just the week before we arrived which meant that prices were almost halved for us which was a real bonus.<br />
<br />
So we bussed our way south again to Karaganda which is famous as the location of some of the Soviet's worst human rights abuses: this was the centre of the Karlac/Gulag. The Karaganda Labour Camp (Karlac) was a piece of land in Kazakhstan the size of France where the Soviets sent political prisoners to do hard labour for ten years at a time. Millions of people died here working outside in rags in temperatures of minus 40 degrees celsius. Truly horrific. Often, just being related to someone who said something bad about Stalin was enough to have them sentenced to a decade in Karaganda. There was one South African and his son (Henry Glazer) who in the 1930's had left South Africa to travel to the USSR to be part of the new communist utopia. Years later, the father was seen looking at Stalin with a strange look on his face during a speech and so he and his son were sent to Karaganda where they died.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IxFakPBTcfZ3ZqCTt7Ee54UQ-t9xyb_xueUm_m9CRG9JTfocn5NJjVdm1B13WiIjvyraaTwsNHylBAcetHSIrYXdtnUmH1Z70ZebVycHbGR-NXdWP0KO_Rb82Lf5oZ5y23M4XcWJ0Hqi/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252811%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1024" height="590" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IxFakPBTcfZ3ZqCTt7Ee54UQ-t9xyb_xueUm_m9CRG9JTfocn5NJjVdm1B13WiIjvyraaTwsNHylBAcetHSIrYXdtnUmH1Z70ZebVycHbGR-NXdWP0KO_Rb82Lf5oZ5y23M4XcWJ0Hqi/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252811%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Karaganda Labour Camp (Karlac), Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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Besides people imprisoned for various offenses, this era also saw entire ethnic communities relocated across the USSR at whim. The army would arrive in some community (for example Chechnya), give the residents 30mins to pack and they would spend weeks and sometimes months being transported like cattle in trains to far flung areas of the Soviet Republic. Those who survived these horrific journeys were expected to make a new life with whatever they had, sometime in places with no infrastructure at all. They would spend their first nights with no shelter or food provided, often relying on sympathetic Kazakh nomad hospitality for survival. In some ways the Gulag prisoners were actually better off as at least they were taken to camps with shelter and food! There is an informative museum in the old Karlac administrative office where we spent a few hours learning about the brutal inhumanity of this terrible system.<br />
<br />
From Karaganda we caught another overnight train to Almaty, the former capital of Kazakhstan. This leafy city beneath snow capped peaks is the most cosmopolitan in Central Asia and is filled with beautiful parks established by the Russians and lovely old buildings. Travelling in the old USSR is so full of contradictions: terrible brutality and environmental destruction contrasts with beautifully designed cities filled with tree-lined avenues, parks and fountains and stately old buildings. Many older Kazakh people talk warmly of the Soviet era...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKvARrfbGU52cfwqP_2vT_mbyS7__-p-0ae5jjiaCHZHAa1Pt5wcdL8ZZgUD2jKEmzdR0kp2K0MaNNRPVKMqwrAxjZJFA8PkMx5sVAACInLtRpsOqFm4dz6aC-8sMYeIKl0d8_c5nBGUGg/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKvARrfbGU52cfwqP_2vT_mbyS7__-p-0ae5jjiaCHZHAa1Pt5wcdL8ZZgUD2jKEmzdR0kp2K0MaNNRPVKMqwrAxjZJFA8PkMx5sVAACInLtRpsOqFm4dz6aC-8sMYeIKl0d8_c5nBGUGg/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25284%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orthodox church, Almaty</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkWKSUnxIp7pAHsEl1dNx9B_kQRbUBITVMATQBhamI0m5Y04-ITWT33w1mHykhZ46Nh-4zxcGtY1LM5etLPEGALLG3BcI_nSO1s1qQUfyKG9FedDc4bVGNBfQqxKyyZvonWczFZ_sjENA/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="576" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCkWKSUnxIp7pAHsEl1dNx9B_kQRbUBITVMATQBhamI0m5Y04-ITWT33w1mHykhZ46Nh-4zxcGtY1LM5etLPEGALLG3BcI_nSO1s1qQUfyKG9FedDc4bVGNBfQqxKyyZvonWczFZ_sjENA/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intellectual property rights not a big deal in Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBvlHmCUQdyL36_LmjX2tJjTeGXb48TsyYrrEyHMQ_LPfMXmmcm_VdG3JEkRXu9vdqCXHcRCxowDqjYv_OSD29CYEhwmjyAALkJanPXAbG1wBTaY_WdNWC3YPxQcAayIT0_lwNHrEz_Sqv/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBvlHmCUQdyL36_LmjX2tJjTeGXb48TsyYrrEyHMQ_LPfMXmmcm_VdG3JEkRXu9vdqCXHcRCxowDqjYv_OSD29CYEhwmjyAALkJanPXAbG1wBTaY_WdNWC3YPxQcAayIT0_lwNHrEz_Sqv/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252813%2529.jpg" width="502" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almaty, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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Almaty has a nice subway train system where the stations cleverly double as art galleries. The bus system was also very efficient and worked purely on an honesty system - no-one bothered to check tickets yet everyone seemed to pay their way. Cheap meals could be had at canteens with delicious buffets and here and there one would find fake, rip-offs of famous western fast food brands. Bizarrely, there seemed to be few, if any Internet Cafes (hence the delay in our blog) but loads of online gambling shops. We wandered around the Green Bazaar which was great and generally enjoyed ourselves in the warmer climes of this southern city.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxKdgn_uhh4uACSOdGWXE0E01FhQR-dlpwBFC4lYvyhlJDsXB9BNlJsxriLcJDv6qx36ahTQhyDi7PBMyfAKKsa4DROxETX03OCEUJ_G0N30YyuA6sROw_8_B_yRvOc9wccZtNwPba88M/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxKdgn_uhh4uACSOdGWXE0E01FhQR-dlpwBFC4lYvyhlJDsXB9BNlJsxriLcJDv6qx36ahTQhyDi7PBMyfAKKsa4DROxETX03OCEUJ_G0N30YyuA6sROw_8_B_yRvOc9wccZtNwPba88M/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Subway station with art gallery, Almaty, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePazkOUrFxvmxQGVpb-7UuPOyIOFbTUWZyNPWMjXKGkiluXggRIPtea3ahuOHNL-N-YXgi-0T3jTrt_57PKXqqBavSUEPV8wUd9VgwQF2eO0MEpGe-6IZCZ1IhWJhd4e_0F_Qyha-GtYy/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1200" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePazkOUrFxvmxQGVpb-7UuPOyIOFbTUWZyNPWMjXKGkiluXggRIPtea3ahuOHNL-N-YXgi-0T3jTrt_57PKXqqBavSUEPV8wUd9VgwQF2eO0MEpGe-6IZCZ1IhWJhd4e_0F_Qyha-GtYy/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252810%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Powerful WW2 memorial from the Soviet era, Almaty, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1u09CEBdOv7r67igfyr6XWJQP3iEbi-F3JKkiPNMyhyphenhyphenTW-0rbbyYFQm1uZ2qaoVMxxv669TrnRj5sglEn1s6rVLh_Gpeq51q9qrfaGqME103LA8TTxnAu__4X1bqhMH8CVmLlNFv5wDCj/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="848" data-original-width="704" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1u09CEBdOv7r67igfyr6XWJQP3iEbi-F3JKkiPNMyhyphenhyphenTW-0rbbyYFQm1uZ2qaoVMxxv669TrnRj5sglEn1s6rVLh_Gpeq51q9qrfaGqME103LA8TTxnAu__4X1bqhMH8CVmLlNFv5wDCj/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%25286%2529.jpg" width="530" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dried fruits in the Green Market, Almaty, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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And then it was time finally to leave Central Asia and head back to China.... After a long bus journey, we over-nighted near the border and early the next morning caught a lift to the border crossing - proud of the fact that we had planned our money so well that we had only a handful of tenge left in our possession. But after much confusion it turned out the border was closed for three days due to a Chinese holiday... China must be the only country on earth that closes its borders on public holidays which is the time when people most want to travel!!!<br />
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This was incredibly frustrating and so we had to somehow get ourselves back to town and find somewhere to go for three days. We took various taxi rides in all sorts of crazy directions towards the mountains and, as the sun set, found ourselves hitching on the side of the road for hours in the middle of nowhere. Luckily we got a lift to the village of Saty where we ended up sleeping on the couch of the driver: not the way one imagines spending your tenth wedding anniversary!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQuE6THFoNYgj3Pdfyr2g_qeGJZbKob-x7SOfYuimb7mEO1Zpl-i_Nl3LXUInpJ9HD5SjlObTMTN6-elrgB868ZD0VydaRsjQ2iQnXMoDs0PkxPPYmg_oR2jv6m3BQLGLClyxI0Edz7Bz/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252816%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQuE6THFoNYgj3Pdfyr2g_qeGJZbKob-x7SOfYuimb7mEO1Zpl-i_Nl3LXUInpJ9HD5SjlObTMTN6-elrgB868ZD0VydaRsjQ2iQnXMoDs0PkxPPYmg_oR2jv6m3BQLGLClyxI0Edz7Bz/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252816%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saty, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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The next morning we bought supplies and hiked into a national park up to the beautiful Kolsai Lakes where we spent three days. We found a little cabin (no shower, no running water at all) where we managed to make ourselves comfortable. As we were about to dive into the beautiful tree-ringed lake there were alarmed shouts by park rangers... of course, no swimming in the lake... facecloth and water-jug showers... again! Our spirits were lifted by beautiful hikes into the mountains with alpine lakes and young Kazakh travellers who shared their vodka with us. Vodka is BIG in Kazakhstan.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vN1LLmN_eoYb-PU2F5RmpMDpFhKNi6TQOwSugAoAtXPB3gyFgI3Gv9SSI9-ciXh9A-1cQ3pmRZDtcbMnswlLZbgCZlrA8ZBHcPpPpPF_ekPm2-M5w67e1D-YMg7FdnJl4NzQGN3Rv2gD/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1264" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vN1LLmN_eoYb-PU2F5RmpMDpFhKNi6TQOwSugAoAtXPB3gyFgI3Gv9SSI9-ciXh9A-1cQ3pmRZDtcbMnswlLZbgCZlrA8ZBHcPpPpPF_ekPm2-M5w67e1D-YMg7FdnJl4NzQGN3Rv2gD/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kolsai Lake, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyClR9B2UFcXDNQ9PtXn0u2hdcMNOslGpOWsOQXoLWbw5Fk7uejennoP1c4yqif9uuSvta8vCBIFcytKEAWYvMEm4nsc2Yf-Kv1yEjYZk_3WeqmMAqngwknpSExrf_VjFONZkqdg5dg7GS/s1600/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="1056" height="572" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyClR9B2UFcXDNQ9PtXn0u2hdcMNOslGpOWsOQXoLWbw5Fk7uejennoP1c4yqif9uuSvta8vCBIFcytKEAWYvMEm4nsc2Yf-Kv1yEjYZk_3WeqmMAqngwknpSExrf_VjFONZkqdg5dg7GS/s640/blog6+2.1447255878+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">10th wedding anniversary picnic, Kolsai, Kazakhstan</td></tr>
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Once again we were counting our pennies and had to make sure we had enough to get back to the border which was 10 complicated travel hours away. We had to hike out of the park in the dark in order give ourselves a chance of making it to the border on time - being chased by vicious nomad dogs on the way (useful tip: dogs that live in mountains where there are wolves are very dangerous... always carry a big stick and be prepared to use it). Time was running out as we knew the border was closing at 6:30pm but we were doing OK until one of our hitched lifts decided to take a radical 100km detour to some remote nomad house where of course we had to have chai/choy and explain how we were in fact "Africans". Miraculously we made it to the border with 15min to spare and found it sort of closed but after many desperate please and pointing out that it was in fact 6:15pm, they allowed us through.<br />
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And then we jogged through to immigration to have our passports stamped out of Kazakhstan... elated that we had in fact made it.... the beautiful, blonde Kazakh immigration agent smiled sweetly and just as she was about to stamp our passport.... er.... nooooooo.... there was a problem... Kazakhstan se ma se ... !!!<br />
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So, here's the thing: Kazakhstan has an old, bizarre and simply STUPID law which says that when you enter Kazakhstan, in addition to your passport being stamped, you must have an immigration card that gets stamped twice. The first stamp must be on entry and then, after entering, you must spend a whole day registering yourself in the first city you arrive in. Once registered you get a second stamp on your Immigration Card.<br />
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However, if you enter Kazakhstan via the airport you get both stamps at the airport and recently, the immigration officials at land borders have been giving two stamps on entry too. The internet is filled with traveller websites explaining this process - which we had studied in detail prior to arriving in Kazakhstan. When we entered Kazakhstan we got TWO stamps on entry and two different immigration officials at the border confirmed that this meant we did NOT need to register in the nearest town. So, of course, now that we were exiting Kazakhstan, the officials were unhappy. They said that the Kazakh immigration officials were wrong to stamp our card twice and that we should have registered at the nearest town. So they confiscated our passports and we had to turn around and trudge back to Kazakhstan, frustrated beyond belief.<br />
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The immigration police dropped us at a local hotel and said they would fetch us and take us to court the next morning. Sure enough, the bossy official arrived the next morning and we headed off to the immigration head office where we spent a ridiculous few hours showing the officials that their own government website explained that you could receive two stamps on entry at land borders and them explaining to us kindly that no, their own immigration officials had made a mistake in stamping our cards twice on entry and, while politely apologising for this, saying that unfortunately we would have to pay a R10,000 ($800) fine!! We must make it clear that this was definitely not a corrupt, bribe-seeking process. These guys were doing everything by the book and they just could not see that it was wrong that we should pay a fine for their own official's mistake. Their argument was "yes our officials made a mistake, but as a result your broke the law and so you must pay the fine...".<br />
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We started to get really ****** off at this point and then said that we didn't have that kind of money so now what? Then someone mentioned "deportation" and slowly an alternative plan began to emerge. It turns out that many Chinese builders come and work in Kazakhstan and overstay their visas and then arrive at the border with "no money" and then get deported to China. So we began asking about this option with our main concern being: will we get a bright blue "DEPORTED" stamp in our passports which would affect future travels? The General of immigration was a nice guy who seemed genuinely sorry for us - so we reasoned with him and he promised that if we chose the DEPORTED option that he would personally make sure that we only got the normal tourist exit stamp. He did explain though that we would not be able to return to the country for five years... we assured him that somehow we would try our very best to cope with the devastating sadness of not being able to return to Kazakhstan but if that saved us paying the fine, we'd have to manage...<br />
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And so in the afternoon we headed off to court where we had to sign all sorts of documents in Russian that we, of course, didn't understand and then with the help of a translator we tried once more time to explain how we were not in the wrong to the judge who seemed sympathetic but who then asked anyway: "so you admit your guilt?" to which we of course had to say "ok yes." And because we confirmed that we didn't have the money for the fine, she then ruled that we would be deported in the morning.<br />
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The next morning we were collected from our hotel by the General and then whisked like VIPs through immigration... there we had a few tense moment when it seemed that the General and the blonde immigration lady seemed to be disagreeing about the "DEPORTED" stamp but when our passports were returned to us, we saw with relief that the stamp was just the normal exit stamp. The blonde lady looked genuinely sad when she said "but now you cannot come back to Kazakhstan for 5 years!" and looking at her, it was like there were a hundred totally different ways we could have responded on the spectrum from love to hate.... but we just smiled sweetly... and then a just a little while later we were standing with huge smiles in front of a friendly, efficient Chinese immigration official and in seconds we were through and outside, blinking, smiling in CHINA!!! It felt like we had come home.<br />
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And so, four months of truly epic travels in Central Asia had come to an end. It certainly was not a relaxing holiday in the typical sense but rather an epic adventure that we will never forget. A region that had once been a blank spot on our mental map of the world has now been filled in with magnificent mountains, stunning valleys, diverse cultures, bland foods, sweet fruits, ice-creams, lakes, yaks, horses, ancient civilisations, modern cities, interesting political systems, confusing languages, deserts, grasslands, flowers, glacial rivers, yurts, homestays, strange forms of public transport and shashlyk! But without question, the most memorable part of Central Asia is the legendary hospitality of its people - and to this day as we travel far away in other parts of Asia we find our selves unable to stop using the traditional Central Asian method of thanking someone by holding a hand over your heart while making a little bow of your head and murmuring "Ragmet!"<br />
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Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Almaty, Kazakhstan43.2220146 76.851248542.8517206 76.205801499999993 43.5923086 77.4966955tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-674862867409184202015-09-15T19:09:00.000+03:002019-06-10T12:23:18.372+02:00Totally(-tarianly) happy in Uzbekistan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We left Tajikistan almost as easily as we entered, a quick cursory look at our passports and we were waved on. When we'd entered Tajikistan, it had been even easier: we hadn't even been required to step out of our UAZ minibus and into the immigration hall since our driver's cucumber and tomato gifts to the officials had eased our way in (see our previous blog for those details).<br />
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On entering Uzbekistan, however, we were immediately aware that we were entering a police state. Long queues of frustrated people were caused by the unpacking of every single bag of everyone entering the country. Each item of clothing was unhurriedly shaken out (including dirty underwear!), every zip of our backpacks opened, toiletry bags unpacked, every tube of facewash, shampoo, lip-ice, sunblock, etc opened and peered at. Our camera, phones and kindles were turned on and painstakingly searched for offensive images (we still don't know what is considered offensive). It felt very intrusive. The border guards seemed to get a special thrill from looking through our pictures - possibly providing them with a more entertaining day than their usual 9 to 5. We were to find that this was pretty much par for the course in Uzbekistan, by far the most in-your-face authoritarian country we've been to.<br />
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Having survived the thorough shakedown at the border, we travelled by train to the swelteringly hot town of Termiz on the banks of the Amu Darya (Oxus) river along the Afghan border. This train journey was made extra special by the fact that it had only the tiniest of windows to allow in the faintest of breezes, and no air-conditioning... in a country that sees 50+ degree temperatures every year! With temperatures topping 40 degrees in the afternoons, we'd head straight for the soft-serve ice-cream stands. In Uzbekistan all you have to do to get a cheap, delicious soft-serve ice-cream is to step outside and walk 200m in any direction and - even if you do this blindfolded - you'll walk straight into a soft-serve ice-cream vendor selling the cones for the equivalent of R1.50 ($0.10). We had at least two delicious cones a day! On arriving in Termiz we found that the Tajik preference for the uni-brow existed in Uzbekistan too. A thick, black uni brow is considered the pinnacle of beauty. And if you're unlucky enough to have been born with two separate eyebrows, it's easy enough to just pencil in a nice thick, black unitary one.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kcDeGTwvMiWVmlGC63qSYhUoplFmrHzw2mvBLWglzABu7aZqwmCDeCwfvIyCPTFipJr20PDw7xx9NGkRhdmiIaEwLm1HDxWMaT5xuLjUfPH3Ah1h47dhZazhkUVzwCmdgZ5tyAHTaZjX/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="992" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kcDeGTwvMiWVmlGC63qSYhUoplFmrHzw2mvBLWglzABu7aZqwmCDeCwfvIyCPTFipJr20PDw7xx9NGkRhdmiIaEwLm1HDxWMaT5xuLjUfPH3Ah1h47dhZazhkUVzwCmdgZ5tyAHTaZjX/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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We spent a couple of days in Termiz working out how this country works, the prices of things, the kind of food available, and figuring out the crazy currency issues. Uzbekistan has an official currency exchange rate to the US Dollar that is almost half that of the black market. The US Dollar to Uzbekistan som (UZS) official rate is 1USD = 2750 UZS and the black market rate is 1USD = 4500 UZS. What most tourists (the price-sensitive ones) do is bring in lots of USD and try to change them on the black market. You can draw USD from most ATMs in Central Asia, so we had loaded up on USD in Tajikistan (more than enough for our full stay in Uzbekistan) and then had to figure out how the black market thing worked. So Dave put up the collar of his leather jacket, donned his dark glasses and, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, went off in search of the black market... no not really but you can see a pic of Dodgy Dave counting his cash: in the picture his pile is worth about R1000...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Counting money</td></tr>
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Finding a black market money changer turned out to be an easier and a less shady exercise than one might imagine. All you have to do is pop down to the local bazaar and, amongst the stout Uzbek ladies selling fruit and whatnot, you'll find numerous money changers with bricks of money in their hands, ready to do a deal. The bricks of cash are due to a past high inflationary period in which the prices of basic consumables reached into the 1000s of som and after which the central bank has not bothered to lop off any of the trailing zeros on the currency (1000UZS = R3). Coupled with the fact that the 1000 som note is the most commonly available one, you find yourself counting out dozens of notes at every transaction. Think of paying your three night hotel bill, that comes to UZS270,000 in 1000 bills (roughly the equivalent of paying a R800 bill in R3 notes). First you have to count the money in front of the hotel manager and then she has to count it all again in front of you. It certainly does not make for quick check-outs!<br />
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At the bazaars we would change USD100 at a time so that we did not have to do it every day. USD100 is the equivalent of UZS450,000 - so you have to stand around, doing an illegal transaction in broad daylight, counting bricks of cash. Also the moneychangers can have a dodgy trick or two up their sleeves so you have to be hyper-aware through it all. Everyone has to go through this all the time and everyone carries around piles of money openly in their hands, in plastic shopping bags, etc. We found it all a little disconcerting initially but then got quite used to it. The Reserve Bank governor of Uzbekistan is certainly not winning any awards at the annual meeting of Central Bankers in Jackson Hole...<br />
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In Termiz we visited a museum which detailed the town's thousands of years of history dating back countless civilisations. Termiz is also the birthplace of the Imam Abu Isa Muhammad Tirmidhi (824 - 892 CE) credited with one of the six canonical hadith compilations (sayings of the Prophet) in Sunni Islam, including: "To strive for knowledge is the duty of every Muslim." More recently, it was across Termiz's "Friendship Bridge" that the Soviets launched their invasion of neighbouring Afghanistan in 1979.<br />
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Moving on from Termiz, having paid our 'Learning the New Country School Fees', we were ready to explore the rest of the ancient-monument-tourist-showstopper that is Uzbekistan. We briefly visited Tashkent, the capital, which has some nice parks and impressive buildings in the central area but we didn't like it as much as we had Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan. It was great though to be in a city with a well run underground subway. The subway in Tashkent is beautiful with lovely mosaics, high ceilings with chandeliers and intricately designed pillars. We don't have any pics though because when we tried to take some, one of the many gendarmes that roam the stations blew his whistle in alarm and charged at Dave, ordering him to delete all photos in front of him. The streets in Tashkent are disconcertingly wide which makes for a spacious city but also a lot of dashing around to avoid cars - it is not the most pedestrian-friendly city. One unusual feature of Tashkent, and in fact the whole country, is that pretty much every car is a taxi. If you need to get somewhere, you just hail the nearest car and then find out whether that person is heading in the same direction - if so, they will take you along for a fee. Our language skills weren't good enough to manage these negotiations so we just used the comprehensive city bus and subway system.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great patriotic war memorial, Tashkent, Uzbekistan</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tashkent, Uzbekistan</td></tr>
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Uzbekistan just crawls with policemen in dark green uniforms with hats that look like a cross between a top hat and peak cap. Every bag is searched when entering the subway (often twice at two sequential checkpoints) and you can be asked to show your passport in which your visa is scrutinised followed by possibly all the other entries in your passport. If you're taking several trips on the subway, this becomes very tiresome. Taking overland long distance trains is even more tiresome where bag checks, metal detectors and passport inspections can be done at four or five sequential points. It is hard to hold your tongue and not burst out exclaiming: "What on earth do you want to check that the other four checkpoints haven't checked already?!". Taking a bus or taxi in no way helps you to escape this policing. There are several road checkpoints in which the vehicle is stopped, every person's passport is inspected and if you're a foreigner, you are invariably required to get out of the bus or taxi and 'register' at the office. This entails the policeman writing down your passport details and looking you over suspiciously for being from South Africa while not being a 'negro'.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvKc_LglgTFwepvGQ2Eqm8Qr0wamQ0u_AoVNnJEVjMG-ffY49w9EWXdTTdCCJ3xC2k2wgqs3t9GpKWZDBJIqiqbgAIocUc6XwkE0eENgNB-ipWX3UUyg-FbaV1rKQndVr5vBltxLHM5Hr/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252834%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="960" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvKc_LglgTFwepvGQ2Eqm8Qr0wamQ0u_AoVNnJEVjMG-ffY49w9EWXdTTdCCJ3xC2k2wgqs3t9GpKWZDBJIqiqbgAIocUc6XwkE0eENgNB-ipWX3UUyg-FbaV1rKQndVr5vBltxLHM5Hr/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252834%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Melons along the road to Samarkand<br />
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The other tiresome rule that all foreigners have to follow is to obtain a 'registration slip' from every hotel you stay at for every night's stay, verifying where you spent each day. These are supposed to be handed in for inspection as you leave the country at the border crossing's immigration office. This makes any camping or staying in homestays impossible as that would require daily registration at a police station, which we were told is not a recommended recreational holiday pastime.<br />
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The Uzbeks themselves seem to take all this policing in their stride and were we told by locals that it makes the country 'safe'. Since there is little general crime throughout Central Asia it seems this is more a reference to potential terrorist activity. We certainly value our religiously tolerant society back home and would not willingly live in an authoritarian police state, but one does wonder what a population may be prepared to give up if potential terrorist activity is a constant threat. There is an Uzbek terrorist group, the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, which has recently preformed terror attacks in the country and which has now aligned with ISIS. Similarly, having a neighbour's view of the chaos and suffering caused by the Taliban in Afghanistan has just added to the state's desire to keep a strong hand on public life. However, the other reason postulated by critics for the need for a tightly controlled society is the rampant corruption of the kleptocratic ruling family of Uzbekistan. President Karimov is not kind to his opponents, the boiling alive of his opponents is known to be in his torture repertoire...<br />
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After passing through Tashkent, our next stop was the Fergana Valley, renowned as the silk and cotton mecca of Central Asia. Cotton production on a massive commercial scale was brought to Central Asia by the Soviets as the Cold War intensified and the USSR was reluctant to be dependent on the US or British colonies for its cotton supply. The drying up of the Aral Sea, arguably the world's biggest man-made natural disaster, is due to the introduction of thirsty cotton crops which suck up most of the water from the Amu-Darya (Oxus) and Syr-Darya rivers before they can reach the Aral Sea. There seem to be no plans by the Uzbek government to properly address this disaster. It is common to see hosepipes running all day to water gardens and the irrigation of crops happens in the middle of 40 degree days by merely flooding entire fields with water. There has been no attempt to use water-efficient, drip irrigation or merely irrigating at night. Taps are often seen running just because no-one can be bothered to close them. Surprisingly, we were told by locals that water is one of the natural resources that Uzbekistan has plenty of. The dry Aral Sea indicates otherwise.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO8eWreYP9GMLtasl234YBoNBasZ3eTL38Y1obgSp21Lou2a6_m28Z41Yz7-Sn5JDZMjVshb9r5-acsVjnl3zAwjQeQfW6PPJ5ffryXrcXAs4FMHxPPwLQrKeL8wCdT3BDVoDRiHtya2N5/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252832%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO8eWreYP9GMLtasl234YBoNBasZ3eTL38Y1obgSp21Lou2a6_m28Z41Yz7-Sn5JDZMjVshb9r5-acsVjnl3zAwjQeQfW6PPJ5ffryXrcXAs4FMHxPPwLQrKeL8wCdT3BDVoDRiHtya2N5/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252832%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picnic with Fotima and friends in Ferghana valley</td></tr>
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Cotton production now absorbs 28% of Uzbekistan's labour force, contributes some 30% of its GDP and is its biggest export. A generation ago, it was compulsory for all adults and sometimes children to spend two months of the year picking cotton. Even professionals, doctors, lawyers, etc were compelled to do their two months of labour in the cotton fields. We got conflicting reports on to what extent this forced labour is still enforced now. Some people claim that all workers are now paid, while others said that while the work was (lowly) paid, you had no option to refuse it. While we were there, the government ordered all wedding venues to cancel all bookings for the two months of harvesting so that the the population would not be distracted from harvesting! Read story here.<br />
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The use of child labour has apparently reduced significantly but companies like WalMart, Tesco, Ikea, etc still refuse to buy products containing Uzbek cotton claiming it is a product of slave labour.<br />
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The Uzbek economy is the second wealthiest amongst the four Central Asian economies we've visited. Measured by what each person in the country can buy with the annual income generated by the economy (annual GDP {PPP} per capita): Tajikistan is the poorest with $2700, Kyrgyzstan $3360, Uzbekistan $5600, and Kazakhstan, with its massive oil and gas reserves generating $24000 per person (South Africa is at $13000). Tajikistan is the poorest country in the region but has had the highest economic growth rates in recent years, bringing it close in wealth to that of Kyrgyzstan. It was particularly interesting for us as South Africans to see the relatively high standard of living in terms of access to health-care, standard of education, access to basic services and employment levels of even the least well off countries. Even the remote regions of Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan were better off than much of South Africa despite South Africa's per capita GDP being higher than all three countries. South Africa's much higher level of inequality is one obvious cause of this phenomenon.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAByE2cIk6ZxYL8GLVfNJO1xS40RmDzzCrQquvp4XG0Py39rUEp2FoRR4w1KMJCbE_7QozvozRTAmXsnGXsLrNucD8bOrztbjRV2v-AtK6ldaMjT8Jc-HIOeoaOAOooHCU0Z-yaivpnVgy/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAByE2cIk6ZxYL8GLVfNJO1xS40RmDzzCrQquvp4XG0Py39rUEp2FoRR4w1KMJCbE_7QozvozRTAmXsnGXsLrNucD8bOrztbjRV2v-AtK6ldaMjT8Jc-HIOeoaOAOooHCU0Z-yaivpnVgy/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orchard in the desert, Ferghana valley</td></tr>
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In the Ferghana Valley we visited the bustling silk and cotton bazaars and got to see silk and cotton weaving workshops for cloth and carpets, still made by hand, in the loud colours and busy patterns typical of the region. The Uzbeks are distinguished culturally from the other Central Asian countries in that they have been a settled people living in cities and farming for millennia. Settled peoples allow for the production of agricultural surpluses which in turn enable the creation of city states, hence the amazing bazaars and astounding buildings we were still to see. A highlight of the Ferghana Valley was our meeting Fotima, a friendly young woman with an exuberant personality, in a shared taxi on the way to one of the many bazaars. Fotima chatted away to us throughout the two hour taxi ride and then invited us to her family home for dinner the following evening. The next day, as promised a private taxi arrived, promptly to whisk us away. When we walked into Fotima's home, we were surprised to see the courtyard set up for a party banquet. What Fotima had not told us was that she'd invited us to her farewell celebration - she was to begin her three year college degree in Pharmacology in Tashkent the following week. The evening was a treat meeting all her friends and family, including her grandmother who had the bright blue eyes attributed by historians to the conquests of the Alexander the Great. We were fed course upon course of traditional Uzbek food and danced to local tunes, of which the most popular currently is a catchy pop song about beautiful girls and angels: Watch the music video here.<br />
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These tunes were played by a seven piece band who had all the instruments for a major show: drums, keyboard, guitar etc although it was immediately obvious that not one was actually playing an instrument! They all mimed to the CD track that was played in the background (which was most often the one about beautiful girls and angels)...it was rather entertaining to watch the guitarist or keyboard player dash from lazily puffing on a cigarette when he realised his instrument was "playing" loud and clear without him, or the drummer listlessly patting his drum with little regard to the actual beat being played in the background. It was lots of fun anyway and we were exhorted to make one of the many speeches. This we happily did and we were then required to do the post-speech dance. This involves the speech-makers dancing to a song chosen by the MC and then being showered with 1000 som notes by the crowd - the money all goes to the band. Hilariously, the song they chose for us was "Gangnam Style" which luckily Dave does a fair impression of.<br />
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We also got to visit Fotima's family orchard outside the town. The orchard lay along a glacial-melt stream running through barren desert and was filled with sweet peaches and apricots ready for harvest.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_IM12eCIfidnugntIXdxat3QsdLxGJKEqwSzECbunBSvqHAMCFQvUTDXB73JV-Eeu0DKbskwFiIV5uShyJGmKfUGsEMHwu89A5TqANLtupLVVaSO0yok_qjQUenFUXpAznGTlDxM7fTS/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252825%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_IM12eCIfidnugntIXdxat3QsdLxGJKEqwSzECbunBSvqHAMCFQvUTDXB73JV-Eeu0DKbskwFiIV5uShyJGmKfUGsEMHwu89A5TqANLtupLVVaSO0yok_qjQUenFUXpAznGTlDxM7fTS/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252825%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fotima harvesting peaches, Ferghana valley</td></tr>
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Leaving the Fergana Valley, via a quick stop in Tashkent, we headed towards our ancient city tour of the fabulous trio of Samarkand, Khiva and Bukhara. These ancient cities, located on silk routes between Europe and China, have evidence of human activity for ten's of millennia and evidence of populated cities from thousands of years BCE. Their buildings recall the Golden Age, coined by historians as the period of Central Asia's Age of Enlightenment circa, 750 to 1150 CE. The medressas, bazaars and mosques we were to explore were the sites of the creative musings, debates and writings of scientists, polymaths, philosophers, poets, musicians, astronomers and geographers who included the intellectual giants Ibn Sina, Al-Biruni and Ibn Al-Khorezmi. Ibn Sina was born in a village near Bukhara and Al-Biruni and Ibn Al-Khorezmi were from the Khorezm region, where the city of Khiva is located. These thinkers each had an indelible impact on the progress of science, philosophy and mathematics in both the eastern and western worlds. Ibn Sina is known, amongst many other achievements, for his "Cannon of Medicine" which formed the basis of modern medicine in the west. Ibn Al-Khorezmi ("Algorismi" as in algorithm) is the father of the mathematical field of Algebra. Correspondence between Al-Biruni and Ibn Sina reflect debates at the time that anticipated the key points of Darwinism by eight centuries and astronomical calculations that proved the centricity of the sun in our solar system, claims for which Europe was still burning heretics 600 years later.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusNoyx2ufF0gBU_KwODPSjB618hP9Vl02A46CkxlGQUgxaugUmrAh8J6507G1_e-ILD14_NaD_CYBOYaKYgrG7E1r4Vy2VbNhvYX64Jj9fYevnpc7CRr5PeiHsuuiIAjgFwmhI20qJiTf/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252819%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusNoyx2ufF0gBU_KwODPSjB618hP9Vl02A46CkxlGQUgxaugUmrAh8J6507G1_e-ILD14_NaD_CYBOYaKYgrG7E1r4Vy2VbNhvYX64Jj9fYevnpc7CRr5PeiHsuuiIAjgFwmhI20qJiTf/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252819%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samarkand</td></tr>
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Ahmad Ibn Muhammed Al-farghani from the Fergana Valley was a contemporary of Ibn Sina and Al-biruni during the Central Asian Golden Age (9th century). He was a mathematician and astronomer who contributed planetary calculations comparable to that of the celebrated Greek intellectuals of their day. The mariner Christopher Columbus famously utilised Al-farghani's calculations of the circumference of the earth, 500 years after he had computed them. Columbus mistakenly assumed the calculations were in Roman miles instead of Arabic miles thereby reducing the calculations by 25% and, as we know, he then proceeded to get well and truly lost!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMvjhIeHFgfIIR3kPTWnCI3Y40HVyMikqm8y4F4mo0EbE2uAnucvrSn9WjU6oOVXkvPYb1Bv41ul0WLQuu0K3IaLUDtI1D_vs_ZzG-F06yi62L4Wgx58b_ACslIBzPEIA0I6UWYVAD8pdZ/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="896" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMvjhIeHFgfIIR3kPTWnCI3Y40HVyMikqm8y4F4mo0EbE2uAnucvrSn9WjU6oOVXkvPYb1Bv41ul0WLQuu0K3IaLUDtI1D_vs_ZzG-F06yi62L4Wgx58b_ACslIBzPEIA0I6UWYVAD8pdZ/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samarkand</td></tr>
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Our arrival in Samarkand was a little difficult. We arrived there at 8pm after a long but uneventful shared taxi ride to find that the entire city had been blockaded by the green-suited gendarmes. Our taxi driver tried several routes into the city to get us to our guest house but there was just no way in. In the midst of our usual language confusion we realised that everyone in the city was on foot and we would have to carry our bags and walk the 8kms to our hotel in the dark! Because we couldn't ask anyone what was going on we accepted our fate, pulled on our walking shoes, bought an ice-cream to ease the frustration and speculated all through the two hour walk about what on earth was going on. It turned out that the President was visiting the city's famous annual music festival and with no warning (for security reasons) the city had suddenly been blockaded to facilitate his evening out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMSRavoTVclLkJ7Mrv1kmmmV0rGfK0LycT945XTV7H_gsWaW63g54ls21kPqm0Zbw8OJo-CaIHoMXxliRFyaCqyRFGSxBHYVQkAXOBoxnOYwTSAMBlYrKkum04Rsw7zB_AGmRDsHGBll8/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252816%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMSRavoTVclLkJ7Mrv1kmmmV0rGfK0LycT945XTV7H_gsWaW63g54ls21kPqm0Zbw8OJo-CaIHoMXxliRFyaCqyRFGSxBHYVQkAXOBoxnOYwTSAMBlYrKkum04Rsw7zB_AGmRDsHGBll8/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252816%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samarkand</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9CrxjEt8dQrB4E7b-cUkeeBBbgL0xLGngWney7W6eEBRsCKqHHh8hWPJ1eW-d4GQwEqvL213FTZx1kK7I3Qi0fBbXVKYH_BoDVJm25VtySLEq679lioGMOJJ-ARHPnO7rMj9VpxhjZoK/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9CrxjEt8dQrB4E7b-cUkeeBBbgL0xLGngWney7W6eEBRsCKqHHh8hWPJ1eW-d4GQwEqvL213FTZx1kK7I3Qi0fBbXVKYH_BoDVJm25VtySLEq679lioGMOJJ-ARHPnO7rMj9VpxhjZoK/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252814%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samarkand</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj24qXxzpUrCZtTRNx6k47nVsY1VlJ2uozhvsmGBZHqkohidN1clmO-dp18pA6empbJH-SHwgcD3esLXCuht7LejfgTaX_wCyitJyJpKSLSRrnPZFhj81kek36Vk0iapFzurlfAub_jTfNv/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252818%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj24qXxzpUrCZtTRNx6k47nVsY1VlJ2uozhvsmGBZHqkohidN1clmO-dp18pA6empbJH-SHwgcD3esLXCuht7LejfgTaX_wCyitJyJpKSLSRrnPZFhj81kek36Vk0iapFzurlfAub_jTfNv/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252818%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samarkand</td></tr>
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Anyway, we made it in good health to our guest house and set about planning the upcoming days that would be packed with some power sightseeing in the 35+ degree heat. The ancient buildings in Samarkand have been well preserved and restored. In some areas, one is surrounded 360 degrees by blue-tiled mosques, mausoleums, medressas and city squares that are dazzlingly beautiful and very old. The names drip with eastern exoticism: Bibi-Khanym Mosque and Mausoleum (14th century), Shah-i-Zinda (7th century), Gur-E-Amir Mausoleum (1404), Rukhobad Mausoleum (1380), Afrosiab (7th century), Tomb of the Old Testament Prophet Daniel (5th Century BCE), Hazrat-Hizr Mosque (8th century), Ishratkhana Mausoleum (15th century) and the showstopper: the majestic Registan which is the site of the world's oldest preserved medressas - anything older was destroyed by Genghis Khan. The Registan is made up of the Ulugbek Medressa (1420), Ulugbek Observatory (1420), Sher Dor Medressa (1636) and Tilla-Kari Medressa (1660).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRSKhM7MJcszCxiWfyVZBDbv4tKxZSdcygRasZ3Aipx99GbvkjbuYcywjbo7DihA116NZclscg9FNsgt_gIfSaCouqWlOH7QrfPug6y7B5asrAzCk6NiYZxzKUnb-RfiuarA8r9V6qnO4/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRSKhM7MJcszCxiWfyVZBDbv4tKxZSdcygRasZ3Aipx99GbvkjbuYcywjbo7DihA116NZclscg9FNsgt_gIfSaCouqWlOH7QrfPug6y7B5asrAzCk6NiYZxzKUnb-RfiuarA8r9V6qnO4/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Registan, Samarkand</td></tr>
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While wandering near the Registan we were clandestinely offered tickets to that night's show of the same music festival that the President had visited. After completing what felt like a rather furtive transaction, the seller was accosted by the ubiquitous police while we hurried off to avoid drama. The festival is an annual world folk music extravaganza in the spectacular setting of the Registan. Ahead of the show we heard the musicians doing their sound-checks and ...wait a minute...that's Xhosa they're singing in! Sure enough, there was a South African show on the bill and we excitedly anticipated the slot. After the show the South African band wandered amongst the audience and we pounced on them and began rapping away in Xhosa :) Turned out they were from Port Elizabeth (near our home village) and the rest of the Uzbek audience were delighted to take videos and pics of these people all clicking their tongues at one another!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgsdhgsSwwKBtb6rIw4g0XKlgJlLijK_CBDfKjlHe5MOnNMkvkWcf7ZE5YWe4k58op1CvLUGiO26Jdr25gCxuTrZyrL-1NRuqJOVVniWhFp80WET-0yXJ9sYKs4JvWPa03f5S6BNRpsNg/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252836%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="624" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgsdhgsSwwKBtb6rIw4g0XKlgJlLijK_CBDfKjlHe5MOnNMkvkWcf7ZE5YWe4k58op1CvLUGiO26Jdr25gCxuTrZyrL-1NRuqJOVVniWhFp80WET-0yXJ9sYKs4JvWPa03f5S6BNRpsNg/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252836%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samarkand music festival at the Reigstan</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeq7TlD-e068RU6IVDilxUzP72VXvA8tg2Cg9X6GR7bQGOSanWJyyx1bnsURZHiXjBAhGupW31FNICzyT_MsSiC2YIBhPVmkzwTvSVaKbRw81PiMz5W0e3wJOFCwrwYdrMroTB2Na1ixIe/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeq7TlD-e068RU6IVDilxUzP72VXvA8tg2Cg9X6GR7bQGOSanWJyyx1bnsURZHiXjBAhGupW31FNICzyT_MsSiC2YIBhPVmkzwTvSVaKbRw81PiMz5W0e3wJOFCwrwYdrMroTB2Na1ixIe/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%25284%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samarkand music festival at the Reigstan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0Cqeyvrd0bRt6Me-VVcUhS-nPmFsefa4c5b0cnuOL4uWYbMCwcOkyXnd71XbA0cAzqhojd_-xSFNF4cS1OXHpmELVp2BSOlSa6OvjDG9xXP5CQjSCI6ebwy7iTCe6jujAVVow1ISVmxx/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0Cqeyvrd0bRt6Me-VVcUhS-nPmFsefa4c5b0cnuOL4uWYbMCwcOkyXnd71XbA0cAzqhojd_-xSFNF4cS1OXHpmELVp2BSOlSa6OvjDG9xXP5CQjSCI6ebwy7iTCe6jujAVVow1ISVmxx/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252813%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samarkand music festival</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After Samarkand, it was off to the ancient walled city of Khiva in the far west of the country near Turkmenistan. Khiva is literally a museum city in which its medressas, mosques and mausoleums are still situated within ancient city mud walls. Here the old buildings were noted for their unusual tapered wooden columns as well as the magnificent, unfinished Kalto Minor Minaret. We also celebrated Rejane's birthday in a restaurant in the exotic heart of this ancient city with tall minarets looming above us in the evening light.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i5Ra74B5ltOWH_o_vUgt0KAY9PTw9gHEiiXaL6sM7emG18S6K6SxZE1loFJb0Stdkxyqz6i3ZNPPJ_CqMXxj__9IeB1Httb1Jm7uEgdBmHdauSzrWWhr7tzCKAQ8BJeZOgNMX6X3Y38-/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252839%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i5Ra74B5ltOWH_o_vUgt0KAY9PTw9gHEiiXaL6sM7emG18S6K6SxZE1loFJb0Stdkxyqz6i3ZNPPJ_CqMXxj__9IeB1Httb1Jm7uEgdBmHdauSzrWWhr7tzCKAQ8BJeZOgNMX6X3Y38-/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252839%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khiva sunset</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDIPr2z7U9NRdDAttOXoO5oDp0oSVI1LiiLhqpc1pUYke-5E_0G8hn-nI9VIkkC37WWc38UU-xdy0hUze7KvX4AGg8YJwyQapYd0zMD-kUP8zD6d-gviZ0y7IGGp3RqlRy0LCQ9q1VBRa/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252842%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDIPr2z7U9NRdDAttOXoO5oDp0oSVI1LiiLhqpc1pUYke-5E_0G8hn-nI9VIkkC37WWc38UU-xdy0hUze7KvX4AGg8YJwyQapYd0zMD-kUP8zD6d-gviZ0y7IGGp3RqlRy0LCQ9q1VBRa/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252842%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wooden columns, Khiva</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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In addition to the tiresome currency management issues, all Uzbek restaurants also have an irritating habit of overcharging on every bill - without fail. Most people probably don't check their bills very carefully but when you're backpacking for a year and your home currency is devaluing rapidly, every cent counts. After overcoming the hassle of decoding the menu or, if no menu is available, you'd have to use whatever broken language, charades techniques (clucking like a chicken comes in handy) to find out what was on offer. That done you have to ask the price of each item and, once you've finished your meal, the bill would still - without fail - arrive a few thousand som more than expected. You'd then have to go through the rigmarole of getting out the calculator and going through every item as you are never furnished with a written itemised bill. The error could be the result of any one or more of the following: incorrect addition of the prices you'd agreed on, the items would suddenly have gone up in price during the hour you were eating, the tuneless crooner or DJ that serenaded you during your meal could mean a surprise music cover charge, there could be a previously undisclosed 10%-20% service charge or a 'VAT' rate could be charged that varied anywhere between 5% and 20%. After going through your bill query, the manager would hardly be embarrassed at his poor addition (that is somehow never in your favour) or the sudden change of the price of the meal. Instead he would just shrug and smile as if it's all in a day's work...as if he wouldn't be doing his job if he didn't try. All done in good humour and taken as the normal way things are done.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7rOWeSdni_9LMoKkxl1B_wjrk1Zs99eMkprSJWwLbXL7bK3u7KleOvEFYmZKZcja56-4CXnN_7R3H4wdW3-aYv-fQZoY6cQAx78clgq7BQxyXuS0yyiuVF0jnEMTqdsZF4svKe5Chai5y/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252831%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="752" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7rOWeSdni_9LMoKkxl1B_wjrk1Zs99eMkprSJWwLbXL7bK3u7KleOvEFYmZKZcja56-4CXnN_7R3H4wdW3-aYv-fQZoY6cQAx78clgq7BQxyXuS0yyiuVF0jnEMTqdsZF4svKe5Chai5y/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252831%2529.jpg" width="508" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kalto Minor minaret, Khiva</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The final ancient city we visited was Bukhara. This is the most tourist-orientated Uzbek city and has a list of sights no less impressive than the other cities and by the end of it all, we were well and truly 'beautiful-old-building-with-intricate- blue-tiling' saturated.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevs4_A7cMv-muX06rxlEeXojh7oyrKVeV_XPR_JEdh800ktlCqJxqquZdUHyW6y839s4WKUB98AZmyFLFdlGe7SMv49cH0nJO5qXDi1VtpTgNN-Ekg6TFpiGL6-ZJRhPGHCHe2NFlwZQW/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevs4_A7cMv-muX06rxlEeXojh7oyrKVeV_XPR_JEdh800ktlCqJxqquZdUHyW6y839s4WKUB98AZmyFLFdlGe7SMv49cH0nJO5qXDi1VtpTgNN-Ekg6TFpiGL6-ZJRhPGHCHe2NFlwZQW/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%25287%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bukhara</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjluTWrPYX9CjhlHD69qh1iW7RxOKA53wvMZeAePxkoVJYBmO3-hBEM6s1WfALEnqmHXg0pbA1U2NhsoYzQ3uLO-BqO-7Au4VwVhy2I6_4lwyPF-Hh1mhKGQDRAvbhEWWGBXfD6lLjYljp9/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjluTWrPYX9CjhlHD69qh1iW7RxOKA53wvMZeAePxkoVJYBmO3-hBEM6s1WfALEnqmHXg0pbA1U2NhsoYzQ3uLO-BqO-7Au4VwVhy2I6_4lwyPF-Hh1mhKGQDRAvbhEWWGBXfD6lLjYljp9/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3GK5P0DxTfj6aMFa8FdVPe8iys3fbYOuvuPbcg-Yx6UpcQ5awU7Ydzo1f1-QP9WJO4jqsVZ1o-YhzAGrqzRXyjcyXxRrutDGIg3FjJqFfJilxtqKrLYs3pe5fD04mIXzianWbX6uBI9v/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252829%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3GK5P0DxTfj6aMFa8FdVPe8iys3fbYOuvuPbcg-Yx6UpcQ5awU7Ydzo1f1-QP9WJO4jqsVZ1o-YhzAGrqzRXyjcyXxRrutDGIg3FjJqFfJilxtqKrLYs3pe5fD04mIXzianWbX6uBI9v/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252829%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intricate tiling Bukhara</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfzCr0G27aSYAj4LuHNl-g5vADn2DNyEP96xc1aay5E43B4G_xJtxpX8pjAyvEgcl616eSt5boacmpuD5u0jkT37543BHNzT9XN8M4NPuhoZ3DN-LlEAEkV4csMJ_4dAh15P7NlJlo_ZT/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="992" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfzCr0G27aSYAj4LuHNl-g5vADn2DNyEP96xc1aay5E43B4G_xJtxpX8pjAyvEgcl616eSt5boacmpuD5u0jkT37543BHNzT9XN8M4NPuhoZ3DN-LlEAEkV4csMJ_4dAh15P7NlJlo_ZT/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jewish gravestones Bukhara</td></tr>
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And then, after a month in this interesting country, we caught a steaming bus without windows or aircon back to Tashkent for the last time before heading north to our final Central Asian country: Kazakhstan... And of course, when we reached the border, no one was in the slightest bit interested in all those hotel registration slips we had so painstakingly collected and the police and officials were extra friendly and helpful!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5BOAVqTxJzZUboX4NzJpMQ7Beafx9-8Gz-XD9Zt3QeXhic4-StKmassW8ySQb05tXyXXeMkv-hxjB9gjFVGepBKAdvPPCo2H1uDyaONEJhcvPdWjqWUsFI6OLvkIEg9PVtTM6O1ENhZP/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5BOAVqTxJzZUboX4NzJpMQ7Beafx9-8Gz-XD9Zt3QeXhic4-StKmassW8ySQb05tXyXXeMkv-hxjB9gjFVGepBKAdvPPCo2H1uDyaONEJhcvPdWjqWUsFI6OLvkIEg9PVtTM6O1ENhZP/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252812%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bukhara</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmc6vO4ujw_OVGtL5ql5bo1XDcHNUTurFbSY4c93EYm3HiqXcZ7RlPxepinwtYgIL583Ekbj-Sm7FtIt9NKzxt6t1RGAGyHn3xMIgJETSNzedaQGDkwYtrZvfRfyQgmtBXcgCC3wqEpV9/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSmc6vO4ujw_OVGtL5ql5bo1XDcHNUTurFbSY4c93EYm3HiqXcZ7RlPxepinwtYgIL583Ekbj-Sm7FtIt9NKzxt6t1RGAGyHn3xMIgJETSNzedaQGDkwYtrZvfRfyQgmtBXcgCC3wqEpV9/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">intricate tiling Bukhara</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTVpejz5oTEvhaRJTbyQHkJRgDs7ompnHzWVs3lRBOaXFZoCghnQ7FLzDlsGFtjMBFcOanKDCf59Xq_4gE8nRkBQO9lw_seHz5MHXi5QE1c7TG6SMd0CrV903l2w4iYVZCbd_q_H4W-hF/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252815%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieTVpejz5oTEvhaRJTbyQHkJRgDs7ompnHzWVs3lRBOaXFZoCghnQ7FLzDlsGFtjMBFcOanKDCf59Xq_4gE8nRkBQO9lw_seHz5MHXi5QE1c7TG6SMd0CrV903l2w4iYVZCbd_q_H4W-hF/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%252815%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bukhara</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYdQ3rzs1hzewMS0nDXqr8A1XxIQKW1UzzIeVUUfU-qlTjt_tEBftnZim1XjUjpfpYah7IS_VdcHy3-_Tw_cBzPtBj5UfFz62O5MxPSazij9x-Bbix3a_BTcgdSNAC3WmVORKhcLBNnA3/s1600/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYdQ3rzs1hzewMS0nDXqr8A1XxIQKW1UzzIeVUUfU-qlTjt_tEBftnZim1XjUjpfpYah7IS_VdcHy3-_Tw_cBzPtBj5UfFz62O5MxPSazij9x-Bbix3a_BTcgdSNAC3WmVORKhcLBNnA3/s640/blog5+2.1441821998+%25281%2529+%25285%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Bukhara</td></tr>
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Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Tashkent, Uzbekistan41.2994958 69.24007340000002840.9176638 68.594626400000024 41.681327800000005 69.885520400000033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-4546380228584254252015-08-14T10:55:00.000+03:002019-06-10T12:22:20.575+02:00Exploring the mountains of Tajikistan.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">We left you last in Kyrgyzstan...</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">We crossed into Tajikistan on a bad road through bleak mountainous desert in an old Russian 4x4 minibus. Our driver had boxes of tomatoes and cucumbers which he used to bribe his way through the Kyrgyz and Tajik borders - his wife and kids seemed to be missing some of their travel documents. We thought that cucumbers and tomatoes made unusual bribes, but later - after spending weeks in the mountains eating potatoes, potatoes and potatoes - we realised the genius of the man.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5jl4QaXU2tBXTsXpjY9eqvV6iYyrFAdr3B0cSsILMVSDcozRrQBC55llQ14NPq5NLK6K3QBz3aOWXtZWSdOhfb6YZb_jJtUDXBkL7o2YudPWUQ45-sTf60T8mapLIqxVViSJXUjZqb5Z/s1600/DSC03691_1600x1200.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5jl4QaXU2tBXTsXpjY9eqvV6iYyrFAdr3B0cSsILMVSDcozRrQBC55llQ14NPq5NLK6K3QBz3aOWXtZWSdOhfb6YZb_jJtUDXBkL7o2YudPWUQ45-sTf60T8mapLIqxVViSJXUjZqb5Z/s640/DSC03691_1600x1200.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Our transport to from Kyrgyzstan to Tajikistan</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">When we arrived at the Tajikistan border post we were really surprised how different the Tajiks looked from the Kyrgyz - two nations living side by side. The Tajiks look like Iranians or Spaniards and in fact their ancestors came from Persia many hundreds of years ago. There is little evidence of the Mongolian or Turkish conquests in their faces although blonde hair and blue eyes is not uncommon - supposedly evidence of Alexander the Great's (s)exploits.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We stopped for two nights in the village alongside the mountainous lake of Karakul, 4000m above sea level. We were travelling with our Slovenian friends and we hoped to try an unusual route of entering the remote Bartang valley from the top and then spending two weeks walking down. There was lots of contradictory information as to the condition of the roads: a few days previously, unusually hot weather had caused the glaciers to melt more than usual causing floods that might have closed access to the Bartang valley and many other parts of Tajikistan. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We managed to find a 4x4 driver who claimed that he could get us to Bartang and we set off through the desert in his old Soviet-era UAZ 4x4 jeep. We passed through magnificent high altitude desert landscapes and crossed flooded, glacial streams until we reached the summit of the Bartang valley where the Tajik goat herders told us that the road down was completely blocked. The river had risen so much that the entire valley was completely submerged and inaccessible to both vehicles and people on foot. Disappointed we returned to Karakul and headed down to Murgab with a plan to try enter the Bartang valley from the bottom. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowhw_n8iBQh9QfUGqB0wXY2qN6h8BE6bIuL-ujgxIVGNX75ofVgrO2spjyjzJN-Yi-KJ85avjkg8p6skjoBxeXVCMlx4lQeT_XIEuIC_AXkWuENoMIKd3Q2Cab6_fMoK5SSfbekxJ0BvD/s1600/2.1440678962.desert-on-road-to-kok-jar-top-of-bartang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowhw_n8iBQh9QfUGqB0wXY2qN6h8BE6bIuL-ujgxIVGNX75ofVgrO2spjyjzJN-Yi-KJ85avjkg8p6skjoBxeXVCMlx4lQeT_XIEuIC_AXkWuENoMIKd3Q2Cab6_fMoK5SSfbekxJ0BvD/s640/2.1440678962.desert-on-road-to-kok-jar-top-of-bartang.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0RlEkOqXha6yZh9cFQlMXJ__uv2gpkdypLVzu23cAzPgAuUCy0vuoz03Hc1pvViDvz2TjqZwKoOsWOKwpbELsNSGNXSVLe6UCoz0xIl4ulUD5eF69KsS6pD2EBV-rBTGGNO5Ikq02-4AZ/s1600/2.1440678962.driving-from-kyrgyzstan-to-tajikistan-in-uaz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0RlEkOqXha6yZh9cFQlMXJ__uv2gpkdypLVzu23cAzPgAuUCy0vuoz03Hc1pvViDvz2TjqZwKoOsWOKwpbELsNSGNXSVLe6UCoz0xIl4ulUD5eF69KsS6pD2EBV-rBTGGNO5Ikq02-4AZ/s640/2.1440678962.driving-from-kyrgyzstan-to-tajikistan-in-uaz.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7r6wKvWNTQLq_26ExpJdub1krH7lBCXzCp_cwf1q-3E-eFVvb_xy4rzmXKVuMr3lidK7s3DvisJZ_XBDza_ARkA4enVnRJXsK3vVWfbjwFtAwkvR4P6oTRd0QHEaYB6AMgxLpynepkUVK/s1600/2.1440678962.towards-the-top-of-the-bartang-valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7r6wKvWNTQLq_26ExpJdub1krH7lBCXzCp_cwf1q-3E-eFVvb_xy4rzmXKVuMr3lidK7s3DvisJZ_XBDza_ARkA4enVnRJXsK3vVWfbjwFtAwkvR4P6oTRd0QHEaYB6AMgxLpynepkUVK/s640/2.1440678962.towards-the-top-of-the-bartang-valley.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjukThGOBYlmvFYS8OoMfbeWwP616j11NVZDwZy3DYXFvqhsfiLI-yDKVg0WYpDXOEf0qLVPBrUbDPtUUftR88v7TdX_A_c-m95OAjxjsXwI0eBfZHvz7URaoxZFhw_nVEwlyy5-iQ8wyYl/s1600/2.1440678962.uz-jeep-from-karakul-to-bartang-valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjukThGOBYlmvFYS8OoMfbeWwP616j11NVZDwZy3DYXFvqhsfiLI-yDKVg0WYpDXOEf0qLVPBrUbDPtUUftR88v7TdX_A_c-m95OAjxjsXwI0eBfZHvz7URaoxZFhw_nVEwlyy5-iQ8wyYl/s640/2.1440678962.uz-jeep-from-karakul-to-bartang-valley.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">This part of Tajikistan is dominated by the mighty Pamir mountains that connect China, Kyrgyzstan, Afghanistan, Pakistan and Tajikistan. These forbidding desert mountains have for millennia kept major civilisations apart and forced the silk road traders who crossed them to take their lives in their hands. When Russia completed its conquering of Central Asia in the early 1900's it completed the Pamir Highway which crosses this remote area and it is this highway which is now one of the main reasons why travellers visit Tajikistan.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBPO26WND-ty6fX3LTkA_x1vXnOay-k2hso4FDa4LjCxidAtOF7uqTDaxlQZ_2UGNK22PmtIrWciIR23o8kaG1Q8B5klTU0Zha7xE5LjQ40ce0YwTeTI_gw3RgxUETYzx3jwDc-i-LZxfg/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252852%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBPO26WND-ty6fX3LTkA_x1vXnOay-k2hso4FDa4LjCxidAtOF7uqTDaxlQZ_2UGNK22PmtIrWciIR23o8kaG1Q8B5klTU0Zha7xE5LjQ40ce0YwTeTI_gw3RgxUETYzx3jwDc-i-LZxfg/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252852%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Salty landscape in the Pamir mountains</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We spent two days driving by 4x4 down the Pamir Highway. Our days were spent staring at mind-blowing, Martian landscapes that transformed in colour and shape at every turn. We over-nighted in a homestay in a remote, stark Tajik village called Bulunkul alongside another high altitude lake. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">After some hair-raising driving along bad dirt roads we finally descended into the Wakhan valley where the Panj river separates Tajikistan from the Afghan villages across the water. Here we said goodbye to our Slovenian travel buddies and began walking down the Wakhan with Tajikistan on our right and Afghanistan 100m to our left. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYrXQUmpBjxhyphenhyphenHKGUcNrdXkYlyPOjRSI1FCyfrHS-QE93MASuDkff6NT89ILcNHWO7-E2Qd0xZ2Vwlc3b7xu5Y4xD2q_V4kKcnziigusiWlkzfFoFJfK6OTBViyfeFPRhOjPtLOJR0U5i/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYrXQUmpBjxhyphenhyphenHKGUcNrdXkYlyPOjRSI1FCyfrHS-QE93MASuDkff6NT89ILcNHWO7-E2Qd0xZ2Vwlc3b7xu5Y4xD2q_V4kKcnziigusiWlkzfFoFJfK6OTBViyfeFPRhOjPtLOJR0U5i/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252826%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">To explain why the Wakhan is the way it is, another brief history lesson is necessary :)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfh-h9PBB0t9lqnDUE2TfT-gVApA8_jytOmRCkDswS3NzEQ7weOwyJnGPyadE5kvKlTNiVVMCcPSgGAXH1_EiTT2dF_6R3r1ktW8qAQ-GFpIJAtfwVHGDOSrrf0VZDXLrNS7709sXFevaJ/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252881%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfh-h9PBB0t9lqnDUE2TfT-gVApA8_jytOmRCkDswS3NzEQ7weOwyJnGPyadE5kvKlTNiVVMCcPSgGAXH1_EiTT2dF_6R3r1ktW8qAQ-GFpIJAtfwVHGDOSrrf0VZDXLrNS7709sXFevaJ/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252881%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Walking along the Wakhan valley (Afghanistan across the river on the left)</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">---------- the Great Game and the Wakhan: a brief history ---------------- </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">During the 18th and 19th centuries it was believed that Russia might be planning to take over the entire world. While that theory now may seem ridiculous, few people ever look at the map and wonder why Russia extends from Europe in the West all the way to North Korea in the East. How is it that Vladivostok in the east of Russia is populated by white Europeans in an area where the indigenous people all look Korean? Why is Russia by far the biggest country on Earth? </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">During the era of colonial expansion, the fear was that if one imperial nation didn't expand to incorporate weak nations then their imperial competitors would just take over those nations instead. So the race was on to invade nations or sign treaties and to incorporate them within one or other of the major military powers of the time. This was the time of the Berlin Conference that disgracefully divided Africa among the major European powers and this was also the time for major power plays in Asia.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJsegjLeYndM1eItI4osbdPYaDiH4CRWzRtME8hQL_QNCVXsDWLYPJ06R8CfY3F7PxzXjr5P33Kr7j3TM396S4uqPQrPvDZUfwePFs-IILYIQ_zqXtLkLOLQeXAvxHBgcvt449Nbqfmam/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252870%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJsegjLeYndM1eItI4osbdPYaDiH4CRWzRtME8hQL_QNCVXsDWLYPJ06R8CfY3F7PxzXjr5P33Kr7j3TM396S4uqPQrPvDZUfwePFs-IILYIQ_zqXtLkLOLQeXAvxHBgcvt449Nbqfmam/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252870%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Tajik kids in Langar, Wakhan valley</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The British fear was that Russia planned to move south and conquer Istanbul/Constantinople and thus control the Mediterranean as well as to conquer Central Asia then Afghanistan and finally India. It was felt that if Russia succeeded in this goal, it would become so large and rich it would become unstoppable and ultimately the world would consist of just one country: Russia. While there is some evidence of Russian Tzars having this as a stated goal, other historians claim this was merely paranoia. That said, the Russians steadily expanded their borders over the 18th and 19th centuries and were at one stage at the gates of Constantinople...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Another theory on why Russia constantly expanded during this era was that the Russian psyche had been indelibly scarred by the hundreds of years they were surrounded and brutalised by</span><a href="http://www.sras.org/the_effects_of_the_mongol_empire_on_russia" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank"> Genghis Khan's Mongol Hordes</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> in the middle ages. Ever since then the Russians have been obsessed with ensuring that their neighbours are compliant and friendly. This has been postulated as a reason for the current conflicts in Ukraine and Georgia. Russia will not accept unfriendly neighbours on its borders ever again.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Whatever the reason, Russia steadily and stealthfully expanded its borders into Central Asia, conquering one nation after another, to the growing alarm of the Afghan kings and the British in India. Treaties would be signed whereby Russia promised not to expand any further only to be broken immediately with another nation absorbed into mother Russia. Finally Russia conquered the whole of Central Asia - a land mass larger than Europe - and it began creeping into Afghanistan. It seemed war between Britain and Afghanistan on the one side and Russia on the other was inevitable - and it was only prevented by the fact that Russia's economy was in a bad state due to wars in East Asia and its fear that is might lose the war and all the territories it had already conquered. Both the British and the Russians were also growing concerned at the rise of Germany during this period and they would eventually join forces and fight Germany in the first and second world wars.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxeN-5UbnVhvfpRi1JFjpbGjWFr66S2dPOsE06YUf6LL74sSCgpqiKHBiEg-lE6KKyCI8eJSpMok8zA1JAqmzwZC8DX3M74JmZI6RfBjN08cZWqi4qN8SkTGtsbHSf-zoaj7zyShrb1DW/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252856%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxeN-5UbnVhvfpRi1JFjpbGjWFr66S2dPOsE06YUf6LL74sSCgpqiKHBiEg-lE6KKyCI8eJSpMok8zA1JAqmzwZC8DX3M74JmZI6RfBjN08cZWqi4qN8SkTGtsbHSf-zoaj7zyShrb1DW/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252856%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Wakhan valley</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">A peace deal was signed that sought to ensure that at no point should the Russia empire border British India, so that the future annexation of India would not become a threat. The difficult region was the Pamirs as the two countries were effectively only separated by these incredibly inhospitable mountains. The solution: to allocate a sliver of land along the Wakhan valley to Afghanistan which would keep the two imperial nations apart. Russia would thus first have to declare war on Afghanistan in order to cross the Wakhan valley if they ever wanted to invade India. Much later, the Soviets/Russia abandoned Central Asia and Pakistan separated from India - so the modern map now sees Tajikistan separated from Pakistan by a long sliver of Afghanistan. And so we have this strange </span><a href="http://geocurrents.info/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Wakhan_Corridor_Map.jpg" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">narrow strip of Afghan land</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> along the head waters of the Amu Darya/Oxus river which is inhabited by Pamiri people who have some of their families on just the other side of the river but who may as well be living in another world... </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Tajikistan's recent history has been quite different from that of Kyrgyzstan. When the Soviets abandoned the country, it soon descended into a civil war between the people of the Pamir region against the rest. The current president ended the war and in the last decade it has been peaceful - with just an occasional flaring of violence in the main Pamir town of Khorog every few years. The political psyche of Tajikistan is no doubt affected by the worst-case-scenario which has unfolded in its larger neighbour, Afghanistan. As a result there is a huge fear of Islamic extremism developing inside Tajikistan and as a result the country is practically autocratic and strictly secular - despite the fact that the president and everyone else is Muslim. It is quite common for men with beards to be hauled off the street and </span><a href="http://www.ibtimes.co.in/tajikistan-police-forced-muslims-shave-beard-discourage-them-joining-isis-630569" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">shaved against their will</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">! The Hijab and going on the Hajj is also restricted. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> Economically, Tajikistan was recorded as having a GDP per capita half of that of Kyrgyzstan (just $1,300 per person per year, South Africa is $10,000) at the beginning of this century but it has enjoyed rapid economic growth since the civil war which has brought it level with Kyrgyzstan today. One of the major sources of income for Tajikistan is smuggling heroine from Afghanistan into Russia - it is claimed that this makes up as much as half of its GDP. Most of this heroine is smuggled across the river we walked along in the Wakhan though this is not evident to the ordinary traveller: there are not lots of drug addicts lying around nor does one see any obviously suspicious activity going on. The other major source of income for the country is money sent home by millions of its young people who work in Russia. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">----------- end of history lesson -----------------</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We began walking from Langar, the village at the top of the Wakhan valley, and spent the next week wandering down the valley with our backpacks. We walked 15 to 25km per day and slept in homestays in villages along the way. The walking was pretty easy as the valley is flat - no crazy mountain passes this time! This is a good thing as the food was very, very basic and we would have probably lacked the strength to get up the hills. The glacial-melt floods which had blocked our access to the Bartang Valley had also washed away part of the road out of the Pamir region. As a result, supplies of everything were in short supply. With potatoes and wheat being the main crop at the time, our meals consisted of potatoes, bread and black chai ("choy") for most of the week. We also had to learn to eat everything with just a spoon, even spreading butter, jam or cutting up any food has to be done with a spoon as this is the only cutlery we ever seemed to get. Occasionally there was yoghurt - known locally as "eiraan". And always, as in Kyrgyzstan, there was a plate of sweets... for breakfast, lunch and supper! As a result, Tajiks also have mouths filled with golden teeth.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9C5BqWJWa8dRzcE2uJrSbWBQ_9b9CVbWCF_7cM3fM_SdSGit0-uNWDkhNg5-evK-3puwUzd9JnsPXGkdrDlH_h1ll90IGWlX1aFPBB6_KmkojUOUOaQRpSQmaJw6pMhlDMhF9bQZsYz5/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9C5BqWJWa8dRzcE2uJrSbWBQ_9b9CVbWCF_7cM3fM_SdSGit0-uNWDkhNg5-evK-3puwUzd9JnsPXGkdrDlH_h1ll90IGWlX1aFPBB6_KmkojUOUOaQRpSQmaJw6pMhlDMhF9bQZsYz5/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252817%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Wakhan valley homestay owner</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The Wakhan valley has huge, bare, stony mountains on either side with the Panj river running through the center. The valley is quite wide and we were walking along the river's northern bank which is Tajikistan while the southern bank is Afghanistan. The villages we stayed in were located mostly on streams leading into the main Panj river and were beautiful and green with lots of fruit trees hung with unripe apricots and apples. The Pamiri houses we stayed in were very interestingly designed. From the outside they looked like rather plain, rectangular mud and stone brown buildings. But once you entered they were decorated with bright carpets in loud floral and geometric local designs on the floors and walls with beautifully carved wooden pillars and beams. In the centre of the main room is a skylight window framed by four levels of wooden roof beams with each level representing one of the basic elements of earth, air, fire and water. The main room has a raised platform floor on three sides with lovely carpets on the floor and walls. In a corner is a large stack of mattresses and blankets normally enough for ten weary travellers. This is typical in all Pamiri homes - not just those acting as homestays - and must surely be evidence of the many hundreds of years that Pamiri families have hosted travellers along the silk road. The main roof beams are supported by five thick wooden pillars, and between two of the pillars hangs a plaque with the year that the house was built. Next to the plaque stands a framed photograph of the Agha Khan: the spiritual leader of the Pamiri people who are all Ismaili Muslims.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Inside an Ismaeli homestay, Walhan valley.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The </span><a href="http://www.theismaili.org/community" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">Ismailis</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> are an offshoot of Shia Islam which is found mainly in Iran and Iraq. The Shia's are distinct from Sunni Muslims who make up almost 90% of Muslims around the world. The </span><a href="http://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-16047709" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">differences between Sunni and Shia</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> are quite complicated but in simple terms the Sunni's regard themselves as orthodox/traditionalist Muslims who follow the literal teachings in the Quran while Shia's chose to follow Ali (Muhammad's cousin and son-in-law) and Ali's descendants who are seen as divinely chosen. Shia's believe that their contemporary religious leaders (imams) can re-interpret the Quran in order to make it more relevant to current realities.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The Ismailis were initially part of the general Shia family but then split away over a conflict as to who was the true successor of Imam Ja'far al-Sadiq who died in 743. While they consider themselves Muslims, they have also incorporated other traditional beliefs into their religion and as a result are considered by many Sunni's as not "true" Muslims. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihmNOdf6Fs8duQoFPeC1qrQnyV2QPR_j7XujEn-W7RwuCzGmYOfLqlfPkaL9vso7tPqDdXDzG4X9JJJTwxRsxhb6uja6JVb4PY-igm5jmliQf1shteXBX-uGHt7R7OgML8m0KTlvMqcThm/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252873%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihmNOdf6Fs8duQoFPeC1qrQnyV2QPR_j7XujEn-W7RwuCzGmYOfLqlfPkaL9vso7tPqDdXDzG4X9JJJTwxRsxhb6uja6JVb4PY-igm5jmliQf1shteXBX-uGHt7R7OgML8m0KTlvMqcThm/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252873%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">A typical homestay meal - always with sweets!</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The Ismailis these days number 15 million people mostly in Afghanistan, Pakistan, India and Tajikistan but also in East Africa, Europe and North America. The current </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aga_Khan_IV" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">Agha Khan</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">, the 49th Imam, was born in Geneva and grew up in Kenya. He is a wealthy businessman in Europe and his </span><a href="http://www.akdn.org/akf" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">foundation</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> spends $600 million per year to uplift Ismailis in poverty in 18 countries. One of the things that makes the Agha Khan unusual is that he is regarded internationally as a king, yet he controls no territory as his followers are scattered around the world. As the 49th Imam, he also gets to make concessions and new religious rules: one new rule we were told is that Ismailis only need to pray twice a day (morning and evening) so as to allow them to more easily balance the pressures of modern life. The Agha Khan also emphasises the equality of women, the importance of education and the dangers of taking drugs and stoking civil war.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfHVhIfedeGf5IqawQsijide262mKygPvoOfvhtcJrjGd246k6MI7Zc6HafKVe6MDvRDNA3_Zw3YbXEZbaoLtv-de_msQFX-yoHUfAQ8q4T7vhKUL2O8aWy8T8kEFbGbEv-J0YXACA-I7/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252868%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYfHVhIfedeGf5IqawQsijide262mKygPvoOfvhtcJrjGd246k6MI7Zc6HafKVe6MDvRDNA3_Zw3YbXEZbaoLtv-de_msQFX-yoHUfAQ8q4T7vhKUL2O8aWy8T8kEFbGbEv-J0YXACA-I7/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252868%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Travelling through the Pamirs it is remarkable to see how the Agha Khan Foundation seems to have touched the lives of almost every family we met: children attending the free university started by the Agha Khan, students on international scholarships, homes with donated solar power systems, clinics, schools, bridges, etc. The work done to improve the status of women is remarkable and particularly important considering that over a million Ismailis live in Afghanistan. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Most of the villages we walked through would have a mazar shrine, decorated with horns from Ibex and Marco Polo sheep, commemorating ancient spiritual leaders. Every village would also have a neatly-built, stone bus stop - in a region where there are no buses, and very few other vehicles to hitch a lift with! One of the villages we over-nighted in was home to the Bibi Fotima hot-springs where we bathed and observed girls performing prayer rituals in the hot water which are supposed to improve their fertility...</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Mazar shrine, Langar</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As we headed down the valley, the temperature increased as did the ripeness of the hanging fruits. We feasted on apricots that we picked off the trees in our homestays and along the paths and streets.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">But as much as walking down the Wakhan is beautiful and interesting with lots of friendly people constantly inviting you in to have tea with them... it is a strange feeling to look to your left and see Afghan women watering their goats just 100m away. Afghanistan's Taliban are mainly drawn from the Sunni Pashtun tribes and they have been slowly creeping north and are in places almost at the border. The USA/NATO are in negotiations with the Taliban and the Afghan government to end the war there, but you can't help sharing the terror that local Ismailis feel that once again the Taliban will take over Afghanistan and impose their </span><a href="http://www.feminist.org/afghan/taliban_women.asp" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">extremist ideology</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> on their families across the river: girls not allowed to attend school, women not allowed to visit the doctor, music and sports are illegal, full burka is required for all women, etc. To have Ismaili women on the Tajik side of the river having all the freedoms and opportunities we would want for own daughters and sisters while just 100m away all their female family members would suffer horrific oppression just seems crazy. As we walked along the river, Afghan women would call "hello" - and we could shout "hi" back to them. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Aghar Khan picture in every Wakhan home</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">One thing the Agha Khan foundation has done is to build a lot of bridges across the river in order to build closer relations between families on either side. One hopes that this will in some way protect the families on the Afghan side... but either way, we will be paying much closer attention to the current peace negotiations and hoping that the experts who claim that the Taliban will inevitably return to power are wrong. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">At the end of our week in the Wakhan we hitched a ride to the province's capital city of Khorog. Back in "modern civilization" we enjoyed showers EVERY DAY (!) and ate almost every night at the delicious Indian restaurant which had a whole range of vegetables other than potatoes. Our hotel room even had a non-working jacuzzi! As mentioned earlier, the people of this region are of Persian origin and look like Iranians or Spaniards - very attractive. If anyone wants to know what Iran would look like if no-one was wearing scarfs - just come to Khorog.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> Central Asian towns and cities have a surprising lack of commercial branding. In Khorog there were no supermarkets - just small corner grocery stores. These stores would have just a simple picture of generic groceries on the outside - but no branding of any sort. In fact the only branding one sees in Central Asia is for mobile phone networks and even with these, there are few of the giant billboards that pollute the skyline in so many cities around the world. Perhaps this aesthetic is a hangover from the communist era. Tajikistan compensates for its lack of corporate branding by plastering giant posters of their </span><a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=tajikistan+president&espv=2&biw=1280&bih=865&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAWoVChMI9NKcjInqxwIVA-gsCh05aQ83&dpr=0.9" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">bushy-eyebrowed president</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> everywhere, often in a Lenin-like pose showing the way to the future. Although he has an autocratic past, he seems genuinely popular these days with everyone we asked saying "good president!" But there is concern about who will succeed him as no obvious candidate is being groomed - the mistake of so many personality-cult presidents it seems.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">From Khorog we decided to try and tackle the Bartang valley again - this time from the bottom. The information we had was vague but it seemed that at least a part of the road was open but that we would have to walk quite a bit too. Luckily we were able to leave unnecessary heavy stuff at our hotel in Khorog so our bags were a few kilograms lighter than they had been in the Wakhan.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> We managed to get a ride into the very bottom of the Bartang valley where we crossed a rickety suspension bridge and then hiked up a steep path for a few hours towards the tiny village of Jizev. Parts of the path had been destroyed by the recent glacial melt floods so some of the path involved precarious walking along steep scree slopes of jagged stones. The valley was breath-takingly beautiful with steep, barren mountains on either side and a tree-lined gushing river threading through the centre. Amazingly, the water in this river was actually blue - not blue from reflecting the sky, but actually blue-coloured water. The best reason we could find as to the cause of this was that there might be dissolved lime in the water. </span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyd9-byuke7sQ9z0WP5s7ocXrRfOIHDz5ISmXkGSroLFNoSoW7zYOQVHxaiqp481bNw6iH8QWP5JXLenhz4Y9hkjnhMAJ9IUcac9zwvOFxW0UvWeADJSbnwp5lGoAPrsZ0WCmzqBq7Tr_k/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyd9-byuke7sQ9z0WP5s7ocXrRfOIHDz5ISmXkGSroLFNoSoW7zYOQVHxaiqp481bNw6iH8QWP5JXLenhz4Y9hkjnhMAJ9IUcac9zwvOFxW0UvWeADJSbnwp5lGoAPrsZ0WCmzqBq7Tr_k/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> We followed the river higher into the valley, occasionally stumbling upon cherry trees laden with ripe, red cherries which we feasted on. We eventually arrived at Jizev - a small community of perhaps 100 people spread over three separate villages - and found a beautiful homestay in the furthest village.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> This entire valley - an off-shoot of the Bartang valley - has no road connecting it to the outside world. The 7km walking path is the ONLY way for villagers to get to and from their village - there is no way at all for any vehicle, of any type, to get in. As a result this community is incredibly self-sufficient. There is a small forest where they harvest timber and fashion the logs into planks using only axes. While we stayed there we watched as a young guy built a beautiful Tap Chan (a raised, shaded platform for drinking chai) from raw timber expertly chopped, chiseled and sanded with just basic tools.</span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrapAv1pnQ82ocLDj2Vb51W_o2oNtqIpROcS2Xw10xxqYxoH2jY3m9QDjQTR-IHzA4dmHRTYatUgFpLSwhrGP682i1qx3Pr1I2dx0_ic1lhLrDXTMPr4HsOSJrskOWCifqn0fUM67ezHc4/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrapAv1pnQ82ocLDj2Vb51W_o2oNtqIpROcS2Xw10xxqYxoH2jY3m9QDjQTR-IHzA4dmHRTYatUgFpLSwhrGP682i1qx3Pr1I2dx0_ic1lhLrDXTMPr4HsOSJrskOWCifqn0fUM67ezHc4/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252841%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> This community had also channeled some of the glacial water into a large pipe that then feeds a micro-hydro generator which supplies everyone with electricity. A very effective and powerful setup but which only works in the warmer months when the ice melts. There was also a small, neat solar system to provide power at other times.</span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEP17DIBfb3uETObe6egasYN5CMI8jWOxepHisPdUoaxoAvFE0ZnVlpoWcEtqqdAUzMo672iEDK1Dke_8lX5WNcTpaLG97jbSc-Y7AMi1fpog3EzFoM4M213W_8_NKatNrMGfed4NlsNre/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEP17DIBfb3uETObe6egasYN5CMI8jWOxepHisPdUoaxoAvFE0ZnVlpoWcEtqqdAUzMo672iEDK1Dke_8lX5WNcTpaLG97jbSc-Y7AMi1fpog3EzFoM4M213W_8_NKatNrMGfed4NlsNre/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252835%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We spent three days here doing day-walks up to the beautiful blue lakes overlooked by imposing jagged snow peaks which were skirted by multi-coloured, barren scree slopes tumbling down the valley sides. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> Our homestay was run by a very friendly girl who was on her summer holiday from the Agha Khan's Central Asian University where she was studying to become a doctor. The food was tasty: rice porridge for breakfast, potatoes with chives for dinner and fresh bread and home-made jam for snacks. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEqBG0hUO-2zuCZz7seQyVwT4DWywMeFhhyKfTThxHc_1gMc8lDqseAHjQoF_A7erEIGNtswJ3tpk8W1gik9LepZIkqycaCQa37zhzz6eqpRXYXcr8pbQxGI_6W5XZexjujQf7WIdrzAg/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252848%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEqBG0hUO-2zuCZz7seQyVwT4DWywMeFhhyKfTThxHc_1gMc8lDqseAHjQoF_A7erEIGNtswJ3tpk8W1gik9LepZIkqycaCQa37zhzz6eqpRXYXcr8pbQxGI_6W5XZexjujQf7WIdrzAg/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252848%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We walked down again from Jizev and began hitching and hiking up the main Bartang valley towards the small town of Basid. By the early afternoon we reached the end of the drivable road where a flood had washed away the bridge. We tried to cross the river on foot - but this proved too dangerous. Later a bulldozer arrived and we joined about 10 other people in hanging off the sides and back of the bulldozer with our backpacks lifted high above in the front scoop and then bull-dozed our way across the river to the other side. Crazy fun :)</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQtsY4UnCzBfM-Yo8R23lXbaGjHA3sONuTvX1XGhj3a-jzFYFkR2qE-UcZlN7Q_3t5xdjt_X1nyWa9VAuWAXgq0dE3DH5U0FhSuX6hUipK8g2jVYOZKNTfmi4_Z4aXbKQPtvrzWqE8sJt3/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252862%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQtsY4UnCzBfM-Yo8R23lXbaGjHA3sONuTvX1XGhj3a-jzFYFkR2qE-UcZlN7Q_3t5xdjt_X1nyWa9VAuWAXgq0dE3DH5U0FhSuX6hUipK8g2jVYOZKNTfmi4_Z4aXbKQPtvrzWqE8sJt3/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252862%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Then we had a series of confusing negotiations which culminated in eight of us in Dave's-new-favourite-vehicle: a </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UAZ-452" rel="nofollow" style="color: #c98000; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; outline: 0px;" target="_blank">UAZ 4x4 minibus</a><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">. These vehicles date from the Soviet era and are notoriously rugged vehicles designed to be easy to fix and to be able to handle temperatures as low as -50 C. They look a bit like the old 1960's VW passion wagons although in Russia they were likened to and named "</span><i style="color: #111111; font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">bukhanka</i><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">": a bread "loaf". These cars even have a hole in the front where you can stick in a steel rod and start the engine by turning the rod by hand - 1930's style! Who needs a starter motor?!</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe51GMAJnBGTXokucoCmZSCNklM6Ub1JyB2PKK3abOC62y1xQeh48K87Zn81sJXwaTXMf__ysmvNlXcEK3FLjbYv9-1Jqlo8k6BGuyqv8zcxieU-fwj2qe6f1SjjDj0NUjDf6rUwYYL5ZC/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252875%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe51GMAJnBGTXokucoCmZSCNklM6Ub1JyB2PKK3abOC62y1xQeh48K87Zn81sJXwaTXMf__ysmvNlXcEK3FLjbYv9-1Jqlo8k6BGuyqv8zcxieU-fwj2qe6f1SjjDj0NUjDf6rUwYYL5ZC/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252875%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Our UAZ had its issues though and would occasionally cut out at the worst moment - like while you were driving in the river. It also had a technical problem whereby when the petrol ran out, the engine would stop working. This latter problem was particularly problematic in that we were driving in a remote valley where there are certainly no petrol stations. By some miracle we ran out of fuel half way into our journey just one kilometer from a village which also had a UAZ and so, after much discussion, petrol was siphoned from the other UAZ and put into ours and after much push-starting and general confusion we were on our way again.</span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1Q8y9vwlvXPOMH6Om2fdJFD4M2edVlHTQAHj2jlUEDIPF45nvd9FWXi9xps7Ni4_flZo0odoXgzT_ogyoGOFEBVscWmQ1RSv0ed1y0WjqQ3g4gZcKlqn_bFSeSTqZzu3dWG2Vw5MM1xJ/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252823%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1Q8y9vwlvXPOMH6Om2fdJFD4M2edVlHTQAHj2jlUEDIPF45nvd9FWXi9xps7Ni4_flZo0odoXgzT_ogyoGOFEBVscWmQ1RSv0ed1y0WjqQ3g4gZcKlqn_bFSeSTqZzu3dWG2Vw5MM1xJ/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252823%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The Bartang valley is an incredible place. Unlike the Wakhan, this valley is very narrow with just 200m separating the steep cliff-slopes on the left from the slopes on the right. Most of the bottom of the valley is filled by a raging river hurtling down the valley over monster rapids. Along the side of the river there is a narrow strip of stones that are loosely regarded as a road that runs about one metre above the water level. This "road" however vanishes under water when the weather has been hot and thus melted the glaciers causing the river to rise in flood. </span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0nwgN9VyVAjMkIPmEiaYt2WoHUNyW4UOZu1XgLSvThjclo2N5Z_XJ6UqHrtMsbUYjAS3JbG8Sty-ODmWDWcIPdTpZzH3uIHDhGvVy89ic5vIFrgECD414p4KxeE6Ea5q38BxVF82EvuZ/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0nwgN9VyVAjMkIPmEiaYt2WoHUNyW4UOZu1XgLSvThjclo2N5Z_XJ6UqHrtMsbUYjAS3JbG8Sty-ODmWDWcIPdTpZzH3uIHDhGvVy89ic5vIFrgECD414p4KxeE6Ea5q38BxVF82EvuZ/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Our UAZ crawled its way in the dark up the valley driving on the "road" most of the time but occasionally driving through the river when the road was submerged, finally arriving in Basid late at night. We found a homestay and rested there for two days enjoying the abundance of plums and apricots that hung in orchards throughout the village. The villages in Bartang are very scenic: stark, barren, brown and grey slopes tower above villages bursting with tall Poplar and fruit trees dotted with traditional Pamiri houses nestled among flower gardens and veggie fields. Each village also has a good school, a doctor and micro-hydro-electricity.</span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUSRfnDpASIg0rniObnnI723PRnMBZn4a2Lwb155kb9RH-2EEDBeZ88gtO7LN3EdRhn85l0_8FnHbOxrfRN7eoEjPfWwcWz5t0-7_8M3jVWBq_kYSdbwIsS-6li5M_WIqbmYeaipzhfTh/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252880%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUSRfnDpASIg0rniObnnI723PRnMBZn4a2Lwb155kb9RH-2EEDBeZ88gtO7LN3EdRhn85l0_8FnHbOxrfRN7eoEjPfWwcWz5t0-7_8M3jVWBq_kYSdbwIsS-6li5M_WIqbmYeaipzhfTh/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252880%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Due to the state of the road all supplies were scarce - so potatoes, potatoes, potatoes it was for lunch and dinner. And of course plates of sweets at all meals. Our homestay and all the surrounding village shops also ran out of toilet paper, which was a bit of a first. Our handful of tissues were thus very strictly rationed! </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMbC5xIIeBIuIf9_K55LTuYfmKwXx6rZvu6sp7nh5TQO-0_PGb9VJABsuBgUSOdmPa0UWNU29O2OrSDsJtF65RZT9oMfhwqx9RXvEqcoGGRpO-VtOCou3WLsYcpNSZQIhugf0rcaVV7-y/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252847%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtMbC5xIIeBIuIf9_K55LTuYfmKwXx6rZvu6sp7nh5TQO-0_PGb9VJABsuBgUSOdmPa0UWNU29O2OrSDsJtF65RZT9oMfhwqx9RXvEqcoGGRpO-VtOCou3WLsYcpNSZQIhugf0rcaVV7-y/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252847%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Next we walked to where the road had completely washed away, leaving only a narrow path along which everyone was forced to walk, and continued on to the next village of Bardara. Part of this village had been destroyed by a horrific mud-slide a few weeks before that had washed away a few houses, luckily with no-one being injured. Here we stayed in another homestay which made delicious meals which included polony and bread soaked in milk. </span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnV4BRTSs9BYNj73ossxSTZGaAm2PpXnvZx0FbKLL1ZJHTH2_NEJ3AYsBUCorkS-vZXn1fQv-gCRXqsGhFow7dFDI3iGL7L96kgkCg_bXmiyAgfY4HTTShxL3cs_lYw3dvRSLZh4aCKkY/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252864%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnV4BRTSs9BYNj73ossxSTZGaAm2PpXnvZx0FbKLL1ZJHTH2_NEJ3AYsBUCorkS-vZXn1fQv-gCRXqsGhFow7dFDI3iGL7L96kgkCg_bXmiyAgfY4HTTShxL3cs_lYw3dvRSLZh4aCKkY/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252864%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">An interesting thing here was watching the mother of the house feed the cat: she would masticate bread in her mouth for a minute and then feed this to the cat. Apparently this is quite a normal way of feeding cats in Central Asia. We stayed a couple of days in Bardara exploring the area. One day we forgot to take water with us, but we knew that it was inevitable that in the tiny village we were heading to, we would be invited for chai. Sure enough, as soon as a family saw us walking into this village of eight families, we were hailed for "choy" and enjoyed the famous Central Asian hospitality. Whenever we were walking in any small village every few hundred meters we would be invited for "choy" without fail. If we accepted this would inevitably grow into offers of meals and adamant insistence that we should spend the night. We had downloaded some nice photos of village life at home in Bulungula so that was always a source of much interest for the families who hosted us. Our photo's of our mud hut home, Nqileni village and our Bulungula wedding have no doubt given Central Asians a bit of an unusual perspective on life in South Africa...!</span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIs2_x4XHllQpcSQFK744jaJL53P6fN0_gfl9zNVHUtHJ0oLlzHAn3UG24MCDsKkWW2pAMAEnzIn7J94VFO6M2eMEKGCDJMecWJteU_EcgfMsOIK7BKV8RI05kmCVa33P-wyznfccy6g8/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252828%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYIs2_x4XHllQpcSQFK744jaJL53P6fN0_gfl9zNVHUtHJ0oLlzHAn3UG24MCDsKkWW2pAMAEnzIn7J94VFO6M2eMEKGCDJMecWJteU_EcgfMsOIK7BKV8RI05kmCVa33P-wyznfccy6g8/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252828%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> From Bardara we walked back down the valley to a very remote village called Devlokh. This village had no homestays but we were of course welcomed by a friendly family to spend the night. We were given the main room to sleep in and wondered where everyone else was going to sleep and were a little concerned when we saw the whole family climbing on to the roof with their mattresses. We thought this was taking the whole hospitality thing a bit far but were then told that during the summer, most people preferred to sleep outside as the winter was such a claustrophobic time, huddled in doors to keep warm.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd4iFu-BZxfd8HurIhrGID7n9_hIegCOjmokKuKsz4yMU1n6GkqRLpdBznuKh0cXDX5izEaPMyDB1wNwAIeS-UpCct3UprwjF1Nf7MI5S9C7-eD5pLbLKh9LBvLZ5c2v-fv6KHCjd_BRH9/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd4iFu-BZxfd8HurIhrGID7n9_hIegCOjmokKuKsz4yMU1n6GkqRLpdBznuKh0cXDX5izEaPMyDB1wNwAIeS-UpCct3UprwjF1Nf7MI5S9C7-eD5pLbLKh9LBvLZ5c2v-fv6KHCjd_BRH9/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252822%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> The lifestyle of Pamiris is totally regulated by the seasons: in summer, all the kids have an extended school/university holiday and help their families farm veggies and grass. Grass and veggies are grown in fields surrounding the houses which are irrigated by expertly built furrows that take water from the river and diverts it into an intricate network of channels that are opened and closed depending on which field they want to water. The grass is cut and dried to feed the animals over the long winter. The goats, cows and sheep are taken by shepherds high into the mountains to graze for 4 months. There the shepherds spend most of their time chasing away wolves who prey on the animals - some of them take wolves as pets but apparently the tame wolves can't resist killing the sheep once they grow up so wolf-pets are not encouraged. Fruit is harvested and dried or made into fruit preserves. Cow dung is collected, dried and stored for burning in winter. New houses are built and old ones repaired with mud and stones. As winter arrives, the animals are brought down from the mountains to sleep in large mud and stone rooms which are attached to the Pamiri houses. The animals are fed the dried grass that was collected during the summer and are allowed to wander around in the snow in the veggie and grass fields that are now buried in snow. It is very cold.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_-oH8XCkb6RbosIoXR5diRydcs-W8csTZhzHomDinbfyfEmq9vJtSLqN_OrCMArWovrAA5kgGYUWMfozQaHDguk8BnTCBYNXF-jlGJQg0HOg-t9IXpNw61Bf6Jz4cr235wWd05Z2UovLe/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_-oH8XCkb6RbosIoXR5diRydcs-W8csTZhzHomDinbfyfEmq9vJtSLqN_OrCMArWovrAA5kgGYUWMfozQaHDguk8BnTCBYNXF-jlGJQg0HOg-t9IXpNw61Bf6Jz4cr235wWd05Z2UovLe/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252830%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a> </span><br />
<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">From Devlokh we headed back to Basid to catch a ride with a helicopter that was rumoured to be bringing supplies into the region, including some toilet paper, we mused. As we'd expected, there was no helicopter so we jumped into a UAZ and headed back down the valley. This UAZ was much more mechanically reliable although unfortunately the driver believed that he should only use 5 liters of fuel at a time, so we had to stop every half hour and spend a few minutes getting fuel out of a jerry can and into the fuel tank. This was much appreciated by the other passengers who felt that driving more than 30 minutes without stopping was inhumane and who would demand that the driver stop in virtually every village so that we could waltz into some random families house and have choy or pick fruit from an orchard or just chill out for a while. Thus our journey of about 150km took ten hours. The bridge of the river that we bulldozed across previously was almost fully repaired and so after just half an hour of rock packing we managed to get our UAZ across and continue our journey. The last leg of the journey was done in a taxi with a deaf driver. This proved quite exciting as he liked to drive on both sides of the road without looking in his side mirrors. We of course could hear the cars behind him freaking out on their hooters - but he was oblivious. Only when it seemed we might die would we point out that there was a car next to him with an apoplectic driver staring wide-eyed at us. As the sun set we made it back to Khorog city after an incredible 9 days in the Bartang valley.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Khorog town</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">From Khorog, like most of Tajikistan, there are no buses so we found a shared vehicle that makes trip to the capital Dushanbe every other day and headed out from the Pamirs where we had spent the past three weeks.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Dushanbe central square</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The poorly maintained road hugged the river which formed the border with Afghanistan. Again we had the surreal view of women in full burka on the one side of the river in full view of Tajik women on the other side who dress and live more or less like women in any average, secular society. Our driver would stop every 50km or so and rush into a little police office and then jump into the car and drive on. When we asked why he did this, he explained that the police are very poorly paid in Tajikistan (R600 or $50 per month) and so most drivers were happy to make a small contribution (half a dollar at each stop) to "top up" their salaries. While this seems similar to corruption one can see in many developing countries, what made it interesting here was that the driver stopped of his own accord. No-one asked him to stop and he could have driven on with no consequences, but as he explained, the whole system of policing would collapse if everyone didn't pay as the policemen can't survive on $50 per month...</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">After a long drive we finally reached the capital of Dushanbe in the dark. There are a surprising lack of hotels in this city, so we ended up a little way out of town in an old soviet hotel which had rooms with en-suite bathrooms! After roughing it in the Pamirs, it seems overly fussy to mention that the toilet didn't have a seat.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTybYisiKNDn-l47COZyDCXds1-NmLk1JhVVMeMkaKBbn4fHzYNBhUiIbBd8Hu-jL5ZClWje7wEi9uJwPnLnZkdV8eUj5mR4yLkuzxLaFej3Yb_eXNT4c5_pn9uATKLVBH76DzHL3Yp38/s1600/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252811%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTybYisiKNDn-l47COZyDCXds1-NmLk1JhVVMeMkaKBbn4fHzYNBhUiIbBd8Hu-jL5ZClWje7wEi9uJwPnLnZkdV8eUj5mR4yLkuzxLaFej3Yb_eXNT4c5_pn9uATKLVBH76DzHL3Yp38/s640/blog4+2.1440678962+%25281%2529+%252811%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">We were surprised and overjoyed to find that Dushanbe is a rather handsome city. We had been expecting something similar to run-down Bishkek but instead found a modern city that seems to be experiencing a minor boom. Numerous beautiful parks, endless fountains that perform with lights and music in the evenings, relaxed Tap Chan restaurants with dirt-cheap draught beer and choy overlooking lakes or parks, yummy Shaslyk (shish kebabs) and super cheap chocolate milkshakes! Paradise. We spent four days there enjoying the sights including The World's Highest Flag Pole (very high) and The World's Largest Tea House (ridiculously large) and mos</span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">tly just chilled in the cheap Tap Chan restaurants. We also got some much needed logistical items sorted prior to entering the overly-complicated country that is Uzbekistan... </span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">... which we'll tell you about in our next blog :) </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Dushanbe market</td></tr>
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Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Dushanbe, Tajikistan38.5597722 68.78703840000002938.3611132 68.464314900000034 38.7584312 69.109761900000024tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-69433759067146753942015-07-29T10:51:00.000+03:002019-06-23T17:38:17.039+02:00Where the hell is Kyrgyzstan??!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When we last wrote we were in Urumqi, Western China trying to find our way through the notoriously complicated maze of Central Asian visa bureaucracy... while figuring it all out we still had two weeks left in China and decided to head north to the meeting point of Russia, China and Kazakhstan.<br />
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We took a long bus trip up to Buerjin – once again marveling at the thousands of wind turbines in the Xinjiang desert. In Buerjin we ran into the the rare but annoying non-foreigner-hotel problem: in a handful of Chinese cities an old, out-of-date law is enforced which allows only registered "foreigner hotels" to accept foreign tourists. This means that you have to traipse around the city knocking on hotel doors until you find either an affordable, foreigner-registered hotel or a non-registered hotel which turns a blind eye to this silly regulation.<br />
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The next day we were on another bus up to the wooden, mountain village of Hemu set amidst bright green mountains overlooked by snow-capped peaks. After relaxing for a few days, we hiked for 9 hours up a steep mountain where the scenery is so ridiculously beautiful it looks like a cheesy landscape painting: hillsides completely covered in a myriad of colourful flowers reaching up towards the snowline and bubbling brooks winding their way between verdant green meadows. We camped in a Kazakh, nomad's yurt overlooking He Hu (“black lake”) with ice melting all around us. After a chilly night we hiked down the other side of the mountain to Kanas - a large, turquoise lake high in the mountains. This area is populated by a mix of Kazakh and Tuvan (Mongolian) people. We spent a couple of days walking in the area and admiring the beautiful but mosquito-infested lake that supposedly has its own Lochness-style monster (apparently the monsters are in fact giant fish claimed to be 10m long).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4BrAzT3wF1hnQhACSLNYtdBvj9DwvBprJ7hGWr1XYmxTeGAbFTUAiI2NZeDxn5ciprJHvD-q0n4KwF0fbkosYsBslOyvL4VvTNtSthZM-0hyphenhyphenJ4qnbcPHeMqlxoInPncXoWQIApagiyc-f/s1600/2.1438179867.wooden-village-of-hemu-china.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4BrAzT3wF1hnQhACSLNYtdBvj9DwvBprJ7hGWr1XYmxTeGAbFTUAiI2NZeDxn5ciprJHvD-q0n4KwF0fbkosYsBslOyvL4VvTNtSthZM-0hyphenhyphenJ4qnbcPHeMqlxoInPncXoWQIApagiyc-f/s640/2.1438179867.wooden-village-of-hemu-china.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Hemu</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Hiking up to He Hu</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezxgmJbTEVraXoNru27TSpTzBShKOgGovABD4tGQF5-y227l9Vw0162P1tCbz9ymMnIb8HfSvDEc9Pag3aWoHeYQOvW1AI49OtOM_dERkLwLEGO2ohCpbFtZqsbj0-bM618y7Ap-EoZnf/s1600/2.1438179867.1-hiking-up-to-he-hu-china.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezxgmJbTEVraXoNru27TSpTzBShKOgGovABD4tGQF5-y227l9Vw0162P1tCbz9ymMnIb8HfSvDEc9Pag3aWoHeYQOvW1AI49OtOM_dERkLwLEGO2ohCpbFtZqsbj0-bM618y7Ap-EoZnf/s640/2.1438179867.1-hiking-up-to-he-hu-china.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8K4AFd8qO1O80WHR4CVxruOwjQIxj7dD4W7WrJ1utfMSVBal4hlBB7pQzk8eeT-rb6wkMAiI0jNrlVn9TLLQVhkubSvVtep2urw9RINsuHT94EwM3zKfyAFZhzaQCdx12PjUXClg4FG8/s1600/2.1438179867.yurt-camp-at-he-hu-china.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8K4AFd8qO1O80WHR4CVxruOwjQIxj7dD4W7WrJ1utfMSVBal4hlBB7pQzk8eeT-rb6wkMAiI0jNrlVn9TLLQVhkubSvVtep2urw9RINsuHT94EwM3zKfyAFZhzaQCdx12PjUXClg4FG8/s640/2.1438179867.yurt-camp-at-he-hu-china.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Our nomad camp with He Hu (lake) in the background</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC2PyVXFgdEHz-PmvaTFNQdJwSeF2PdpcFF2qDvfj7QKWVZThwJL_UtM7gtApNjm8amAqpGr_hNxJUnwVFkWQc1yRCS-rxzuGYD3fxplj-vArDT4vp2hKj1H6IHawnqmkEcNRZrPZTqwNG/s1600/2.1438179867.lake-kanas-china.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC2PyVXFgdEHz-PmvaTFNQdJwSeF2PdpcFF2qDvfj7QKWVZThwJL_UtM7gtApNjm8amAqpGr_hNxJUnwVFkWQc1yRCS-rxzuGYD3fxplj-vArDT4vp2hKj1H6IHawnqmkEcNRZrPZTqwNG/s640/2.1438179867.lake-kanas-china.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Kanas lake</td></tr>
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We returned to Buerjin and then Urumqi to begin the next, new leg of our journey: enigmatic Central Asia.<br />
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As bad luck would have it – we were the first travelers to discover that the Kyrgyzstan consulate in Urumqi no longer issues visas (even though the sign on the door says it still does) and so we were unable to continue our journey by land. Bizarrely, by flying into Kyrgyzstan South Africans are issued with a visa-on-arrival so we were left with no option other than to buy a flight to Bishkek, the capital. We were excited to begin the journey that would bring colour to the blurry expanse that Central Asia was in our minds - due to our (almost complete) ignorance of the region.<br />
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Before we describe our Central Asian travels we think we should give a little historical background as most people (like us just a few weeks ago) have heard little or nothing of the countries that make up Central Asia and are unaware of its enthralling history. This is the briefest summary:<br />
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The history of Central Asia is defined by three unique geographic challenges:<br />
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- It is the furthest region from the ocean and its moderating impact on temperatures. As a result this region has some of the world's most inhospitable temperatures: well above 40 degrees in summer and below -30 degrees in winter.<br />
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- The region is criss-crossed by a large number of monstrous mountain ranges which are almost impossible to cross (the legendary mountain passes of Irkeshtam, Torugart, Karakoram are all in the region). The mountains are so high that people in neighbouring valleys often speak mutually incomprehensible languages.<br />
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- Those parts of the region that are not gigantic mountains are mostly desert plains or infertile steppe.<br />
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Most probably as a result of the above geography, Central Asia has never been permanently incorporated into the major civilisations that surround it – instead it has always been an inhospitable frontier which would be temporarily incorporated into the dominant civilisation of the day before being conquered by another and another for thousands of years. This region has been conquered and settled by, amongst others (and not in this order): the Persians, the Turks, the Chinese, the Greeks, the Romans, the Afghans, and the Russians. But perhaps the most famous conquerors were Ghengis Khan’s Mongolian hordes who rode the region’s famous horses and conquered most of the known world in the 13th and 14th centuries. The impact of all these diverse conquerors is that Central Asia is one of the most ethnically mixed areas on earth. This region was also the most treacherous part of the Silk Road both because of its daunting mountains and capricious weather, and also due to raiding by hostile soldiers and bandits belonging to the various tribes along the way.<br />
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The final conquerors were the Russians (who became the Soviets), and who incorporated Central Asia into the Soviet Union. The Soviet’s record was mixed: Stalin killed huge numbers of inhabitants in the Gulags (20% of all ethnic Kazakhs were killed) and he seemed to enjoy moving entire populations of people against their will thousands of kilometers around the Soviet Union. As a result, in the middle of Central Asia one can still find large populations of Koreans who were moved from near Vladivostock (which was basically a Korean area but which is now inhabited by European Russians) as well as Ukranians, East Germans, Chechens and Russians. Furthermore, many filthy industries were dumped in pristine<br />
areas, nuclear testing was performed here with little protection of the local population leading to terrible carcinogenic health consequences and the region is littered with horrific Soviet pollution catastrophes that continue to blight daily life.The Soviets were in many ways a domineering colonial power in Central Asia but there were positive impacts: the rights of women were significantly improved, infrastructure and industries were built, religious extremism was contained and the standard of living was dramatically improved.<br />
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One of lasting implications of the Soviet era in Central Asia under Stalin was the division of the region into five ethnically distinct states – an incredibly complicated task considering the vast ethnic diversity and mixing in the area over millennia. However he managed to carve out five states which existed as part of the USSR until the Soviet Union collapsed. In 1991 these republics, with no history of being independent states or nationalities or even distinct identities, suddenly found themselves as fully fledged independent countries and emerged, stunned and reeling, forced out of the strong arms of mother Russia, with little preparation to find their feet amidst the total collapse of their Soviet-style economies.<br />
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These five new independent countries were: Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan.<br />
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Each of these countries are today very different having taken different paths after their sudden emergence out of the USSR collapse. We will be spending about a month in each (except Turkmenistan – a hermit country that has tried its best to prevent tourism of any sort) so we’ll fill you in on each specific country’s unique characteristics and recent history as we travel through them.<br />
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------------------ end of brief history lesson :) --------<br />
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So, after tasting Urumqi’s unique Muslim Uigher flavours and markets we boarded a plane and two hours later after flying over giant mountains and glaciers we landed in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan and the world’s furthest capital city from the ocean. We were sad to say goodbye to China – but we will see her again on this trip after we leave Central Asia.<br />
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Leaving the airport it immediately became apparent that we were very much no longer in China. The people look like a mix of Turkish and Mongolian, everything is written in Cyrillic Russian (imagine your world suddenly spelled out using the keyboard of your scientific calculator!), and the infrastructure is dilapidated. After leaving China where virtually everything is shiny, new and the economy is booming – it felt like we we had arrived in a place whose best days had long past and was now struggling to keep things running. Although there is some truth to these first observations – over the past month we have also realised that in part our first impressions of Kyrgyzstan were overly influenced by us comparing it to the economic and developmental miracle that is modern China. Any developing country when compared to China seems to be under-performing. But to avoid this blog just being an endless repetition of lamentations of “in China xxxx was better” we will not mention China again – suffice to say that the days of beautiful, affordable en-suite hotel rooms, luxurious public transport and diverse, delicious food (the food, the food... *weeping* ) are over...<br />
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So we entered Bishkek after encountering some very confusing Russian (spoken at us, not with us) and travelling on the local Ford Transit minibus’s – which make South Africa’s minibus public transport look efficient and comfortable – and found our homestay/guesthouse: two beds in a bare concrete room in the backyard of someone’s house.<br />
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Once we'd reset our general outlook and expectations, we came to find Bishkek a fairly attractive city with lots of trees and parks which, despite its arid location has many water fountains and pretty features all around the city centre, fed by the melting glaciers on the massive snow-peaked mountains clearly visible to the East.<br />
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After (surprisingly) managing to secure our Tajikistan visa in one day we were lucky to connect with the owners of the definitive website on Central Asian travel: www.caravanistan.com.<br />
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Steve (Belgian) and his Kazakh wife, Saule, were on a road trip in Kyrgyzstan and were looking for travellers to share petrol costs. So we took up the invitation to join them and immediately headed off over some 4000+m passes on our way to the lake and town of Toktugol. As we entered the mountains it was immediately clear why Kyrgyzstan is considered a nation of nomads (and why every second local tourism business uses "nomad" in its name). As it is summer here now, the Kyrgyz have emerged from being covered in snow in the frozen, mostly arid lowlands and have headed up to the high mountain valleys (called "jailoos") where their livestock - horses, cattle, yaks, sheep and goats - feast on the lush grasses that emerge after the snow and ice has melted. The Kyrgyz stay up in the jailoos with their animals living in white, round tents called "yurts" or in ancient Russian train carriages that have been dragged up there.<br />
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We spent a night in a homestay in Toktugol and then rounded the beautiful blue lake and cut through the steep, bare mountains along a bright turquoise river where we found a little swimming beach with surprisingly warm glacial-melt water. After crossing through the baking hot lowlands along the border with Uzbekistan we entered the green, wooded town of Arslanbob, famous for its thousands of hectares of wild Walnut forests.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGPlA1V4Gu0oM3ZyUfW9h2Z7UpCGsUs9TLK_o3s12FVQ_Zq02tIBlNha8SN-L0HUhTdKFaGo5XNIR2eLO0_bogEYR3UPnPZWSTgq_dGegOTrK1Xw6t35lUIc94eJEOoT5v8lgnyCEl8l2/s1600/2.1438179867.turqouise-lake-on-road-to-arslanbob-kyrgyzst.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaGPlA1V4Gu0oM3ZyUfW9h2Z7UpCGsUs9TLK_o3s12FVQ_Zq02tIBlNha8SN-L0HUhTdKFaGo5XNIR2eLO0_bogEYR3UPnPZWSTgq_dGegOTrK1Xw6t35lUIc94eJEOoT5v8lgnyCEl8l2/s640/2.1438179867.turqouise-lake-on-road-to-arslanbob-kyrgyzst.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Blue river as we drive through Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDd3CFFd-PXW3eDtqjKsEsIJmBKJ6iVZxzRFFoPxwS0Hcz6o172XGqyMCEIoJUQrx9IBkn_saUkgL2tLJeToXro1walE8ENxJxqAZZXy8OZ_hyphenhyphenxKyN2bzYn2Ga_eqW9AzH8ufmQfT-H6il/s1600/2.1438179867.swimming-on-the-way-to-arslanbob-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDd3CFFd-PXW3eDtqjKsEsIJmBKJ6iVZxzRFFoPxwS0Hcz6o172XGqyMCEIoJUQrx9IBkn_saUkgL2tLJeToXro1walE8ENxJxqAZZXy8OZ_hyphenhyphenxKyN2bzYn2Ga_eqW9AzH8ufmQfT-H6il/s640/2.1438179867.swimming-on-the-way-to-arslanbob-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Taking a dip in the river as we drive through Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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There are very few hotels in Kyrgyzstan but luckily a famous Community Based Tourism (CBT) program has been established which has helped families offer accommodation to tourists within their homes. As a result, most travelling in Kyrgyzstan involves scouting out the local CBT office to find out where the nearest homestays are to be found.<br />
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In Arslanbob there are about 20 homestays and we found a very nice one with a beautiful flower garden and a raised, shaded outdoor tea-drinking area covered with decorative cushions known as a Tap Chan. We spent three chilled days here walking in the surrounding hills and trying out the local food specialities (sadly, there are not many). Happily summer time is melon season in Central Asia so we feasted on sweet yellow melons as well as water melons.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu9KI0YS1pTyx3gu8LTw5RnsmW71KCxzZHDIJDVYgAKgOSMec1Q-1DmUR1IyoRSqGiOY3YKED9eWdC99KRZHJX_oOaDbThw10Vbk4NAey40wV7PDV0PO5Gttf9t9xdYBlBCS-Umt_vHRIt/s1600/2.1438179867.chilling-on-the-tap-chan-at-our-homestay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu9KI0YS1pTyx3gu8LTw5RnsmW71KCxzZHDIJDVYgAKgOSMec1Q-1DmUR1IyoRSqGiOY3YKED9eWdC99KRZHJX_oOaDbThw10Vbk4NAey40wV7PDV0PO5Gttf9t9xdYBlBCS-Umt_vHRIt/s640/2.1438179867.chilling-on-the-tap-chan-at-our-homestay.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The "tapchan" (tea deck) at our homestay in Aslanbob</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4txXEUE7j2i-6R40KnJNm7MrgDEeQBlb-ID1T1zdf7boTXMuy0LBSEAwIBMTv-mt6C08EIa2X43o1br5L7aFebHE4X_mhyJKxmbIwFuO84E4Hh9nHh9VjuJXm4yTZLJd5TbBFhLfP2xi/s1600/2.1438179867.kids-in-arslanbob-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4txXEUE7j2i-6R40KnJNm7MrgDEeQBlb-ID1T1zdf7boTXMuy0LBSEAwIBMTv-mt6C08EIa2X43o1br5L7aFebHE4X_mhyJKxmbIwFuO84E4Hh9nHh9VjuJXm4yTZLJd5TbBFhLfP2xi/s640/2.1438179867.kids-in-arslanbob-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmk9dnmi3jGk3Sk-BSJ00GcNtjb_Kxe3Fc3-Unf9ZcSYnnkNsUuplzsywIDzOD35XSUzxlcLelcJqyowdG-OLzT28A9bb1G1thMH513-ViBA2p2SgdVTS8VxKECcgD5lIHY2DngVChzva/s1600/2.1438179867.rejane-and-saule-at-waterfall-arslanbob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmk9dnmi3jGk3Sk-BSJ00GcNtjb_Kxe3Fc3-Unf9ZcSYnnkNsUuplzsywIDzOD35XSUzxlcLelcJqyowdG-OLzT28A9bb1G1thMH513-ViBA2p2SgdVTS8VxKECcgD5lIHY2DngVChzva/s640/2.1438179867.rejane-and-saule-at-waterfall-arslanbob.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Waterfall above Arslanbob with Saule</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGGxnIv9cf0tfQKKpThrQMlUkVtCWRr0bA9dDV_REoDvaW9RuxQHZeCXxExKzibZzFlU2Q6bkfQOf3RChOo1iA3dCRd9AHLkiZtTO8RP-Fx4vzDhavkcJ9iBFuGQ5MMk0Jk6NI6nD02F0/s1600/2.1438179867.arslanbob-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOGGxnIv9cf0tfQKKpThrQMlUkVtCWRr0bA9dDV_REoDvaW9RuxQHZeCXxExKzibZzFlU2Q6bkfQOf3RChOo1iA3dCRd9AHLkiZtTO8RP-Fx4vzDhavkcJ9iBFuGQ5MMk0Jk6NI6nD02F0/s640/2.1438179867.arslanbob-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">View over Arslanbob</td></tr>
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We headed on to the Silk Road town of Osh which has the biggest bazaar in Central Asia and then moved quickly on over some desolate landscapes towards the South East. We got a little lost on the way and ended up in a tiny village of Kara Maty where we were happily welcomed by a rarely visited homestay.<br />
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Homestays in Kyrgyzstan generally consist of a large room in the family home which has a pile of thin woolen mats covered in colourful cloth. These mats are rolled out and covered with a heavy blanket with typically up to ten guests sleeping together in one room. Unfortunately the nomadic culture lends itself to rather infrequent bathing - once a week perhaps - so tourists are regarded as a bit fussy and silly if they expect some sort of bath or shower. So this homestay was our first of many, many homestays not to have shower facilities of any sort (as a result we have mastered the art of washing in less than a litre of water - a facecloth is essential if you want to try this at home). We enjoyed walking around the village where we found a slightly eccentric Russian lady who was building a huge school and who kindly invited us in for tea (and to view many photos of her family - including her daughter who was killed in a hit-and-run road accident and whose body was hidden for a month to prevent prosecution of the perpetrators). Further wanderings led to countless, emphatic invitations from local Kyrgyz families to join them for "chai!" and the very dodgy 'kurt' snack.<br />
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In Kyrgystan the two most treasured national delicacies are Kumis and Kurt. The former is mare's milk which has been fermented in a goat's skin and is just simply the highest level of disgusting. Kurt are hard balls of highly salted, dried cottage cheese - and is almost as disgusting as Kumis. The Kyrgyz are very proud of these two delicacies and so one is endlessly offered generous gifts of both and expected to sample them in front of the proud giver. One of the life's great challenges is to produce a warm thankful smile while forcing down these evil brews - with eager, expectant Kyrgyz faces immediately taking this act of heroism as an invitation to double up on their generosity and to refill your bowl of Kumis or, if you're really lucky, to give you a whole 2L bottle full of the stuff. Naturally these bottles are used to irrigate/poison the parched desert as soon as one is out of view.<br />
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After admiring the lush fruit trees (many of the world's best known fruits are originally from Central Asia - including apples which come from Kazakhstan) and chatting with friendly Kyrgyz families, we continued on driving over astonishingly beautiful but hair-raising mountain passes (some alarmingly slippery with melting snow) to reach Tash Rabat, an ancient Silk Road Caravanserai high in the mountains bordering China.<br />
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We stayed again in a nomad yurt camp just a few hundred metres from the Caravanserai with stunning snow-capped peaks surrounding us. The yurts are made from wool and animal skins and are well-insulated from the freezing cold. Inside, our yurt had a steel fireplace and chimney which, when filled with cow dung and lit, warmed up the inside of the tent to a toasty temperature.<br />
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We wandered the grassy mountains slopes admiring the herds of famous Central Asian horses which, in this part of the world, are not only used for transport but also as livestock for milk and meat too. Blissful afternoons lazing on the green grass with concerned marmots anxiously watching us, confused Yaks unsure of how close they could get...and giant glaciers looming in the distance...<br />
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We visited the ancient, stone Caravanserai which, a thousand years ago, provided succour to Silk Road traders making the dangerous journey to or from China over the Torugart pass. One could just imagine the relief the traders felt when they spotted the Caravanserai and knew that, at least for now, they were safe and would spend a warm night dry and fed - and how they would have looked forward to meeting and sharing stories with other traders and travelers from all across Asia and Europe.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Horses, Tash Rabat, Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Yurt camp, Tash Rabat, Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqcCtuzChBd46Qml9I6fyFhXePuf8cpvmqqsU-WGmJ8feLb55O-cKviBjDO7YcPdVdp9Qw3THqTau0jrqifpW1pyIlKVWpiW5_Ml9C4w57VXeNp8SB9qyYmLKBV6bZoqRBB8UNc5cfv2Z/s1600/2.1438179867.sunrise-over-the-caravanserai-tash-rabat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqcCtuzChBd46Qml9I6fyFhXePuf8cpvmqqsU-WGmJ8feLb55O-cKviBjDO7YcPdVdp9Qw3THqTau0jrqifpW1pyIlKVWpiW5_Ml9C4w57VXeNp8SB9qyYmLKBV6bZoqRBB8UNc5cfv2Z/s640/2.1438179867.sunrise-over-the-caravanserai-tash-rabat.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Silk road caravanserai in Tash Rabat</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJfzCoaLlakFO4VwuOXPEyACH-39wtKqpKm5wuhU5XPQPk86RpTtbkVVV0W6h7KyDHq-P84aOGHaC2_ulA6M_t4thGxnJYjN-LP550GrYeeSBPtVMGROGAPhM30QPHsuMKQoO3UusjlWW/s1600/2.1438179867.tash-rabat-caravanserai-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJfzCoaLlakFO4VwuOXPEyACH-39wtKqpKm5wuhU5XPQPk86RpTtbkVVV0W6h7KyDHq-P84aOGHaC2_ulA6M_t4thGxnJYjN-LP550GrYeeSBPtVMGROGAPhM30QPHsuMKQoO3UusjlWW/s640/2.1438179867.tash-rabat-caravanserai-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Silk road caravanserai in Tash Rabat</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Yak!!</td></tr>
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From Tash Rabat we over-nighted in the small town of At-Bashy which means "Head of the Horse" and sports a massive golden horse head - just the head - kissing the ground. There was a festival celebrating the traditional felted carpet called a Shyrdak. Unfortunately (for us), the festival entailed for the most part a series of the town's most enthusiastic Karaoke singers enjoying their one (and only) moment of glory on the stage... There was however quite an impressive young dance troupe that performed the famous Kyrgyz nomad dance involving rhythmic contortion of arms and legs.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Kids performing at At-Bashy festival</td></tr>
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Luckily, we were staying in a nice homestay that even had a shower, which was very welcome after a few crusty days in the yurt camps. When we mentioned this to people in the know, we were told this was because our host was in fact an Uzbek and Uzbeks are stereo-typically much more organised. Over the years there has been ongoing tensions between the Kyrgyz and the large minority of Uzbeks living in Kyrgyzstan. Unfortunately this has blown up into full scale violence on a number of occasions and has its origins in the age old conflict between nomads (Kyrgyz) and farmers/businessman (Uzbeks).<br />
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Of the five Central Asian republics only Kyrgyzstan can be said to be a proper democracy. That said, street protests have overthrown two democratically elected but horrendously corrupt presidents in the last decade. It's really hard to get a sense of where Kyrgyzstan is going as a country. On the one hand there has been quite good economic growth (6+% per year for more than a decade) and there is evidence of new roads and other infrastructure being built. On the other hand, when independence came in 1991 the majority of skilled workers with ties to Russia returned (even those born in Kyrgyzstan) and we get the sense that much of Kyrgyzstan still runs on old Russian/Soviet infrastructure: most of the cars are old Ladas or UAZ jeeps, the tractors and other farming equipment look like machines from the 70's and the towns are made up of slowly crumbling ex-colonial buildings long past their best. Despite decent economic growth in Kyrgyzstan, up to half of young Kyrgyz men work in Russia - in spite of the horrible racism that they are said to experience there - and then send money home. We did meet some foreigners who were in Kyrgyzstan during the mid 90's who say that things were a lot worse then - one described independence and the departing of the Russians as being like "every man in Kyrgyzstan had been kicked in the solar plexus." They also described major highways where a car would only pass every few hours - nowadays there are a lot more cars and for some reason the most common modern car seems to be the Lexus. So things are improving - one hopes it is just fast enough to keep the restless population from revolting again...<br />
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After a fast and comfortable week in Steven and Saule's (Caravanistan.com) 4x4, we decided to slow our pace somewhat and continue by public transport. We parted ways and then spent four days chilling in the small village of Eki Naryn - two days in the village homestay and the other two days in a Yurt up at the family's summer jailoo alongside a rushing glacial melt river. The family we stayed with were very friendly and despite our lack of Russian/Kyrgyz and their lack of English we enjoyed our time with them. Dave was gifted a traditional Kyrgyz hat and we reciprocated with a beaded Xhosa necklace that we'd brought from home. We feasted on homemade yoghurt, bread and jam and the heaps of individually wrapped chocolates and sweets which accompany every meal in Central Asia (EVERY meal, even breakfast). This is probably the reason why virtually every Kyrgyz adult has three or four gold teeth, sometimes it seems the full mouth has gone golden (apparently one's teeth can be a form of saving too!).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Eki-Naryn</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7EnClurwCSj7XSaRj3MoKkeC9K9ICcXCCBAwAuBgdhATIVgfBzJ7iWtIPeOMkuQBDnl57PE3-s5j8CIp23lrdV6LS5HPiFEZv2uJsl3Qg60BlwkKWnkfzp10yXESy764IWwVLQPJClEE/s1600/2.1438179867.at-homestay-eki-naryn-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx7EnClurwCSj7XSaRj3MoKkeC9K9ICcXCCBAwAuBgdhATIVgfBzJ7iWtIPeOMkuQBDnl57PE3-s5j8CIp23lrdV6LS5HPiFEZv2uJsl3Qg60BlwkKWnkfzp10yXESy764IWwVLQPJClEE/s640/2.1438179867.at-homestay-eki-naryn-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Our homestay hosts in Eki-Naryn</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9UQXIK21yYRap4m7rUH3qKmozKZhRF_-lsnRKQtuV4KTtWFglZVgSTAVuoi7xZNvzhOectUjjDkzpYzGVlF7eS9OzylxoaJpaxKla9_hMpPOJyiNNHfcJR5-oxlQ8nOD2Jj8EijRj7tB_/s1600/2.1438179867.eki-naryn-yurt-camp-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9UQXIK21yYRap4m7rUH3qKmozKZhRF_-lsnRKQtuV4KTtWFglZVgSTAVuoi7xZNvzhOectUjjDkzpYzGVlF7eS9OzylxoaJpaxKla9_hMpPOJyiNNHfcJR5-oxlQ8nOD2Jj8EijRj7tB_/s640/2.1438179867.eki-naryn-yurt-camp-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Our yurt camp in Eki-Naryn</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2kCF1RTaDMEd8vst9zsbAuvZ7AEuyMviP9WUtRuW6OLCe3S2VKYEXqDh-YPLIowYEWrw5NciKUffl6dVXeKzbkzyeJ3B0fQTLBHcBCrBvvTOKGSOwcHsKtLPrH1IKfc9r2X1fQFcR3SB/s1600/2.1438179867.kids-eki-naryn-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2kCF1RTaDMEd8vst9zsbAuvZ7AEuyMviP9WUtRuW6OLCe3S2VKYEXqDh-YPLIowYEWrw5NciKUffl6dVXeKzbkzyeJ3B0fQTLBHcBCrBvvTOKGSOwcHsKtLPrH1IKfc9r2X1fQFcR3SB/s640/2.1438179867.kids-eki-naryn-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDC8HTWHD__vuSBrPSuKbCg1Q-pjXPx9WdrdYgnoKqC3dwrsHl3wtIJX9wDeJl2v0TKsSjShEzOfEWdlrsk_jdnlH9a01epwXWvaQnuAy9rNjEIvHqfLr7cJtydwvQwX4BADkkn9Aw4VZy/s1600/2.1438179867.making-bread-on-cow-dung-fire-eki-naryn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDC8HTWHD__vuSBrPSuKbCg1Q-pjXPx9WdrdYgnoKqC3dwrsHl3wtIJX9wDeJl2v0TKsSjShEzOfEWdlrsk_jdnlH9a01epwXWvaQnuAy9rNjEIvHqfLr7cJtydwvQwX4BADkkn9Aw4VZy/s640/2.1438179867.making-bread-on-cow-dung-fire-eki-naryn.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Making bread on a cow dung fire in Eki-Naryn</td></tr>
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After a fairly tough month of travelling we were desperate for a "holiday-within-our-holiday" location and were beginning to worry that we would not be able to find a place to truly chill out for a few days... so we headed for Issyk-Kul, the giant lake in the north of the country which was the premier summer holiday location in the region during the Soviet era. After a long day on scorchingly hot minibuses, we decided to head for the less-touristy Southern side of the lake and found a beautiful, chilled-out, backpacker Yurt camp on the beach with warm, clear-blue water and 360 degree views of snow-peaked mountains... a paradise called Bel Tam.<br />
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We ended up relaxing there for almost a week, meeting a steady stream of interesting local and foreign travellers, swimming in the relatively warm water, and chatting with the friendly ladies who own the camp. Bizarrely, the nearby ruined buildings had just been discovered to have been a secret, Soviet-era nuclear facility which spawned all sorts of conspiracy theories as to what it might have been used for. The owner of the camp said a scientist had run tests and explained that there was no radiation (whew!) and that the plant was used to manufacture H3O... However, as luck would have it, during our next few days of lounging around the Bel Tam camp, three different groups of travellers with nuclear knowledge popped in and out: a nuclear physicist, two chemists and a nuclear waste engineer. They explained that H3O doesn't exist and that in fact the facility probably manufactured Heavy Water (D2O) which is used in nuclear power plants. They also happily confirmed that these activities, even if they were clandestine, would not have resulted in the generation of any radiation in the area.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiZTeS-bHHDarwNR5guI-xoKDKv0O54dgb4L6hondcvoRknQEtZbGGB2mjziTajflFhco2Tjmtzmv2uP1993jToXwjHRWKAHK-BDaQAJ1Q7WFBK_t_8q-8aA8caoDCYfi25e88o5FnF8Tf/s1600/2.1438179867.bel-tam-yurt-camp-lake-issy-kul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiZTeS-bHHDarwNR5guI-xoKDKv0O54dgb4L6hondcvoRknQEtZbGGB2mjziTajflFhco2Tjmtzmv2uP1993jToXwjHRWKAHK-BDaQAJ1Q7WFBK_t_8q-8aA8caoDCYfi25e88o5FnF8Tf/s640/2.1438179867.bel-tam-yurt-camp-lake-issy-kul.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Bel Tam yurt camp on Issyk-Kul</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfzf2wbPmfim157AxYJSr1sh837H5JATeNlWBakJNzIR19ftmOSNH9v4bnW2CnQeCYQB0kwD2okXgXT9ZYJh9BBOjhrv2f6Cmtr_cfe8OnlRkQ8v6bi5bxLmw6zv_gOoK45WRj5Lvz3MCw/s1600/2.1438179867.paradise-chilling-in-bel-tam-lake-issyk-kul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfzf2wbPmfim157AxYJSr1sh837H5JATeNlWBakJNzIR19ftmOSNH9v4bnW2CnQeCYQB0kwD2okXgXT9ZYJh9BBOjhrv2f6Cmtr_cfe8OnlRkQ8v6bi5bxLmw6zv_gOoK45WRj5Lvz3MCw/s640/2.1438179867.paradise-chilling-in-bel-tam-lake-issyk-kul.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiAVux9RoaGxd8WmgKQBmASOlqvJeEJCo_ht_4MqFdKTr7AjNbOTIAr3T7l4shpGQjdEPQeGzJ1IJ3PUCAbwOR0qAWrXdQziTgCd2KrtdZsDTkDBFi4lA_e8ExmiRhXaOOxFqpi7HRn9-P/s1600/2.1438179867.putting-up-a-yurt-bel-tam-issyk-kul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiAVux9RoaGxd8WmgKQBmASOlqvJeEJCo_ht_4MqFdKTr7AjNbOTIAr3T7l4shpGQjdEPQeGzJ1IJ3PUCAbwOR0qAWrXdQziTgCd2KrtdZsDTkDBFi4lA_e8ExmiRhXaOOxFqpi7HRn9-P/s640/2.1438179867.putting-up-a-yurt-bel-tam-issyk-kul.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Building a yurt at Bel Tam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjsk4aX0M5xv3t5rG3jcVPb1VB-bU52APxDaZNkc9hk0D70b7A6Dx_8tCv9ktUn88ajRJlpwu5SIsxC-Uc76wsXh6OHFy5-56pvDKGFFXDebpRNsFabgRc9WUjHJvtspsSP9ApDBlxr1C/s1600/2.1438179867.nuclear-factory-remanants-issyk-kul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjsk4aX0M5xv3t5rG3jcVPb1VB-bU52APxDaZNkc9hk0D70b7A6Dx_8tCv9ktUn88ajRJlpwu5SIsxC-Uc76wsXh6OHFy5-56pvDKGFFXDebpRNsFabgRc9WUjHJvtspsSP9ApDBlxr1C/s640/2.1438179867.nuclear-factory-remanants-issyk-kul.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Soviet nuclear factory reminants</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QFXIW1Tf-SLotRiK3S7x7ZGC_b5BrhpN3ZgboESnUv-TH8KNb737z-BCZOFf5lRnTt_Ip1pRcDzVrDSLDaNiyvC93sB9qHjTTqTqseKg-rTTX1MRn8KxWdQxIrVKwyY_j_7Ct_UmwNSa/s1600/2.1438179867.the-lovely-ladies-of-bel-tam-issyk-kul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QFXIW1Tf-SLotRiK3S7x7ZGC_b5BrhpN3ZgboESnUv-TH8KNb737z-BCZOFf5lRnTt_Ip1pRcDzVrDSLDaNiyvC93sB9qHjTTqTqseKg-rTTX1MRn8KxWdQxIrVKwyY_j_7Ct_UmwNSa/s640/2.1438179867.the-lovely-ladies-of-bel-tam-issyk-kul.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The lovely ladies of Bel Tam in Issyk-Kul</td></tr>
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One of the most notable impacts of the Soviet era on the local culture has been on the practising of Islam. It has been interesting to see the myriad ways in which the religion is interpreted in a region that considers itself almost 100% Muslim. Our month in Kyrgyzstan coincided with Ramadan and it was interesting to note that while most people consider themselves Muslim, few people fasted. Many women dress conservatively, with scarves tightly wound around their heads while they eat openly in restaurants during Ramadan - muttering "Alhamdoulilai" and wiping their faces with their hands in the typical Muslim 'giving thanks' motion. Nomads in general have always been more pragmatic when it comes to religion, possibly due to the challenges of living life on the move. The Soviets in turn banned religion and encouraged vodka... During the Soviet era, many people secretly continued to pracitise the more mystical Sufi Islam incorporating some animist traditions of shrine worship. While many Kyrgyz women wear tight scarves, others wear loose ones and still others are happy to sport little bikinis at the beach. In Arslanbob a friend was invited to join a family for lunch where the father explained that he was fasting so he would not eat but would offer and share a shot of vodka as welcome!<br />
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While in Bel Tam we were waiting for our interview date at the Uzbekistan embassy in Bishkek. Uzbekistan, despite its Soviet links to Africa's liberation movements, has a policy that Africans shouldn't even bother to apply for tourist visas...! Recently, some exasperated South Africans had gone to the embassy which, noting that they were white, changed the rule and said that while they were a still not interested in other Africans, South Africans may now apply for visas!!! Blatant racism! Anyway, we finally got our visa appointment and with much reluctance left the beautiful Bel Tam and returned to Bishkek where we got our Uzbek visa quickly though expensively ($150 each!). It was noticeable how much nicer Bishkek seemed after almost a month in rural Kyrgyzstan...<br />
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There were rumours that a horse festival was happening on the other side of the country the next day so we headed straight from the Uzbek embassy to the local bus station. In Kyrgyzstan there are no proper buses - at best you hope to find a minibus. But most of the time, for long distance travel, you get paid-for lifts with Kyrgyz people who are driving to the same place in their private cars. At the bus station there are normally a few private cars waiting for passengers and the bus station touts will quickly lead you to the next car leaving for your destination - so in our case we had a very comfortable lift in a smart sedan from one end of the country to the other. By lucky co-incidence, our driver lived right next to the mountain pass where the festival was due to be held - and due to us arriving after midnight he invited us to sleep at his house. In the morning we enjoyed a breakfast of home made offal (boiled tripe), bread, yoghurt and watermelon and admired the cute kiddies with their painted mono-brows - the traditional image of female beauty in the region.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1J2ZH8YHTAuEJYGjyZHmcVLRkaFQAksWRiD_Xsj7jK8N5fgH43q-hgVPL4f2nfcDEafS45HmYrlnu-mPQed8M1FXOXKcKh8t_DvmS28rYE8r-ujlfNC04GahyphenhyphenFR-SR7L7eU_eKfwcE8X/s1600/2.1438179867.offal-yoghurt-watermelon-and-bread-breakfas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1J2ZH8YHTAuEJYGjyZHmcVLRkaFQAksWRiD_Xsj7jK8N5fgH43q-hgVPL4f2nfcDEafS45HmYrlnu-mPQed8M1FXOXKcKh8t_DvmS28rYE8r-ujlfNC04GahyphenhyphenFR-SR7L7eU_eKfwcE8X/s640/2.1438179867.offal-yoghurt-watermelon-and-bread-breakfas.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Offal, yoghurt, water-melon and bread breakfast</td></tr>
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We headed up to the rolling green fields at the top of the mountain pass where we met up with Slovenian friends we'd met at Bel Tam: Jure and Nusa. Along with around 40 travellers from around the world we saw demonstrations by local women on how to make the local "delicacies" of fresh bread and Plov. The latter is an oily fried rice with strips of carrot and mutton - not totally terrible, but pretty bland and exceedingly boring when you've eaten it every other day for a month... We also got to help make Kumis - the grimace drink made from fermented mare's milk... apparently good Kumis must be churned 1000 times in the old goat skin...what.e.v.e.r..it's still disgusting!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRY0P1bjX6YK7evK70mDijOcsgUhLpY1N_GS35t6tycw5cqgnJhEbuQLqQpR4C3e1SOsrazkHmnuxtbpsh1PyJK5I4GkN-GgSF9uyPC5X6TFU4SgnRc4YmYrZo_u2B1cVWvi4qwsgG8wlf/s1600/2.1438179867.kyrgyz-elders-attending-chyrchik-horse-festiv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRY0P1bjX6YK7evK70mDijOcsgUhLpY1N_GS35t6tycw5cqgnJhEbuQLqQpR4C3e1SOsrazkHmnuxtbpsh1PyJK5I4GkN-GgSF9uyPC5X6TFU4SgnRc4YmYrZo_u2B1cVWvi4qwsgG8wlf/s640/2.1438179867.kyrgyz-elders-attending-chyrchik-horse-festiv.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Kyrgyz elders, Chyrchik, Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZH4h5Sevw09TnWWHV1v_PeMb2dswKDWUvlpa5XbLtq6-NFf382nEUBfKtYCa_z6UG7dwKb3pm5wq5DFR15ooWqSvwhSvQRJvHEHsmUsbl_c9pg-8Ujc_KMDIzyHcQWVfNi03nUT6mfwV/s1600/2.1438179867.making-kumis-chyrchik-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTZH4h5Sevw09TnWWHV1v_PeMb2dswKDWUvlpa5XbLtq6-NFf382nEUBfKtYCa_z6UG7dwKb3pm5wq5DFR15ooWqSvwhSvQRJvHEHsmUsbl_c9pg-8Ujc_KMDIzyHcQWVfNi03nUT6mfwV/s640/2.1438179867.making-kumis-chyrchik-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Making kumis in Chyrchik, Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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The highlight and focus of the day were the horse games. The Kyrgyz are rightly proud of their prowess on horseback that, during the era of Genghis Khan's hordes, struck terror in the hearts of the whole of Asia and much of Europe. Kids from as young as four years are expert, fearless riders - galloping across the plains and willfully charging into other horses.<br />
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The main game played is Dead Goat Polo (or "Kok Boru" in Kyrgyz). This involves a large (50kg) headless, dead goat which riders have to grab away from each other and ultimately deposit in a designated hole to win the game. In effect, the game becomes a giant melee of some one hundred guys on horseback fearlessly charging into each other at full speed in a desperate attempt to get their hands on the goat and then, while holding on as tightly as possible, whipping their horse to charge away in the hope that the combined strength of the horse and rider will rip the goat loose. If successful the rider, at full gallop, will try to sit on top of the goat while hurtling down the mountain towards the hole with the other riders charging after him at a crazy speed over uneven ground. Absolutely brutal - have a look at the video below. Watching the game is quite hazardous as even though the (mostly Kyrgyz) crowd stands a safe distance away, the crazed melee of riders are only thinking about the goat so they lose track of where they are and a few times we were almost over-run by the galloping horses.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkOMsAiLE21qdBzne8E0ciEP0B1MSOwrA1twwTp7WcEWx5K_UD4AUbW47-Ue5dimWWGamiTLobuSqTUlBH3XrrE5wdADlJyJL635okGU2yNZyvLfg8lgLxTiJqPX5pl1G_2THTUQDon_E/s1600/2.1438179867.1-dead-goat-polo-chyrchik-kyrgyzstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkOMsAiLE21qdBzne8E0ciEP0B1MSOwrA1twwTp7WcEWx5K_UD4AUbW47-Ue5dimWWGamiTLobuSqTUlBH3XrrE5wdADlJyJL635okGU2yNZyvLfg8lgLxTiJqPX5pl1G_2THTUQDon_E/s640/2.1438179867.1-dead-goat-polo-chyrchik-kyrgyzstan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Dead goat polo, Chyrchik, Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Wipe out!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">I got the goat!!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Dead goat polo, Chyrchik, Kyrgyzstan</span></div>
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After the Dead Goat Polo ended, there were some more sedate games. One involved a young girl in a flowing yellow dress on horseback being chased by an amorous suitor who had to try and kiss her before she reached the finish line. She was a great rider and the guy failed which meant that the second part of the game could begin which involved her chasing him on horseback with a horse-whip which if she could catch him she could whip him... she caught him and he was thoroughly lashed!<br />
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Other games involved a competition where riders had to gallop one by one and then hang off the side of their horse at full speed and reach down and pick up a coin wrapped in a handkerchief off the grass. The last game involved two riders on horseback trying to wrestle each other off their respective horses. A crazy day! (Have a look at the videos in the gallery.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Horse-wrestling, Chyrchik, Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Whip that boy! Romance Kyrgyz-style</td></tr>
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Horse-wrestling, Chyrchik, Kyrgyzstan</div>
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After the horse games we headed back to Osh city where we had a swim in the public swimming pool and enjoyed Shaslik (kebabs) with a South African who we had heard about and finally met. Generally in Central Asia when we say we are South African, people look confused and then say "do you mean Yugoslavian?" (Yugoslavia means "Southern Slav" in Russian - so people figure that we've just mispronounced the second part of our country's name.) When we re-iterate that we are South African then we are met with total confusion or outright challenges as to why we are not black... a little bit tedious after a while especially because we can't speak Russian and thus give a more informative explanation. So when we had heard someone say "oh I met a South African last week" we were a bit dumb-founded and were happy to find her and share travel stories.<br />
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From Osh we headed towards the border of Tajikistan and China through parts of the magnificent Irkeshtam pass which winds through a narrow valley with steep cliff-like mountains on either side. We arrived at the village of Sary Mogul and stayed in a homestay there and the following day we met up again with our Slovenian friends. Together we headed towards the mighty Peak Lenin (7134m) and camped at its base in a lovely yurt camp surrounded by dozens of clear lakes with the giant glaciers of Peak Lenin towering behind us. We spent three days walking in the surrounding mountains inhabited with nervous marmots, swimming in the lake filled with tiny shrimps which swarmed all over us and horse-riding across the plains to another glacier valley while our guide rode an indignant yak that huffed and puffed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">flowers, Lake Tolpur, Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">7km high Peak Lenin looming over Lake Tolpur, Kyrgyzstan (our homestay yurts in the distance)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Ride that yak!! Lake Tolpur, Kyrgyzstan,</td></tr>
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And then, after a month of fun and games in beautiful Kyrgyzstan it was time to cross another epic mountain pass and enter our next Central Asian country: Tajikistan. Our adventures there will be told in our next blog in the next month or so...<br />
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Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Osh, Kyrgyzstan40.5139985 72.81609759999992140.4174335 72.654736099999923 40.6105635 72.977459099999919tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-22521930673857403312015-06-04T11:07:00.000+03:002019-06-23T16:50:45.736+02:00Into the Wild West Wonderland...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A little aside, before we get into the travel stories of the last four weeks: it has been pleasantly mind-blowing to experience the 'gifting culture' in China. We have visited large cities with populations in the millions, small towns and remote villages in this vast country, travelling over snow-covered mountains in Han Chinese, Tibetan, Christian and Muslim areas, diverse in food, culture, religious beliefs and even in the way people look - but one cool thing we have found common to all is spontaneous and frequent gift-giving from people we meet and from complete strangers. We have been given gifts of fruit, cakes, nuts, sweets (on buses, trains and minibuses), pocket tissues in corner stores, extra food (even entire meals), drinks and desserts in restaurants, taxis, buses and trains. And Dave is often offered cigarettes by men (and it's always men) who're very disconcerted when he refuses the gift - men in China smoke like it's 1979.<br />
<b><br /></b><b><br /></b><b>29 April - 1 May: "Shangri-la, not that much of a Shangri-la anymore, but pleasant enough place to acclimatise to the altitude"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>Last year a devastating fire destroyed much of the Shangri-la's old (wooden) town which is now being rebuilt. The Chinese attention to aesthetics in their building facades shows in this rebuilding process so while the new Shangri-la won't have all the charm of old, it should still be beautifully rendered, once complete. Although a pleasant enough place to visit, it is hard to see what the 'Shangri-la' myth is on about - we wouldn't necessarily rate it much above the other sort-of-nice, touristy places to visit like Dali or Yangshuo. Overall it was just a comfortable place, with great Tibetan food, where we could acclimitise to the chilly weather and high altitude and wait for our Chinese friends who were going to be joining us on our big hike around Meili Snow Mountain. Tibetan food is hearty and wholesome, perfect for warding off winter chills. It is largely centred around meat pies (mostly yak meat), dumplings ("momos"), meat broths and noodles and was some of the first rice-free meals we'd had since starting our China travels. Some interesting additions included 'yak yoghurt deep fried in batter'.<br />
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<b>2 May - 3 May: "Spectacular sunrise over Meili Snow Mountain in Felai Si" </b><br />
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We headed off towards Meili Snow Mountain with our friends, Monster and Lihaoqi, following behind us on their motorbike. This year is the Chinese Year of the Goat and the year that Tibetans believe the beautiful Meili Mountain was "born", so an important year for Buddhists to make the pilgrimage to circle around it. The circumambulation, known as the Kawa Karpo, crosses six mountain passes, some over 4000m above sea-level, and takes 8-12 days depending on how fast you walk. By doing the Kawa Karpo in the Year of the Goat, Tibetans gain a bonus 12 Kawa Karpo credits - in other words doing it once this year is equal to the spiritual act of doing it 13 times in other years.<br />
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The town of Felai Si is a common place for hikers to begin the walk. If you needed any proof of why Meili is considered holy by Buddhists, you only need to see sunrise over its majestic, glacial peaks. Hundreds of people gather every freezing morning, lighting incense and offerings at the temple and stringing long ropes of prayer flags in front of the stupas. Melodic chants waft over the spectators as the sun rises revealing the magnificent, jagged mountains deeply covered in snow and glaciers. To date these peaks have never been summited despite numerous fatal attempts. The Chinese have now banned the climbing of these peaks in deference to Tibetan religious sensibilities.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkFjmIFr7QCHSYyb3YrCqZCPgzaFhDLgUc_1jinPWwDX3af6-oh6WcDijq8tSAjlAG6mXuj0UjhWHp2UdUM0zTvDhSlkF4g3S-AlDr8cQ0xqcJv3628fp775i6wTwYAsovyckvsjCoRmb/s1600/2.1433422741.monster-making-dinner-in-failai-si.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkFjmIFr7QCHSYyb3YrCqZCPgzaFhDLgUc_1jinPWwDX3af6-oh6WcDijq8tSAjlAG6mXuj0UjhWHp2UdUM0zTvDhSlkF4g3S-AlDr8cQ0xqcJv3628fp775i6wTwYAsovyckvsjCoRmb/s640/2.1433422741.monster-making-dinner-in-failai-si.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Making dinner with Monster and Lihaoqi</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdqkr868VpD-PaG_wBxOL53EuftbrJXHe0c3fyY3WTKc5ZWDsNaTavi5JF61IS7R3SSkwbPPYCexVLMxQwC38_wO5ADsOdCWhLYbZFlKIj449lNpP0COiPsR12OOEmvwrszOKuGAQUnHzg/s1600/2.1433422741.the-view-of-meili-snow-mountain-from-feilai-si.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdqkr868VpD-PaG_wBxOL53EuftbrJXHe0c3fyY3WTKc5ZWDsNaTavi5JF61IS7R3SSkwbPPYCexVLMxQwC38_wO5ADsOdCWhLYbZFlKIj449lNpP0COiPsR12OOEmvwrszOKuGAQUnHzg/s640/2.1433422741.the-view-of-meili-snow-mountain-from-feilai-si.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Sunrise over Meili snow mountain </td></tr>
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<b>4 May: "Midnight walk along mountain precipice to Yubeng" </b><br />
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The following day, we were ready to get going with extra fleeces, thermal underwear and a minus 30 degree sleeping bag added to our backpacks. Our friend Monster insisted that the remoteness of the hike required us to carry a tent, two sleeping bags, pots, a cooker, food and cooking fuel for 10 days. Because our internet research found that this was really not necessary, we protested but Monster won the argument and with us being perpetually confused as to how things work, we went along with it. Dave and I would have 13 and 9kgs respectively to carry in our backpacks, on a 12 day walk over mountain passes of more than 4000m above sea-level. It was very, very hard... I now have renewed respect for my own physical ability!<br />
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Our walk was to start at midnight climbing to over 3000m above sea-level in moonlight along a path cut into steep mountain precipices. Any potential vertigo was reduced perhaps because we couldn't see the sheer drop down into the Mekong River in the dark! The details of why we started the walk at midnight is a story probably best told once we get home...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking to Yubeng</td></tr>
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<b>5 May - 6 May: "Yubeng village, surrounded by holy snow mountains and glaciers"</b><br />
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The eight hour grueling hike up to Yubeng ended as we emerged from the forest to the sight of a paradisical village at the foot of a looming snow-covered mountain. Throngs of Buddhists pilgrims pass through the village throughout the summer to pay homage to the holy waterfall further up the valley.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BDYZGCsGy-y0rLaIst_r7vHJsP_zuMnCy0GCsu5s2ZAdh6WZ8YoXQZQQtUArMgA2BY8LIwI-wo4OPE4HCD8A4YNOUV94ca-KptFpazqDo1owu3PY5MOuXvZ2YWakbFiqBGbspFFPEI6f/s1600/2.1433422741.hiking-route-to-yubeng.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-BDYZGCsGy-y0rLaIst_r7vHJsP_zuMnCy0GCsu5s2ZAdh6WZ8YoXQZQQtUArMgA2BY8LIwI-wo4OPE4HCD8A4YNOUV94ca-KptFpazqDo1owu3PY5MOuXvZ2YWakbFiqBGbspFFPEI6f/s640/2.1433422741.hiking-route-to-yubeng.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Path to Yubeng</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLxRyjkhTTjd2A5bFA6mCsvJwnDPEzW8x1sEuPabU8Hr0JO2kyqLI_Set3dkBMU0XhjxNkL4PCssdx_yZuMU52B9TsijNdDWBHUf3mlqfDuwWeLNfMHKv41grL5B1GwlPI5OewpJUE-Us/s1600/2.1433422741.beautiful-yubeng-village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLxRyjkhTTjd2A5bFA6mCsvJwnDPEzW8x1sEuPabU8Hr0JO2kyqLI_Set3dkBMU0XhjxNkL4PCssdx_yZuMU52B9TsijNdDWBHUf3mlqfDuwWeLNfMHKv41grL5B1GwlPI5OewpJUE-Us/s640/2.1433422741.beautiful-yubeng-village.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPKRBP4MGQKRpQ7ZnHyD71cUaTcE0ZX7QRNR0YpjAMwRohVNj4WL7Kv-D49ex0luzHO7igKD3zNBFzS3kZ9TP_syOS7zKCh6FV4P1yqLb1XhbKMVnwsivJSaiIWuycqxHJtpw3w2NIlmq/s1600/2.1433422741.yubeng-village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPKRBP4MGQKRpQ7ZnHyD71cUaTcE0ZX7QRNR0YpjAMwRohVNj4WL7Kv-D49ex0luzHO7igKD3zNBFzS3kZ9TP_syOS7zKCh6FV4P1yqLb1XhbKMVnwsivJSaiIWuycqxHJtpw3w2NIlmq/s640/2.1433422741.yubeng-village.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yubeng</td></tr>
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<b>7 May: "Family meal and overnight rest at Ninong"</b><br />
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After recovering from the walk up to Yubeng village and enjoying some walks around the area to pretty waterfalls and grand ice glaciers (albeit in a mild hail storm), all adorned in Buddhist prayer flags, we headed back down the mountain to carry on the walk around Meili. We said goodbye to Lihaoqi who was returning to university and we slept the night in a homestay in the pretty village called Ninong nestled above the Mekong river.<br />
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<b>8 - 9 May: "Waiting for a Buddhist sister to start the Kawa Karpo Holy Walk in Yuling"</b><br />
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Our next stop was at the end of a relatively easy 5 hour walk to Yuling town where we waited for a new friend - Fiona, a Buddhist 'sister' also doing the the Kawa Karpo pilgrimage - to join us. Because of the significance of this Year of the Goat, thousands of (mostly Tibetan)worshippers will make the pilgrimage this year, some kowtowing and completely prostrating themselves on the ground literally at every second step they take over the 150km hike (really, we're not kidding). Yuling was only remarkable in that our hotel had satellite TV but no toilet - one had to walk 5 min down the road to use the disgusting public toilets...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Epic Chinese road-building</td></tr>
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<b>10 May: "First day of Kawa Karpo hike"</b><br />
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The walks we'd done in the past few days, while spectacular, were not normally considered part of the Kawa Karpo pilgrimage and so this was to be our first proper day of the holy walk. The four of us (including Fiona and Monster) headed into the remote forested and mountaineous terrain that is the homeland of the hardy Tibetan people. The walk on this day was easier than the hike to Yubeng but would by no means be called considered 'easy'. We camped in tents in a little, nondescript village, in an open field where a few cows munched solemnly on their dinner and an icy river wooshed nearby.<br />
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<b>11 May: "Walk to Doker La base"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>The following morning, we were feeling strong... muscles a little sore but we were managing well. The walk started in thick, fragrant forests through which we climbed to the base of the infamous Doker La mountain pass. We camped amongst nomadic yak herds, bathed in glacial river water, enjoyed the open-air 'toilet' vistas, and huddled around a fire while eating a dinner of whatever meat and rice Monster managed to hussle off the local Tibetans. It was blissful.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Filtering water en route</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzSEydSmkDwT6kCcir01yop0PVQRUFrhxfS0S9kyDpUNJWIKBfJXYGIMnCWeRmde5y9G1oNvwFQe2xMwzUGKSBpHuLtVkrtiAVjYOoyw0s_AhtiGCRnc4rqXkEgdIPnayr9pG9La8_2Z6/s1600/2.1433422741.day-2-of-kawa-karpo-night-camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzSEydSmkDwT6kCcir01yop0PVQRUFrhxfS0S9kyDpUNJWIKBfJXYGIMnCWeRmde5y9G1oNvwFQe2xMwzUGKSBpHuLtVkrtiAVjYOoyw0s_AhtiGCRnc4rqXkEgdIPnayr9pG9La8_2Z6/s640/2.1433422741.day-2-of-kawa-karpo-night-camp.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Camp at base of Doker La pass</td></tr>
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<b>12 May: "Over Doker La pass, deep snow, icy mountain precipice and hanging on for dear life" </b><br />
<b><br /></b>Although the altitude and the weight of our backpacks were starting to take their toll, we set off like troopers to take on the Doker La mountain pass. By lunchtime we were panting up the steep forest climb, our lungs moaning in the thin, oxygenless air. We had expected to come to the top of the mountain pass after about four hours, however, what awaited us in the forest clearing at this false zenith was instead a spectacular view of the actual mountain pass looming straight ahead! The main path up Doker La was inaccessible due to deep snow so we had to make our own path up rocky ridges, steep scree slopes and snow covered paths that climbed to 4478m above sea level. We contemplated the two hours of our lives that lay ahead of us, chewing on life-giving Snickers bars (for some reason this is the only brand of chocolate in China), and watched a column of Tibetan pilgrims steadily snaking its way up the mountain, usefully marking out a new route we could take.<br />
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We swung our heavy backpacks back on and headed onwards and upwards. After a difficult couple of hours up precipitous, pathless rock slopes we neared the prayer-flag-decorated summit only to find that we had to trudge through knee deep snow in wholly inadequate shoes... but at least we'd reached the top - we'd beaten Doker La ...or so we thought...<br />
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The exhilaration that is the hiker's reward at the summit of a steep climb rapidly evaporated as we looked on, ashen-faced, teeth chattering, snow falling steadily... at the steep snow and ice covered slopes that we now had to descend on the other side of Doker La... Ironically, 'Doker La' means 'Stone steps to heaven' - but passing through these pearly gates was certainly not looking like a particularly inviting prospect... But there was no turning back, no hailing a cab and no way out but to haul @ss.<br />
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We pulled on whatever layers we could find in our backpacks - extra socks, hats and gloves. The two hours that followed proved the most physically challenging ordeal we'd ever encountered - bar none! Every step had to be gingerly tested for slippery-ness of the ice or depth of the snow that could, in a misstep, mean a deadly tumble down the mountain. After 30 minutes and really at the end of our energy reserves, we found some ropes hanging from embedded rocks intended for pilgrims to use and we started to bounce down, commando-style: backpack on, one hand on the rope, sliding down the ice and snow, trying our best to grip the roaps with frost-bitten hands. It was hell. Below the snow-covered part of the mountain side, the slope turned to icy, slippery scree, no less daunting but at least the slope was gradually becoming less steep.<br />
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Finally, after a total of 10 hours hiking, we reached the bottom: the guys looked flushed, on an adrenaline high while the two girls burst into tears. Monster gave Dave a puzzled look: "What dis?", referring to the tears. The girls just sobbed that they were tears of joy at having survived. "Man, woman different", Monster muttered, shaking his head incomprehensibly.'Well, you need both...", said Dave.<br />
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We had some more Snickers bars to celebrate our survival and then, utterly exhausted and frozen, we wobbled the last hour or so into the camp. When we arrived, we were aghast to find a number of little old Tibetan ladies, some bent over from osteoporosis, who looked at least 70 (in the shade) and who had formed part of the party of pilgrims we had seen ahead of us going over the mountain pass earlier in the day. They were cheerfully soaking their feet in buckets of hot water, looking bright eyed and bushy tailed and making room at the fire for us bedraggled lot ... Geez, Tibetans really must be the most hard-core people on earth. We would have kowtowed at their feet in appreciation of what the human body can achieve in its advanced years, if they did not already look confused and a little alarmed at our very presence in this remote place through which there is no way in or out, except by hazardous foot paths. Since they are traditional Tibetan mountain people, on their first Kawa Karpo, it is probable that our sorry mugs were the first foreign ones they have ever seen.<br />
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By crossing Doker La we had left Yunnan province and were now officially in Tibet... without the required special government permit that is impossible to get... more about that to come...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oxygen was lacking at this altitude</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All day hiking straight up into the snow line</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On top of Doker La pass</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The danger zone, one slip on the ice = death</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLI8yH4UgHvq0JYwjiLqYf-nuZi-oeeiZ_ZT418qxJDXHR7AEKANfiQtbv9TBEgcOO4B3eG6_tSPb-AauF7YKpFSqsPfahsCmgkfryCrdUUzmQz3TCrSg-JxcvnGVQb1FD2a3gdh_xlDb/s1600/2.1433422741.phew-made-it-down-ice-route-in-back-ground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqLI8yH4UgHvq0JYwjiLqYf-nuZi-oeeiZ_ZT418qxJDXHR7AEKANfiQtbv9TBEgcOO4B3eG6_tSPb-AauF7YKpFSqsPfahsCmgkfryCrdUUzmQz3TCrSg-JxcvnGVQb1FD2a3gdh_xlDb/s640/2.1433422741.phew-made-it-down-ice-route-in-back-ground.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">We made it! The route we climbed down from Doker La in the background</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The old Tibetan ladies who climbed down the same route</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSc8PnPHAWs2qXksOZ-uS3WKHnqLiDlUpE2o2SakqQzUPYAPvzBGv0Uq11rHju59HENmQtFbmAR_hm8FhXMnDOflPvqfGK9fdhYu_VsHIlcQYnFI55lsN_5_zB5j-iCPRfbt0c-niAZ1yI/s1600/2.1433422741.day-3-kawa-karpo-night-3-camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSc8PnPHAWs2qXksOZ-uS3WKHnqLiDlUpE2o2SakqQzUPYAPvzBGv0Uq11rHju59HENmQtFbmAR_hm8FhXMnDOflPvqfGK9fdhYu_VsHIlcQYnFI55lsN_5_zB5j-iCPRfbt0c-niAZ1yI/s640/2.1433422741.day-3-kawa-karpo-night-3-camp.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">View from our night camp </td></tr>
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<b><br /></b><b><br /></b><b>13 May: "Beautiful forest walk"</b><br />
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The next day was mercifully easier as we hiked through lush, scented forests over a low pass and then down to the pilgrim's camp along a gushing river. At this point we began asking about how we could get around the police checkpoints coming up in the next days. As mentioned before we were in Tibet without a permit. Some people suggested the possibility of paying someone to take us by motorbike at night to avoid the checkpoints... so we slept that night pondering the next move...One thing we knew was that we would not return to Yunnan province over Doker La!<br />
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<b>14 May: "Overnight stay in Abing, a little Tibetan village"</b><br />
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The next day was another huge hike with a solid 6 hours straight up through forest where we summitted to breath-taking 360 degree views of snow mountains surrounding us. Then it was another 3 hours of toe-bruising downhills to the beautiful village of Abing.<br />
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On the outskirts of the village we negotiated with some rough Tibetan lads to take us by motorbikes that night around the police checkpoints. The price was high and as we investigated further we found that there were now additional checkpoints that would be difficult to bypass and so we decided to take our chances and hand ourselves over to the police to see what they had to say...<br />
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We walked into Abing, a lovely Tibetan village on the edge of high cliffs surrounded by 'Highland Barley' fields. While we toasted our hiking accomplishments with hot tea and the first meal that did not consist of instant pot noodles, an excited posse of policeman arrived - the news that a couple of foreigners were roaming around Tibet having reached them. We assured them that we were happy to move on in the opposite direction by vehicular transport (!) back to anywhere in Yunnan province that did not involve walking back over Doker La. They were somewhat consoled by this and instructed us to appear at the police station the next day and so we carried on with our meal. After a welcome wash-up in the modest facilities of our guest house we got ready for bed when another party of excited polidcemen burst in, obviously not having heard from their colleagues who had visited us earlier and we had to go through the whole confused discussion again, (which carried on in loud Chinese that we didn't understand) with Monster stoutly protecting us and explaining that we would be trying to head back to Yunnan province in the morning.<br />
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Anyway, in the end it was fine: they put it down to confused foreigners not knowing any better. The following morning all was well and we were treated like special guests by the cops: they helped us take farewell pictures with Fiona and Monster (who would be carrying on through Tibet to complete the Kawa Karpo), treated us to lunch and arranged a 4x4 private vehicle (at no cost to us) to escort us out of Tibet (there is no public transport in this remote area), which was really what their main concern was, and at the end of it all we were treated to drinks and a mutton hotpot dinner by our escort.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical Tibetan home, Abing</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abing village</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xNeyG3lIz1pcN-vzVttvXy9cgXOcO00lMTdkdUPLT1OuC51jS4Wf4o2aapoTMZSjSd88DYq9lnFzJLsakLqreZZgUSiBFy6Bb5_EQhg5n8gx-fvxG3Zv6YWtvaT273L4aJqrE-jAPUsh/s1600/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-6-hours-continuous-uphill-don.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xNeyG3lIz1pcN-vzVttvXy9cgXOcO00lMTdkdUPLT1OuC51jS4Wf4o2aapoTMZSjSd88DYq9lnFzJLsakLqreZZgUSiBFy6Bb5_EQhg5n8gx-fvxG3Zv6YWtvaT273L4aJqrE-jAPUsh/s640/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-6-hours-continuous-uphill-don.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjyAxxaj-7BuIJuNkdtK7Bb2WfdR62DpFi4OPbXNA4Haasl2hgu2F-wKobeRXnrJXeHby1PNVgK0TEc9MSHn-Z5pp9MS81T0e4Dnn-XnGYoqAnfhDWt4U05C_WtB4UQgDSElBC8Z9TX9A/s1600/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-abing-village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjyAxxaj-7BuIJuNkdtK7Bb2WfdR62DpFi4OPbXNA4Haasl2hgu2F-wKobeRXnrJXeHby1PNVgK0TEc9MSHn-Z5pp9MS81T0e4Dnn-XnGYoqAnfhDWt4U05C_WtB4UQgDSElBC8Z9TX9A/s640/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-abing-village.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical Tibetan home, Abing</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZi5h2KC3_bQpPjmlRt-KUwiOjB-g5hMjwbBsPxS3V3Lhgv2bgw6iiZCjqa1bkY2PvVON1E72lVX6w4urSn9YiKcjIF8cDiTVvcdX5JgGb2l_AVnXC-ItP8moduERVS-VAP3DX9wv7RkZ/s1600/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-snow-mountains-360-degrees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZi5h2KC3_bQpPjmlRt-KUwiOjB-g5hMjwbBsPxS3V3Lhgv2bgw6iiZCjqa1bkY2PvVON1E72lVX6w4urSn9YiKcjIF8cDiTVvcdX5JgGb2l_AVnXC-ItP8moduERVS-VAP3DX9wv7RkZ/s640/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-snow-mountains-360-degrees.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb3dHgebkdWaIe5dIHRChTuK9kYaC7d2ljWp5Ll-o0FlXe2mRpRC6eZRh4eWgUIoF6EQXiA9FHJLSD_09lSzzshtrjWvTv2aLFVpaG362Y1A028n0OaR6YvNbPIjPhelyBjaVmkRQBICF_/s1600/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-the-village-of-abing-below.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb3dHgebkdWaIe5dIHRChTuK9kYaC7d2ljWp5Ll-o0FlXe2mRpRC6eZRh4eWgUIoF6EQXiA9FHJLSD_09lSzzshtrjWvTv2aLFVpaG362Y1A028n0OaR6YvNbPIjPhelyBjaVmkRQBICF_/s640/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-the-village-of-abing-below.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fzG5tZj1NE9NHTCOgF4OuN9bexjhpWtAQm4xD3Jqhz5i1y9ak_W5BRX2IiN_0-_T8G71KC6rCnqvKmuTLBWmzC8_180QKzk7xP2GFUfvqsuAcy8AZBxB3FpwPNmiAZcwjwNvxckNtqke/s1600/2.1433422741.kids-in-abing-village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fzG5tZj1NE9NHTCOgF4OuN9bexjhpWtAQm4xD3Jqhz5i1y9ak_W5BRX2IiN_0-_T8G71KC6rCnqvKmuTLBWmzC8_180QKzk7xP2GFUfvqsuAcy8AZBxB3FpwPNmiAZcwjwNvxckNtqke/s640/2.1433422741.kids-in-abing-village.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abing village</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZH7LYoNAuJsB_KOtfhFxNbbBHlZllpF-Xc_5ua3BsqBWcewrXEnX1ITLaxYdF0lYzovD1VVe25c96pwtFAfMkaDGCtzSXPCroOiadMldYkLg-H9vAjdV_R6H2J55pZepHiAFrUyHOG2LV/s1600/2.1433422741.last-view-of-remote-abing-village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZH7LYoNAuJsB_KOtfhFxNbbBHlZllpF-Xc_5ua3BsqBWcewrXEnX1ITLaxYdF0lYzovD1VVe25c96pwtFAfMkaDGCtzSXPCroOiadMldYkLg-H9vAjdV_R6H2J55pZepHiAFrUyHOG2LV/s640/2.1433422741.last-view-of-remote-abing-village.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abing village</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_j9lJDaQ3zXZkFG5xpe-LhvcW15e7UfWBIqkojunPDdm4OuZeDljT2EPNxPwPGw12q4GncmCq3huANiphjHPXOKaeXFzag41y0MqpMa4gzJmAMub_8eq9v7zeMFcRAe0KU-yclsvjP_Sp/s1600/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-some-of-our-fellow-hikers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_j9lJDaQ3zXZkFG5xpe-LhvcW15e7UfWBIqkojunPDdm4OuZeDljT2EPNxPwPGw12q4GncmCq3huANiphjHPXOKaeXFzag41y0MqpMa4gzJmAMub_8eq9v7zeMFcRAe0KU-yclsvjP_Sp/s640/2.1433422741.day-5-kawa-karpo-some-of-our-fellow-hikers.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of our fellow hikers on pilgrimage</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnm6sVvHUdTJ7Cx8WgwegUy2UOFABrmZbHWwAbxbf6MPRVNfVN6OT6sYwUPbvKto7SB8Ljg_bIwukEFsds_KOFx1rQpzTVxrvnaMpR6O0YoxVYTjFQGmVjV82pfCpbj9Mo_dC_sXUPSAg/s1600/2.1433422741.waiting-with-our-police-escorts-for-a-lift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnm6sVvHUdTJ7Cx8WgwegUy2UOFABrmZbHWwAbxbf6MPRVNfVN6OT6sYwUPbvKto7SB8Ljg_bIwukEFsds_KOFx1rQpzTVxrvnaMpR6O0YoxVYTjFQGmVjV82pfCpbj9Mo_dC_sXUPSAg/s640/2.1433422741.waiting-with-our-police-escorts-for-a-lift.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging with the police while being evicted from Tibet</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7EIJnGiYGulLmGGrNcPUbCY0oIypQcY1exit4lfBAJ-wfb09cVWuFhyphenhyphenc0r7kW0ovrmWKseUusH16c4-75HnEsRDwL5uoS6G4V-TSxVppNvHr8f3-7l2FfX3flR20ImWKZv821qKHkZUm/s1600/2.1433422741.thanks-for-the-lift-bingzhongluo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7EIJnGiYGulLmGGrNcPUbCY0oIypQcY1exit4lfBAJ-wfb09cVWuFhyphenhyphenc0r7kW0ovrmWKseUusH16c4-75HnEsRDwL5uoS6G4V-TSxVppNvHr8f3-7l2FfX3flR20ImWKZv821qKHkZUm/s640/2.1433422741.thanks-for-the-lift-bingzhongluo.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having lunch with the guy who gave us a ride out of Tibet</td></tr>
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<b>15 - 16 May: "Recovering in Bingzhonglou"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>The escort back to Yunnan province was no hardship - we got to see the spectacular, lush Nujiang Valley and were able to recover from the gruelling hike in the pleasant farming town of Bingzhonglou.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPbP-HpAPeaDUwCB6KJsa3b-OtP0kvIkBhLFmdmp637PZ-ANcmSv7iy_FKy5s3WpgW4dsj4BIavtFM9vD1d_-aYccqMoVGyzXjd1ieML8xIlubZZydv_1ektsBzEUrzN8RG7uZfGECn9x3/s1600/2.1433422741.bingzhongluo-nujiang-valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPbP-HpAPeaDUwCB6KJsa3b-OtP0kvIkBhLFmdmp637PZ-ANcmSv7iy_FKy5s3WpgW4dsj4BIavtFM9vD1d_-aYccqMoVGyzXjd1ieML8xIlubZZydv_1ektsBzEUrzN8RG7uZfGECn9x3/s640/2.1433422741.bingzhongluo-nujiang-valley.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">Bingzhonglou</b></td></tr>
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<b>17 May: "Starting the 2-day mission back to Felia Si to get our stuff - overnight stay in Dali" </b><br />
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<b>18 May: "16 hour overnight bus to Felai Si", </b><br />
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<b>19 May: "Reconnecting with Fiona in Felai Si - at the end of her Kawa Karpo"</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDX_rpDeqRyPFqQEbyUboGmuNnvRnudr2koWJ9nz_QpnltREbbnkw_3BV-Ico2W1iqLuOMBM5fI-0zXEybjMO74TmeO9TEyhEyWLdoO9hkRZ0FPCSd1fbTcihZ7IXzLt1bVR-3GGLFwNj/s1600/2.1433422741.meili-snow-mountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDX_rpDeqRyPFqQEbyUboGmuNnvRnudr2koWJ9nz_QpnltREbbnkw_3BV-Ico2W1iqLuOMBM5fI-0zXEybjMO74TmeO9TEyhEyWLdoO9hkRZ0FPCSd1fbTcihZ7IXzLt1bVR-3GGLFwNj/s640/2.1433422741.meili-snow-mountain.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Final view of the epic Meili Snow Mountain</td></tr>
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<b>20 May: "Passing through Shangri-la, Tibetan food and live music and then back on our way"</b><br />
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After the sojourn in Bingzhonglou, we now had to double back to Felia Si, where we had started the hike to retrieve the stuff we had left behind to lighten our hiking backpacks. Because we couldn't go through Tibet to retrace the 150km route back, we had to take a long, circuitous route around the myriad of mountains in this region which entailed two full days of continuous overnight busses, mini-busses and taxis. But at the end of it all, we had a happy reunion with our hiking buddy, Fiona, who was glowing with the achievement of having completed the Kawa Karpo. To celebrate we met up with some of her friends in Shangri-la who treated us to a feast of Tibetan food and traditional live music.<br />
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<b>21 May: "Xiangcheng, a modern Tibetan town" </b><br />
<b><br /></b>It was time to leave Yunnan province where we'd spent the last 6 weeks and head on to new frontiers. We were ultimately heading north and west towards Central Asia, but we still had a long way to go so we couldn't mess about too much. The following 10 days were a hard but fascinating travel through the Tibetan wild west of dusty trading posts, modern towns (a city-planners dream) nomad camps, and villages with stately farming homes. Our first bus took us into Sichuan province past more magnificent mountains into the neat, comfortable town of Xiangcheng. There we spent the evening hours people-watching in the town square where dozens of people were doing the synchronised dancing that can be found in every Chinese city.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDGQTNLO29OP3r8162R4XF4Smlv5CbA7NoQTleJyrfy4ww_rqwHyMdNM3prGwuG0s52K-FNQYa5ltFeKHjQTqAa0Cokg8YGRFl7xmApAhN3u-MtTwQx1qFcfNJ1Grq3tyPQlTwvnXHBMQQ/s1600/2.1433422741.1-beautiful-views-on-road-to-xiancheng-sichuan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDGQTNLO29OP3r8162R4XF4Smlv5CbA7NoQTleJyrfy4ww_rqwHyMdNM3prGwuG0s52K-FNQYa5ltFeKHjQTqAa0Cokg8YGRFl7xmApAhN3u-MtTwQx1qFcfNJ1Grq3tyPQlTwvnXHBMQQ/s640/2.1433422741.1-beautiful-views-on-road-to-xiancheng-sichuan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">The backroad from Yunnan to Sichuan</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqy4BNPjoYOaLfgphr6ZRr9oCfOcIH_ndrHtdnnHJNzxoegD2BtEGOxETTj9rlkjeCVaXjsyHXCtX0ekd2fwKanvHuC5tPuvpETiSm6s0-vTeD5EVlF3SribYW9IB69hls67ZzuK8G9J2-/s1600/2.1433422741.beautiful-views-on-road-to-xiancheng-sichuan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqy4BNPjoYOaLfgphr6ZRr9oCfOcIH_ndrHtdnnHJNzxoegD2BtEGOxETTj9rlkjeCVaXjsyHXCtX0ekd2fwKanvHuC5tPuvpETiSm6s0-vTeD5EVlF3SribYW9IB69hls67ZzuK8G9J2-/s640/2.1433422741.beautiful-views-on-road-to-xiancheng-sichuan.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyyDpS3cdYQ4EXD2aWOIXBdYSUaOVxp9xevh-B-uWUrHNi-hrRS7tq3YzCvtWbV-IC-fz1LOtaAfqDCfJBucCq4nv9v0SG_tjHia52YokZRn_itT5S1i86CDBubTyrvBVVBbhfQxrmFcE/s1600/2.1433422741.neat-pretty-town-of-xiancheng.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyyDpS3cdYQ4EXD2aWOIXBdYSUaOVxp9xevh-B-uWUrHNi-hrRS7tq3YzCvtWbV-IC-fz1LOtaAfqDCfJBucCq4nv9v0SG_tjHia52YokZRn_itT5S1i86CDBubTyrvBVVBbhfQxrmFcE/s640/2.1433422741.neat-pretty-town-of-xiancheng.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Xiangcheng</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHE8AnP5FRm3NUFI43PrjLaL9cLu2c2m4ZjuT5fypbHOuuS7WvwT6TteBCd_VIJPex1IppW8272wY59wocijNxXiOD1Pd0ng9Jw9pPwVBgCRj42-xT9wOKGd8Aqpqqgc5mzTcQBdeCyGY/s1600/2.1433422741.tibetan-homes-are-like-castles-xiancheng.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHE8AnP5FRm3NUFI43PrjLaL9cLu2c2m4ZjuT5fypbHOuuS7WvwT6TteBCd_VIJPex1IppW8272wY59wocijNxXiOD1Pd0ng9Jw9pPwVBgCRj42-xT9wOKGd8Aqpqqgc5mzTcQBdeCyGY/s640/2.1433422741.tibetan-homes-are-like-castles-xiancheng.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Enormous traditional Tibetan houses</td></tr>
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<b>22 - 23 May: "Litang, trading caterpillar fungus in a Wild West Tibetan market town"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>The next day was another long bus trip across more 4000+m passes into the frontier town of Litang. This is a dusty traditional trading town, where Tibetan nomads come to stock up on supplies in the summer months and sell their collections of 'Catepillar Fungus.' We'd heard about the phenomenon from an Indian friend years ago and had seen a TV documentary mentioning it but were not prepared for the size of the impact it has had on nomadic and farming societies in the region. The fungus, which is an expensive Chinese and Japanese medicine, is found only at altitudes above 4000m, in areas that belong to the nomads, and can be sold for anything from R40 - R1000 per gram, depending on quality. It grows wild and the picking is a free-for-all, causing many to abandon farming and the activities of a nomadic way of life for the easier living afforded by picking these mushrooms. No-one could tell us what it is used for but everyone's in on it...the market areas teem with wild west Tibetan cowboys, fresh off the mountain, their long hair rolled up in weird and wonderful hairstyles, carrying woven baskets filled with the fungus.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2yggMewOk6SlwIM0yLQ-ch0TzfvMrBolc-aLAaCf-uNk9L_g7T7_zT_Bs7REFdRG00rUVBQBenbkU8CcyJRJX2PhR1ZpXJxJoUG0fxSiwrMU97WcpQXHUlpUj-3RGXLpCwH-n1hmrfU3W/s1600/2.1433422741.caterpillar-fungus---big-business-for-tibetans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2yggMewOk6SlwIM0yLQ-ch0TzfvMrBolc-aLAaCf-uNk9L_g7T7_zT_Bs7REFdRG00rUVBQBenbkU8CcyJRJX2PhR1ZpXJxJoUG0fxSiwrMU97WcpQXHUlpUj-3RGXLpCwH-n1hmrfU3W/s640/2.1433422741.caterpillar-fungus---big-business-for-tibetans.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Tibetan nomads with their caterpillar fungus</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBEhMaOymBHKdGbvEocM_86cEM97FBfKL9VfPXPgj-ECoVzUDSq1FBHD4F5QD9N4q6QrJ0nVdwN7Ezefn07ERIzIlyPzfdjahcDQdX_I5VKAsnN0_-OkiVr9-f5gjDZ6Oy8yPV55jjWCJo/s1600/2.1433422741.haggling-over-caterpillar-fungus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBEhMaOymBHKdGbvEocM_86cEM97FBfKL9VfPXPgj-ECoVzUDSq1FBHD4F5QD9N4q6QrJ0nVdwN7Ezefn07ERIzIlyPzfdjahcDQdX_I5VKAsnN0_-OkiVr9-f5gjDZ6Oy8yPV55jjWCJo/s640/2.1433422741.haggling-over-caterpillar-fungus.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Caterpillar fungus negotiations</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhio67G4ZGW_DgY-NQ2i_wOVwdruzo5zEt1bLv6KGf9R5jTLgaT3wxzq1gRqxFonpWI3TIFMTT1vCQwnvYaQQwV6wsMZ-1PP_6uryuy1-KjNjTQR2Hmf63gBntxuby5l-rXX8eZyMqlaw77/s1600/2.1433422741.lithang-sichuan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhio67G4ZGW_DgY-NQ2i_wOVwdruzo5zEt1bLv6KGf9R5jTLgaT3wxzq1gRqxFonpWI3TIFMTT1vCQwnvYaQQwV6wsMZ-1PP_6uryuy1-KjNjTQR2Hmf63gBntxuby5l-rXX8eZyMqlaw77/s640/2.1433422741.lithang-sichuan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Litang town</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQLey1ZfcVME_qa_s4Iw4j0F_cF7hktWWi3qKPUjJ8PVZ1Lwg6YbGk8kNfp3eMz1cYOPuAYEr4ym7TRc0IXjf4ECkJEH9R3fQDXoI_aAejWSp9G0KA2X1HrDdZLoELRKRoErJMDsKrYRS/s1600/2.1433422741.funny-shop-signs-in-lithang-sichuan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQLey1ZfcVME_qa_s4Iw4j0F_cF7hktWWi3qKPUjJ8PVZ1Lwg6YbGk8kNfp3eMz1cYOPuAYEr4ym7TRc0IXjf4ECkJEH9R3fQDXoI_aAejWSp9G0KA2X1HrDdZLoELRKRoErJMDsKrYRS/s640/2.1433422741.funny-shop-signs-in-lithang-sichuan.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Funny translated shop names in Litang</td></tr>
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<b>24 - 25 May: "Bus rides you don't want to end, on the way to the Kangding Festival" </b><br />
<b><br /></b>The rest of the onward journey was just beautiful, mountain passes with nomads grazing their bountiful yak herds on the steppe below. The antics of these long-haired, frizzy-permed bovines-with-dreadlocks, bounding up and down steep scree slopes can certainly give their slow, blank-faced, glassy eyed cow-cousins back home something to ruminate about. Yaks prance around energetically, making the most of their few summer grazing months with their fluffy babies in tow. Some of the newborns have warm blankets strapped around them to protect them from the chilly morning and evening air. While some Tibetans are nomads, many are also sedentary farmers, who grow mostly 'Highland Barley'. The homes these farmers build are just awesome; villages that lined our bus journey were a riot of intricate wood carving and delicious Hansel and Gretel coloured mansions. You just didn't want these bus rides to end, they were so beautiful.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-h0Nn7pELXNUHrEU0X9m_IRThdFemIJz71ZhJGAHrM9SAUrOTDa63QyrHJr4QZEyxLdGuMfzuVx2pubSU47eiWyFz81fPnHhyJuhXcB-AD7k5GHRcbqKn9P_wokXB7DHLivcLsNmJeV1a/s1600/2.1433422741.more-big-tibetan-homes-on-road-to-khangding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-h0Nn7pELXNUHrEU0X9m_IRThdFemIJz71ZhJGAHrM9SAUrOTDa63QyrHJr4QZEyxLdGuMfzuVx2pubSU47eiWyFz81fPnHhyJuhXcB-AD7k5GHRcbqKn9P_wokXB7DHLivcLsNmJeV1a/s640/2.1433422741.more-big-tibetan-homes-on-road-to-khangding.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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When travelling by bus around Western China one cannot help but be blown away by the achievements of the Chinese road-builders who have constructed tens of thousands of kilometres of perfect four lane highways on icy cliffs and tunnelled through endless mountains. Cape Town's much heralded Chapmans Peak Drive and Hugenot Tunnel are embarrassingly modest in comparison.<br />
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We spent two nights in the valley city of Kangding where we attended the annual Kangding festival and then we headed off again to Seda, to see the largest religious institution in the world.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_jGK_UnYtzrL1O1Y7gRnQhWhvSSY-qNGYp4sKg7kLACcJsjWiMG9uUIqpABSbtW3YJeMiZ-25UGUwHEKBmcjSEyko7L_ZcFJw8qheFK49Xjy_VQoBdIcgN9dLwouYqf7SMApC232xDNDG/s1600/2.1433422741.khangding-festival.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_jGK_UnYtzrL1O1Y7gRnQhWhvSSY-qNGYp4sKg7kLACcJsjWiMG9uUIqpABSbtW3YJeMiZ-25UGUwHEKBmcjSEyko7L_ZcFJw8qheFK49Xjy_VQoBdIcgN9dLwouYqf7SMApC232xDNDG/s640/2.1433422741.khangding-festival.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cultural festival, Kangding</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPLeXma8nVjYtkG2IJ3ta8tooRgd0beiwSU-6OIzL8pUZHiuLVLOaz4LWndX9UPsoC8qr_H45jgIzjEVI-nVQ6rY-16vFinpPDFlYe0DXOvOuQJdbt020FbUJsKUaPeM-JTKV_KLhGrgCD/s1600/2.1433422741.watching-the-khangding-festival.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPLeXma8nVjYtkG2IJ3ta8tooRgd0beiwSU-6OIzL8pUZHiuLVLOaz4LWndX9UPsoC8qr_H45jgIzjEVI-nVQ6rY-16vFinpPDFlYe0DXOvOuQJdbt020FbUJsKUaPeM-JTKV_KLhGrgCD/s640/2.1433422741.watching-the-khangding-festival.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Audience at festival, Kangding</td></tr>
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<b>26 May: "First-hand experience of the Chinese infrastructure boom in a 6 hour stop-go roadbuilding wait on the way to Seda"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>The bus ride was tough, on bad roads and with a six hour stop-go road-building wait after which we wondered whether the monastery we were going to see would be worth it... (we have already seen many monasteries and temples elsewhere). This area had been recommended to us by some Chinese backpacker friends so we were off the guide book routes again and had no idea what the accommodation and transport options around the area would be.<br />
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We arrived in Seda late, hungry, exhausted and had to spend (not a small amount of) time looking for reasonably priced accommodation that was open to foreigners and hoping we would still find a restaurant open in the little town at close to midnight. Anyway, we managed to figure it all out and crashed out for the night. In a few, random Chinese towns an old law that requires foreigners to stay in only specially registered hotels is still enforced. This leads to a rather frustrating search for a hotel which will accept Laowais (foreigners) - with no apparent pattern as to why this law is still enforced as their is no noticeable difference in quality of the permissable hotels. Fortunately, some hotels just accept you (and your cash) and ignore the law...<br />
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<b>27 May:"Surreal Monastery town of 20,000 Buddhist monks and nuns at Larung Gar"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>The next morning, after some confusion of course, we made it to the monastery town of Larung Gar - and boy was it trippy! The town is made up of 20,000 Buddhist monks and nuns who live there permanently to learn scripture and worship at the temples, making it the largest religious institution in the world. Everything moves at a surreal pace with round-chinned, chubby monks and smiling shaven-headed nuns floating about in their maroon and mustard flowing robes. Buddhist chants piped through load speakers waft all day over their little make-shift dwellings, which seem to have no other earthly requirements except for being painted maroon too.<br />
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After a simple lunch of noodle soup surrounded by novice monks we headed off to try and find the Sky Burial site which was about an hour's walk around the other side of the mountain. To find the site, we followed the flight path of the vultures overhead. What a thing to witness... hundreds of fat vultures covered the hillside overlooking the burial rites: human bodies offered to the sky, to become one with these majestic creatures and soar away over the mountain tops. After the birds have fed, efficacious monks chop up the human skeletons and make sure all the bits are consumed. At the site there are statues celebrating the importance of the mountains, birds, wolves and snakes in the religion's burial rituals and a temple lined with human skulls is open for worshippers to pay their respects.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMGKQgNg46uzqCSEosGMnsO5Y7jsFWaBNwyFeY30J1Jv3JNNd3pgnNk80kvPAy2zZnIXreYclZr8IDH69UZZfQG0YgcAoNrFREsZJMYGpDdwvyxKAYcI-xnVmxwwNg0YoOdm9zSp_WKq6/s1600/2.1433422741.1-larung-gar-monstery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMGKQgNg46uzqCSEosGMnsO5Y7jsFWaBNwyFeY30J1Jv3JNNd3pgnNk80kvPAy2zZnIXreYclZr8IDH69UZZfQG0YgcAoNrFREsZJMYGpDdwvyxKAYcI-xnVmxwwNg0YoOdm9zSp_WKq6/s640/2.1433422741.1-larung-gar-monstery.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Larung Gar monastery</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzUVBILlyQIHfkygRt2KED4K-97JDS0CNw4qaC6J7l5JcJGbm1SQ-D4Y_nfonUfk0arjbW-X456NOseqUPnB0r4mVepIZ6LYEsquKAdSEngAb5nsYTITXJ6KKIHMv8dHy4VZD61kyMvHaU/s1600/2.1433422741.larung-gar-monstery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzUVBILlyQIHfkygRt2KED4K-97JDS0CNw4qaC6J7l5JcJGbm1SQ-D4Y_nfonUfk0arjbW-X456NOseqUPnB0r4mVepIZ6LYEsquKAdSEngAb5nsYTITXJ6KKIHMv8dHy4VZD61kyMvHaU/s640/2.1433422741.larung-gar-monstery.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrk6x9Ii6AGFfALYOq_XEFDUuoz8zfO9_H3rYj0Y7fSYR1sZP9EponfFzL-ftrXQR1h3pYXdyN-mOISoMmkIh89NcSretiOmE2U3Ct0of6AeUHOEJ4gyQMYjnxoGqeldskrc879Mkycpl-/s1600/2.1433422741.sky-burial-larung-gar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrk6x9Ii6AGFfALYOq_XEFDUuoz8zfO9_H3rYj0Y7fSYR1sZP9EponfFzL-ftrXQR1h3pYXdyN-mOISoMmkIh89NcSretiOmE2U3Ct0of6AeUHOEJ4gyQMYjnxoGqeldskrc879Mkycpl-/s640/2.1433422741.sky-burial-larung-gar.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"> Tibetan sky burial</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilX_AN2RhaRTwh9AmAoTILBMTyfVi0ilAZTu_R5VW8hmzTn6ufnGo3HjWthZqLjdBDBmpeSGtwjgnHGhA99UJBwFe9468YFJBzuoMRSi6ODwbyC659671GNf0G6n6oOJbVl8WnTCvWoxTr/s1600/2.1433422741.vultures-in-action-sky-burial-larung-gar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilX_AN2RhaRTwh9AmAoTILBMTyfVi0ilAZTu_R5VW8hmzTn6ufnGo3HjWthZqLjdBDBmpeSGtwjgnHGhA99UJBwFe9468YFJBzuoMRSi6ODwbyC659671GNf0G6n6oOJbVl8WnTCvWoxTr/s640/2.1433422741.vultures-in-action-sky-burial-larung-gar.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"> Tibetan sky burial</td></tr>
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<source src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/kuQdH7h0WQsPSXdQQ7v_JHfHgJwECkKHOwI6ZUBeP_PEJ6PaoXN1dSLZwA3VHfDOxUcbXtVEkIFrgPbt9hEWh6PxgThPr-rcjKtZ7ZqnvgkN5pZ0HWJYoU6MYbqXLcwuEMMaRbvASyw=w600-h315-k-no-m18" type="video/mp4"></source>
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Larung Gar monastery - view from above</div>
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<b>28 May - 29 May: "Big bus, taxi, mini-bus mission to Yushu, a city completely rebuilt in 4 years"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>After Larung Gar, we kept moving north and east along hair-raising roads cut into steep cliffs and over yet more snow-covered mountain passes until after 14 hours in four different vehicles we reached the province of Qinghai (where the current Dalai Lama was born). What many people don't realise is that the majority of Tibetans don't live in the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) but in fact, since ancient times, live in the neighbouring provinces of Yunnan, Sichuan and Qinghai. This is mainly due to the very difficult living conditions in the TAR due to extreme cold and altitude.<br />
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We stayed in the city of Yushu, fascinating for its recent history. In 2010, Yushu was completely flattened by a devastating earthquake. Four years later, it is completely rebuilt as a modern city sporting a huge town square and a massive statue of the mystical King Gesar. All buildings - homes and businesses - were rebuilt by the government free of charge.<br />
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While in Yushu we visited the Jiana Mani mound which is a collection of 2.5 BILLION Mani prayer stones - apparently the biggest collection of human anythings anywhere...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yushu</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1O4ADnYecEWvcFrTi-oykf-QvnBTaL14YiYffRNQFP9RZH2PlAOdDCqYU56Z4keC-VBL9Q7UY3oDlHNvbeXA4UXuJH9y3G16EX6bX7osCNzUjhmA7YLy6lHv0HuFmi_f7NSO8i5bbXdj_/s1600/2.1433422741.yushu-earthquake-monument---unrepaired-buildin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1O4ADnYecEWvcFrTi-oykf-QvnBTaL14YiYffRNQFP9RZH2PlAOdDCqYU56Z4keC-VBL9Q7UY3oDlHNvbeXA4UXuJH9y3G16EX6bX7osCNzUjhmA7YLy6lHv0HuFmi_f7NSO8i5bbXdj_/s640/2.1433422741.yushu-earthquake-monument---unrepaired-buildin.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memorial to Yushu earth quake victims</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZMFrKp9o0Pdld14A1uB8-RyvWV9MwJr6AIXmplDJB1DATFeDCiOTHQRtkhRoqj9nmqjcvRLs_lLfyeKjyXAJ6qUApRjC01FdjDtb-trPTdakStjcZB3F6xcBPrngFXmEVeYloIHd7gkP/s1600/2.1433422741.yushu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZMFrKp9o0Pdld14A1uB8-RyvWV9MwJr6AIXmplDJB1DATFeDCiOTHQRtkhRoqj9nmqjcvRLs_lLfyeKjyXAJ6qUApRjC01FdjDtb-trPTdakStjcZB3F6xcBPrngFXmEVeYloIHd7gkP/s640/2.1433422741.yushu.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Jiana Mani mound</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>30 May: "Getting well off the guide book route into fascinating, remote villages around Nangchen"</b><br />
<br />
Before leaving the Tibetan heartlands, we forged on into the remote county of Nancheng, where few foreigners explore. The main town is nothing to write home about and its hotels are noteworthy only in that virtually none of them (except for one or two expensive ones) have showers or baths of any sort(!). The surrounding areas were breathtaking though and took us into beautiful, traditional villages. Communication was even more complicated than usual: in remote Tibetan areas, people speak very little Mandarin and since we don't speak any Tibetan at all and they don't speak any English at all, communication consisted of our broken Mandarin with their broken Mandarin(!)...sometimes with rather jumbled results. We did a daytrip to Juela Si - a paradisical village in a remote mountain valley.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYCITjAf9X52OMjapjPPJ17PltUWUbHkueT_JKpsdke9_2lGjbwuOQMLXyh762CFaGWLUVs05HhrMen404yEKdL12pl6JyNtsIiewb9PerdDECDnV07Qo0CMILPVL5MP00Z8QF0D_1-6Ou/s1600/2.1433422741.1-exploring-the-road-to-juela-si-yushu-region.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYCITjAf9X52OMjapjPPJ17PltUWUbHkueT_JKpsdke9_2lGjbwuOQMLXyh762CFaGWLUVs05HhrMen404yEKdL12pl6JyNtsIiewb9PerdDECDnV07Qo0CMILPVL5MP00Z8QF0D_1-6Ou/s640/2.1433422741.1-exploring-the-road-to-juela-si-yushu-region.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0GRcIMzGWN5c_PDF-zPiEMO5n7wuZc3tGeSSWmreKEctzKAQlitYjFniduaXtreXj20yhDOJuWeEY_3RIS-P2UdREjMzfnWwoSEV0ttyWeF0-S59k_ddKe0EoIQOXRrNmtskONjI8Ixq/s1600/2.1433422741.3-exploring-the-road-to-juela-si-yushu-region.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0GRcIMzGWN5c_PDF-zPiEMO5n7wuZc3tGeSSWmreKEctzKAQlitYjFniduaXtreXj20yhDOJuWeEY_3RIS-P2UdREjMzfnWwoSEV0ttyWeF0-S59k_ddKe0EoIQOXRrNmtskONjI8Ixq/s640/2.1433422741.3-exploring-the-road-to-juela-si-yushu-region.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">road to Juela Si</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jlki_DXygdi6DyujNJHexzFhdU_3HqBlFrN7pc13Q0rs8vqCC4w79A2_FzZ2KFGYttppuGEhtZcm4Mh9NGntwENzEOowfL1bEqurHIdgK8yiLbFdDWPYt2PW0KLKbVRZ6TgLGIUEThch/s1600/2.1433422741.exploring-the-road-to-juela-si-yushu-region.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jlki_DXygdi6DyujNJHexzFhdU_3HqBlFrN7pc13Q0rs8vqCC4w79A2_FzZ2KFGYttppuGEhtZcm4Mh9NGntwENzEOowfL1bEqurHIdgK8yiLbFdDWPYt2PW0KLKbVRZ6TgLGIUEThch/s640/2.1433422741.exploring-the-road-to-juela-si-yushu-region.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">road to Juela Si</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7PWmjyoG3qmWd1FjrJGV68vLNQSiTboxL6LroXLI1fuXThSSlEHCdeWO20XrRk4CeCqXPz4CH0HIXeBXc71ddv9cEFGBMy7o5mgvNIYjndF8YuDr9nGOGSWsoDP7uAntUUG6IAjSs1uYP/s1600/2.1433422741.juela-si-yushu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7PWmjyoG3qmWd1FjrJGV68vLNQSiTboxL6LroXLI1fuXThSSlEHCdeWO20XrRk4CeCqXPz4CH0HIXeBXc71ddv9cEFGBMy7o5mgvNIYjndF8YuDr9nGOGSWsoDP7uAntUUG6IAjSs1uYP/s640/2.1433422741.juela-si-yushu.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Juela Si</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqhCpH8ClgF4ae5wjiD6WdTIY3Etz62YtGu6KaPi_EUthhgCNLNXhdquMrjDNOJ4CUUpsP1NifThaHikUBj_-f6gRjByJULaVh3TFjKFQB-5fFNSoo0Nk4f6yqDN6D4Fl-BM9kWlHYFtU/s1600/2.1433422741.2-exploring-the-road-to-juela-si-yushu-region.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqhCpH8ClgF4ae5wjiD6WdTIY3Etz62YtGu6KaPi_EUthhgCNLNXhdquMrjDNOJ4CUUpsP1NifThaHikUBj_-f6gRjByJULaVh3TFjKFQB-5fFNSoo0Nk4f6yqDN6D4Fl-BM9kWlHYFtU/s640/2.1433422741.2-exploring-the-road-to-juela-si-yushu-region.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzqKTT0fGI5SUaCCyhfZV16HjsgEI4WrS3CgRYw4plrW1ZMa0d8RMtNb1jeMpW3tPA3TaPfsAAG3yC4-JRGR3-9zo3VjdN51Ooy72GLE-UkJ-68VDzHRAgUIUOzH3r-yB27otdoZmLH753/s1600/2.1433422741.tibetan-dogs---be-careful.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzqKTT0fGI5SUaCCyhfZV16HjsgEI4WrS3CgRYw4plrW1ZMa0d8RMtNb1jeMpW3tPA3TaPfsAAG3yC4-JRGR3-9zo3VjdN51Ooy72GLE-UkJ-68VDzHRAgUIUOzH3r-yB27otdoZmLH753/s640/2.1433422741.tibetan-dogs---be-careful.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Tibetan dogs - beware!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLi_ihe8Wo2cx4-F4bjvVz6_ETkoZW6tsdD_6zYrGTlCs5dI3vJ4dgc2s9YqL4ny-Vk60EkdxU_GAMBRvKuP1eXi3bV9k1MinAFlHEPrahOXQRCWGCRNWqY1hsmYSWGhOa684LQ3WOJYWN/s1600/2.1433422741.view-of-juela-si.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLi_ihe8Wo2cx4-F4bjvVz6_ETkoZW6tsdD_6zYrGTlCs5dI3vJ4dgc2s9YqL4ny-Vk60EkdxU_GAMBRvKuP1eXi3bV9k1MinAFlHEPrahOXQRCWGCRNWqY1hsmYSWGhOa684LQ3WOJYWN/s640/2.1433422741.view-of-juela-si.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Juela Si</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWObxLcEPI7eJQCDraxank0eCvRwDxJkV88Vel6_Xto2zqf1pA5tu5DXmq-vDXng224dMNlwiTH5libyHueIrCZbFsO3gRo5zqRh-mSJb-su41GUTNfF4uTFKWCExWIRH9mL2rcuVmQVE1/s1600/2.1433422741.yaks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWObxLcEPI7eJQCDraxank0eCvRwDxJkV88Vel6_Xto2zqf1pA5tu5DXmq-vDXng224dMNlwiTH5libyHueIrCZbFsO3gRo5zqRh-mSJb-su41GUTNfF4uTFKWCExWIRH9mL2rcuVmQVE1/s640/2.1433422741.yaks.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Yaks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>31 May - 2 June: "Overnight bus to another pleasant Chinese city, Xining"</b><br />
<b><br /></b>The next stage of the trip on our northerly route was to the provincial capital of Xining, another comfortable Chinese city. We village dwellers really like the cities in China! They are well-organised, clean, have fantastic public transport systems, families are out in the squares dancing, eating and socialising well into the night, and the abundance of good food was a feast after our long, hard travels. Xining is a melting pot of Tibetans, Muslims and Han Chinese which unlocked new, delicious food options - especially meat pastries and wraps as well as home-made yoghurt. We also got our first taste of the legendary sweet melons from the deserts of Xinjiang.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvM1C4vYc1MuKF7HMxPk6oQSDa5sbpw6vmghftbFP32Yu5VnN5oJQWxlyg3S1Fo6NoXnC6Hmddbv92AXVo252hZrcEjmJPEhd11TDBt0JpGauaBF90gLrevDrigFpUZSV8LVxZVnblrwX/s1600/2.1433422741.xining-qinghai---a-pretty-well-organised-city.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvM1C4vYc1MuKF7HMxPk6oQSDa5sbpw6vmghftbFP32Yu5VnN5oJQWxlyg3S1Fo6NoXnC6Hmddbv92AXVo252hZrcEjmJPEhd11TDBt0JpGauaBF90gLrevDrigFpUZSV8LVxZVnblrwX/s640/2.1433422741.xining-qinghai---a-pretty-well-organised-city.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Xining - a pretty, well-organised city</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>3 June: "Train stations that look like airports and the high speed train, due west, out of the snow and into the desert in Urumqi"</b><br />
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After Xining, it was onto our first high-speed, bullet train experience, away from the Buddhists and due west into the desert and largely Muslim, Uighur province of Xinjiang. On the way we passed thousands and thousands of giant wind turbines and solar farms.<br />
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In 2014 alone, China installed 20 GW of wind turbines (for South Africans that is four Medupis or equal to half of South Africa's total energy production from all sources) and 10GW of Solar (two Medupis). This, along with the output of the incredible Three Gourges Hydro-electric scheme, resulted in China's CO2 emissions actually falling in 2014. The significance of this achievement in the battle against climate change cannot be overstated: previously it had been expected that China's emissions would only begin falling in 2030. If China can stabilise their emissions at current levels they will have set a new benchmark for the world in terms of emissions per capita while still maintaining a middle class standard of living for its citizens.<br />
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China has a number of Muslim ethinic groups - up until now we have met mostly Hui Muslims who are an ancient Chinese-looking group who are spread out throughout much of China and who are fully integrated into Chinese culture. The Uighers, on the other hand, are mostly located in Xinjiang province and look more like their neighbours the Central Asians. Xinjiang has had political instability in recent times with separatist terrorists attacking Chinese people both in Xinjiang and famously in a brutal mass knife attack in Kunming train station a few years ago. As a result,the police and army presence in Urumqi and surrounding cities is quite high with lots of security checking of passports and scanning of luggage when using buses.<br />
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The BRT bus system in Urumqi is incredibly efficient - if only South Africa's BRT ran like this!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizke6ZlapWi7GAJItFZRoYA2iCTM5KoBW-MxdnEa9eEcXsGp5X6NDWtORw4ICqrSWOJ3-hA04_YM4YhqVZYVnawJgMRXfCjKCOuZAI_1X-Y5hXbSIpY2dLr66nPpTJutvrlfJL2-ptlrJ_/s1600/2.1433422741.xining-railway-station---like-an-airport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizke6ZlapWi7GAJItFZRoYA2iCTM5KoBW-MxdnEa9eEcXsGp5X6NDWtORw4ICqrSWOJ3-hA04_YM4YhqVZYVnawJgMRXfCjKCOuZAI_1X-Y5hXbSIpY2dLr66nPpTJutvrlfJL2-ptlrJ_/s640/2.1433422741.xining-railway-station---like-an-airport.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Xining train station - like an airport</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_onWf-X3VtBhJxVloOTmzgp9UQdJQV5xIWwkYhYVc84xn-zGknJv4EMO8SJjCuLeK4FFTpoTSktdnyLT-OpujNcnrmIkw6HBPZuwK2RGpJ9ezh9nhK6-0rv1LI80VVrPWeDdsEaoWFiHH/s1600/2.1433422741.bullet-train-to-urumqi-xinjiang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_onWf-X3VtBhJxVloOTmzgp9UQdJQV5xIWwkYhYVc84xn-zGknJv4EMO8SJjCuLeK4FFTpoTSktdnyLT-OpujNcnrmIkw6HBPZuwK2RGpJ9ezh9nhK6-0rv1LI80VVrPWeDdsEaoWFiHH/s640/2.1433422741.bullet-train-to-urumqi-xinjiang.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcl_m8Qyh-9_yJ8OoqZirfrp9cJRHL4OveTeInvABBKe7V_LoaKGCMllgTfCKvYpKcsWfKGTQhTj6cZwB_MOnc52jL-Q4Y29X_Zp0okJGw60WpI7XPnHAmtBPZlZ5eu5RJpGJi5dbJtFlN/s1600/2.1433422741.inside-bullet-train-to-urumqi-xinjiang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcl_m8Qyh-9_yJ8OoqZirfrp9cJRHL4OveTeInvABBKe7V_LoaKGCMllgTfCKvYpKcsWfKGTQhTj6cZwB_MOnc52jL-Q4Y29X_Zp0okJGw60WpI7XPnHAmtBPZlZ5eu5RJpGJi5dbJtFlN/s640/2.1433422741.inside-bullet-train-to-urumqi-xinjiang.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Inside the bullet train</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietAjGCmFd4w4z6rTsCsFF4aDqthXzrIq9-m_u4DK7YV4Qcx5hFzENNabAqIWJOLQMHCS7NbImX-J7nu2RfB7S6qbiQF3PNorgJaGhNr3ZWtnqUKAdMvNAWvboZ2Axf9XPMYHZDuU4Kmys/s1600/2.1433422741.view-from-bullet-train-to-urumqi-xinjiang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietAjGCmFd4w4z6rTsCsFF4aDqthXzrIq9-m_u4DK7YV4Qcx5hFzENNabAqIWJOLQMHCS7NbImX-J7nu2RfB7S6qbiQF3PNorgJaGhNr3ZWtnqUKAdMvNAWvboZ2Axf9XPMYHZDuU4Kmys/s640/2.1433422741.view-from-bullet-train-to-urumqi-xinjiang.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">View from the bullet train</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGX_rhFj5jEer9_AXPcHImco0Y-yyzYbNl4Dh4iSUGpfHIZzvC0P0IMbAkxVqVwNN9S0Lcq-f8w83kB3vQ8WI8VHo0QrLia9fNIVmE4yNIqMW0bKoxIMLklAk2r9jXzVuG2wcUpMHY8O6v/s1600/2.1433422741.thousands-of-wind-turbines-in-xinjiang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGX_rhFj5jEer9_AXPcHImco0Y-yyzYbNl4Dh4iSUGpfHIZzvC0P0IMbAkxVqVwNN9S0Lcq-f8w83kB3vQ8WI8VHo0QrLia9fNIVmE4yNIqMW0bKoxIMLklAk2r9jXzVuG2wcUpMHY8O6v/s640/2.1433422741.thousands-of-wind-turbines-in-xinjiang.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Thousands if wind turbines in the Xinjiang desert</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0YAZF6MBTw5sZAvBN7mc77IrMhUTiM_TCf_o0nmCbdDLio6JwENFqrNxwJEmVI9RbYv8X9s5hE9FZZVipr7hWJPCAngJHE_fRml1Oty9xfaDe8eMyHotdY_-VN2xIp7BVFNQC5KmRqny4/s1600/2.1433422741.urumqi-xinjiang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0YAZF6MBTw5sZAvBN7mc77IrMhUTiM_TCf_o0nmCbdDLio6JwENFqrNxwJEmVI9RbYv8X9s5hE9FZZVipr7hWJPCAngJHE_fRml1Oty9xfaDe8eMyHotdY_-VN2xIp7BVFNQC5KmRqny4/s640/2.1433422741.urumqi-xinjiang.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Urumqi</td></tr>
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In Urumqi we are attempting to organise the notoriously complicated Central Asian visas for Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. So far, after 3 rounds it is:<br />
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Visa Demons 3 : 0 Dave & Rejane ...but we're not defeated yet! ...that's visas for you...<br />
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While fighting the notorious Central Asian bureaucracies we are enjoying delicious Uigher food which involves lots of lamb pastries, Pilau rice and BBQ'd meats. We're also enjoying the long days... a funny Chinese quirk intended to emphasise to the restive Uighers and Tibetans that this is one country is that there is only one timezone in China when there should in fact be five timezones... So long lazy evenings until 10pm to recover from fruitless hours spent in visa queues.<br />
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Next stop Kyrgyzstan or Tajikistan or Kazakhstan or whoever the hell will give us a visa!! </div>
Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Ürümqi, Xinjiang, China43.825592 87.61684840.897321500000004 82.453274000000008 46.7538625 92.780422tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-27764743997694268842015-04-30T17:55:00.000+03:002019-06-20T17:58:54.663+02:00China: our cup of tea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>17 - 20 March: 'Bright-lights, good friends and finding that first cup of green tea in Hong Kong' </b><br />
We were lucky to start our trip in the warmth of a friend's home in Hong Kong: Lucy helped us find our bearings and fed us well while her darling little daughters entertained us. It was a comfortable way to ease into the beginning of our journey. We spent a couple of days exploring the bright lights among the busy Hong Kong highrises and night markets..thirsty work and Rejane was eager to find some Chinese green tea which we assumed we'd be drinking by the litre, like we did chai in India. However, China has moved on from street-side tea stalls and most people have tea with their meals in sit down restaurants. Once we ready for dinner, we found a busy looking eatery and sat down delighted to find a jug of warm tea on the table. Rejane promptly poured herself a cup and we congratulated ourselves on having found how to get a cup of tea while out and about in China. However, while the green tea anti-oxidants revived us, we noticed the other patrons using said tea to wash their rice bowls before eating...well wouldn't you know, it seems that tea is used for a lot more than just drinking in China...so there it was, our first faux pas - drinking the washing up water!<br />
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<b>21 March (morning): </b>'Train into mainland China and experiencing a real 'China Mall' in Shenzhen '<br />
Leaving the comfort Lucy's place, we crossed over into the Mainland at Shenzhen, a Free Economic Zone - if you ever wanted to experience the 'real 'China Mall (I know some of you are getting veeerrrryy excited right now) and wanted to shop in bulk till you dropped, this is it! Needless to say we were glad of the experience but equally glad we were holding overnight train tickets to Guilin where we would go onto Yangshuo, known to the Chinese as the most beautiful place in China.<br />
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<b>21 March (evening): </b>Overnight on the comfy, very clean Chinese long-distance rail<br />
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<b>22 - 25 March: 'Exploring Yangshuo, regarded by most Chinese as the most beautiful place in China' </b><br />
Yangshou is surrounded by dramatic karst outcrops and with a river running through pretty farming villages, it is a popular local tourist destination. We happily observed that the explosive Chinese tourist market of recent years has made foreigners insignificant in tourist hotspot areas, and in complete contrast to India, we can move along peacefully being thoroughly ignored by touts (Chinese tourists have a lot more money to spend than a couple of ragtag backpackers). So of course we spent the next few days entertainingly as voyeurs observing Chinese tourists on their holidays taking boat rides on contraptions that allow boats to move gently upstream over white water rapids (the Chinese are very clever!) and taking posed wedding pictures ala Claremont Gardens. Another treat in Yangshuo was seeing the Light Show, an outdoor theatre performance by the Director of the Beijing Olympics opening and closing ceremonies, it has been going for 10 years and has played to packed audiences of 1000s of people a night - it was just awesome (curiously the audiences, who ooh and aah throughout the show are not big on clapping. The Chinese lack of bursting into applause or giving any kind of applause at all at shows was disconcertingly confirmed later in our travels, feeling sorry for the performers at shows we've started to clap very enthusiastically, earning ourselves a few more strange looks, which we are certainly not short on.<br />
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<b>25 - 28 March: 'Enjoying the amazing craftsmanship in over 100 nail-less 'Wind and Rain' bridges in Chengyang while trying to buy a tea-house' </b><br />
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In Chengyang village the millennia old craftsmanship of bridge-building is stunning not only in the completely nail-less engineering feats that they are but also in the rendering of minute attention to detail and aesthetics. Still on our mission to find good China tea, we tried a proper tea house this time and were treated to the locally grown, just harvested, spring crop, one of the best of the season. After experiencing the charmingly complicated ceremony of brewing the tea just right, we splashed out for a bag of our own. Because it was loose-leaf - of course - we would need a tea strainer to prepare the tea at our hotel so we asked the tea house owner about how to say 'tea strainer' in Chinese. She informed us that we had to ask for a 'chalou'..we promptly went around to the local tea shops asking for a chalou but all we got were (more than our usual quota of) strange looks ... a couple of days later we made an English speaking Chinese friend and complained about how hard it was to find a tea strainer in China where everyone drank loose-leaf tea, she giggled and said that we had been asking for an chaLOU (uptone) which is a tea-house instead of a 'downtone' CHAlou which would be the tea-strainer (or, well, maybe it was the other way around mmmm) - anyway, anyway, the cross-eyed looks from the Chengyang village shopkeepers who were fresh out of tea-houses for sale, now made sense somewhat...will there be no end to our China tea faux pas?<br />
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<b>28 March:</b> Overnight train to Kunming<br />
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<b>28 - 31 March: Enjoying the balmy Kunming Spring weather while being thoroughly entertained in Green Lake park </b><br />
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After the poor show of spring weather in the more northerly areas we'd come from, we were happy to arrive in sunny Kunming, also the first proper Chinese city that we were to experience. After dropping our backpacks at the hostel, we took a meander around, as we usually do, on arriving in a new place and were unprepared for the extravaganza that is the weekend dance and singing entertainment in Green Lake park...packed with families all participating in various synchronized dancing and high-pitched singing activities... anyone harbouring stereotypes of a boring, controlled communist society, needs to experience the crazy exuberance of these weekend park activities, for a sample, take a look further down at the video of the geriatric, Chinese flag waving, transvestite who drew a large gawking and obviously appreciative audience...although, again, no applause (except for lots from us, of course). We later found, by complete co-incidence, this newspaper story about the crazy old guy and why he does this performance:<br />
http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/photo/2010-10/13/content_11401859.htm<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUi9tEe5ZCsPVEqkDqZuYwX9x-K8fTPxZUwAtHc4hECsvAHDRXykgZwSuSIx16ww6shlZLQAEzjRbwhyphenhyphenyjpkjphqCTasSGs35w9VDPZ1UTxXeJjQLiFPSuf103QedWMKwGmuCZ0PNaj-c/s1600/2.1426077704.kunming-s-blind-masseuses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUi9tEe5ZCsPVEqkDqZuYwX9x-K8fTPxZUwAtHc4hECsvAHDRXykgZwSuSIx16ww6shlZLQAEzjRbwhyphenhyphenyjpkjphqCTasSGs35w9VDPZ1UTxXeJjQLiFPSuf103QedWMKwGmuCZ0PNaj-c/s640/2.1426077704.kunming-s-blind-masseuses.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<b>31 - 2 April: Being surprised at the extent of the tourist-related construction boom in Puzhehei, a little town made famous by a TV programme, kinda like the eponymous Orkney Snorkney </b><br />
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Puzhehei was once a quiet village town, built around a pretty lake that is now beginning to look a little like a Langebaan Mykonos resort (sans the white paint). Puzhehei is currently in enthusiastic hotel construction mode throughout the village since a single Chinese Travel TV programme did an episode on it a few months ago leading to an influx of tens of thousands of Chinese tourists ...it certainly was interesting to see just how full on the Chinese take opportunity when it knocks, no messing around...<br />
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<b>2 - 6 April Late-night barbecues and new Chinese friends in the charming old town of Jianshui</b><br />
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Having been on the move for the past 2 weeks, we were keen to find a good chill out place for a few days. Jianshui, a cobble-street, ornate wooden building town was just the place. In contrast to India, the local Chinese backpacker market is booming and we made a few great friends. Jianshui is famous for street barbecues, where you choose your meat or vegetable kebabs and they are braaied on the spot, delicious (but hold back on some of that chilli!)...with a chinese-english phrase book, dictionary mobile apps, a little English on that side, a (very) little Chinese on our side, we spent many hours into the night getting to know our new friends. The local markets in Jianshui were also interesting where you can buy beautifully coiffured dogs (the Chinese spend a lot of money dressing and making up their dogs), turtles, frogs, all kinds of fish, cats, dogs also for eating, any kind of electronics, clothes, handicrafts...<br />
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<b>6 April - 9 April Sunrise over the rice terraces of Yuanyang</b><br />
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The rice terraces of Yuanyang are just beautiful and at sunrise and sunset, the light over the rice field water pools, which are yet to be planted for the season, are a treat. Chinese society, including the farming communities, is quickly moving into middle class life and farmers, like these, are fast educating their children to move on from peasant life. Rice terrace farming won't be easy to mechanise once the labour pool has moved onto office jobs and it is hard to see how these scenes can be much longer for this world. We also spent a couple of nights in nearby Shengcun village where it was market day with surrounding minority villagers streaming in to sell their array of interesting produce.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Repairing hand bag</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market day</td></tr>
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<b>9 April: Very comfortable overnight sleeper bus to the tropical area of Xishuangbanna bordered by Thailand and Laos </b><br />
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While on the move to Xishuangbanna we stopped in for a meal at a typical local eatery where, for R20 you get a very large bowl of rice that you top with a range of meat and vegetable stews, buffet style. You are allowed 4 or 5 toppings but that day our tummies were feeling a little tender so we opted for just one topping each. Well the Mama of the restaurant was not having it, she starting scolding us in Chinese and gesticulating wildly, we of course had no idea what she was on about and just smiled while chewing on our meal. In exasperation she grabbed a pen and wrote something down in Chinese characters (in China there are many mutually incomprehensible dialects spoken but the written language is standardised, even for Japanese people for whom it is hard to speak and understand Chinese, the written characters are similar.) Which is why, we may not be able to understand the buffet topping wheedling mama, we surely should understand her writing, we of course did not and were none the wiser about what we'd done to offend her, she just threw up her hands as we walked out). We took a picture of what she'd written down and sent it to one of our new English speaking Chinese friends who confirmed that she just wanted us to take our full quota of toppings included in the price). We had to pass through that bus station again a few days later and (luckily) our appetites had returned because the mama was thrilled to have another shot at feeding us and piled us with far more than the requisite toppings this time (she didn't bother with trying to communicate and just scooped food into our plates until we began to pop some blood vessels). The only analogy I can think of with the writing being the same characters regardless of dialect is that our numbers would written the same regardless of whether you were English, French, Italian, Afrikaans or whatever and had different pronunciations for each number.<br />
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<b>10 April - 16 April: Accepting and sharing water-festival blessings while running around like 7 year olds with waterguns </b><br />
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The water festival in Jinghong, Xishuangbanna - this was the highlight so far! A Buddhist new year festival where everyone washes away the bad luck of the past year...foreigners who stand out (like Dave) get special attention and thousands of people (adults, not kids - it's too crazy for the kids)..run around laughing and squealing, armed with waterguns, buckets and anything that will hold water, completely drenching one another all day. It was more belly aching laughter fun than we've had since at least the 3rd grade. (checkout the videos :)<br />
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<b>16 April: The villages around Xishuangbanna (Menghai) </b><br />
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After Jinghong's crazy running around, we were keen for some authentic village exploration. We tried the villages around the Xishuangbanna area but alas (for us, the tourist), many have moved on from the picturesque old traditional buildings to more comfortable (for the residents) modern houses. So we moved on, with the advice of chinese friends, to see a village still preserving traditional life (probably for the tourists income it generates) to a village called Wengding<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYLIfrAKjyX46r3LmBz6UNBCy9LazUSRHdQ1L775iOVwXpNLhYnZnG-LJ8BG1P9b7Y1x-vD0HrO5OlNIikSTzz8oVvPrA9jf2jHz-ipVKbfi2m41T1BLk0pWceb0H_SLPEy59BSm6fuWT/s1600/2.1426077704.temple-in-menghun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYLIfrAKjyX46r3LmBz6UNBCy9LazUSRHdQ1L775iOVwXpNLhYnZnG-LJ8BG1P9b7Y1x-vD0HrO5OlNIikSTzz8oVvPrA9jf2jHz-ipVKbfi2m41T1BLk0pWceb0H_SLPEy59BSm6fuWT/s640/2.1426077704.temple-in-menghun.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<b>17 April - 19 April: Wengding Village, homestay with traditional Wu people</b><br />
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Wengding, home to the Wu people is lovely. The traditional houses interesting to experience but it is surrounded by nearby villages that are too moving into more modern construction. While it is fairly obvious that the thatched roof, wooden building, compost toilet village, albeit anachronistic, is being preserved for the tourist market, it is still a lived in village and we were appreciative of being afforded the experience and warm family hospitality of our homestay.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNwTJjHZH6gG4T71_ui9HH6GEkCRwwqyRtwG5bThhELi7fFf6BtEjj5g_RUJQG7jnn6OzbL1jwWHM-OL-8Db3Meykh-FljG_EuKfP-NKq3loAnvV7wiTZdDzJnIa700c0IgRtumNnmNv2G/s1600/2.1426077704.beautiful-weng-ding-village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNwTJjHZH6gG4T71_ui9HH6GEkCRwwqyRtwG5bThhELi7fFf6BtEjj5g_RUJQG7jnn6OzbL1jwWHM-OL-8Db3Meykh-FljG_EuKfP-NKq3loAnvV7wiTZdDzJnIa700c0IgRtumNnmNv2G/s640/2.1426077704.beautiful-weng-ding-village.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>20 April - 25 April: Nightclubs and Cooking lessons in the backpacker town of Dali </b><br />
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In Dali we met up with some of the friends we'd made in Jianshui and enjoyed the party but laidback atmosphere of (the now mostly Chinese backpacker) town of Dali. With rice wine flowing and great DJs, the nightclubs make for a good night out and Dave made sure to introduce some ass-shaking African dance move to the amused Chinese crowds (although he represented our continent well, alas still no applause). Rejane got some wonderful Chinese cooking lessons from one of our new friends so you guys are in for a treat when we get back home :)<br />
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<b>25 April to today: Dumpling soup and warm yak milk while acclimatising to the 3300m elevation of Shangri-la</b><br />
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As we write this blog, we are huddled around a wood-burning fire stove eating dumplings and drinking warm yak milk while acclimatising to the 3300m elevation in Shangri-la before heading off to a 7 day hike around Snow Mountain which is dotted with ethnically Tibetan villages...that for the next blog...<br />
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Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0Shangri-La, Yunnan, China27.829743 99.70083599999998126.033 97.119048999999976 29.626486 102.28262299999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-74502499596457741712015-03-11T13:36:00.002+03:002015-03-13T11:23:21.412+03:00Belated update (5 years later): Festival time in Bali...and our journey comes to an end...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So 5 years later we're about to head off to China and found that the final blog installment of our India trip was never posted.<br />
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So here's just a super quick summary: we went to Bali, spent much of the time with a Bulungula friend in Ubud, we traveled round the island on a scooter and did some incredible snorkeling. We also saw some amazing festivals (go checkout the videos at the bottom of this page) and climbed a volcano.<br />
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A wonderful month to end a wonderful year :)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pdFO95oEmKsR3m7xcUeKVKT1gtG4svl8axowTI0WGyAIaMx4bp3OtaKX1xzCOp1ctjIIoZIQKHvetJdwRBSAK65C8ZVFpPrHUTJpEUtc7GmGC5cJO5-Euzk2gN4UMA21Pnprm_wgrJHb/s1600/P5070557.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pdFO95oEmKsR3m7xcUeKVKT1gtG4svl8axowTI0WGyAIaMx4bp3OtaKX1xzCOp1ctjIIoZIQKHvetJdwRBSAK65C8ZVFpPrHUTJpEUtc7GmGC5cJO5-Euzk2gN4UMA21Pnprm_wgrJHb/s400/P5070557.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477411047592356802" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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The view from Dale's (our friend) house in Ubud - overlooking the rice paddies.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgzGtDwjXlhMGyREukeKHNi9LQqCFNaSiCaVMiPo9BjPwkuzEerzpWu_MXJN4DLfTh5Rw3tJBTl38cflnEo72Anmg9ZHFcDb1jrx-ZV64YFcNP0UsRLIPu1tRWOSIMEMkT1xBehSS250RW/s1600/P5090563.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgzGtDwjXlhMGyREukeKHNi9LQqCFNaSiCaVMiPo9BjPwkuzEerzpWu_MXJN4DLfTh5Rw3tJBTl38cflnEo72Anmg9ZHFcDb1jrx-ZV64YFcNP0UsRLIPu1tRWOSIMEMkT1xBehSS250RW/s400/P5090563.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477411041649039602" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Water Temple</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXMgpgqKBaXYiZfIX5-7kp_7c-Py-XBWOeBuWMqr6k4phOfUx3cEQsuVjfgDPcIiAG3vcMZY91mx55kGeKb5aZbiw0KCjd0C4bsUtkyCaDoIZiTE0IYK_A_V-o5hrqeziUffDUHIpRUAV/s1600/IMG_1074.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXMgpgqKBaXYiZfIX5-7kp_7c-Py-XBWOeBuWMqr6k4phOfUx3cEQsuVjfgDPcIiAG3vcMZY91mx55kGeKb5aZbiw0KCjd0C4bsUtkyCaDoIZiTE0IYK_A_V-o5hrqeziUffDUHIpRUAV/s400/IMG_1074.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477411032823839682" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: left; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Rice paddies</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfWq3hWJnO_GSuLFfeKk9M4jhMOLIhoC8rV30CE-6AYZEj4awc6auNncXS-_C-yc6gQbVE9qbZybZxNw7UJ_XfRX4DGwN5YawmmlioxI1Axr7ilQ9k5bOxMHRQWtxVRLGbBhMiMyVzx_g5/s1600/IMG_1094.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfWq3hWJnO_GSuLFfeKk9M4jhMOLIhoC8rV30CE-6AYZEj4awc6auNncXS-_C-yc6gQbVE9qbZybZxNw7UJ_XfRX4DGwN5YawmmlioxI1Axr7ilQ9k5bOxMHRQWtxVRLGbBhMiMyVzx_g5/s400/IMG_1094.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477411028560257058" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
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Water temple - Balinese temples are much less garish than some of the Indian temples.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEWtU4G5KplUNmO9x_0H3DEmQXo1Pm1oksZfan72b8fWc57gRjXyv8OAIQV7Wcn-pYWNPYUmBBdT1OEwvr_bAGePtRNHiG-5Mw1R1VNJyB5zyE1NTpi_b4eunTUdNN3EywPczmM-0IUoJ/s1600/P5110585.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEWtU4G5KplUNmO9x_0H3DEmQXo1Pm1oksZfan72b8fWc57gRjXyv8OAIQV7Wcn-pYWNPYUmBBdT1OEwvr_bAGePtRNHiG-5Mw1R1VNJyB5zyE1NTpi_b4eunTUdNN3EywPczmM-0IUoJ/s400/P5110585.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477405788445106978" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Another friend's epic Bamboo house on the Bali coast.</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnouvQekm4GoEY6AJHAzuiUX5UrehSVIsvensDmqX5iZ_gv1Xia1tyv8fGlDwiggaa1_WdNhOOAOQJ0vDUf9ohfYG0vUOUNMKHpzS-D3C8vnEG-MeewgXfhq-Ny5-Hgxq_07FgacrT_ouI/s1600/P5120591.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnouvQekm4GoEY6AJHAzuiUX5UrehSVIsvensDmqX5iZ_gv1Xia1tyv8fGlDwiggaa1_WdNhOOAOQJ0vDUf9ohfYG0vUOUNMKHpzS-D3C8vnEG-MeewgXfhq-Ny5-Hgxq_07FgacrT_ouI/s400/P5120591.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477405783895628226" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
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All the streets were adorned with festival decorations - there seems to be a different festival every 2 weeks in Bali.</div>
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Crazy Bali decorations!</div>
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A particularly crazy festival which involved 2 teams of worshippers fighting to get a bamboo bed-like structure inside their particular temple.</div>
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Festival food.</div>
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Hot volcanic steaming springs.</div>
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Top of the volcano.</div>
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Cooking an egg in the scorching volcanic earth.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfrlMm1lE7i71p51BHsDY_HIuBxj5DY87q3tJ1q-qD7hOmPmXa0p7roTBqgnDNHhZX8_Tq0s5upt8HSsHpGklgOhNELrcaw9OFhKkvdPnnaBkzpTbFenULKX42Kh88Czxa14Ct3s9zIXv/s1600/P5300023.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfrlMm1lE7i71p51BHsDY_HIuBxj5DY87q3tJ1q-qD7hOmPmXa0p7roTBqgnDNHhZX8_Tq0s5upt8HSsHpGklgOhNELrcaw9OFhKkvdPnnaBkzpTbFenULKX42Kh88Czxa14Ct3s9zIXv/s400/P5300023.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477386869428861282" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></div>
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Gili Islands - no cars, salty showers, snorkeling with turtles, beach music. </div>
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Donkey transport around the Gili Islands</div>
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Cool, crazy ceremonies.</div>
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More crazy ceremonies.</div>
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And so ended an epic year. We promised ourselves that we would do a long trip every 5 years, and so it is that in a few days time we will leave for China and Central Asia. We will not be able to blog on this website in China as Blogspot/Blogger is blocked in China. We will post our new blog address on this blog soon.</div>
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Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-87020468079822394002010-05-03T12:55:00.026+03:002010-05-17T12:15:19.157+03:00Sri Lanka - an easy cruise<div>After almost 10 months in India and Bangladesh we boarded a plane and made our way to the tropical isle of Sri Lanka. After the huge Indian subcontinent, travelling around an island about the size of one Indian state was an easy cruise. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We headed straight to the beach at Negombo from the airport rather than into the steamy capital of Colombo. Negombo was nice - although the beach was a bit India-style dirty - and we relaxed there for just a few days before heading into the hills, away from the pre-monsoon heat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our first stop off the super-cheap, rickety buses was Kandy, a tea-producing, hill station town nestled in a forested valley around a lake. There we stayed in a beautiful old colonial-style house filled with antique furniture and artworks, clusters of family photographs spanning the generations down to our host's great-grandchildren and odd knick-knacks including huge elephant tusks on either side of throne-like chairs, fit for a King. His grandfather was the nominated representative of the Sri Lankan people at the coronation of Edward VII and he had loads of interesting tales that he proudly shared over the lovely cups of tea we enjoyed on the porch overlooking the pretty garden. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyRVEonGYg9yk7ZvbTMowF_O_zyYCLOkIi4Tdn6vGjurKyCtBsh_G3YQaJ4TDuPBOQoYbIVQ1Ft3eIW9lshLBiUqVxznI5-NvyinUzQVmF6eVPE-2cKHKe_zn87nU87CgVAe50lNLuxaP/s1600/P3220315.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyRVEonGYg9yk7ZvbTMowF_O_zyYCLOkIi4Tdn6vGjurKyCtBsh_G3YQaJ4TDuPBOQoYbIVQ1Ft3eIW9lshLBiUqVxznI5-NvyinUzQVmF6eVPE-2cKHKe_zn87nU87CgVAe50lNLuxaP/s400/P3220315.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982564213589122" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The view from the hills surrounding Kandy</b></div><div><br /></div><div>During a few chilled out days in Kandy we visited the very holy Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic which purportedly houses one of Buddha's teeth that was rescued from his funeral pyre. Unfortunately, you don't get to see the actual tooth so it was really just another temple visit, not very much different from the many others we'd seen before.<br /><br />Although it is just a 20 kilometers across the sea from India, Sri Lanka is a very different country. 70% of Sri Lankans are Buddhist (Sinhalese) and just 15% are Hindu (Tamil). These two groups fought a vicious war for 25 years where both Buddhists and Hindus committed horrific atrocities. The Hindu Tamil Tigers have the claim to shame of inventing suicide bombing while the Buddhist government brutally persecuted the minority Tamils. If you believe Buddhism to be some sort of unique, peaceful religion, you'd be sad to know that in Sri Lanka militant Buddhist monks wield significant power and, during the war, actively encouraged a military solution to the conflict. One can see AK47 symbols on Buddhist temples here!</div><div><br /></div><div>The military solution came last year when the government defeated the Tamil Tigers. The actual events that transpired at the end of the war are still shrouded in secrecy but it seems that there were large massacres of civilians as well as militants and much of the northern parts of the country, as we were to discover, is still very much off limits to foreigners. </div><div><br /></div><div>This bloody recent history was not evident in the lush mountains around Kandy. In fact, Sri Lanka has a much higher standard of living than India and the towns and villages in the south matched or exceeded what you'd find, even in the wealthy Indian state of Kerala. The status of women in Sri Lanka is also considerably better than in India with women far more visible in all lines of business and in most kinds of jobs. Women tourists are also hassled far less.</div><div><br /></div><div>We jumped onto a series of local buses and made our way to Adam's Peak, the highest climbable mountain in Sri Lanka. This mountain is holy to most religions as it has - what is believed to be - Adam, Shiva or Buddha's (take your pick!) footprint at its apex.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjI4ZMNMfLlnPZecMa7rmdEkWlLDlZkJn5MO4iiBEnZgd3Ez3TgNMFPVff6XYUP4fR_yF4QugT7wCT4W-kXjv6rV1jHrgz6gxRRlNkG-DVor5mJs7orYmFkVmq4AiIZPMZrqWsek6Im0Xd/s1600/P3250332.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjI4ZMNMfLlnPZecMa7rmdEkWlLDlZkJn5MO4iiBEnZgd3Ez3TgNMFPVff6XYUP4fR_yF4QugT7wCT4W-kXjv6rV1jHrgz6gxRRlNkG-DVor5mJs7orYmFkVmq4AiIZPMZrqWsek6Im0Xd/s400/P3250332.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982560886073922" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Adam's Peak</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>Every night at 2am hundreds of Buddhist, Hindu, Christian and Muslim pilgrims begin climbing the peak so as to reach the top just around sunrise. We joined them on this surprisingly tough climb made up of over 5000 concrete steps. The view from the top was nice (though once you've been in the Himalayas...) but the sunrise that morning was a bit clouded over. The walk down was hot and sweaty and the cumulative 10 000 steps meant we both walked funny for the next 3 days (a common problem for Adam's Peak climbers)! We couldn't feel too hard core for having completed the mission as our fellow climbers included loads of old timers of over 70 years in age and one guy whose whole left side of his body had been paralysed in a stroke!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDv7KWd18nrnBg7jrIFjFcNaLhaXzhd_dXG4br0SpeJodZo8wPfQ5IrfToW8d58WkDIBtgAdQH5iO8vPBhDOEXHlTXszuhQ6OYfnWqo12c2ST_ELgCFqz2NcGwLWjkK2lvT1Uzd47dNahL/s1600/P3250348.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDv7KWd18nrnBg7jrIFjFcNaLhaXzhd_dXG4br0SpeJodZo8wPfQ5IrfToW8d58WkDIBtgAdQH5iO8vPBhDOEXHlTXszuhQ6OYfnWqo12c2ST_ELgCFqz2NcGwLWjkK2lvT1Uzd47dNahL/s400/P3250348.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982554480519730" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Colourful villages seen from the train</b></div></div><div><br />Next we hopped onto a train to the village of Ella, spoiling ourselves with first class seats in the special carriage at the back of the train that has giant glass windows all round so you get beautiful 180 degree views of the tea plantations and forests through which the train meanders. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ella is a tiny village perched higher up in the hills from Kandy and so was cool and quiet, with views of the lush forests surrounding the area. We found a delightful guesthouse which had a verandah that was just made for us to do absolutely nothing but nurse our sore Adam's Peak muscles, contemplate the views and sip a nice cuppa or two (oh, yes, Rejane did move enough to get herself down to the spa for a full body massage, steam bath and hot oil hair treatment). We stayed 10 days! Once our legs had begun to recover we ventured out and did a bit of walking in the surrounding hills, villages and tea plantations. Our favourite mission was to walk along the railway tracks - used as a walking path by locals - and visit the lovely little villages along the way while dodging the train when it came past a couple of times a day. After a morning of walking we'd catch the afternoon train back to Ella just in time to avoid the daily afternoon thunderstorms which we enjoyed, again from our lovely verandah with the pot of wonderful Ceylon tea. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DDiWv9of5EaAP0Vu0YRpYzx3scxwSHKmlzMeAdH0-xFAFf7Ftudmm-pLgRgvCMVhuYeYoZ3tsYchK_3356Do4oQZuk7UVkBhj9zrdeX3nc9t5eTvjGDk0XPBYv4wrp1gd9AKeIZ1klzL/s1600/P3290363.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DDiWv9of5EaAP0Vu0YRpYzx3scxwSHKmlzMeAdH0-xFAFf7Ftudmm-pLgRgvCMVhuYeYoZ3tsYchK_3356Do4oQZuk7UVkBhj9zrdeX3nc9t5eTvjGDk0XPBYv4wrp1gd9AKeIZ1klzL/s400/P3290363.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982549412788482" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Walking the train tracks in El</b><b>la</b></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNStMoz81NLiCyOm6KfBS47y8SoSZqyfMix_DWOvNbQzRh6azxV9lJlhMb_CdZZmy8rjt6WyZbXu7-Eh0Wfsh7jZLHZNUgwC0RAPdpkbEVNqn-xk8l5SMbMX1WdRByxET4jemWaxDne0Ib/s1600/P3310371.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNStMoz81NLiCyOm6KfBS47y8SoSZqyfMix_DWOvNbQzRh6azxV9lJlhMb_CdZZmy8rjt6WyZbXu7-Eh0Wfsh7jZLHZNUgwC0RAPdpkbEVNqn-xk8l5SMbMX1WdRByxET4jemWaxDne0Ib/s400/P3310371.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982544837070226" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>here comes the train</b><b>!</b></div></div><div><br /></div><div>We met a number of different travellers in our time in Ella and got to know all the little restaurants and tea stalls in town. Another difference between Sri Lanka and India is that Sri Lanka only has a handful of traditional food dishes. The main one is known simply as Rice & Curry which is delicious and consists of (wait for it) rice and a mix of up to 10 veggie curries and one meat curry. The curries are not as rich and saucy as the Indian curries but were a nice change... although after a few weeks it did get a little boring. Perhaps due to the war (we don't really know why) there isn't much of a street food or eating out culture and sometimes just getting a chai could be a challenge. One favourite meal was the Muslim-made Kottu roti which consists of stir fried meat and veg to which a chopped up roti is added, this is all diced up rapidly with two giant knives making the famous sharp clanging, chop-chop-chop sounds heard when walking by. As with India, one has to be fast to avoid the dolop of salt or chilli powder on your fresh fruit and the sugar on your avo! I mean, SUGAR ON YOUR AVO!!!!! (Ja-sis, that definitely qualifies as the most unpleasant surprise to one's taste buds when you're not expecting it!)<br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT3KcjHaz9WX_fkD1jRAWv52YBIhyphenhyphendroplz6f5sS23SJthXXRZ6YrS_afxmfXCKf_B3Cm0ntU7Mjgi3ctbk9eLh5tAlLjJzu_lZPxOLhgRK8xFcDvKq0iK_PTFXLXdeHUY79MxKJ9jPz5A/s1600/P4030389.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT3KcjHaz9WX_fkD1jRAWv52YBIhyphenhyphendroplz6f5sS23SJthXXRZ6YrS_afxmfXCKf_B3Cm0ntU7Mjgi3ctbk9eLh5tAlLjJzu_lZPxOLhgRK8xFcDvKq0iK_PTFXLXdeHUY79MxKJ9jPz5A/s400/P4030389.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982241277833618" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>On the train back to Kand</b>y</div></div><div><br /></div><div>After our long chill in Ella, we caught the train and a couple of buses to the town of Dambulla where we visited the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dambulla_cave_temple">famous caves</a> with giant carved Buddhas inside. We stayed in a beautiful homestay/guesthouse called Little Dream out in the rural paddy fields near the lake and once again got stuck for a week...</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTD30Ue5r5mHBE8lKP1JEn0kkEVyjnMmGfIGBxE5Kh_EvckfrVJFHV5R-y-PwUmrCld404LvFiKwU0UNG5SFmBnJF_eBBkpWOAVm_xSt_xFs4HX1fidNFx8UitIyECuKPFl-TNo_4KgP1Z/s1600/P4040408.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTD30Ue5r5mHBE8lKP1JEn0kkEVyjnMmGfIGBxE5Kh_EvckfrVJFHV5R-y-PwUmrCld404LvFiKwU0UNG5SFmBnJF_eBBkpWOAVm_xSt_xFs4HX1fidNFx8UitIyECuKPFl-TNo_4KgP1Z/s400/P4040408.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982232676807458" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Sleeping Buddha in Dambulla cav</b>e</div></div><div><br /></div><div>We used Little Dream as our base from which to explore the historical sights scattered in the region. One of the most famous is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sigiriya">Sigiriya</a> ("Lion's Rock"), a giant stone amidst landscaped water gardens with the ruins of an ancient temple at the top. This giant complex dates back to the 5th century and was occupied as either the nation's capital or as a temple until the 14th century when it was abandoned. Although the buildings are mostly ruins now, there are still beautiful paintings in the rock's caves and the view from the top was great.</div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3q_w48MQfSCmGTUDVJ2oHpwMgxeXjdEBAI0DEqVFeSiOJHrg_qGO9q-QCD_QmLVVYL1cGpYEZWhy7buIrjrBqfOPJLaUEqyYuMPHbUZwe4JHE8fKZwu9HN77LgO4Jt07DAVNZMyi7bH2g/s1600/P4050433.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3q_w48MQfSCmGTUDVJ2oHpwMgxeXjdEBAI0DEqVFeSiOJHrg_qGO9q-QCD_QmLVVYL1cGpYEZWhy7buIrjrBqfOPJLaUEqyYuMPHbUZwe4JHE8fKZwu9HN77LgO4Jt07DAVNZMyi7bH2g/s400/P4050433.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981862745662066" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Sigiriya - gardens below and temple ruins on top</div></b><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDdRKG0Bbbyb16o9QGn5ydkbdH_ZpE8Y7nnHbWs0e8FCArNzw6TA7d6b9u2v7jlK-wnvJXRxu_BsVLXMMkU70k9usBdky09rGFkoK0DXSPuO2KKFTwsu0SUEBxaxK-aRc-dxrXo87bTi9e/s1600/P4050421.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDdRKG0Bbbyb16o9QGn5ydkbdH_ZpE8Y7nnHbWs0e8FCArNzw6TA7d6b9u2v7jlK-wnvJXRxu_BsVLXMMkU70k9usBdky09rGFkoK0DXSPuO2KKFTwsu0SUEBxaxK-aRc-dxrXo87bTi9e/s400/P4050421.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982230412743554" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Sigiriya cave painting</b><b>s</b></div></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOFTRN0M-FmTFLbtkOh3tUvuIrnqwEwe3nh2LD_-LxyW7AM8Hv2voeW8qNobFxYcYPnpzs504XzOakAiXjcVxORjqjzBfFhfjLJ2gv-NZkvOaQFyABgOxbV_W9BaZLEno2VHwKXmv_vcq/s1600/P4050424.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOFTRN0M-FmTFLbtkOh3tUvuIrnqwEwe3nh2LD_-LxyW7AM8Hv2voeW8qNobFxYcYPnpzs504XzOakAiXjcVxORjqjzBfFhfjLJ2gv-NZkvOaQFyABgOxbV_W9BaZLEno2VHwKXmv_vcq/s400/P4050424.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982224125738802" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">the steps up to Sigiriya temple - lion paws on either side</div></b></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN0l6ePhbVtslIy_mrITqtsDqnVY9jzWKcGoN2FevJu5LPulG7CGHGf3hJvf2ZiSO1r9Xoym6Vlsp4vFaZTn1_Jun0p8FCAOZVG2VKrdCWPgCmgKIVW8PNXufIWi3mk3yZ8LZpKMe8S2Bj/s1600/P4050429.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN0l6ePhbVtslIy_mrITqtsDqnVY9jzWKcGoN2FevJu5LPulG7CGHGf3hJvf2ZiSO1r9Xoym6Vlsp4vFaZTn1_Jun0p8FCAOZVG2VKrdCWPgCmgKIVW8PNXufIWi3mk3yZ8LZpKMe8S2Bj/s400/P4050429.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466982215856312306" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>View from the top of Sigiriya onto gardens below</b></div><br /></div><div>During our time in Dambulla, we decided to explore the area around the lake. What was supposed to be a quick stroll around the lake turned into a 5 hour mission when we got lost in the forest! After about 2 hours we were getting peckish and walked in the direction of what we thought was the main road for a snack. This just got us deeper into the forest with little water and no food. After another hour or so, walking aimlessly, getting hungrier and running out of water, we were very pleasantly surprised to stumble upon ancient ruins that had not been referred to in any guide books. Although the ruins themselves were nothing of the scale of Sigiriya, wandering among them deep in the cool forest was wonderful. We subsequently found out that these were the ruins of a monastery complex called Kaludiya Pokuna and dated back to the 9th century when a wealthy man gave 23 containers of gold to provide food for the monks "as long as the sun and the moon last." There was certainly no food there now, a fact our grumbling bellies could attest to, but we were given some water by the caretaker of the ruins who lives all by himself the forest. The information about the ancient, wealthy benefactor along with other very detailed instructions are all engraved on cave walls which, amidst the overgrown forests, gave us a bit of an Indiana Jones feeling of adventure! We enjoyed this mission so much that we returned with a travel buddy a few days later and discovered a stream and rock pool where we swam while having our skin exfoliated by nibbling little fish.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcKYBkcs15WKJcfATCsY7CFKbB7rOIuJpX8K2xdjvuGZWxZx4Sdwgl9bxFaP6aktMcNU30oMFlA_qUM1GFBFNVocqMlQwE3GnjdbrW6WvE7RY7ekoxuxw-1-Kc9-Pr2FsKT_A9LDsQ0UF/s1600/P4070446.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcKYBkcs15WKJcfATCsY7CFKbB7rOIuJpX8K2xdjvuGZWxZx4Sdwgl9bxFaP6aktMcNU30oMFlA_qUM1GFBFNVocqMlQwE3GnjdbrW6WvE7RY7ekoxuxw-1-Kc9-Pr2FsKT_A9LDsQ0UF/s400/P4070446.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981854416619826" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Wandering in the forests</div></b></div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rxd0K-jXBCMTzyXsrii4B7USnFKb2eYhGrcWMr38c8mdTs7BMD6NIyoDpsUXCpaIoVHYThn6OexYyMjG5qQDqI74bD3UKWL_WLUkCBtNHtBCaI8HDR9oafjH1OIoZroXM7GAv70UtCvu/s1600/P4070440+small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rxd0K-jXBCMTzyXsrii4B7USnFKb2eYhGrcWMr38c8mdTs7BMD6NIyoDpsUXCpaIoVHYThn6OexYyMjG5qQDqI74bD3UKWL_WLUkCBtNHtBCaI8HDR9oafjH1OIoZroXM7GAv70UtCvu/s400/P4070440+small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471060047738788274" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Indiana Jones and The Forest Stupa<br /></div></b><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGUaAbz2-rnrGm4Fns90zmQe4zJY21kNfXrxEPd-6OE7HpKVhL49L_Lja775Okwx_oUjzVQ-vGmoAF7m4ah9bxlSfXeh09ofwZCmrEUBDqNAJwrSE8lt9LMroZFWsOWTra-BsfK500eOW/s1600/P4090456.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQGUaAbz2-rnrGm4Fns90zmQe4zJY21kNfXrxEPd-6OE7HpKVhL49L_Lja775Okwx_oUjzVQ-vGmoAF7m4ah9bxlSfXeh09ofwZCmrEUBDqNAJwrSE8lt9LMroZFWsOWTra-BsfK500eOW/s400/P4090456.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981843590868002" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">The girls getting exfoliated</div></b></div><div><br /></div><div>We missioned off to other forest ruins in the area called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ritigala">Ritigala</a> which involved busing and then walking for about 12km, the last stretch of which was through the forest along a road just swarming with beautiful white butterflies. These ruins, scattered all through the forest were made from giant stone slabs, linked by winding stone paths. </div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwveFfeFeqwcsfP_icgq5i-Tk_03_kdLJ3SJEmvu7WINIQNKyMwqBPkg-WKSmXjyRlUOhzywvoD0SKqJwjlVQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Butterflies everywhere - on the way to Ritigala</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq6P-iabimO10jEgV-djCrz24HciNhchHI4qsVjo4kFiuWWX3vlwZEeX0xOmUrxFEL1MwVN5yXTHvhb3CzfhWZjmoI2t1FNduLcKMCOyX0trQvFuhBHhIEtH5j47zejYkUOizJzVcQOw3J/s1600/P4100466.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq6P-iabimO10jEgV-djCrz24HciNhchHI4qsVjo4kFiuWWX3vlwZEeX0xOmUrxFEL1MwVN5yXTHvhb3CzfhWZjmoI2t1FNduLcKMCOyX0trQvFuhBHhIEtH5j47zejYkUOizJzVcQOw3J/s400/P4100466.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981837742240578" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Ritigala ruins</div></b></div><div><br /><div>We finally left our friendly Little Dream family and headed north to Anuradhapura where we visited the oldest tree in the world called the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bodhi_Tree">Sri Maha Bodhi</a> which was planted in 288BC. It is now incorporated into a temple where Sri Lankans pay homage to the sacred tree.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdxCUiLQJfldLWr2HLoztbuBFHSLz4PTjc08ly74dgM2JOQFFhi-xgparUEbWF4Fufx4o9CQHr4l4SvlXEcizESGoiYphZ9ufbYxOJcqhySfrjCBKVQzmX1cyWFnbZPw_98gJPWr5bY4Y/s1600/P4120468.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdxCUiLQJfldLWr2HLoztbuBFHSLz4PTjc08ly74dgM2JOQFFhi-xgparUEbWF4Fufx4o9CQHr4l4SvlXEcizESGoiYphZ9ufbYxOJcqhySfrjCBKVQzmX1cyWFnbZPw_98gJPWr5bY4Y/s400/P4120468.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981833727591666" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Oldest tree in the world</div></b></div><div><br /></div><div>The city of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anuradhapura">Anuradhapura</a> was founded 3000 years ago and the ruins extend over 16 square km. We spent a scorching day wandering around these extensive stone ruins, visiting ancient baths, temples, giant stupas, castles and monastries... All pretty amazing, but by this stage of our trip we were completely templed-out and unfortunately the knee-high ruins of Sri Lanka just don't compare to the epic sights of India... it was time for something different... </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi02Ak7LIEA51a37swKGIs2GjumvRpOkCYJLCNHLLNdwNMCzEF0xp5qBcBbkedMefV-F70iGgI3k_ygCynmw4mu7BovACdiUjx4W6YGtgTBVj-gxQl1GL8t8b_xOyac-ZvKz5Va1rcEKTle/s1600/P4120472.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi02Ak7LIEA51a37swKGIs2GjumvRpOkCYJLCNHLLNdwNMCzEF0xp5qBcBbkedMefV-F70iGgI3k_ygCynmw4mu7BovACdiUjx4W6YGtgTBVj-gxQl1GL8t8b_xOyac-ZvKz5Va1rcEKTle/s400/P4120472.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981039391730130" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Giant stupa in Anuradhapura</div></b></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5Zp-MPVdL8XrZTX-Nwqnha5B_WluHS74rn1VdfcYth6MVsB_ZMc9mk0pd3p-lTPu3Xsm5JRcz7-XX6W6ffbVbDdIB4O7mb3j_i8BlqkQ6M9Zjr3H5Ca1ybFvihueebj_UXTrMsy0P-bG/s1600/P4120480.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5Zp-MPVdL8XrZTX-Nwqnha5B_WluHS74rn1VdfcYth6MVsB_ZMc9mk0pd3p-lTPu3Xsm5JRcz7-XX6W6ffbVbDdIB4O7mb3j_i8BlqkQ6M9Zjr3H5Ca1ybFvihueebj_UXTrMsy0P-bG/s400/P4120480.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981034770514354" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Stone baths in Anuradhapura ruins</div></b></div><div><br /></div><div>We decided to head towards Jaffna, the main Tamil city, which had been off limits during the war. After a bit of searching we found a bus and headed north on the road. The further north we headed, the road and the surrounding towns became increasingly dilapidated and bombed out buildings became the norm with military posts almost after every 100m. After 2 hours or so on the bus we arrived at a large military complex where the soldiers spotted us and hauled us off the bus demanding to see our Ministry of Defense permit which we didn't have (apparently no-one has ever managed to get one of these). Despite the government's claims, the road to Jaffna is certainly NOT open to tourists - and the rumours that they have atrocities to hide will continue until it is. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, more hot, rickety buses until we eventually arrived exhausted in Trincomalee, the scene of heavy fighting during the war but now a steamy, dilapidated coastal town. We spent a horrible sweaty night there at a dirty hotel on the beach before heading straight out to the first decent place we could find. Just 6km north we found the village of Uppuveli where we splashed out on a nice Italian guest house. This north eastern coast seemed like a different country to the southern half of Sri Lanka... dirty, bombed out buildings, military everywhere and added to all that, it got hammered by the 2004 Tsunami, like much of the Sri Lankan south and east coasts. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDOuwMj7Xzo">Click here</a> to get a sense of the destructive power of the Tsunami which killed over 250,000 people (not for the faint hearted!).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgayE1pEcC6Qo1E2sANi-Y-jV715voRTu4-ERoZ3yLYRbsWTu9ecV7ZNGjlAyAc5mWlYRDNtCQeHijnjFoO44HuLBODIs-F0WqPpsl9mlA0x3NXLFxORKB4XgJ5YaOLk23YDzxPKKLF1C52/s1600/P4170508.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgayE1pEcC6Qo1E2sANi-Y-jV715voRTu4-ERoZ3yLYRbsWTu9ecV7ZNGjlAyAc5mWlYRDNtCQeHijnjFoO44HuLBODIs-F0WqPpsl9mlA0x3NXLFxORKB4XgJ5YaOLk23YDzxPKKLF1C52/s400/P4170508.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981018295415218" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b>Snorkeling on Pigeon Island</b> </span></div></b><br />The Uppuveli beach was ok, and we did some nice snorkeling at nearby Pigeon Island. We were still feeling the itch to see what was going on in the forbidden north, so we snuck onto some buses heading to Kokkilai Lagoon and even made it onto a boat heading for the island in the lagoon before, sadly, the military got us again. This is a beautiful area with huge tourist potential once all the bloody military stuff gets sorted out.<br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GTxInYHnDCZxFdzCytUQR4USxo73Ro9niK_h4TogcJOPIEUqKcUnNbmBv2we4imCSBelDk6VAZrYrS62_0db7t0CfXpnjVDL47trJUIozRh774CCz0qb1OE0gzw5FOEvtdhqE4fgGIfz/s1600/P4160491.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GTxInYHnDCZxFdzCytUQR4USxo73Ro9niK_h4TogcJOPIEUqKcUnNbmBv2we4imCSBelDk6VAZrYrS62_0db7t0CfXpnjVDL47trJUIozRh774CCz0qb1OE0gzw5FOEvtdhqE4fgGIfz/s400/P4160491.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981033486903762" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><b>On Kokkilai Lagoon before the military turned us back</b></div></div><div><br /></div><div>We made some lovely friends along the way and were invited to a lunch of rice and curry by a local Muslim family who treated us like royalty.<br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3R3Z48wGX5axSA6UYbuo7cNttNa9LGAXXPUjipAWJLKIFNuMYK2vbP7_0gdvtf9ASiTLx6g5aexS-Z2LWyF61ri3oEAaVpuzk34T84XcwYC7WsBeeoG09nd9m24k2HVVL5qSg_ZAKyzD0/s1600/P4160498.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3R3Z48wGX5axSA6UYbuo7cNttNa9LGAXXPUjipAWJLKIFNuMYK2vbP7_0gdvtf9ASiTLx6g5aexS-Z2LWyF61ri3oEAaVpuzk34T84XcwYC7WsBeeoG09nd9m24k2HVVL5qSg_ZAKyzD0/s400/P4160498.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466981025558365570" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Our friendly family who treated us to lunch, near the Kokkilai Lagoon</div></b></div><div><br /></div><div>The Trincomalee heat got too much for us so we headed south again, first to the nice seaside village of Kalkuddah and then on to the surfing village called Arugambay. We found ourselves a beautiful beach hut on stilts overlooking the beach and chilled for a week or so watching surfers and suicide-sunbathers (no matter how red and sore, they never give up!) and enjoying the large amounts of the local Arak spirits at a Full Moon Party that we and some friends managed to instigate...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbNccvBkCHijl311UaPM5C6duY9JYOocNNfhTj82C44PqR3rhVDC4Kd-Eamfzee3yQKy9vXtXo6nkMJArRg5FXBd64dXQlZwC2RxerVSuVgGQqXe_pAkXI1mUPFF-mzb-zONfIzlDV6G9/s1600/P4250513.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbNccvBkCHijl311UaPM5C6duY9JYOocNNfhTj82C44PqR3rhVDC4Kd-Eamfzee3yQKy9vXtXo6nkMJArRg5FXBd64dXQlZwC2RxerVSuVgGQqXe_pAkXI1mUPFF-mzb-zONfIzlDV6G9/s400/P4250513.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466980699468485698" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Is that a tsunami coming?</div></b></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qg59SjlWf25i3MeViSnokYKGZAtFceMJ6RPaPPtjydnC37ExphaMDknBOEwm0mMdRQCBME5TxETiIG_e4PeB3HpF28mAAKQHksZjzkTDAwTNu-lZoSV31bpYDdzvpcUR0bIbMDrsqGRX/s1600/P4280518.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qg59SjlWf25i3MeViSnokYKGZAtFceMJ6RPaPPtjydnC37ExphaMDknBOEwm0mMdRQCBME5TxETiIG_e4PeB3HpF28mAAKQHksZjzkTDAwTNu-lZoSV31bpYDdzvpcUR0bIbMDrsqGRX/s400/P4280518.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466980691078713010" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Arugambay</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></b><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgD4TCkpHwYN7GBPnTARfLRqDpRvwVYVp0c4s5hGgACfdLQFB0p7gbSOaJin3mv9vyVs-v4J0S2jkdNAXlq8kFrk_2V60k5xC1gAFfvjuT3Y_UwZBhcmufvF4wFLYjkZ-4GsSNwpRt0Hsp/s1600/P4280530.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgD4TCkpHwYN7GBPnTARfLRqDpRvwVYVp0c4s5hGgACfdLQFB0p7gbSOaJin3mv9vyVs-v4J0S2jkdNAXlq8kFrk_2V60k5xC1gAFfvjuT3Y_UwZBhcmufvF4wFLYjkZ-4GsSNwpRt0Hsp/s400/P4280530.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466980686458132978" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Who's a lucky boy then?</div></b></div><div><br /></div><div>After a fun week at Arugambay we headed back to Ella village where we met friends from Cape Town and a very long earth worm! We spent two night catching up on news from home and another day walking the train tracks before heading to the southern coastal town of Galle.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3b8VQTTLolXOZpz6HpcEkQrTtik59y0MoIv0z_I9Tx1y3BzfpAtofQyA_BtJmNwcTg6pIDg8g31fUxeGCDKXY3UHOVWKSRWUbkyXtANGqFLs9DJa9_72v7slDPhUaUr5rMdpOisBln4Wx/s1600/P4300542.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3b8VQTTLolXOZpz6HpcEkQrTtik59y0MoIv0z_I9Tx1y3BzfpAtofQyA_BtJmNwcTg6pIDg8g31fUxeGCDKXY3UHOVWKSRWUbkyXtANGqFLs9DJa9_72v7slDPhUaUr5rMdpOisBln4Wx/s400/P4300542.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466980677920922162" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Big earthworm in Ella</div></b></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKOWeQtJUTpGo9vpgsB2yYECrpj9aWqPKOZt66ITB50bFs3N6YfldBNowMLbjm7qSxvAzM1YmH_kDuHKhl0oc4oWXtI6kXEunjh5GMmQlQ4nKk6YOyzUNP-bz0SQCI1p5P39CPpA1eEzTt/s1600/P5020549.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKOWeQtJUTpGo9vpgsB2yYECrpj9aWqPKOZt66ITB50bFs3N6YfldBNowMLbjm7qSxvAzM1YmH_kDuHKhl0oc4oWXtI6kXEunjh5GMmQlQ4nKk6YOyzUNP-bz0SQCI1p5P39CPpA1eEzTt/s400/P5020549.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466980673665843010" border="0" /></a><b><div style="text-align: center;">Our last beach in SriLanka, Unawatuna</div></b></div><div><br /></div><div>We spent a couple of nights in Galle, an old colonial British town with charming guest houses and restaurants which is fast becoming an "in destination" for foreigners with money to invest in property. We did a daytrip Unawatuna, a lovely beach spot where we relaxed for a day before heading to Colombo airport...</div><div><br /></div><div>We had intended to spend 10 weeks in Sri Lanka, but after 6 weeks we decided that we needed something completely different - so we jumped on a plane and headed to... </div><div><br /></div><div>(to be continued)</div><div><br /><div><br /></div></div></div>Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-71366318098052747262010-04-02T07:57:00.026+03:002010-04-02T16:43:23.996+03:00Meeting the FamilyAs Dave has been promoted to Editor-in Chief, a position in which he will be charged with setting up and running centres of excellence that will produce unique, original and compelling content for this blog, Rejane will start to write the blog content in the first person. Dave's promotion has come as the well-deserved reward for having mastered the art of driving a motorbike on Indian roads. To demonstrate the level of intellectual ability required for this task, a sample multiple choice question has been prepared for anyone thinking of attempting this task anytime in the future.<br /><br />Instructions - Before attempting the test, please note the following in the diagram below, from top to bottom:<br /><ul><li>the arrows pointing in the direction of the traffic flowing south</li><li>below that, the location of Lane#4, followed by Lane#3</li><li>next, the position of the Solid Concrete Barrier/Divider shaded in, in the middle of the diagram, with Gap#1 and Gap#2 in the Barrier/Divider<br /></li><li>then Lane#2 appears, followed by Lane#1<br /></li><li>next, the position of Vehicle X</li><li>finally, the direction of traffic flowing north<br /></li></ul><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_wDpmhddLhyphenhyphenrPoYluJK7BzV1Ty0dxriGxACGxs0Rg2_ikJezhxaBYQZ-h2IYgd7hZdkSi7oNXcVnW0Cw_w7nSZ9ArKYV82o8al3YmsS1pewh3baMrM96EbKOGdeKvIaJ4Tb4azzylG0Dy/s1600/P4010378small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_wDpmhddLhyphenhyphenrPoYluJK7BzV1Ty0dxriGxACGxs0Rg2_ikJezhxaBYQZ-h2IYgd7hZdkSi7oNXcVnW0Cw_w7nSZ9ArKYV82o8al3YmsS1pewh3baMrM96EbKOGdeKvIaJ4Tb4azzylG0Dy/s400/P4010378small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455416866584587554" border="0" /></a>MULTIPLE CHOICE QUESTION:<br />Vehicle X wants to travel <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">south</span>. What are his "legal" (i.e. permitted by police) options... does he:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A. </span>Enter the highway immediately towards Gap#1 in the solid concrete divider, without looking to determine whether or not there is any traffic coming towards him on the highway, as he has right of way.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">B.</span> Enter the highway immediately against the direction of the traffic flowing north, aiming for Gap#2 in the concrete barrier/ divider, without looking as he has right of way and because Gap#2 is closer than Gap#1.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">C.</span> After departing from Gap#1 or Gap#2 he should then join Lane#3 or Lane#4 immediately and without looking as he has right of way (nose in front rule).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">D. </span>Enter the highway immediately, as he has right of way, turning directly into Lane#1, against the traffic that is traveling in a northerly direction and then continue in Lane#1 on his journey traveling south until reaching his destination 10kms away.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">E.</span> Enter the highway immediately, as he has right of way, turning directly into Lane#2, against the traffic that is traveling in a northerly direction and then continue in Lane#2 on his journey traveling south until reaching his destination 10kms away.<br />**<br />**<br />**<br />**<br />**<br />**ANSWER: AT BOTTOM OF PAGE/POST<br /><br />Although many of you may have some difficulty with passing this test, not Danger Dave, oh no, he passed with flying colours: A clean Indian driving record, with not even an itsy bitsy scratch to speak of by the time we delivered our faithful vehicle back to Lalli Singh in Delhi on 9 March, after 8 exhilarating motorbiking months and 13,000 km. But I'm getting a little ahead of myself here...lots still to tell before that day.<br /><br />After the 11 glorious days in Hampi we headed to Goa. We had no idea where to start, Goa was developing a reputation for being filled with package tourists and the chilled out, bohemian, backpacker vibe was reportedly now a thing of its past. We wanted to try the beaches in northern Goa as we had seen some of the southern ones when we first arrived in June last year and hadn't been impressed. We headed to Anjuna first but the hotels on the beach were quite expensive and the restaurants were definitely catering to a rather well-to-do class of (Russian) tourist. We decided to try Arambol next but alas, those halcyon days were indeed over, Goa had gotten itself all grown up with the hotels and restaurants out of our budget range and the package tourist vibe not to our taste.<br /><br />So after spending just 2 days in northern Goa we decided to give the southern beaches one more try. We were hesitant because we had seen the very littered and unattractive southern beaches when we arrived in June but that was during the Monsoon season and we'd been assured by other trusty travelers that the beaches were very different now. We tried Gokarna first which is just over the southern most point of Goa and immediately decided to stay.<br /><br />Gokarna was completely different from what we had experienced in June. The water had receded from their Monsoonal levels so you could actually see the beach, the rubbish had been cleared up and pretty bamboo and banana leaf huts had been erected for cheap but cheerful accommodation and restaurant venues. From our first day we met some cool travelers that set the tone for long, lazy afternoon lunches, warm ocean dips and afternoon strolls around the area.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvyxqXGcfzhH07wGP3xyxzZ1p4CdrAjDH0hYJvQlYMAQHZnGcO4s0ruTgctUne1ICIj1pjKta0bqhSvatFLY6ERERYeQKO1ysK2eDK0kc2Bn05bXZjzNwR2Jgjt1yloYg5IhbO3gQATB-/s1600/P2220031small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvyxqXGcfzhH07wGP3xyxzZ1p4CdrAjDH0hYJvQlYMAQHZnGcO4s0ruTgctUne1ICIj1pjKta0bqhSvatFLY6ERERYeQKO1ysK2eDK0kc2Bn05bXZjzNwR2Jgjt1yloYg5IhbO3gQATB-/s400/P2220031small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455416570297330562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Our beach-side home in Gokarna</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio13uJR5ziQM558a9mDRqCxotGPDSdqiYnxlxKsoTpeiGF-nlFlKEMrlLP28atTyg-D3DTZ10WZsmw_5FXciVmgk6EjJAIFpjfYhWCL7L4pihFhW9gBWuAk-cRYJfcJFBrzewW0Y-HxerZ/s1600/P2240072small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio13uJR5ziQM558a9mDRqCxotGPDSdqiYnxlxKsoTpeiGF-nlFlKEMrlLP28atTyg-D3DTZ10WZsmw_5FXciVmgk6EjJAIFpjfYhWCL7L4pihFhW9gBWuAk-cRYJfcJFBrzewW0Y-HxerZ/s400/P2240072small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455413170552032322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Om Beach </span> </div><br /><br />Om Beach, where we lodged and spent most of our time hanging out, is so named because it resembles the holy "Om (Aum) Symbol". The symbol, when written in Hindi, looks like the number 3 written backwards. We settled in for a week of indulgence marred only by the groups of Indian men that irritatingly take weekend trips to the beach just to stare at foreigners in bikinis. India really needs to sort out its conservative attitudes towards women and normalise its male/female relations or Indian men might explode with frustration. <br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-naUlUq_lgfPLqbfkwDsX_f9lNFVhGUrQi_qQBQ4fTd4gHiE2dP8UzutUWo19SoDbdRndhyphenhyphenAcKaWXjdXiGbMcLNdzqn_2zl6mrNUaq4pcZxGN-pWBGUsuZ7TItB0VdcpMRLd77h_bDxa/s1600/P2220044small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-naUlUq_lgfPLqbfkwDsX_f9lNFVhGUrQi_qQBQ4fTd4gHiE2dP8UzutUWo19SoDbdRndhyphenhyphenAcKaWXjdXiGbMcLNdzqn_2zl6mrNUaq4pcZxGN-pWBGUsuZ7TItB0VdcpMRLd77h_bDxa/s400/P2220044small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455412904910773282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Paradise Beach</span><br /></div><br /><br />When we could drag ourselves away from our hangout on Om Beach we took 30 minute strolls to Paradise Beach (so named because, well, it resembles Paradise).<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pY-vlTf9WD2qkdPwH-hDY0o-S-ngNHt_mUTUkPUBGirlAij-V0MoWV82k2da9xthGRO-lT0H3ryDHrR7Dk6LI-lVASnXD3X3TYEikssQdnG48vrjNjmNjTsPxC-vFYZ0wgZBbvzZtfqc/s1600/P2260083small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pY-vlTf9WD2qkdPwH-hDY0o-S-ngNHt_mUTUkPUBGirlAij-V0MoWV82k2da9xthGRO-lT0H3ryDHrR7Dk6LI-lVASnXD3X3TYEikssQdnG48vrjNjmNjTsPxC-vFYZ0wgZBbvzZtfqc/s400/P2260083small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455412510362083186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Hanging on Paradise beach - read a little, snooze a little, have a spot of lunch...</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdZtbqeH6TW5jf52jMZS5oizfFlpDPjfqi7iKM0CpATz0xF2TJxJ0vuO9lNKUd0_uCrf79qlPOH2XLCS4LxgHXUKKRRNXq2qYufl6ORFeWrcym6N7wkbsYV_uKgaO2xOYjbGT2kF0Xtff/s1600/P2260086small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdZtbqeH6TW5jf52jMZS5oizfFlpDPjfqi7iKM0CpATz0xF2TJxJ0vuO9lNKUd0_uCrf79qlPOH2XLCS4LxgHXUKKRRNXq2qYufl6ORFeWrcym6N7wkbsYV_uKgaO2xOYjbGT2kF0Xtff/s400/P2260086small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455411800444101730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Whiling away the hours turning coconut shells into very useful mixing bowels</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHV3wrgmwtRUJyMLetSDBo4rHP04W8Y8WXX60-a-65cP-t89S6bz6VYh46wXa28vEGf2hP_BS_ssDsWhRmruGLQbNMR746zRJMjUT9PWIstv4hxxC5FmIl2P1tcVk0WzEc2OaAwO4-xXju/s1600/P2240068small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHV3wrgmwtRUJyMLetSDBo4rHP04W8Y8WXX60-a-65cP-t89S6bz6VYh46wXa28vEGf2hP_BS_ssDsWhRmruGLQbNMR746zRJMjUT9PWIstv4hxxC5FmIl2P1tcVk0WzEc2OaAwO4-xXju/s400/P2240068small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455411532732310978" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Kudlee Beach</span><br /></div><br />Kudlee Beach was another one of our afternoon stroll destinations from Om Beach (no idea what it resembles or is named after). After a wonderful week or so, it suddenly dawned on us that we had only a couple of weeks left before our Indian visas were to expire and we'd literally have to haul ass to get through the rest of our must-dos before 17 March.<br /><br />The first stop was 1200kms away (3 hard days of traveling on the bike) on the find-the-family mission. My grandmother was born in Gujarat. Her father was one of 4 brothers of which 2 left India in the early 1900's. Contact with Indian family had eventually been broken as the old people had all long passed on, making this a bit of a mission in the dark. We had no information about my Indian family except a photograph of a young woman and a child with a letter written in Gujarati that we could not read. On arrival in the town of Baruch in Gujarat, our hotel manager kindly translated the letter and offered to help us find the area (there was no house number just a street name). We decided to go the very next morning not knowing what kind of people they'd be or how they would receive us. We arrived in the area mentioned in the letter and started to ask some ladies standing in front of a corner store if anyone recognised the people in the photograph when a young woman walked up to us and exclaimed: "What are you doing with my picture?"! I responded: "I am your cousin from South Africa!"<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAeCMNI-yhyV4C0CcymbLKDSITwnm9oGidWIOku_bn0vh4dXSH9TD__qo7obMdnGnSSCWKRzGaqqTPYZzOlunVMcGDEpDRMH_x9HELSDtuj5Q3v32vMqABZmSrLL_UzYHNAnz1p5aMimi/s1600/P3020110small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAeCMNI-yhyV4C0CcymbLKDSITwnm9oGidWIOku_bn0vh4dXSH9TD__qo7obMdnGnSSCWKRzGaqqTPYZzOlunVMcGDEpDRMH_x9HELSDtuj5Q3v32vMqABZmSrLL_UzYHNAnz1p5aMimi/s400/P3020110small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455411179352338578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Baruch - the street that the family home is in </span><br /></div><br /><br />The young woman immediately embraced me and introduced herself as Aaisha. She took us straight to the family home where we met her mother and 2 of her 8 sisters.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCo0ykgeT6J0DfzlImexV0yynXIy17JIr7tneWz6wP5Gw_gdcu7U6vd5P7DAGOV5Zh8ITuL_NQvFVbgPyuM5SN9cycZ9MazoVEg5To1_8OXKnBEq0N2EYvYmilJggJ1B8LEzhMZOn4mEip/s1600/P3020112small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCo0ykgeT6J0DfzlImexV0yynXIy17JIr7tneWz6wP5Gw_gdcu7U6vd5P7DAGOV5Zh8ITuL_NQvFVbgPyuM5SN9cycZ9MazoVEg5To1_8OXKnBEq0N2EYvYmilJggJ1B8LEzhMZOn4mEip/s400/P3020112small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455410903214222530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Aaisha in front of their house - where my grandmother was born</span><br /></div><br />Although Aaisha was the only one in the family who spoke any English, we managed to communicate and immediately started trying to work out the family tree while her mom prepared tea, snacks and later a lavish lunch that we enjoyed when her husband returned home from his job as a rickshaw driver.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwx6DdxOyZ8RJp6FMt0i5IWoLIn-FM4S2BuOn3HzbVS1CLRKx_jVRcopH82VfkYOrgzF58bHW7S87cHQuxURv9lAWk-SED5wNmVy2QaH8eRrBYD4rKCnRFmhPct-cAgUld0J_wWrRWGQTJ/s1600/P3020107small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwx6DdxOyZ8RJp6FMt0i5IWoLIn-FM4S2BuOn3HzbVS1CLRKx_jVRcopH82VfkYOrgzF58bHW7S87cHQuxURv9lAWk-SED5wNmVy2QaH8eRrBYD4rKCnRFmhPct-cAgUld0J_wWrRWGQTJ/s400/P3020107small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455410564407342642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Tea and snacks and working out the family tree</span><br /></div><br /><br />My apprehension about how we'd be received was completely unfounded and we had a lovely time chatting about the family back in South Africa and being taken around to the homes of the extended family in the area.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IeXGODo-PuFtQbmfvRQhfJka4W2NHc5u9nvS7teyzfTRAEBak_U1MWj1WaZSTzOsQSJ8meJ0ZaLxxpzlKWfa5aJ6UsezWbiDbRmvDa8VzZRFQGsK5t1LBdBePAzZIoV7E2eITBD0-nfM/s1600/P3020126small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 412px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-IeXGODo-PuFtQbmfvRQhfJka4W2NHc5u9nvS7teyzfTRAEBak_U1MWj1WaZSTzOsQSJ8meJ0ZaLxxpzlKWfa5aJ6UsezWbiDbRmvDa8VzZRFQGsK5t1LBdBePAzZIoV7E2eITBD0-nfM/s400/P3020126small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455410006319541954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Meeting the rest of the family </span><br /></div><br /><br />We enjoyed ourselves so much that we spontaneously decided to invite everyone to dinner at our hotel that night.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GdJS1xgeu6sjSxe7TAcVaPPxOnA0Qi2UmplbHzNjNuiyTqr5SBdef-8tQVUGR8qw-agjZK0nlguW8HNzbAq61DkVIY1gADcXsAoLQy_yZW_NoTJXGqUZhwG3eXMZpty-CUc6AMA4XzrC/s1600/P3020128small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 402px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GdJS1xgeu6sjSxe7TAcVaPPxOnA0Qi2UmplbHzNjNuiyTqr5SBdef-8tQVUGR8qw-agjZK0nlguW8HNzbAq61DkVIY1gADcXsAoLQy_yZW_NoTJXGqUZhwG3eXMZpty-CUc6AMA4XzrC/s400/P3020128small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455410256552602018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Dinner with the family, Rejane with all the ladies and children</span><br /></div><br /><br />Although we thoroughly enjoyed the reunion and promised to keep the revived family connection alive, time was tight and we had to scoot off the following day for a whistle-stop tour of Rajastan. Rajastan is a well traveled part of India, part of the "Golden Delhi-Jaipur-Agra Triangle" that forms the most visited area in India. We had enough time for only a couple of nights in 3 Rajastani cities: Udaipur, Jaipur and Pushkar. <br /><br />In Udaipur the main attractions are the "floating" palaces (actually just islands that look like they're floating) that have been converted to luxury hotels charging the equivalent of about R10000 a night, incredible in a country where a 3 year university degree costs R3000 in total and thus a one night stay would see 3 kids through university.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxcWDxKZcrYnVsgWkdrTwXAb2U8hNHSdIGDBCdg7ITnUgrwa4xlwMkhvRHXbGc_ulne4_uld7D2UJ42EcAE88Bdo_CdlOySlmzts54wEPBRjRI23bZlzggnzLMhrjVmWdlit_L_BrkNeF/s1600/P3040144small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxcWDxKZcrYnVsgWkdrTwXAb2U8hNHSdIGDBCdg7ITnUgrwa4xlwMkhvRHXbGc_ulne4_uld7D2UJ42EcAE88Bdo_CdlOySlmzts54wEPBRjRI23bZlzggnzLMhrjVmWdlit_L_BrkNeF/s400/P3040144small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455408732549752930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The Floating Palace in Udaipur, now a fancy hotel</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg190KHUJJI-cXzWBr3FtA7F6BSA47UZi2hpXdXwma-Wue3oX_sgxFGQLnpx-iWVeAPGFxxIe2m3XxOI-YbjJjkqwB0HfZs4YIG3mc8_lSE-odkJskrt018Oq25x00ix_sIzIQbMQVhdH_O/s1600/P3040153small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg190KHUJJI-cXzWBr3FtA7F6BSA47UZi2hpXdXwma-Wue3oX_sgxFGQLnpx-iWVeAPGFxxIe2m3XxOI-YbjJjkqwB0HfZs4YIG3mc8_lSE-odkJskrt018Oq25x00ix_sIzIQbMQVhdH_O/s400/P3040153small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455408531708048258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The majestic City Palace</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXMEo4aJj5H8JGYPi-jheSOe6kMdStmm2ucHIyaElQqDUA0FyxcZABEgd6b4kdcXQzh4xn7LtDHX6FrTImEHkUXaccg4bTw32DOeCydogIt2k2m-IeXOvqmSUJo4QuJ7I7YR6H0yOM8zn/s1600/P3040157small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXMEo4aJj5H8JGYPi-jheSOe6kMdStmm2ucHIyaElQqDUA0FyxcZABEgd6b4kdcXQzh4xn7LtDHX6FrTImEHkUXaccg4bTw32DOeCydogIt2k2m-IeXOvqmSUJo4QuJ7I7YR6H0yOM8zn/s400/P3040157small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455408288320875282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">In the lavish gardens of the floating palace</span><br /></div><br />More than the majesty of Udaipur's palaces, we were pleasantly surprised to bump into some friends we'd made in Hampi, which was a lovely breather amidst our now frenetic and increasingly exhausting traveling pace. <br /><br />Next stop was Pushkar which we were not very impressed with. We'd hit our temple-viewing saturation point and the markets were nothing we hadn't seen before. <br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIdyXxcLDVnGn-fphEzqE7w8r_QN3xwH1PiQlycksWmSLjpq_jhKTbMIaNa_ozyu3OF7OOECJEtj1JZmDJTf7nMg0qd0FHK7BpTT4_1q7r5D_1alPW8QsS7M8MXFGxCCxT1L1J93Gz-zg/s1600/P3070180small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIdyXxcLDVnGn-fphEzqE7w8r_QN3xwH1PiQlycksWmSLjpq_jhKTbMIaNa_ozyu3OF7OOECJEtj1JZmDJTf7nMg0qd0FHK7BpTT4_1q7r5D_1alPW8QsS7M8MXFGxCCxT1L1J93Gz-zg/s400/P3070180small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455407924817100322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The Pushkar marketplace</span><br /></div><br />Our last stop was Jaipur which is a surprisingly attractive city with buildings all gaily painted pink and the women all beautifully adorned in saris, in all the colours of the rainbow. Sadly we'd left the camera in the hotel room and with no more time to spare, we couldn't go back for any pics :-(<br /><br /><br />Leaving Rajastan behind, Agra was next on the must-do-before-you-leave-India list. And, yes, we got the obligatory Taj Mahal pics.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5dC_HN4Mmbm-ZRx0tu_XNXEF80cWTqjvA_DJoaq2ByQ9P38-hBiYHMIdpFp1N5jrhYvEG1dTdJFUz_8chF1uDhNG68TmGwmfzenM6lMtPdAs5oksWx2z6ftu8aqkzbycvlQucTQ6rbIN/s1600/P3090218small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5dC_HN4Mmbm-ZRx0tu_XNXEF80cWTqjvA_DJoaq2ByQ9P38-hBiYHMIdpFp1N5jrhYvEG1dTdJFUz_8chF1uDhNG68TmGwmfzenM6lMtPdAs5oksWx2z6ftu8aqkzbycvlQucTQ6rbIN/s400/P3090218small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455407297475703506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The Taj at sunset</span><br /></div><br />While it is, admittedly, a very attractive building designed and constructed with precision symmetry, it is nothing but a tomb that cost the equivalent of US$2 billion to build. You walk in (without your shoes), circle around 2 coffins (an area with a circumference of about 10meters) and you walk out again. The romantic story of Shah Jahan being so heartbroken at his wife's Mumtaz's death that led to the building of the tomb notwithstanding, we couldn't help but speculate how far US$2 billion would go towards alleviating the sheer squalor of the living conditions just metres outside the walls of the monument. Shah Jahan also had a few thousand concubines to console him while mourning...<br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyiecFkTGCH0iVa4RlFPVQrK0uxyRdW5n-uT7TGIEdb-Olh6bjAGw2w95joNBSC3y7yVmv4NC4vkezahDNJXA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Video: The Gardens at the Taj</span><br /><br />After Agra, it was straight to Delhi to deliver the bike back to Lalli and to catch a train to our last must-do stop at Varanassi. Varanassi is one of the holiest places in India, situated on the banks of the Ganga (Ganges) River. It is considered to be the most auspicious place in the world for Hindus to die and to be cremated. If you die in Varanassi you supposedly skip the endless cycle of re-incarnations and go straight to "heaven". The waters of the river are said to cleanse one of all bad karma past, present and future.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgrcB3qEeDQ8sQOLL5xPCevr5WPMge8SxdW-m8hz9lJwQ7S2uBGOsjgDaEqzYd5ay4v0Ew2lTCtcc1ADQpKF0vOPtctC_kjIFXkW4kTu-N_SZuqD3Pa5PiMHFhO746x0RSCOg33eGN9qsi/s1600/P3140277small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgrcB3qEeDQ8sQOLL5xPCevr5WPMge8SxdW-m8hz9lJwQ7S2uBGOsjgDaEqzYd5ay4v0Ew2lTCtcc1ADQpKF0vOPtctC_kjIFXkW4kTu-N_SZuqD3Pa5PiMHFhO746x0RSCOg33eGN9qsi/s400/P3140277small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455403951154118786" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Washing off all that bad karma</span><br /></div><br />Varanassi is a busy place with lots of activity from sunrise to well past sunset when thousands arrive for the daily ceremonies. Sunrise pujas (ceremonies) are performed with chanting and bell ringing reaching a crescendo as the sun pops over the horizon with scores of people arriving all day for a bath, even brushing their teeth and drinking the holy water. The atmosphere is festive throughout the day with tea, samoosas, fresh chappatis and other snacks on sale. After sunrise the large funeral pyres that will burn all day are are built and scores of bodies are cremated, giving the air a distinct smell of braaied meat with the sight of burning bodies and the sound of exploding skulls not for the faint-hearted. Ashes and charred remains are sent down the river along with the whole bodies of children under 10 years old and pregnant women who are never cremated.<br /><br />The Indian government recently put 18000 scavenger turtles into the river to clear the dead bodies on the river bed and restrictions are increasingly tightened on factories that dump industrial waste although little seems to have been done to provide more appropriate places for people to use as latrines other than the banks of the river... <br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxeMVDldVSrJNy9Bf91sYjhblf3iwLBgogmf2aRI8w1iAUEIysL_GjtAQR8oeVGmPj7K946mrjzglMErGwVuQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Video: Daily activity on the river</span><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyvRVup1bwXQtCCk0TvOUc4eLH6uathzHE4Qq7_dZiO1Pg4wXeknSFaytXAgPRck1e4_BmBaNcsujBhE8oJ9g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Video: A sunset paddle down the holy river</span><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzopWDGFRfs2X7N39NFRiaJIfYjI-t_SKHrvVXqW4iMur7AinAuPs5csd0f1JHBKXBFdQn7G72fFzH7ALuZGQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Video: Fires burning during the nightly funeral pyres along the shore </span><br /><br /><br />After that wonderful, overwhelming assault on all the senses, it was straight back to Delhi where we met up briefly with our good friend Glynnis from South Africa before boarding our flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka.<br /><br /><br />And so, it was Namaste and Salaam to India...<br /><br /><br />**ANSWER TO MULTIPLE CHOICE QUESTION: ALL OF THE ABOVE ( :-o)Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-9669020876009139642010-02-12T12:53:00.108+03:002010-02-16T21:08:43.313+03:00Unpainted Speed Bumps<div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Besides the unrivaled views you get from traveling India on a motorbike, there is the added excitement of the unpainted speed bumps on the national and state highways. While many of the roads in the mountains are too curvy for speeds above 30kms/hr, further south, where the weather and landscapes are not as harsh, the roads are smoother and straighter and can comfortably accommodate speeds around 60-75kms/hr. While this may get you to your destination faster, the many unpainted speed bumps can give your already pulverised bottom a hard whack and leave you with (not altogether mild) sensations of whiplash. After cruising on our delightfully smooth trip from its beginning in mid-June to early in December, we were to discover that, in this region, these unpainted speed bumps are a feature of more than just the road networks... Having spent 6 wonderful weeks in Bangladesh (a definite trip highlight) we were hit with our first large and momentum-slowing speed bump when we were inexplicably turned away by the Indian Embassy in Dhaka when applying for our visa renewal. We decided to head for Kathmandu to try our luck there. The Indian Embassy in Kathmandu is well organised and processes scores of foreign visas daily. We submitted our application for a 6 month visa and decided to check out the city and Kathmandu valley while holding thumbs furiously. </div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7lrYU_f-0Z2JLuwpoCYjHMPhgN4Kt8iKHeg-ySlMmwNHTltCNlb_Jbu3MXOapfe8XA2coZXUj16Qh_EDDEY2hf5ZaR4rkqvHpr5jxo5rNWaGq10QYHT1vTIHNy_qczbZe-uWqr-UZmQN/s1600-h/PC120415small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7lrYU_f-0Z2JLuwpoCYjHMPhgN4Kt8iKHeg-ySlMmwNHTltCNlb_Jbu3MXOapfe8XA2coZXUj16Qh_EDDEY2hf5ZaR4rkqvHpr5jxo5rNWaGq10QYHT1vTIHNy_qczbZe-uWqr-UZmQN/s400/PC120415small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438026382985655250" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">One of the many temples in Kathmandu</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Kathmandu is filled with fascinating temples and ruins. Just walking the city streets, you constantly stumble over ancient temples at every turn. The Durbar square, in the centre of the city, which has been the site for royal palaces, housing several different dynasties, is thought to date back to the 10th century. It has now been declared a world heritage site. But interesting or not, we decided we needed some fresh air and off to the valley we went.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-GGDg3zKG2SPmA3vC_ZuwVbt00t10SdFchjOaqdrqCsP5RJ8rhpx4WupIFzcRJgTstyKDJ7duI2COd33YPWXJd39ke6Zikd6yxTmgJVucKc-XwfI-2zvhFfaK3r0Bdd57A2IaqxVutFa/s1600-h/PC120420small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-GGDg3zKG2SPmA3vC_ZuwVbt00t10SdFchjOaqdrqCsP5RJ8rhpx4WupIFzcRJgTstyKDJ7duI2COd33YPWXJd39ke6Zikd6yxTmgJVucKc-XwfI-2zvhFfaK3r0Bdd57A2IaqxVutFa/s400/PC120420small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438026184168145186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Another old temple</span><br /><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">We explored the villages of Nargakot, Dhulikhel and Namabuddha in the Kathmandu Valley. These villages, connected by beautiful, indigenous forests are largely inhabited by small farmers - a lovely rejuvenating way to spend a few days. Dave was most interested in the small tractors used here that would suit small South African farmers. They cost the equivalent of about R5000 and would be fantastic for the small farmers in South Africa who have only large tractors costing hundreds of thousands of Rands to choose from. This access to equipment and skills reminded us, once again, of the significantly more fortunate position the Asian farmers are in relative to our own small farmers back home (these mini-tractors are also strong water pumps, can mill maize/wheat and can be used as electricity generators).</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvPbWZDYmqkAhi3UFznvoZTYSKNiYWjpDofDVq5lbzYkI7hMH9eKdBAb1mW_8nOGUP8wVQo7EGqIbsppUIis3qkfdCUQyDzMU-UsvXCRy6EAMjt8CoxpBs6ogT5Zv3hydOifMP5Ewuvkv/s1600-h/PC150424small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvPbWZDYmqkAhi3UFznvoZTYSKNiYWjpDofDVq5lbzYkI7hMH9eKdBAb1mW_8nOGUP8wVQo7EGqIbsppUIis3qkfdCUQyDzMU-UsvXCRy6EAMjt8CoxpBs6ogT5Zv3hydOifMP5Ewuvkv/s400/PC150424small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438023470353415874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Hiking from Nagakot to Dhu</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">likel</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-oEF28hacaHeHkITupdvG4nFTJgscGQO2UP43fhFKIzqWqAGWhUQnvIhz1ecmaWzAOwloZiEi0wJ_2bS_2Zuf_B3xVjvI_pUJaGYjIUP_0D8bT3QByP05JepZrVJi3FJd-xd8tKTQLWh/s1600-h/PC150425small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-oEF28hacaHeHkITupdvG4nFTJgscGQO2UP43fhFKIzqWqAGWhUQnvIhz1ecmaWzAOwloZiEi0wJ_2bS_2Zuf_B3xVjvI_pUJaGYjIUP_0D8bT3QByP05JepZrVJi3FJd-xd8tKTQLWh/s400/PC150425small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438023283007188290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The terraced farmlands around the Kathmandu Valley</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KCy01-GuCq3x3kW996dxlk6b-cOEh1BZX7bBcc4lYcZA3-eNdQ9P6rmGghXL0CcTcQqiuGwrOGP6Z42vUNhRJGaP0xfU5gRnqXNPQbATIuzcqdDI4_tsGqEDgPChRaAZknUm0k47SAeX/s1600-h/PC150426small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KCy01-GuCq3x3kW996dxlk6b-cOEh1BZX7bBcc4lYcZA3-eNdQ9P6rmGghXL0CcTcQqiuGwrOGP6Z42vUNhRJGaP0xfU5gRnqXNPQbATIuzcqdDI4_tsGqEDgPChRaAZknUm0k47SAeX/s400/PC150426small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438023113022465282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The mini-tractor Dave would love to import into South Africa</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">In between exploring the beautiful forests of the Kathmandu Valley we sought out hotels with spectacular mountain views where sunrise over the Himalayas comes with your morning tea in bed.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh_6S5lRdj3HVJzdl_SPo9AQ-fQ3zu8OfHX2Ya4_gKnBBIvxI1xMehHCvywDBlYdxni5x1abx6GnPbDo2-o_F55jjLwSliVU7v8QYRuEus6PtutFlJWzqtKHAU8ZjF2RrVF8OrsBVhjAnm/s1600-h/PC160438small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh_6S5lRdj3HVJzdl_SPo9AQ-fQ3zu8OfHX2Ya4_gKnBBIvxI1xMehHCvywDBlYdxni5x1abx6GnPbDo2-o_F55jjLwSliVU7v8QYRuEus6PtutFlJWzqtKHAU8ZjF2RrVF8OrsBVhjAnm/s400/PC160438small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438022949901742706" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Himalayas from our bedroom window in Nargakot</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Although it is largely a Hindu country, Nepal is dotted with many modern and well built Tibetan Buddhist monasteries. With many financial supporters worldwide, the monasteries are large and well maintained. In Namabuddha we stayed in a monastery where the rooms are comfortable (single beds only) and the vegetarian food bland with a few western spiritual tourists padding solemnly and quietly around the beautifully sculptured gardens.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmXvmJUT-qjUbE1fORl1SPKKf0MeopQ1DdhpNAA_YXn5cfMHnYKiceu8Zl1OBG4zWUVWbB46ArZvblI36xZNk50pAxeMIhB8L-xfRSDyykYOhdvKBYYgiqFbJ_Qbp96BK6Qf-y3kER1DZ/s1600-h/PC160456small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmXvmJUT-qjUbE1fORl1SPKKf0MeopQ1DdhpNAA_YXn5cfMHnYKiceu8Zl1OBG4zWUVWbB46ArZvblI36xZNk50pAxeMIhB8L-xfRSDyykYOhdvKBYYgiqFbJ_Qbp96BK6Qf-y3kER1DZ/s400/PC160456small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438022685331755154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Tibetan Buddhist monastery complex in Namabuddha</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Then it was back to Kathmandu to find out about our visas and negotiate our next (albeit smaller) unexpected speed bump. We'd been issued with new visas for India but only for 3 months. Because a 3 month visa would only take us to mid-March, we decided to book tickets to fly to Sri Lanka for what would be the remaining 2.5 months of our traveling year. Whew! That one didn’t leave too much whiplash but we needed to get going. The 3 month reduction in our time in India meant we had to start cutting out large areas that we’d plan to visit. Just as we were reconciling ourselves to the change in plans there was one more speed bump in the road: a nationwide strike or ‘bandha’ had been declared by the Nepalese Maoist party which completely shut down the entire country…and REALLY shut it down. No motorized transport of any kind – public or private, no schools, government offices, companies, shops or restaurants were to operate for 3 days. So we were stuck in Kathmandu for another 3 days twiddling our thumbs, searching for food with other starving tourists and hanging out in the streets with the kids playing cricket. It became a treasure hunt with other tourists to see who could find any hidden restaurants or street vendors that might be open and serving food… “Around the corner, down the little alleyway, find the freshly painted red fence and knock twice…”</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33A36Z1KcVDrZT7_oXF6FjkxTrEy5aiBpy6bb9vhbf_PK3Z14vRiS_cc9OY3NXlC8D_I7LIm0J2XjRXZHyyxR688-4unlgVBXFQrhwiXjqAGMsB9oOrZ6_dqn7jZLl9MvtazUNTfpbwlh/s1600-h/PC210477small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33A36Z1KcVDrZT7_oXF6FjkxTrEy5aiBpy6bb9vhbf_PK3Z14vRiS_cc9OY3NXlC8D_I7LIm0J2XjRXZHyyxR688-4unlgVBXFQrhwiXjqAGMsB9oOrZ6_dqn7jZLl9MvtazUNTfpbwlh/s400/PC210477small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438022514395029282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Filling up when you can!<br /><br /></span></span></div><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNxax9csEfqDY6VprJedTj9c8dx6CiYVE9Q9HyGTmfndPM7x-4L5hXYTe2a-Ne8T-H8ysowGENllJCA2Zn3o3br31R7WN7bufb0OFOIl8eGaejDUaZakWAktIEPKF7tGcCSsSfirC2YaCB/s1600-h/PC210478small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNxax9csEfqDY6VprJedTj9c8dx6CiYVE9Q9HyGTmfndPM7x-4L5hXYTe2a-Ne8T-H8ysowGENllJCA2Zn3o3br31R7WN7bufb0OFOIl8eGaejDUaZakWAktIEPKF7tGcCSsSfirC2YaCB/s400/PC210478small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438022333374243970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Score! I found the dessert!"</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Although the strike slowed us down when we'd already lost a significant amount of time, we symphathised wit</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >h the position of the Maoist party. After a tumultuous period in the country's political history, they were trying to assert themselves in a government where t</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >he respect for democratic processes was still rather less than optimal.</span><br /></div></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlC0-7x50l2HinPLSNhxOfmzaxG68WR8V6lrkUlUpZ1iBr8qp2JaJutJq1r5dRNfs7xYcubdwtJ7udt5HkGZgZg7LiYx-pKhi7RfoXQfBdP8WVKsvK03UQDN9nwyfgZyqcbFzbWXbDVcq/s1600-h/PC210479small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXlC0-7x50l2HinPLSNhxOfmzaxG68WR8V6lrkUlUpZ1iBr8qp2JaJutJq1r5dRNfs7xYcubdwtJ7udt5HkGZgZg7LiYx-pKhi7RfoXQfBdP8WVKsvK03UQDN9nwyfgZyqcbFzbWXbDVcq/s400/PC210479small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438022158925352850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">No rubbish collection during the strike</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >After the 3 day strike we made our plans to head back to India after seeing a little bit of the Pokhara valley in the west and experiencing some good views of Everest. Only because climbing Everest would take just a little longer than our Nepali visa would allow, we decided to see Sagarmatha (the Nepali name for Everest which means Goddess of the Sky) in a quicker (and slightly more relaxing) way on a 60 minute mountain flight tour. We were lucky with the weather and the views in flight were clear and spectacular. Everyone is allowed a visit to the flight deck – I won’t even try to describe the views from there, my writing abilities just don’t stretch that far. Sagarmatha was beautiful and graceful in her trademark white silk scarf – a plume of cloud that forms at the apex of the peak when winds reach over 80kms an hour and form icicles in the cold air.</span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZGQC6caiivx-2gDHQkB8bfhoTWmxJDe0YoYkg3GMILVr2fjJSJNGvdgMMCJhfcbaoO5plr4pxr9y2Oakd4RuqF1Oi-7mwESBn9PLhiJTowS59Kaw4kVe0LkUV5r6epbfJoagw_L8qs2DN/s1600-h/PC230484small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZGQC6caiivx-2gDHQkB8bfhoTWmxJDe0YoYkg3GMILVr2fjJSJNGvdgMMCJhfcbaoO5plr4pxr9y2Oakd4RuqF1Oi-7mwESBn9PLhiJTowS59Kaw4kVe0LkUV5r6epbfJoagw_L8qs2DN/s400/PC230484small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438021886123493554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sagamartha, her silk scarf billowing in the wind</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Next we took a bus ride west to see Pokhara, the second biggest city in Nepal, this would be our last stop in Nepal. Pokhara is a laidback town, surrounding a pretty lake. We even managed to find some roast chicken and pudding for Xmas dinner while watching a live performance of traditional Nepali dance and music.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div face="georgia" style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Eg8I8U05RLeLLzy71aPxI1Rz2b54CjCtAbQf8QPsu9Bf8QXe55tPJ2lC4e9EoR24e1bCnDFqeuZLTcRWB-4Rm4Je_wm3tab_n_dX1wxK2Ta2K5WdBlGo4ZEThHxsMp1JI9dtXMuLSho5/s1600-h/PC250510small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Eg8I8U05RLeLLzy71aPxI1Rz2b54CjCtAbQf8QPsu9Bf8QXe55tPJ2lC4e9EoR24e1bCnDFqeuZLTcRWB-4Rm4Je_wm3tab_n_dX1wxK2Ta2K5WdBlGo4ZEThHxsMp1JI9dtXMuLSho5/s400/PC250510small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438021683382928978" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The lake in Pokhara</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">After Pokhara, that was it for Nepal and we headed straight back to India. We arrived back in Darjeeling the following day. It was lovely to see our friends again from the Hotel Tranquility, who had so kindly been taking care of our bike while we were away. Because we'd been moving from place to place for so many months, it was wonderful to return to a familiar place where we were warmly welcomed by so many friends, knew the best breakfast spot (Sonam's Kitchen) and the cafes with the fastest internet. But it was freezing... FREEZING! We'd long discarded the warm clothes we'd had in the North and with all the speed bumps we were now in Darjeeling a lot later than we'd originally intended. Only gnawing hunger drove us out to find dinner before rushing back to the hotel and our 5 blankets. It just got unbearable and while we would have liked to spend new year's eve with our friends there, we decided to just get to the South quickly! The snow was thickening on the hills when we left and with chattering teeth we gratefully bordered the train to Kolkata (Calcutta) and welcomed in the new year in our warm sleeper carriage.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_d3N9IcZse0wRkBYBTbrxlStcCqxBD9z5IvDk3dCW0MFoxvxL3_0PwdYEEsb2ICqxnZjFTZJNuk78UD7o5JOZGfNd1p8-yr6BKPtpfkLE0az5ittqvLlbyVvVQ7tgCup-ejaEYX0t52V/s1600-h/P1020516small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_d3N9IcZse0wRkBYBTbrxlStcCqxBD9z5IvDk3dCW0MFoxvxL3_0PwdYEEsb2ICqxnZjFTZJNuk78UD7o5JOZGfNd1p8-yr6BKPtpfkLE0az5ittqvLlbyVvVQ7tgCup-ejaEYX0t52V/s400/P1020516small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438021490440015330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Our favourite spot for delicious street food in Kolkata</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Kolkata was another familiar city to us and we spent the 2 days we had to wait for the train to Chennai revisiting our favourite street food spots and meeting up with our friend Mishrah, who you'd remember from our very first blog.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkSznrq9Ir2SlwRv0YVBPk6dpnlO3836xNAvTeQvf4NgZPl7m-MfhnOeRfS_6xx0samu2YKd56yFLk_IfGSNmViBkOpFDEwjrInGWbH7yu6TBic5mL-Q4-7lrYknuFSwXyh19BnB6GHJN/s1600-h/P1030530small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWkSznrq9Ir2SlwRv0YVBPk6dpnlO3836xNAvTeQvf4NgZPl7m-MfhnOeRfS_6xx0samu2YKd56yFLk_IfGSNmViBkOpFDEwjrInGWbH7yu6TBic5mL-Q4-7lrYknuFSwXyh19BnB6GHJN/s400/P1030530small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438020982849673554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Hanging out with Mishrah<br /><br /></span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">The Botanical Gardens in Kolkata are well maintained and filled with families over the weekends. Its most fascinating feature is the massive banyan tree in the centre of the gardens which, with a circumference of 420 metres, is the world largest. We learnt that banyan trees have branches that grow into the ground like tree trunks so that what looks like a forest of trees is really just one tree with hundreds of branches. It is an awesome sight and the pictures, that can show only small sections, do it little justice.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpsPNM6m4roe0oZzlavUzYQVe0Rzk6boDFok1YsDGUQmnolFV3H18UrJ7hp-ydRiQ_-axUXS0ZaJLe6cXz1Z2O-3uWmMQVT8ef7VS97b2unPq5PEyH2M6vQ0hp7OVcw_-FByQ7l8ZKopCy/s1600-h/P1020519small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpsPNM6m4roe0oZzlavUzYQVe0Rzk6boDFok1YsDGUQmnolFV3H18UrJ7hp-ydRiQ_-axUXS0ZaJLe6cXz1Z2O-3uWmMQVT8ef7VS97b2unPq5PEyH2M6vQ0hp7OVcw_-FByQ7l8ZKopCy/s400/P1020519small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438021337846553042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">This 'forest of tree trunks' are all branches of the same banyan tree!<br /><br /></span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxePRyOoYuqF6JnM2fHTV4fX48V1NwA3DZgnYd-mio5jmXY6tPjSjopiy1NSh4r4B1hQRj2s26KnKf1NOs0_SevDPdo7OZbvpYXp4Zxmxc5JuHm9mt8ea5fV4XKLNkIRZR5N7p5soMene/s1600-h/P1020522small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdxePRyOoYuqF6JnM2fHTV4fX48V1NwA3DZgnYd-mio5jmXY6tPjSjopiy1NSh4r4B1hQRj2s26KnKf1NOs0_SevDPdo7OZbvpYXp4Zxmxc5JuHm9mt8ea5fV4XKLNkIRZR5N7p5soMene/s400/P1020522small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438021156477554194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">A small part of the massive tree from a distance</span></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">- yes, it's all one tree!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"> </div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">After 2 days we boarded the train to Chennai in Tamil Nadu that would take us to the heart of South India where the landscape, food and culture seems as different from the North as if we'd gone to another country altogether. Because there was some political upheaval in the state between Kolkata and Chennai, our bike, which we'd loaded into cargo, wasn't due to arrive for another few days. We decided not to let this slow us down again and left the busy and fairly uninteresting city of Chennai for the coastal town of Mamalapuram, just 60 kms south. Although it is mainly a tourist resort town today, Mamlapuram was a major port a thousand years ago with a stone carving tradition that has survived since the 5th century. The old stone carved ruins are as fascinating as the contemporary idols still hand carved carved today for the many temples around the area.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SWrw9dxNfubZxL2ovthfWHZs8dxW3FAKuOQtwhEgt3dGKIpdK0sM98whA8tRapZ58_YYeTIJDfkGROoA8tpFVJ7OXs0KRkrTOtPt6cPADGHIoGVCY7Y-FcptNU3YfKKFCxJO2P6vSPcM/s1600-h/P1070536small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SWrw9dxNfubZxL2ovthfWHZs8dxW3FAKuOQtwhEgt3dGKIpdK0sM98whA8tRapZ58_YYeTIJDfkGROoA8tpFVJ7OXs0KRkrTOtPt6cPADGHIoGVCY7Y-FcptNU3YfKKFCxJO2P6vSPcM/s400/P1070536small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438020817394343554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Stone carvings in Mamalapuram</span></span><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;">While the ruins and temples in Mamalapuram were interesting, the beach was pretty uninspiring so, as soon as our bike arrived, we left to pick it up in Chennai and start our exploration of the south in earnest. Our first stop was the old French colonial town of Puducherry (Pondicherry) where it is common to hear French spoken around you while enjoying your breakfast of fresh croissants in quaint old heritage buildings. It is a well maintained and clean town but after filling up with croissants and visiting the museums, it has little else to delay a traveler except for a trip, 10kms south, to the now fairly well known town of Auroville. Although Aurovillians are said to dislike this fact: the town, that was founded in 1968 by the "Mother", has become a <span style="font-style: italic;">de rigueur</span> stop on the South India travel circuit.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7NMDoWk6JLgBFK6_J0zJS9FsF69fub7JVSwOHFyw_GP1hUZo96RgNEnx9XVRXJVqAPkyKAljId0ap1oaOWFBUL77P6bbRnS-oF5fT3xwzAzoCjv1G_Vb0TgUuxw5MXXcPRiTgQWqFVn_/s1600-h/P1130553small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7NMDoWk6JLgBFK6_J0zJS9FsF69fub7JVSwOHFyw_GP1hUZo96RgNEnx9XVRXJVqAPkyKAljId0ap1oaOWFBUL77P6bbRnS-oF5fT3xwzAzoCjv1G_Vb0TgUuxw5MXXcPRiTgQWqFVn_/s400/P1130553small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438020649401226994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Matri Mandir temple at Auroville</span></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">- a place for 'concetration' only open to Aurovillians</span></span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">A new way of living along eco-friendly principles, forsaking the world of politics and the money economy was envisioned by the "Mother" a French national who is considered the spiritual successor of Sri Aurobindo Ghose, a leading spiritual figure in his lifetime (1872-1950). It is now inhabited by over 2000 people, of which about a third are Indian and the rest mostly European. The aim is to grow the township to around 50 000 like minded inhabitants. We were most interested in finding out about the technologies they employ that convert solar energy into steam that powers the cooking stoves. When we visited the township we were also fascinated at the claim that no money was used in financial transactions, no talking was allowed at meals and politics is specifically forbidden as a topic of discussion. We tried to find a guesthouse to stay for a few days and explore this new age experiment in living but the some 200 guesthouses were fully booked and would be for months. Living and volunteering on Auroville's many farms and various community centres has become very popular indeed.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">In retrospect, we were probably quite likely to make some </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >faux pas</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> breaking a sacred rule like talking at dinner or bringing up a forbidden political topic for discussion! So we happily headed south west to check out some of Tamil Nadu's many temples. The first of which was the awesome temple complex in Trinivanumalai, that is said to have been built over a period of a thousand years. The temples are busy with long queues of devotees making pujas (offerings) to their gods and getting blessings from elephants, considered to be the incarnation of the elephant-headed god, Ganesh. This is a rather entertaining process where the elephant takes the money out of your hand and taps you on the head for your blessing.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2F9l7KytMFv9gkJbdFFqAnLsjAqR7kpZ42kWO3seyY6FofBxznHQyYucUHkYVyF2Z-FR9FSKUTtJoQ39WblcM5Zyk0FjD1h1h3pbWsUK8udAMFo-oVckD2j3-lkRlsRaa-uvSZYTsOOqy/s1600-h/P1150561small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2F9l7KytMFv9gkJbdFFqAnLsjAqR7kpZ42kWO3seyY6FofBxznHQyYucUHkYVyF2Z-FR9FSKUTtJoQ39WblcM5Zyk0FjD1h1h3pbWsUK8udAMFo-oVckD2j3-lkRlsRaa-uvSZYTsOOqy/s400/P1150561small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438020344356444674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The temple complex in Trinivanumalai</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrg5Olx1Du3rbqKSmTNt4JDrd9xetWMt1FDyM7WLWlTrXE1MVT76Iq6YHB1V8vdzJIm92uB8E1rTGIMOTY0Ic3VYtxnHL3b_IrMoWFLAzOV798g7CENWIXtlpUDaixYhrcJAdOm4Gbhbas/s1600-h/P1150557small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrg5Olx1Du3rbqKSmTNt4JDrd9xetWMt1FDyM7WLWlTrXE1MVT76Iq6YHB1V8vdzJIm92uB8E1rTGIMOTY0Ic3VYtxnHL3b_IrMoWFLAzOV798g7CENWIXtlpUDaixYhrcJAdOm4Gbhbas/s400/P1150557small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438020130210918850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Lord Ganesh in his temple</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">With blessings duly received we hit the road towards the Western Ghats enjoying the typical Indian rice meals served in the local restaurants. A mound of rice is served on a banana leaf plate with a range of mouthwateringly delicious curries of lentils, coconut milk, chickpeas, beans, carrots, potatoes and pickle that has to be eaten with your hands - you are rarely offered cutlery of any kind. The rice and curry sauces keep coming until you submit with a swollen belly - all for a total sum of about R6 (for an extra R2 you can get a piece of fresh fish cooked in a masala batter).</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Our first stop on the Western Ghats was Udhagamandalam, a hill station town with a Dravidian tongue twisting name, that the locals have mercifully shortened to "Ooty". The Western Ghats are a mountain range that form the border between Tamil Nadu and Kerala and are thought to be the fault line along which the Indian subcontinent broke away from Africa millions of years ago when it began to drift towards Asia.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLagfwnWWP7Cmw7zCdmsUgjvazQvUsI8oDoYNzIMLU-qMiQHrKSfPY6vZDC4X_wKQdf9J8mte12Whgs0eM9PzuVGLbYtbRRagLz_HL0FnZfRXnjcbVVKFHbIJbsWsbL8WHmUIjO7exlKC/s1600-h/P1160563small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLagfwnWWP7Cmw7zCdmsUgjvazQvUsI8oDoYNzIMLU-qMiQHrKSfPY6vZDC4X_wKQdf9J8mte12Whgs0eM9PzuVGLbYtbRRagLz_HL0FnZfRXnjcbVVKFHbIJbsWsbL8WHmUIjO7exlKC/s400/P1160563small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438019907142570706" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">A typical South Indian 'rice meal' served on a banana leaf plate (curry still to be poured over the rice)</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Being an elevated hill station town, Ooty was cool and refreshing after the sweaty bike rides on the plains around Tamil Nadu. Our next stop was to the very badly run, albeit beautiful nature reserve, the Indira Ghandi Anamalai Wildlife Sanctuary. There we met other tourists frustrated by the government run resort where the employees are rather annoyed by any guests arriving and making them open the guest rooms or actually cook any food in the restaurant. So we cut that visit down to just one night and headed to our last stop in the Western Ghats, Kodanaikal.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmoTn7JOWF6tLqn9xMfK_VBuMmT_b0sxBjsO9jGFPEPd_ginp52T3NYNm72R6LCBOZZuO_BrKz2OehBz0JI0dNqtGf8PKQP4Fi851Sd-_XtWIiKjIaEQUOAlXzl_bzEzsm-eVzy5QK4PB_/s1600-h/P1170565small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmoTn7JOWF6tLqn9xMfK_VBuMmT_b0sxBjsO9jGFPEPd_ginp52T3NYNm72R6LCBOZZuO_BrKz2OehBz0JI0dNqtGf8PKQP4Fi851Sd-_XtWIiKjIaEQUOAlXzl_bzEzsm-eVzy5QK4PB_/s400/P1170565small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438019734905187874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">A view of the Ooty hill station town</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW0J5C5yV7wS6RPvNv2dZ4AR4yNLRWuAR0Tt7wtNvj18zE09KHEgJxnRWdCUdn9UpE1u3OswVZuTBKN-zd5rIt8Qjkm9rPOOl816MLnrf-iMIDreOeFWtlkTLebtmDfT48D1JGWlcRKRqY/s1600-h/P1190574small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW0J5C5yV7wS6RPvNv2dZ4AR4yNLRWuAR0Tt7wtNvj18zE09KHEgJxnRWdCUdn9UpE1u3OswVZuTBKN-zd5rIt8Qjkm9rPOOl816MLnrf-iMIDreOeFWtlkTLebtmDfT48D1JGWlcRKRqY/s400/P1190574small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438019508558939666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">View from the bike of the Kodanaikal valley </span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Before leaving Tamil Nadu for good, we decided to fit in one more temple site at Madurai. Although similar in architecture to the temple at Trinivanumalai, the temple in Madurai differed spectacularly in the colour added to the figures on the buildings. Madurai's splendid temples and architecture was admired as far back as 300BCE by visiting Europeans and they still come to admire it today, in their droves.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcmK0D4c8p0Am1v9vDkePT0Sw2zKKZTT0SpK3iZxC9Mt3iaxYcKzSUlKi0c_1evhx9Fr5rbmmtS4yaxitrrH-OnTbMWZuUGtOtzG6OC-5duGWjoDrB0XWqaK3_QpZb4XlcrAhu8hr_Bth/s1600-h/P1210581small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcmK0D4c8p0Am1v9vDkePT0Sw2zKKZTT0SpK3iZxC9Mt3iaxYcKzSUlKi0c_1evhx9Fr5rbmmtS4yaxitrrH-OnTbMWZuUGtOtzG6OC-5duGWjoDrB0XWqaK3_QpZb4XlcrAhu8hr_Bth/s400/P1210581small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438019329583735842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The colourful temple at Madurai</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">From Madurai we crossed the state border to Kerala. Our first stop was Kumily where we enjoyed novel elephant rides and very educational tours of the spice, tea and fruit plantations around the area. Indian elephants are tame and gentle with a look in their big eyes more like that of a Saint Bernhard pet than anything like their wild African cousins. We saw: a tea factory in action, what coffee beans look like when they're ready for picking, that turmeric spice is ground from the stem of the plant and that almond oil is good for reducing black marks under the eyes.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-pnpd5FK8UUR0ujNqjRYwlCgkfCk5p6ewt73lZ3-j6NNXvcz4KSrxuEmuA-zyrLNFF2SHTgvB3G5H4TpEWCBYSl8i_gDtKlPu0DfCUDOHtHUTAD5Qh-60ylrD0kAy7m761H9AybT18wJt/s1600-h/P1230600small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-pnpd5FK8UUR0ujNqjRYwlCgkfCk5p6ewt73lZ3-j6NNXvcz4KSrxuEmuA-zyrLNFF2SHTgvB3G5H4TpEWCBYSl8i_gDtKlPu0DfCUDOHtHUTAD5Qh-60ylrD0kAy7m761H9AybT18wJt/s400/P1230600small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438019129327805586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Riding a big friendly giant</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBY8KO5YfHZMh5xhMMNoE6CPTchvVSsl8mC6ygqsxfO52CoFP6x2u0FqQQQ0LFWd3Hy-GqhyphenhyphenCaI5QHsTg5xF_XwpfqkxJyO6PcIzOflMJ7gQ9mwP58HI2Uxgy0fe2B2IBU8R22MSNIvv88/s1600-h/P1230609small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBY8KO5YfHZMh5xhMMNoE6CPTchvVSsl8mC6ygqsxfO52CoFP6x2u0FqQQQ0LFWd3Hy-GqhyphenhyphenCaI5QHsTg5xF_XwpfqkxJyO6PcIzOflMJ7gQ9mwP58HI2Uxgy0fe2B2IBU8R22MSNIvv88/s400/P1230609small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438018968395776114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Catching falling oranges on a small fruit and spice plantation in Kumily </span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRh1MAEcxLkgpKAus220Dajrys2OotN2H6A6eUQSREMxB-iiagahgLaTGNio6T8NN-SM2BGOHI-B-MP2bKU72vJ28vXxKgjNW6FQRR1KVqAEB0sn52gTiGkzITqi64FzzVoCdQm19TuDO9/s1600-h/P1230615small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRh1MAEcxLkgpKAus220Dajrys2OotN2H6A6eUQSREMxB-iiagahgLaTGNio6T8NN-SM2BGOHI-B-MP2bKU72vJ28vXxKgjNW6FQRR1KVqAEB0sn52gTiGkzITqi64FzzVoCdQm19TuDO9/s400/P1230615small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438018754141374546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Picking coffee beans</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-QeaXRUzbRdvZtox770NhHMvepsU09Wg0ewYcMgo-JJ74kGirOUnltFMAgfrh5-tukUYxLKCVMoLULxrgEOboY8cgg13hul1Y00xWyRcqBB0FKQskp1RjjxlLeENh0n_oxBLGp4FjiHMV/s1600-h/P1230617small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-QeaXRUzbRdvZtox770NhHMvepsU09Wg0ewYcMgo-JJ74kGirOUnltFMAgfrh5-tukUYxLKCVMoLULxrgEOboY8cgg13hul1Y00xWyRcqBB0FKQskp1RjjxlLeENh0n_oxBLGp4FjiHMV/s400/P1230617small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438018577190626258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">A traditional bamboo hut in the forest at Kumily </span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">After all that education, we were ready to cool off at the beach. We headed straight for the Keralan coast to Varkala where the beaches have (clean) black sand and coconut-laden palm trees line the red cliffs that plunge into a warm and gentle sea. Nothing to do but watch the fisherman haul in fresh fish for your dinner while resting in between hours of body-surfing fun.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-J6v6ycdhqxvo2jCewk-TGgXXpIrw2GY1CJzxqTZo6MbJWA_J1i_VEprkszu5JqX2W8xrrIcdEyMdI7u5ZL6k5AOM0CJ_hTv25GH1oU3RzSO9qNMEKyOj93hocgxJvUafNJ-vam7un_Od/s1600-h/P1260630small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-J6v6ycdhqxvo2jCewk-TGgXXpIrw2GY1CJzxqTZo6MbJWA_J1i_VEprkszu5JqX2W8xrrIcdEyMdI7u5ZL6k5AOM0CJ_hTv25GH1oU3RzSO9qNMEKyOj93hocgxJvUafNJ-vam7un_Od/s400/P1260630small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438018236436180418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Paradise</span></span> </div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnawqQorXa2C8uK6RTSoVt7OvMoyiEMBYyQLv1AzMva4AshFVqcZ2kJ0q-rFLYWxkhhY55RZUMi0mCpItNh9bqpmwnpby2qmH2GYxLyZf39ZhLf4bU4N2o0ceDnX0K3zxSYaBdTzEz0Odr/s1600-h/P1260625small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnawqQorXa2C8uK6RTSoVt7OvMoyiEMBYyQLv1AzMva4AshFVqcZ2kJ0q-rFLYWxkhhY55RZUMi0mCpItNh9bqpmwnpby2qmH2GYxLyZf39ZhLf4bU4N2o0ceDnX0K3zxSYaBdTzEz0Odr/s400/P1260625small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438017999852015058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">What more can I say...</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVV9JzzCpek66iKBWtZoW2rgLgDYeUZ3HPp3bIOlAYcs8no8Re4yAvvPiLiMJHR2uiugSL1EYQ9BUQSVpvp960WWL6n3xGyoK-siO3rPJINW9lkVNK3R-ug6H9atJUQfIBRp-LgJ4Dlhv7/s1600-h/P1260636small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVV9JzzCpek66iKBWtZoW2rgLgDYeUZ3HPp3bIOlAYcs8no8Re4yAvvPiLiMJHR2uiugSL1EYQ9BUQSVpvp960WWL6n3xGyoK-siO3rPJINW9lkVNK3R-ug6H9atJUQfIBRp-LgJ4Dlhv7/s400/P1260636small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438017751509589714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">After bodysurfing for 3 hours: "well really, it's a tough job, but someone's got to do it..."</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXAz-iaz70vWxQS1Fi3UHqklkwEhC42Ola7BjLLNyRiHnk2foH23kaKdt5t8SSIwS6ETt3NvzpbAWBjOiEdRfU-b5Dz9LOYttgZQy15c5_DJo21ajLIeV5bT6ZuWnXFsXzpeQgfff3lBC/s1600-h/P1270641small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXAz-iaz70vWxQS1Fi3UHqklkwEhC42Ola7BjLLNyRiHnk2foH23kaKdt5t8SSIwS6ETt3NvzpbAWBjOiEdRfU-b5Dz9LOYttgZQy15c5_DJo21ajLIeV5bT6ZuWnXFsXzpeQgfff3lBC/s400/P1270641small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438017596919853106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Waiting for breakfast to be served at our hotel in Varkala</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Having spent a few glorious days working hard at those body-surfing skills, we reluctantly left Varkala for the Keralan backwaters. We were well rewarded for our sacrifice by the serene beauty and interesting life of the villages that dot the area. The backwaters are made up of water from 38 rivers that pool into 5 lakes, connected by numerous canals. This is the setting of Arundhati Roy's book "The God of Small Things". We found a delightful and amazingly well preserved guesthouse in a hundred year old colonial heritage home. We took some time to enjoy the luxury of the our room and the beautiful garden before organising to explore the backwaters by canoe.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJARnUicJCjr9Jrnl1KHftK9bPw55pjWR_1CoGnyZn_J3jabh36LvDwO34zgg1Jd_GLwWijuvNS0Iw259iwaS7OSrLfFS26kIRp9de8im0Rwy_Wc2frHXfv8zX19ujHLAmMfCwyDPFDL2/s1600-h/P2010647small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJARnUicJCjr9Jrnl1KHftK9bPw55pjWR_1CoGnyZn_J3jabh36LvDwO34zgg1Jd_GLwWijuvNS0Iw259iwaS7OSrLfFS26kIRp9de8im0Rwy_Wc2frHXfv8zX19ujHLAmMfCwyDPFDL2/s400/P2010647small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438017252040019698" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Our beautiful heritage homestay in Allepey </span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AcEndiQah9KnGap1TrYk8z5ecUXO_FQU4IPiDIYBnQwXbeWEtXYCRu9hDez98tiEGZQBT3vbH2ko1yJjg0ZNepiqkyDsFNB1VfMi9tOfR-Y7uXs4ewLxgXGXgbhrISDaRdGd4B5FRiZv/s1600-h/P2020655small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AcEndiQah9KnGap1TrYk8z5ecUXO_FQU4IPiDIYBnQwXbeWEtXYCRu9hDez98tiEGZQBT3vbH2ko1yJjg0ZNepiqkyDsFNB1VfMi9tOfR-Y7uXs4ewLxgXGXgbhrISDaRdGd4B5FRiZv/s400/P2020655small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437706791513882866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Kids off to their waterside school</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6K5qlYzXQsj1JvYJKii82qmO7Qz2aBfMg18K-f5v2Ft_VPg10Yknax0XhZAqmPzbCtUNkORTA534XxFxvW60fF5BUErUeoXq6FCiBITMUEegmjRWDT5R7jN53OvGJX0xIYnqEPTp3x_D/s1600-h/P2020661small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6K5qlYzXQsj1JvYJKii82qmO7Qz2aBfMg18K-f5v2Ft_VPg10Yknax0XhZAqmPzbCtUNkORTA534XxFxvW60fF5BUErUeoXq6FCiBITMUEegmjRWDT5R7jN53OvGJX0xIYnqEPTp3x_D/s400/P2020661small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437706036557769170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Quiet life on the Backwaters</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7m7Oi3fYa8uAV6YH09TJk-qQ9ElKDnPgQiMrmm4CAtBMvFzAmv1N7xjCxxiWfv2NPZYPZUkmvFlTMilgydzqSaGJtFL764qzJ0urDoCcjGsMapSmEOfvbztNFnZQTT9NGrm4i7pMjCtr/s1600-h/P2020672small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7m7Oi3fYa8uAV6YH09TJk-qQ9ElKDnPgQiMrmm4CAtBMvFzAmv1N7xjCxxiWfv2NPZYPZUkmvFlTMilgydzqSaGJtFL764qzJ0urDoCcjGsMapSmEOfvbztNFnZQTT9NGrm4i7pMjCtr/s400/P2020672small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437705281200827010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">A typical Backwaters' homestead </span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1QtshSbNGVJpro43amyuuaRScQs5jhGwO2DEn5lsLshlIWOga4hgrk3WPyRMalNyk1QobbRW0OODSfT-vzd0-7Mz-Pp77Bt0NLeueQ5Lfln81ggcZtoxZgpm78Sqn9teloaH3ScN3djyb/s1600-h/P2020674small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1QtshSbNGVJpro43amyuuaRScQs5jhGwO2DEn5lsLshlIWOga4hgrk3WPyRMalNyk1QobbRW0OODSfT-vzd0-7Mz-Pp77Bt0NLeueQ5Lfln81ggcZtoxZgpm78Sqn9teloaH3ScN3djyb/s400/P2020674small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437703278150238034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Exploring the small canals</span></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">by canoe </span></span><br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPlhjIR82RnYRWsZXuu79aJSsFyU2PjTrb-bfeBn-oP3CuAJIHqVk1ptEkP-3qbP8yPGEA-FQmybOLfpdsA6OqsQrWohDjSnnbwS9lrdMc-X-Z-N4bSfnLBHMGZMwqTgOi6x5qDIWKw0P/s1600-h/P2020680small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 355px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPlhjIR82RnYRWsZXuu79aJSsFyU2PjTrb-bfeBn-oP3CuAJIHqVk1ptEkP-3qbP8yPGEA-FQmybOLfpdsA6OqsQrWohDjSnnbwS9lrdMc-X-Z-N4bSfnLBHMGZMwqTgOi6x5qDIWKw0P/s400/P2020680small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437702442608360770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Our Backwaters guide with his wife outside their home</span></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >At the northern most point of the Backwaters lies the entertaining town of <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Fort</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Cochin</st1:placename></st1:place>. An important European trading town in the 16<sup>th</sup> century, it has well preserved old buildings (and some not so well preserved) that tell the tale of a past with a vibrant Jewish community, trade with <st1:place st="on">the Far East</st1:place> and Dutch architectural influence. The museums relay a fascinating history of a royal dynasty </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">of matriarchal control where the eldest woman in the family had absolute control over the property and the line of monarchs was passed to their sister's children. Women covered their bodies only from the waist down, a practice that was to continue into the 19</span><sup style="font-family: georgia;">th</sup><span style="font-family:georgia;"> century until it was changed through European puritanical custom.</span><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >The photogenic seaside area in Fort Cochin is lined with Chinese fishing nets, said to have been brought by traders from the court of Kublai Khan, and are still used tod</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >ay in exactly the same way they were then. </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >In the evenings we were entertained with Kathakali plays, traditional Keralan theatre that involves elaborate costumes and make up sessions that take hours are done on stage for the audience before the show begins. No words are spoken between the actors who interact instead with a complicated series of facial and body gestures to tell the story. </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0YgjjGLXSFxjVS_S2JyKzdgAuUfB8KsBd6aa41YdXmAmNHQn92iSD5L5ry6cSX_Hun1wWPUNceOFzp2BhIWTdl-SZcjFYwZiZNoWFsQk00NFPywgOQfDDBgGZqUPPHoY5GypRSXb2OC7/s1600-h/P2090727small.JPG"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxIDP7SMEHfpo6Jsr83uCGUrSC-8RHfdfXHFZxiUxOfRO1Xu1xWsiBNx2PCqnTkHV5CC-W3eiJzJlZlMYHwEw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Video: Chinese fishing nets</span></span><br /></div><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DtpxRY8grDeDbs_7HkBc7iubck4EAR81LB0rwZW_QEfhgl7ftM1DeoeV-2O-tgySDLb7SDvVJqARNrT1or2YIhhpaktyB3t2OjTC3UoiW6E3R3SkynHEhdJAp-tlO6BphHaJYtQ7JFvo/s1600-h/P2030702small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DtpxRY8grDeDbs_7HkBc7iubck4EAR81LB0rwZW_QEfhgl7ftM1DeoeV-2O-tgySDLb7SDvVJqARNrT1or2YIhhpaktyB3t2OjTC3UoiW6E3R3SkynHEhdJAp-tlO6BphHaJYtQ7JFvo/s400/P2030702small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437306308006405810" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The 2-hour long make-up session in preparation for the evening's theatre performance</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwp5BVYRTYr85pWC11jGPga_9NbUCC2cg30pnjBq3Qi8U9lQ-45BBCvnXPeN75D6ewSq48bPseji6muJTDdBw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Video: A scene from a Kathakali play</span></span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Satisfied that we’d fully explored </span><st1:placetype style="font-family: georgia;" st="on">Fort</st1:placetype><span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span><st1:placename style="font-family: georgia;" st="on">Cochin</st1:placename><span style="font-family:georgia;">, we headed north towards the popular backpacker town of </span><st1:city style="font-family: georgia;" st="on">Hampi</st1:city><span style="font-family:georgia;">, with a short stop on the way at </span><st1:city style="font-family: georgia;" st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mysore</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family:georgia;">. </span><st1:city style="font-family: georgia;" st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mysore</st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family:georgia;"> takes first prize for the loveliest Indian city we’ve experienced. The roads are large, well laid out boulevards with little of the lung choking pollution and traffic jams we’ve come to expect from Indian cities. Its markets are vibrant and colourful and a pleasure to explore. The city is dominated by the beautiful and opulent Wadiya palace that descendants of the royal family still lay claim to. As museums and monuments go in </span><st1:place style="font-family: georgia;" st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India,</st1:country-region></st1:place><span style="font-family:georgia;"> it is perfectly preserved with no flash photography allowed to spoil the many intricate paintings and there are audio guides (nogal!) available for foreigners with a level of quality and quantity of information comparable to that of any major European museum. </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ujhsI9rVNxvvb-OAt-0LoKPzecLsiaVhe9mxxqaBnvrAkzrBXKMsfyqf8bSvjzv-bcIGUvKJFSn9GUmywxPq2FBN2zSjnokueKQUgreZi5h3E3gqAzJcYRsE4MO_y3wMlyMiEEqdVKD0/s1600-h/P2050710small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ujhsI9rVNxvvb-OAt-0LoKPzecLsiaVhe9mxxqaBnvrAkzrBXKMsfyqf8bSvjzv-bcIGUvKJFSn9GUmywxPq2FBN2zSjnokueKQUgreZi5h3E3gqAzJcYRsE4MO_y3wMlyMiEEqdVKD0/s400/P2050710small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437648756642994370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The opulent Wadiya palace </span></span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwveh9Q5W8Ea2IKoUJN9yAK8jx7W-VHHlBf_0cx4YLYLXn_G8U0dx53KY8360Id6V-NXUD9-CuuxzTAoAE' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Video: </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The very busy flower a</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">nd spice market </span></span><br /><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal" face="georgia">Next stop, and the place where we’ve written this blog, was Hampi, a town of many contrasts. Semi desert hills covered in mounds of giant boulders, like stones that have been dropped off at a building site, incongruously form the backdrop to water logged rice paddies and a large fresh water lake and reservoir. Hampi town reached its peak between the 14<sup>th</sup> and 16<sup>th</sup> centuries when its inhabitants constructed buildings and laid infrastructure said to rival that of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Rome</st1:place></st1:city>. 2600 temples were built in its heyday from a government tax budget that spent 50% on the army, a whopping 25% on temples and only 25% on the general well-being of the population. Few temples remain intact but the exhausting number of ruins provide much archeological entertainment for tourists who can bear the swelteringly hot days touring around the town.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">On arrival in Hampi we were shocked to learn that the bridge had collapsed and the only way to cross to the river was in a woven bamboo basket – motorbike and all. We were doubtful that our 250kg bike would make it in this makeshift vessel and when our turn came to cross, we were further alarmed by the boatman loading yet another bike onto the flimsy looking vessel and then 6 more people! <o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyhiIE65J0lju6eNqZqmRaX9vldGCPXv9ovjs3HO7pEXlrneZOLuQv_NbSnBe3gDPCZzVL264xjOvyGpWY-Vw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Video: River crossing in a woven bamboo basket</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwx8xlFJUCh2h_vesLu9PXu8dFKNYTAhmyVsZa6BmaIizri8pYBVCkHxzsmeu2LZ-bhboYh-YM6ntnj6fdbfdvSR1z2K8eLrVqN96rT93nOmEMX32bTNN1YRBYqMkg-4-r5JsKVoquxUs/s1600-h/P2060724small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwx8xlFJUCh2h_vesLu9PXu8dFKNYTAhmyVsZa6BmaIizri8pYBVCkHxzsmeu2LZ-bhboYh-YM6ntnj6fdbfdvSR1z2K8eLrVqN96rT93nOmEMX32bTNN1YRBYqMkg-4-r5JsKVoquxUs/s400/P2060724small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437298555133980770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Whew! made it!</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0YgjjGLXSFxjVS_S2JyKzdgAuUfB8KsBd6aa41YdXmAmNHQn92iSD5L5ry6cSX_Hun1wWPUNceOFzp2BhIWTdl-SZcjFYwZiZNoWFsQk00NFPywgOQfDDBgGZqUPPHoY5GypRSXb2OC7/s1600-h/P2090727small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR0YgjjGLXSFxjVS_S2JyKzdgAuUfB8KsBd6aa41YdXmAmNHQn92iSD5L5ry6cSX_Hun1wWPUNceOFzp2BhIWTdl-SZcjFYwZiZNoWFsQk00NFPywgOQfDDBgGZqUPPHoY5GypRSXb2OC7/s400/P2090727small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437295604278739298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Chilling out in Hampi</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal" face="georgia">Hampi’s chilled out vibe, backpacker filled restaurants and fresh water lake that provides the perfect antidote to the afternoon heat, has proven very hard to leave and the days have easily, and very pleasurably, just been slipping away. We hope to drag ourselves away tomorrow after 11 glorious days. Most nights have been spent socialising into the early hours with only one early wake up day for the pilgrimage to <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Hanuman</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Temple</st1:placetype></st1:place>, the birthplace of the Monkey God, to see the sunrise. The temple is inhabited by very naughty monkeys that are very entertaining – especially when trying to search you for any bananas you may have hidden in your pockets. The only protection from which are the temple dogs that the monkey in the picture below is hoping Dave will protect it from. <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpR_TNibi1yZMF7nB-fuoweBh5tjd8Oll9fg1BuJmerk20tCtKmrvuhxDbkThCS-lpAVV9MXW6RgACU8gFBcFbge0y7n45HRXPBd3wr9ST62m4bukOdmRTkqlJWDXfQ99Od41XjRGG9C4/s1600-h/P2090769small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpR_TNibi1yZMF7nB-fuoweBh5tjd8Oll9fg1BuJmerk20tCtKmrvuhxDbkThCS-lpAVV9MXW6RgACU8gFBcFbge0y7n45HRXPBd3wr9ST62m4bukOdmRTkqlJWDXfQ99Od41XjRGG9C4/s400/P2090769small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437295356683424482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Stone chariot sculpture (Hampi)</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeiiqhf0MHPtTMjL21vugBD2YTCMyxAWBGMLkTEQbqpgYdLAXl7Lekc-MiqvLQsUD6vZgdeYkoQlncJTlAEokvlqB1tbPVgZnPvC9ez0LXJNxRmn0Z5ZLJQ7NLMO1VWcZ6AOWvcz2A_5Zs/s1600-h/P2090749small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeiiqhf0MHPtTMjL21vugBD2YTCMyxAWBGMLkTEQbqpgYdLAXl7Lekc-MiqvLQsUD6vZgdeYkoQlncJTlAEokvlqB1tbPVgZnPvC9ez0LXJNxRmn0Z5ZLJQ7NLMO1VWcZ6AOWvcz2A_5Zs/s400/P2090749small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437295239539333922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Lotus Mahal - a mixture of Hindu and Muslim architecture</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRN0CFBhfDB4EEvoxo-5J11o9cUbtU6tqbmAhZioCiGWarRo5ZpQjNYTgJ6RrGJ92MY9OH-z_3tZ_tmAXZUW8wKz17uyjLrY07kTv98snb-uNqn5SBk4PZS3Cqa2SEbatg8RrARhvjC52B/s1600-h/P2090748small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 361px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRN0CFBhfDB4EEvoxo-5J11o9cUbtU6tqbmAhZioCiGWarRo5ZpQjNYTgJ6RrGJ92MY9OH-z_3tZ_tmAXZUW8wKz17uyjLrY07kTv98snb-uNqn5SBk4PZS3Cqa2SEbatg8RrARhvjC52B/s400/P2090748small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437295065667616578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Ugra Narasimha, a representation of Lord Vishnu - the biggest idol in Hampi</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiuatLOPdogpbLc7dIoa9jhQIpvFFYUH5wRP7W2Z2d_e6TXbniJTJ8YhxhupyfDlRiGAoN2SbZbDyuhy1p0Tgo1FCX2otLpkylXaN1OM59kw1TgQlFVXbv-DaGi-oGGLKc_LnpF6bnKro/s1600-h/P2090745small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpiuatLOPdogpbLc7dIoa9jhQIpvFFYUH5wRP7W2Z2d_e6TXbniJTJ8YhxhupyfDlRiGAoN2SbZbDyuhy1p0Tgo1FCX2otLpkylXaN1OM59kw1TgQlFVXbv-DaGi-oGGLKc_LnpF6bnKro/s400/P2090745small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437294654484356418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Another one of the 2600 ruins and temples in Hampi</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis98xXca-ogVJ-AHO2DqkOeS8bFSTIBqJZJ4N12BaJHfdQZPVKXpMSwZMAHs4k7EvupGoOGAhxqCy5lJ4pjsyJKpNYMFlMFR5bIIpt7z_IuMnfWxVnYnvA6lVeE03z-4xybADR9UwtFcCQ/s1600-h/P2100786small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis98xXca-ogVJ-AHO2DqkOeS8bFSTIBqJZJ4N12BaJHfdQZPVKXpMSwZMAHs4k7EvupGoOGAhxqCy5lJ4pjsyJKpNYMFlMFR5bIIpt7z_IuMnfWxVnYnvA6lVeE03z-4xybADR9UwtFcCQ/s400/P2100786small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437294389340325906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sunrise over Hampi town at Hanuman temple</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WycrJrR_HBmsMv1FFiQzT9UxBSrbbg_DcITY6JJycYsxWIN1So4Dmb5SizlLVAMQZ_3Hg8xEJtkGStAGWS5z_LoBHUapqL49VdnMAVmtKr4G1NOlldLJ_-hMM8OXaYUpCkez-4ytnsWH/s1600-h/P2100789small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 336px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WycrJrR_HBmsMv1FFiQzT9UxBSrbbg_DcITY6JJycYsxWIN1So4Dmb5SizlLVAMQZ_3Hg8xEJtkGStAGWS5z_LoBHUapqL49VdnMAVmtKr4G1NOlldLJ_-hMM8OXaYUpCkez-4ytnsWH/s400/P2100789small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437294127820161394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Can't get this monke</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">y off my lap.."</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1O7qBOfqgcY8a6mrJIQtMhykBHBO_gWqkUppE84V-0-LEZVh-bWVbUAL_XikV6nZ_javl2e1DCnbtaG-eXahso1IOg4VrpyuDWe2XqXBmd-rNpMhHp-uSVgWH-nTEQj4VVTLFtTwbdx6n/s1600-h/DSC00303small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1O7qBOfqgcY8a6mrJIQtMhykBHBO_gWqkUppE84V-0-LEZVh-bWVbUAL_XikV6nZ_javl2e1DCnbtaG-eXahso1IOg4VrpyuDWe2XqXBmd-rNpMhHp-uSVgWH-nTEQj4VVTLFtTwbdx6n/s400/DSC00303small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438012769277238642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Hanging out at the lake</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSxEoAsG2ldRrU8ZKcM1YPILWTE0ukCmqzQscnfUEQfH86mIKlhbi8QvsVEWruuLsLcjoSGW3LtcHyP744UyScwWCYRzZUI2d5ouixA3d2rZmbYlA-eOUGv1rf1AxWJB1W-IuKmOLF5Rx4/s1600-h/P2160025.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSxEoAsG2ldRrU8ZKcM1YPILWTE0ukCmqzQscnfUEQfH86mIKlhbi8QvsVEWruuLsLcjoSGW3LtcHyP744UyScwWCYRzZUI2d5ouixA3d2rZmbYlA-eOUGv1rf1AxWJB1W-IuKmOLF5Rx4/s400/P2160025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438884077588843314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Sunset at the lake with the girls</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5U62FiX7Db9edt10iAcQWuKTLR2hiKVk7bdKzO3iOB2vUyTKq4gmLgMRX63kiqRz6OoNrDz5WRaL2gszJS0r9kLXQ7YWLHmS3p4BaVEqVvhvPvkNDkF3b5xOx8PvK1tMChFV8P6LP2JVR/s1600-h/DSC00323small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5U62FiX7Db9edt10iAcQWuKTLR2hiKVk7bdKzO3iOB2vUyTKq4gmLgMRX63kiqRz6OoNrDz5WRaL2gszJS0r9kLXQ7YWLHmS3p4BaVEqVvhvPvkNDkF3b5xOx8PvK1tMChFV8P6LP2JVR/s400/DSC00323small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438014079030241106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Cooling off in the fresh water </span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-family: georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJGzS9iaJ92m5Q4gbpYTuXNyFVIl5Kh8OYrk0tOn7epuGfxvDIO-np4dT0eLS6BUpdfPvyFarYyTFIPOOyuUPYX_GOlpogSFPrDRTPkjhQDHVJqPrfgN2139hanHvRhMpC14o4OiIBqwd/s1600-h/DSC00325small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 389px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJGzS9iaJ92m5Q4gbpYTuXNyFVIl5Kh8OYrk0tOn7epuGfxvDIO-np4dT0eLS6BUpdfPvyFarYyTFIPOOyuUPYX_GOlpogSFPrDRTPkjhQDHVJqPrfgN2139hanHvRhMpC14o4OiIBqwd/s400/DSC00325small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438015270483710594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Cool banana!</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Next stop Goa...</span><br /></div><br /><br /><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div style="font-family: georgia;" id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div style="font-family: georgia;" id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div style="font-family: georgia;" id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div style="font-family: georgia;" id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div style="font-family: georgia;" id="refHTML"></div></div>Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-78479258649126286432009-12-07T15:21:00.051+03:002009-12-10T14:13:35.427+03:00Bangladesh - Land of the Bangla-speaking PeopleIn 1947, when British colonial India was partitioned into the Islamic Republic of Pakistan and the Republic of India, Pakistan consisted of West Pakistan, which is Pakistan as we know it today, and a separate piece of land thousands of km away called East Pakistan that became present day Bangladesh.<br /><br />Bangladesh literally means: "land of the Bangla-speaking people" which is a reminder of one of the main factors (recognition of Bangla (Bengali) as an official state language) that led to the build-up of resistance to being joined as one country with West Pakistan. This resistance culminated in a bloody war that eventually led to an independent People's Republic of Bangladesh in 1971.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBCHm-jkD-Xigoen4QjBDjt6KuA98l-tuIMPxMbUk9mQA27_NVH6ZloClmZtKuqg81ifllzA0nE0EobpARFLrqFi_N7rZbKg1WNniDIMXcA2yz6__jbsAHd8pmStBVwQAE29iyw7rNYw3/s1600-h/village+small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBCHm-jkD-Xigoen4QjBDjt6KuA98l-tuIMPxMbUk9mQA27_NVH6ZloClmZtKuqg81ifllzA0nE0EobpARFLrqFi_N7rZbKg1WNniDIMXcA2yz6__jbsAHd8pmStBVwQAE29iyw7rNYw3/s400/village+small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413545711480418786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">typical Bangladesh village scene</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span>The Bangladeshis are very proud of their culture, language and history. There is even a Mother Language Day that has been observed since 1952, and is still observed today, to commemorate the struggle to establish Bangla as the national language. When speaking to people we've met here, we've found that, although there is an acknowledgment that they are still a very poor country, there is much pride in Bangladesh having come a long way since gaining independence. The population explosion since the 1970's is attributed to significant improvements in child mortality rates and improved quality of life. Women are still more likely than men to be illiterate and girls now have free schooling all way through senior school while boys are only subsidised for their junior school years. We have also been told several times by very proud Bangladeshis (mostly men as we have rarely encountered women who speak any English) that their current Prime Minister is their second female Prime Minister since independence and that the Home Minister and Foreign Minister are also both female too, a fact that somehow seems incongruous with the absence of women in public areas and the strict purdah dress observed by the few that you do see around (except in Dhaka).<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_L48BZD33MtVu5LKUXspgkUZKJJ2wJPDiHbcsV-KS3LOneV0r0RaDgo2dGWAPC8RO0IZwZumjr4z2dYVfBoewlpek37g11Pdt_aRakYCyv0EKVEOGdBdgR8Q8KcNkx2U_IkdKvu7FHqH/s1600-h/PB290387small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_L48BZD33MtVu5LKUXspgkUZKJJ2wJPDiHbcsV-KS3LOneV0r0RaDgo2dGWAPC8RO0IZwZumjr4z2dYVfBoewlpek37g11Pdt_aRakYCyv0EKVEOGdBdgR8Q8KcNkx2U_IkdKvu7FHqH/s400/PB290387small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412478776783552114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Okay, listen now, if you kids don't get this one right - there'll be trouble!"<br /><br /><br /></span></span> <div style="text-align: left;">More than any of the sites we've seen (and we've seen many wonderful ones), the greatest asset this country has to share with tourists is the hospitality of its people. It is not uncommon to be invited home for a meal by someone you've met randomly on the street (although the price is often being paraded around like a celebrity to meet the entire village). There are only two guide books available for Bangladesh, The Lonely Planet and the Bradt Guide, and they both list the Bangla people on the list of the country's Top Ten attractions and we concur wholeheartedly.<br /><br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4bWZcOhCO9bf-U9RSGtp0vNkYV7WnIDFIapGK1T2j6HrHPV_DpVbUvI5u80U0QTKYdTXE9QvggwzsX7wK4VRz1nBD2slekg4Q-uMHg_ZGVc9H3gTJVdOAgV0L0NXMHsi-85Aedz8tKiI3/s1600-h/PC010398small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4bWZcOhCO9bf-U9RSGtp0vNkYV7WnIDFIapGK1T2j6HrHPV_DpVbUvI5u80U0QTKYdTXE9QvggwzsX7wK4VRz1nBD2slekg4Q-uMHg_ZGVc9H3gTJVdOAgV0L0NXMHsi-85Aedz8tKiI3/s400/PC010398small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412478688769037378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Tea with Rupa and Mom at their home in Srimangal</span></span><br /></div><br />That said, there have been plenty of great sites to explore. One of our first was in Putia, near Rajshahi, that boasts some of the country's oldest Hindu temples still standing after the 1970's war.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzqJ7Gr0Nz4brnYyzw74RnzpZsgrwvXvhyc37ai8cGyr97hLwuF2EAYapgjILRg978UMis9pKDRPegX1-zbPGK-hmOd3exV3LI6_E-ugm29tV_cVVnjqcUKLTbNJ2tQtIfhMGuvvmtvMgN/s1600-h/PB020179small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzqJ7Gr0Nz4brnYyzw74RnzpZsgrwvXvhyc37ai8cGyr97hLwuF2EAYapgjILRg978UMis9pKDRPegX1-zbPGK-hmOd3exV3LI6_E-ugm29tV_cVVnjqcUKLTbNJ2tQtIfhMGuvvmtvMgN/s400/PB020179small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412478560119416194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">1823 Shiva temple in Puthia</span> </span></div><br />From Rajshahi we took our first Bangladeshi train journey to Khulna near the Sundarbans. Although the rail network is not huge, the trains that do operate are efficient and first class travel is comfortable with private compartments and waiters that serve tea in real china cups.<br /><br />While Bangladesh is poor in some ways, it is incredible to see that unemployment is unheard of (less than 3%) and EVERYONE is doing some sort of mini-business/service. The villages are a hive of activity and you can get anything made or fixed very cheaply and quickly. The village economies are light years ahead of ours at home: in SA you can't find a tractor for love of money, while in Bangladesh most farmers share these mini-tractors that double up as water pumps, threshers and electricity generators. Villages can have a borehole sunk for less than $100 (R700) while in SA you can pay 100 times that! One downside of this full employemnt is that invariably hotels employ double the number of people they need and then you have service staff bursting into your room every hour to check if you "need anything?" or if "I can help you". We quickly learnt to lock the doors, but then they just knock loudly, you get out of bed, and they ask "need anything?" Evil glares do not dissuade them!<br /><br />In Khulna our primary mission was to book a boat trip around the Sundarbans, the large delta of rivers and mighty mangrove swamps in southern Bangladesh where the water from the Himalayas flows into the sea. There aren't many boats that tour the Sundarbans and the few that do were all booked for the dates we wanted. The only thing we could do was book a private boat tour, just for the two of us. Although a little more expensive, it turned out to be a pretty good option as we had the guide all to ourselves to answer our million questions, lots of flexibility as to where we went and no other noisy guests to scare off the animals. The boat was small but very comfortable and our crew cooked up the most delicious meals while we lazed about on deck and kept our eyes pealed for Bengal Tigers. We didn't see any tigers although the fact that a person is eaten by a tiger in this area every 3 days kept us alert all through our 3 day tour. We had two security guards with very big shot guns follow us everywhere we went.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCvzU0yGLCH2YQ7tv4IQzy70nFGXbt7SEVD-ubRZ0ISQQ2HdZ_J8EWqb2mVKh2FgCAKw4-BGT23mNj2suz1Fm1UBOfY3Om-GyTPM160PO8nC2Hg03-qtzHXxWBmXJsYcekodk9qWZwEnf/s1600-h/PB050188small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCvzU0yGLCH2YQ7tv4IQzy70nFGXbt7SEVD-ubRZ0ISQQ2HdZ_J8EWqb2mVKh2FgCAKw4-BGT23mNj2suz1Fm1UBOfY3Om-GyTPM160PO8nC2Hg03-qtzHXxWBmXJsYcekodk9qWZwEnf/s400/PB050188small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412478427601494114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Chilling on out on our boat in the Sundarbans</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbwN6svKhVIsH-tmbL8He26FqeZuRDW00l_b1rzNnfDCSbRpYiB7zhR8NSdGrAR51RF636nryOHIwRvs_LOuaA7DZ7S0Z5EoG0p33Nx2_ANLNt4bFnEJkYGyPtBHFoWbHaJAFG_blvd3e/s1600-h/PB050191small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbwN6svKhVIsH-tmbL8He26FqeZuRDW00l_b1rzNnfDCSbRpYiB7zhR8NSdGrAR51RF636nryOHIwRvs_LOuaA7DZ7S0Z5EoG0p33Nx2_ANLNt4bFnEJkYGyPtBHFoWbHaJAFG_blvd3e/s400/PB050191small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412478255320124962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The view from our boat while cruising the mangrove swamps of the Sundarbans</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLb24GmR620tHENnrya5-hK5IRmZ-bfa1IospJ_JOk_fmsXD3NupmmNO08CdsN3P0PhemaWyv-icEVQ8zWi9pfLaz038XnaItWY3VNhRHb7oim_3g05eGx1AXOtyVVzAaco2er6761-e81/s1600-h/PB060208small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLb24GmR620tHENnrya5-hK5IRmZ-bfa1IospJ_JOk_fmsXD3NupmmNO08CdsN3P0PhemaWyv-icEVQ8zWi9pfLaz038XnaItWY3VNhRHb7oim_3g05eGx1AXOtyVVzAaco2er6761-e81/s400/PB060208small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412477113255937650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Let's go get those tigers! - our very brave security guards in the Sundarbans</span></span><br /></div><br />We took some lovely, messy walks - security guards in tow - through thick, gooey, glistening, chocolate pudding mud in the mangrove forests that sucked in our every footfall. The mangrove forests were teeming with life: loads of birds, crabs, lizards and 5 different species of snakes that Dave kept trying to pick up in between (unsuccessfully) trying to catch mud skippers. We saw a green vine snake hanging from a tree while it was also trying to catch mud skippers, an unidentifiable snake basking in the sun, and a Dog Headed Water snake lying in the mud, and best of all, a Monocled Cobra swimming across the river in a hell of a hurry to get to the other side. We cooled off with a swim in the sea of the Bay of Bengal although it is not advisable to attempt a bikini-clad dip being, as we are, in a conservative Muslim country. Having little experience with which clothes are best for a fully-clothed swim, Rejane at first made the unfortunate choice of a t-shirt that became very clingy and revealing once wet and then had to quickly scramble to put on something a little more modesty-preserving.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6OMVahjwUnKwNsaAmnYPaPMwpCtmYwkWlciYkxhDSEPfQ2ly6MOX2Zb_Q9Nf-2fZO15gSEM9usrC6VoIu2Ursn11pn7k8xdxN0KJaBy39VZBQpS9v3AErpOeIO24U7QDAe_rOu4yP4E2/s1600-h/PB060209small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb6OMVahjwUnKwNsaAmnYPaPMwpCtmYwkWlciYkxhDSEPfQ2ly6MOX2Zb_Q9Nf-2fZO15gSEM9usrC6VoIu2Ursn11pn7k8xdxN0KJaBy39VZBQpS9v3AErpOeIO24U7QDAe_rOu4yP4E2/s400/PB060209small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412476669162274178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Getting nice and messy catching crabs in the mud</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5MvgHSWv3UgnBsgDPJPHgQBHzW7al2PCDc5YNgWTYcbptdqnBMvIUUQkLlLF79Sr3iAD7nMqJptyv7li3BFcLafzPyaHfwMEMUTWzGCqh30G1Fd60Tqe-z13nVgMjX57oPOQqtxbpDpmX/s1600-h/PB060212small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5MvgHSWv3UgnBsgDPJPHgQBHzW7al2PCDc5YNgWTYcbptdqnBMvIUUQkLlLF79Sr3iAD7nMqJptyv7li3BFcLafzPyaHfwMEMUTWzGCqh30G1Fd60Tqe-z13nVgMjX57oPOQqtxbpDpmX/s400/PB060212small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412476421070487234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Stomping around in the muddy mangrove forests</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7svqf0NJiL2fQUn-fPyNxeVM5PObmWwP1OZSwqJ3sqcXc5hV8HyGcJBH-Ii4KxtqkwJFRnhUB4MqbDcqDGxlHkE_lFbagwOo7evUWp8Yu-AiuSzGEBMymHu2OfuKobEVc8GoDYLP5FuR/s1600-h/PB060218small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7svqf0NJiL2fQUn-fPyNxeVM5PObmWwP1OZSwqJ3sqcXc5hV8HyGcJBH-Ii4KxtqkwJFRnhUB4MqbDcqDGxlHkE_lFbagwOo7evUWp8Yu-AiuSzGEBMymHu2OfuKobEVc8GoDYLP5FuR/s400/PB060218small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412476285601018338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">No bikinis allowed in the Bay of Bengal! (Our hosts couldn't bare to look!)</span> </span></div><br />From Khulna we took the very luxurious early 1900's "Rocket", a paddle steamer that cruises slowly down the river and harks back to the days of the British Raj. Meals are served at a long, wooden, 30-seater dinner table with white table-cloths and uniformed waiters who serve your afternoon tea in delicate china tea sets (they really know how to serve tea in this country, I say, Old Chap, What?)<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFCiFSept_UelyEahbxOGotOZ-vK-am5uAh0AbUBUFDbCiQuqBRmgBdL7oFL1Cva5tDlQlfdJ5sZmqWBpCqcUsKbWnL2pN393sSowy7kru-F5MnMjZrZ_tewwoz8Sv5iI4YpqIpAawJVb/s1600-h/PB110256small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFCiFSept_UelyEahbxOGotOZ-vK-am5uAh0AbUBUFDbCiQuqBRmgBdL7oFL1Cva5tDlQlfdJ5sZmqWBpCqcUsKbWnL2pN393sSowy7kru-F5MnMjZrZ_tewwoz8Sv5iI4YpqIpAawJVb/s400/PB110256small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412476090473664386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Afternoon tea and cookies while floating down the river on the old Rocket steamer</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2l1obgljHCxKOiPy1qT4X7qWw9gEuc_JCTSXaHA1mmJCQOwbEqD8Fc7I4rg4PgPxpj7GeOOuaB_4tY_bUCcOMAcAHUpS4wOHNDKFF1rw3WwZ5DiriUjnI6u9QvYlqglP6xfPgmOEd2piY/s1600-h/PB110246small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2l1obgljHCxKOiPy1qT4X7qWw9gEuc_JCTSXaHA1mmJCQOwbEqD8Fc7I4rg4PgPxpj7GeOOuaB_4tY_bUCcOMAcAHUpS4wOHNDKFF1rw3WwZ5DiriUjnI6u9QvYlqglP6xfPgmOEd2piY/s400/PB110246small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412475938317603106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Just couldn't resist doing the Leonardo and Kate pose while on the steamer...</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoW3KxeGB5Y3_aDIBI4tTtdHBSCm3qqa8MOZv5Jw5YIg24zdc2nVlgMxoUsZaHRH13E3H6lzMH2hFRVpnpzLF0fAkB5pv8YjepV-fRgekdNrKpDPsT9w4W_ZCYlRsrGxwflHDOXgquopeR/s1600-h/PB110252small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoW3KxeGB5Y3_aDIBI4tTtdHBSCm3qqa8MOZv5Jw5YIg24zdc2nVlgMxoUsZaHRH13E3H6lzMH2hFRVpnpzLF0fAkB5pv8YjepV-fRgekdNrKpDPsT9w4W_ZCYlRsrGxwflHDOXgquopeR/s400/PB110252small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412475748840149234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">View from the Rocket...villages that dot the river banks</span> </span></div><br /><br />We reluctantly disembarked from the luxury of the Rocket in Barisal where we explored the busy markets and picturesque villages. One fun part of Bangladesh is the vehicles: the most common is the bicycle powered, 3 wheel rickshaw which are everywhere and are used by everyone to go even short distances. In Dhaka alone there are supposedly 600,000 rickshaws! Then you get the Ban which is the bakkie/pickup version of the bicycle rickshaw which has a flat bed and can load unbelievable quantities of goods piled meters into the air. Then there is the auto rickshaw (aka baby taxi or CNG) which is a motorbike version of the rickshaw which normally runs on compressed gas (CNG = Compressed Natural Gas). You also now get an electric rickshaw (see photo below) which has a battery and is charged up at night, and then can cover 120km the next day, almost silently as it has no engine. Lastly, of course, there are cars. In Bangladesh, 90% of cars are expensive Japanese models which is unusual when one considers that in India 90% of cars are cheap Indian brands (Tata, Maruti Suzuki and Mahindra). The reason for this we're told is that Bangladesh has no middle class: just a very rich class and a poor class while India has a huge middle class...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchm9jvYM1ds1qZEQkCGt-ZDKiThwES5_ucW5vV6l7KXwbuCrFlaCo_rsM0v-WYkQ28tYUaV6ZS5gtN-3U9JjNNH6tkplvvlr4a0QyNB3C3Q2GqYPUXN7c2eP3TftPLYKoZiqTK4BchG6D/s1600-h/elec+rickshaw.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchm9jvYM1ds1qZEQkCGt-ZDKiThwES5_ucW5vV6l7KXwbuCrFlaCo_rsM0v-WYkQ28tYUaV6ZS5gtN-3U9JjNNH6tkplvvlr4a0QyNB3C3Q2GqYPUXN7c2eP3TftPLYKoZiqTK4BchG6D/s400/elec+rickshaw.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413554422873476226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Electric baby taxi - Bangladesh leads the way in green transport!</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrMejCTav07RzT3Jide2nQUDycYNmx4R-ovJpqMMGUYz3yzp2LNTgC_My50zopWu-3vsCllEx-s1hcVfRqYtEWFP7VPnqFnDyuXUE0W3Pp9wSLGM0FrORS95ygseYV5CwscGg3nAOqyTp/s1600-h/PB120262small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrMejCTav07RzT3Jide2nQUDycYNmx4R-ovJpqMMGUYz3yzp2LNTgC_My50zopWu-3vsCllEx-s1hcVfRqYtEWFP7VPnqFnDyuXUE0W3Pp9wSLGM0FrORS95ygseYV5CwscGg3nAOqyTp/s400/PB120262small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412474345287130850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">All aboard the school bus! (another type of bicycle rickshaw)</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4q7Ngp2nCgVNoXqNLkK8L-AIwtK-F2fHbCSFn__VzafQzd1UjnTTs5dR4I4DZKWeizNLRbTjJ8gCe6dK4yVFd_-H0q7ib25MlcqOv5ecOHeKTmF9jzvYyMvLo1DxL3bKN1Zp_QymUqW_/s1600-h/PB120261small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK4q7Ngp2nCgVNoXqNLkK8L-AIwtK-F2fHbCSFn__VzafQzd1UjnTTs5dR4I4DZKWeizNLRbTjJ8gCe6dK4yVFd_-H0q7ib25MlcqOv5ecOHeKTmF9jzvYyMvLo1DxL3bKN1Zp_QymUqW_/s400/PB120261small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412474800036945426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Around Barisal - busy markets</span> </span></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXwkDuAXlwXWp_TrEwhrQg3A_Fqn_L1oCL30j1JelPhcbr8arzYnSGaO7-P-bBxUlQ9JLdBKT4pZK1iWQPpDuHDQV6Ulcj7n4O0NTTL9plO_LpAIV6Dn_CUST1tQm_tNklVq3irVWLVfs/s1600-h/dave+Barisal+%284%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXwkDuAXlwXWp_TrEwhrQg3A_Fqn_L1oCL30j1JelPhcbr8arzYnSGaO7-P-bBxUlQ9JLdBKT4pZK1iWQPpDuHDQV6Ulcj7n4O0NTTL9plO_LpAIV6Dn_CUST1tQm_tNklVq3irVWLVfs/s400/dave+Barisal+%284%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412474650505010770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Let's show these locals what an African man can do... ok I'm tired now"</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueBwcujD83sDUbjfdtVB4xGsuFCkff7ygkO2rG7mMv8eEWuAIBr27KpX-9IpYfgKbpO-jkvu1gqf1eMYJABGbcgxrtrXKRGtcZrvYcECQAaGVHr1AcEOXsbep8jUw4p9_PlMcB4kxK8tx/s1600-h/PB130272small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiueBwcujD83sDUbjfdtVB4xGsuFCkff7ygkO2rG7mMv8eEWuAIBr27KpX-9IpYfgKbpO-jkvu1gqf1eMYJABGbcgxrtrXKRGtcZrvYcECQAaGVHr1AcEOXsbep8jUw4p9_PlMcB4kxK8tx/s400/PB130272small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412474514011659474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Haa, but can you carry bricks on your head, while walking a plank and looking cool at the same time?"</span> </span></div><br /><br /><br />After Barisal we boarded another less luxurious cockroach boat further down the river to explore the little islands that dot the Bay of Bengal. These islands don't appear in any guide books or even on the internet so as expected this was quite an adventure. Our first stop was Hatia Island where we took on the 4 hour mission to get to its very southern most tip and cross over to the even smaller island of Nidjim Dwip. After a noisy and bumpy 2 hour auto-rickshaw ride, an hour wait for the ferry, another hour on an even bumpier bicycle rickshaw and yet another hour of walking - with our backpacks - in the sweltering heat, we finally made it to the one "hotel" on Nijum Dwip Island.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzOVCDQNGy7JoZjcr0ihS7Js1bU5l60IVTlT4Uvy-Dc6s0htx1Eahjo8Xk0_k6FXFFE1wrQk1NpbVxzAWRYFISUDu_27D7JCONrV68DbPUDUlzdYWY3NIy483bOYM7jmsmhMNUHmtPFR3/s1600-h/PB140284small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzOVCDQNGy7JoZjcr0ihS7Js1bU5l60IVTlT4Uvy-Dc6s0htx1Eahjo8Xk0_k6FXFFE1wrQk1NpbVxzAWRYFISUDu_27D7JCONrV68DbPUDUlzdYWY3NIy483bOYM7jmsmhMNUHmtPFR3/s400/PB140284small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412474196484972994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">On the mission to Nidjim Dwip: "Okay, that's it - I've had it with this heat, the boats, the crowds..."</span> </span></div><br />The next morning, at breakfast, we were offered a live crab by the restaurant owner. With much sign language we managed to negotiate for a crab curry to be cooked for our lunch which we ate very messily and with relish while trying to ignore the open-mouthed stares of about 30 local guys. In rural Bangladesh we've been stared at with undisguised fascination a whole lot more than we've stared at the local people and surroundings. The two most common reactions are the "stop dead in your tracks call your friends and stare" and the "stop dead in your tracks, jaw falls open and stare" - extra clever people follow these moves up with a "how are you my friend!" which means you can get invited to their house if you smile back...<br /><br />On a trip where we have been more than just impressed with the culinary delights, Bangladesh wins first prize in the great food category. The Achilles heel in this subcontinent's repertoire, however, is definitely breakfast. A fried egg with a roti or chapati is the closest you can to a vaguely recognisable breakfast while cornflakes, only very very occasionally available, are a mystery to chefs (we were once served cornflakes that had been boiled up like jungle oats!). We have at times given up and gone local by ordering mutton and vegetable curries with rotis for our breakfast. Another potential minefield is ordering drinks - if you're not fast enough to prevent it, you are likely to get a dollop of salt in your fruit juice or yogurt drink - Dave has even been asked if he preferred a sweet or salty chocolate milkshake!<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvM7qgAVKG5BjjsF_GAZeFDHpkggG9AjbPVfavc_uv_YNnpsdCu2tAkXcgrSvbRRqADNh5a_zuN5syTRVwbf2AgqLheN24XxXHHOceN4jfqJMMtjra37Q_YEOrKM6UKdMy8P9j66CeRyRJ/s1600-h/PB150295small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvM7qgAVKG5BjjsF_GAZeFDHpkggG9AjbPVfavc_uv_YNnpsdCu2tAkXcgrSvbRRqADNh5a_zuN5syTRVwbf2AgqLheN24XxXHHOceN4jfqJMMtjra37Q_YEOrKM6UKdMy8P9j66CeRyRJ/s400/PB150295small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412474043698781826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">And the prize for the best meal eaten in Bangladesh goes to...Freshly cooked crab curry.<br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span>After a couple of days of lazing around Nijum Dwip we missioned back to Hatia to catch the steamer to the next Bay of Bengal island, Sandwip. The trip back to Hatia was crowded with people, bicycles and even a cow that proceeded to vacate its bowels in the tiny boat but Rejane was well protected from getting messy on the women's side of the boat where she was looked after like a special guest.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHhJWd5KkwFGQ1eKHhA98qX9S4tNMHE9n0rQZoKMKqGUX4ZKnsGsND8vblovvP63pMCsk2ndSc51aqiOLNX4SbAPNbtguW6wEMPxVMR-9IJmiSMv6YnMTPtus6p-kwS-x_Xa4bEPGhFzK/s1600-h/PB160308small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHhJWd5KkwFGQ1eKHhA98qX9S4tNMHE9n0rQZoKMKqGUX4ZKnsGsND8vblovvP63pMCsk2ndSc51aqiOLNX4SbAPNbtguW6wEMPxVMR-9IJmiSMv6YnMTPtus6p-kwS-x_Xa4bEPGhFzK/s400/PB160308small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412473876073167858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">On the boat from Nijum Dwip back to Hatia with the cow with the loose bowels</span></span><br /></div><br />On arrival at Sandwip Island we were told that there weren't any hotels at all and were taken to the government offices by a rickshaw driver who had no idea what on earth to do with two foreign tourists. The perplexed government officials took a few minutes to inquire as to why the hell we'd want to see Sandwip Island and, while failing to understand our explanation that it was all very interesting to us, kindly invited us to stay at the government guest house for a nominal fee, the equivalent of about R4 ($0.50). We were very comfortable at the guest house and the next morning had the pleasure of meeting the Island's magistrate who allowed us to sit in on his very speedy court proceedings (20 cases in 45 minutes!) after which we were invited to a local wedding lunch. While at lunch we mentioned that the steamer to Chittagong, our next stop, would be leaving soon to which the magistrate said, "Don't worry, relax, I am also taking the steamer to Chittagong today and they can't leave without me..."<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguX9U1XeqrCRcyRJ1SRB4Nb3Mj4gMN31WYZ3FQjF8U62pcOxJXYHtTQ4Q1aw0-muU98TdTBu5BHqjOw3ppV6rdAHpx9Juca6G0J6QsiqCN296DT5L1XtUkPFHhTYTufJ4Cp6ZO1Sp70qqa/s1600-h/PB170310small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguX9U1XeqrCRcyRJ1SRB4Nb3Mj4gMN31WYZ3FQjF8U62pcOxJXYHtTQ4Q1aw0-muU98TdTBu5BHqjOw3ppV6rdAHpx9Juca6G0J6QsiqCN296DT5L1XtUkPFHhTYTufJ4Cp6ZO1Sp70qqa/s400/PB170310small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412473648788351330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">The very photogenic villages on Sandwip Island. Every house has a pond like this used for bathing/washing (behind the orange curtain)</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNLGROFqinjH327Jh78s-fvIvTWxRAVA5xkP27FRftLqDJvBu4TFa_L3Y4EES5jH2xRf8TREYWf8uvvsWbXWOUzyAQbmi257OcReDfctfuq3vvynczYSZOFV6zf7F65pxydWMO1WDTbVa8/s1600-h/PB180311small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNLGROFqinjH327Jh78s-fvIvTWxRAVA5xkP27FRftLqDJvBu4TFa_L3Y4EES5jH2xRf8TREYWf8uvvsWbXWOUzyAQbmi257OcReDfctfuq3vvynczYSZOFV6zf7F65pxydWMO1WDTbVa8/s400/PB180311small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413208512108862290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">At the wedding lunch with the magistrate</span></span><br /></div><br />Our next stop was the Chittagong Hill Tracts, the one area of Bangladesh that's not as flat as a chapati. The history of this "tribal" area is quite complicated and the politics is still somewhat unstable. During the war in 1970/1, the governor of the area supported West Pakistan and fled to Pakistan after independence. The indigenous people of the area are ethnically closer to Burmese people than to the ethnically Indian Bangladeshi majority. The source of the current political tension seems to stem from the influx and growth of the ethnically Indian Bangla population into the area and the displacement of the indigenous tribes by large dams built recently.<br /><br />In Rangamati, the first of the Chittagong villages we visited, our boatman wouldn't take us to any of the indigenous Chakma villages as communities here have kept themselves pretty much separate from one another. It was also a little difficult to get much enjoyment from the main tourist attraction, the beautiful lake, which was created when the dam was built causing the loss of farming land and of many indigenous village communities and led to many being displaced.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Y0hSyz7QzghEZBDd6ggGf6wCBk5WKFDTq6SRIggWqvJ8Cpboq1YFD9L3ZedHEDH8Os8E5ALukI74D-0rPcmSU1wTTfL8uvy82lYqguqTpGuENVLnqPP19GNWqBPt77SO5rXxzAUor2x5/s1600-h/PB210326small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Y0hSyz7QzghEZBDd6ggGf6wCBk5WKFDTq6SRIggWqvJ8Cpboq1YFD9L3ZedHEDH8Os8E5ALukI74D-0rPcmSU1wTTfL8uvy82lYqguqTpGuENVLnqPP19GNWqBPt77SO5rXxzAUor2x5/s400/PB210326small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412473505659739826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">On the lake in Rangamati</span> </span></div><br />After Rangamati we headed to another Chittagong Hill Tract village, Bandarban. Here the communities, while preserving their own ways of life, do not seem to have the issues that Rangamati suffers from as there was no displacement from dam building. We stayed at the Hillside Resort which has lovely traditionally built bamboo cottages. We spent a few lazy days exploring the markets and the beautiful indigenous Marma villages set in the thick forests. We also indulged a few times in the number one local desert dodi/dui which is a delicious cross between creme caramel and yoghurt and can be found everywhere at giveaway prices - yummy!! Bangladesh generally has good food - the only challenge is ordering it as the Bangladeshi's don't believe in menus... you just sit down and they say "what do you want" (in Bangla), and you say "what do you have" and they look at you confused, and then we say, with our hands, "bring everything" and then all sorts of plates arrive of mostly meats and a few veg dishes and we pig out and send back what we can't eat, and after a main course extravaganza, dessert (dui!!!), cold drinks and tea it comes to around R25 ($4) for both of us! Rejane hasn't cooked in 6 months... I wonder why?!<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuIiybOUkVY2mm7oxy6P3CAuemNzhntx0DEbkvC7AtCjIR9lhPMDbniQ_jeUnXY1JlLRk4iz6UaxXRynsqL5jXrsrPq9djDE7z8Eo5vAq4P2ROFwQTv9BemCRVxsxCFrEcm_QrqzruEeY/s1600-h/PB230328small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuIiybOUkVY2mm7oxy6P3CAuemNzhntx0DEbkvC7AtCjIR9lhPMDbniQ_jeUnXY1JlLRk4iz6UaxXRynsqL5jXrsrPq9djDE7z8Eo5vAq4P2ROFwQTv9BemCRVxsxCFrEcm_QrqzruEeY/s400/PB230328small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412473343177710642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Meeting a Marma tribal person (left) and a Bangla guy (right) in the Bandarban forests</span> </span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGd_UEcdp8zI2KZHDAYbLfMUcPTJ_Nz84qaWuZc1CUeSPwVjj8zg-CDvy8zkBI6I2YqXJR9wMiuOmASs4NELawJ961a1HKSZRo-ehRiMlNw6xMXgn50cH-me_kJ3anPHE1DjvnSGVCJpn/s1600-h/PB240335small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGd_UEcdp8zI2KZHDAYbLfMUcPTJ_Nz84qaWuZc1CUeSPwVjj8zg-CDvy8zkBI6I2YqXJR9wMiuOmASs4NELawJ961a1HKSZRo-ehRiMlNw6xMXgn50cH-me_kJ3anPHE1DjvnSGVCJpn/s400/PB240335small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412473161466611186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Cruising the river on a local boat in Bandarban</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlDsm_9rWJ25PmjbaClnjnzLONz3ZN3i1QNAf6H5SNQn1_CcSAjRDwFGhf9CiPeLl6nNMNwmr8VRVOqAl8k_iLKz1FdIFVxXvMDwtVvuFSbuGgKQGdhJ9KgPUqc44ulK3BVIAG9WrPMZ6/s1600-h/PB25035small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlDsm_9rWJ25PmjbaClnjnzLONz3ZN3i1QNAf6H5SNQn1_CcSAjRDwFGhf9CiPeLl6nNMNwmr8VRVOqAl8k_iLKz1FdIFVxXvMDwtVvuFSbuGgKQGdhJ9KgPUqc44ulK3BVIAG9WrPMZ6/s400/PB25035small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412471457968428178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Shopping for a nice fat cow for Eid ul Adha</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRC-7ElBb-E-AMGmEsvLi0_c6MxvLajQNGyiEhlz1DIZFChVFp_LH9ZNTb-XqD3iEH7KvfMxO4pnOQP4vrkq4R4k2J2Ad_HF5QQAKQLk9uDrKNjRKquFwXBpcYjNqpLtD3Y8B9h0pDCIn/s1600-h/PC050412small.JPG"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzN93ALAWyIowgxOFHr_dOovoFuscD_6Mqj47m2SvwI9xenWbtD2BsywbmT0p7pK96RWiL3yIvCyhLcJaMkSA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;">VIDEO: A typical day in the market in Bandarban</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVfEE3ZiyDXSBnePc6vsSK6EtJ7KPD2W3MOuB1YGexdju4Pb3D5BEiPyUafYwFLkFoSF_aZ4LWfyQnV7UYjuJSi_kfBENGXY-njoqzRagri8Bh1MqMoGuMYg7L6qez-B_yZt3yJugQMaaZ/s1600-h/tribal+cigars+small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVfEE3ZiyDXSBnePc6vsSK6EtJ7KPD2W3MOuB1YGexdju4Pb3D5BEiPyUafYwFLkFoSF_aZ4LWfyQnV7UYjuJSi_kfBENGXY-njoqzRagri8Bh1MqMoGuMYg7L6qez-B_yZt3yJugQMaaZ/s400/tribal+cigars+small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413547035871432674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Tribal" women smoking cigars while bargaining at the Eid market in Bandarban</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3C03Z90x_rY3S00Z35tw0Ntp6wIhDZnXUwXuEgW9qWkJ1NmPPqSpVEKtytomwI1B9uk0lEv8tangH3pepCoNlG_-dYfQNT6SkiJt7PBJXd51rv29bHTFMU1awXCR46_i8tOe2R3lK7w3y/s1600-h/PB260372small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3C03Z90x_rY3S00Z35tw0Ntp6wIhDZnXUwXuEgW9qWkJ1NmPPqSpVEKtytomwI1B9uk0lEv8tangH3pepCoNlG_-dYfQNT6SkiJt7PBJXd51rv29bHTFMU1awXCR46_i8tOe2R3lK7w3y/s400/PB260372small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412471303682754578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Outside our traditional bamboo hut in Bandarban</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptyl6sFRXBc8LBRFMPfOURqhlSvDsuoITodF09vAaEtTxJE6GvJBNpBLipul6VsuZucSRNU28QNmFPKjO0MZ5gGyT7zAR5wbJlFRcMUAnjJsOFv8NvzZ8C5SBHOyU6JY1IbBlYgPQ-0Pc/s1600-h/bandarban+small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptyl6sFRXBc8LBRFMPfOURqhlSvDsuoITodF09vAaEtTxJE6GvJBNpBLipul6VsuZucSRNU28QNmFPKjO0MZ5gGyT7zAR5wbJlFRcMUAnjJsOFv8NvzZ8C5SBHOyU6JY1IbBlYgPQ-0Pc/s400/bandarban+small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413547872361524690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">View from our hotel in Bandarban</span></span><br /></div><br />From Bandarban, it was straight north to Sylet, the tea-growing region of Bangladesh. We didn't spend anytime in the capital city of the Sylet region but headed directly to Srimangal, a lovely village where lots of tea is grown. There we met Roni, a lovely guide, who took us around to tea estates, introduced us to Srimangal's many-layered tea and showed us around his village (if you're planning to spend any time in Srimangal, we'd highly recommend you contact Roni on: 01719239367)<br /><br />The many-layered tea made in Srimangal is a well guarded secret and the layers really are completely distinct in colour and taste (see pic below).<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_yH5Y74CouzgU7loFhNEgBGaV74TX7AwleFCQIc5cT-ChYnSXWrHICXR6jucQU3s-8SvKWEm_e7UWQpm2eTcnYZ1b5KcwE4S2UP5P0MBC49ubpfKfVPhKaIaIbHca1x8UmA9tXuGh36B/s1600-h/PB290373small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_yH5Y74CouzgU7loFhNEgBGaV74TX7AwleFCQIc5cT-ChYnSXWrHICXR6jucQU3s-8SvKWEm_e7UWQpm2eTcnYZ1b5KcwE4S2UP5P0MBC49ubpfKfVPhKaIaIbHca1x8UmA9tXuGh36B/s400/PB290373small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412471141448999170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">With Roni, our guide, at a Srimangal tea estate</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCQO9tmILTsqvg3hCkfwPb3WscI7Frtas4VUW7JxiWN8nVYa-krRALBfZrpTqZzOesjH8ntWEoa4L8DZADHnxD2yGpNFiG1YCh5XYtAc3K7SKBDgJTFqK8cwlHFN3d6jrExlR7Qfuim7e/s1600-h/PB290379small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCQO9tmILTsqvg3hCkfwPb3WscI7Frtas4VUW7JxiWN8nVYa-krRALBfZrpTqZzOesjH8ntWEoa4L8DZADHnxD2yGpNFiG1YCh5XYtAc3K7SKBDgJTFqK8cwlHFN3d6jrExlR7Qfuim7e/s400/PB290379small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412470957608674114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Enjoying 5 and 10 layer tea</span> </span></div><br /><br />After Srimangal we had no choice but to head to Dhaka to apply for our new India visas - it was the reason we came to Bangladesh, after all. We were a little apprehensive as we'd been told several times that Dhaka was noisy, polluted and traffic-jammed. Well that it is, but the craziness grows on you and Old Dhaka is a labyrinth of interesting market streets that offer a complete assault on all your senses, a real must-do experience.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyKGkF7xXQBQiakjoFN9QJcWz6n76bM0nm3duiN6cDfPDqfHXKc5oEWKUOWf5hLjTuJCj3_Sb-8y_8-KWF2AL0fxojOtirjIjFdQ-CwClJI_0iduJosyiAEnSg-ProeMSbbUWyJfeMQDt/s1600-h/PC050411small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyKGkF7xXQBQiakjoFN9QJcWz6n76bM0nm3duiN6cDfPDqfHXKc5oEWKUOWf5hLjTuJCj3_Sb-8y_8-KWF2AL0fxojOtirjIjFdQ-CwClJI_0iduJosyiAEnSg-ProeMSbbUWyJfeMQDt/s400/PC050411small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412469309813851394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The crazy streets of old Dhaka</span> </span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRC-7ElBb-E-AMGmEsvLi0_c6MxvLajQNGyiEhlz1DIZFChVFp_LH9ZNTb-XqD3iEH7KvfMxO4pnOQP4vrkq4R4k2J2Ad_HF5QQAKQLk9uDrKNjRKquFwXBpcYjNqpLtD3Y8B9h0pDCIn/s1600-h/PC050412small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmRC-7ElBb-E-AMGmEsvLi0_c6MxvLajQNGyiEhlz1DIZFChVFp_LH9ZNTb-XqD3iEH7KvfMxO4pnOQP4vrkq4R4k2J2Ad_HF5QQAKQLk9uDrKNjRKquFwXBpcYjNqpLtD3Y8B9h0pDCIn/s400/PC050412small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412469006328824514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">At a perfumery in Old Dhaka<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEnCHa7hqBJdhS2maCO8uPL0Rxkf6Rofx3lj9uzw37C1wNWnAt6y6VCDEnb4CsWNZQQY1fY0nzSSz2fudoC7r3Qp5JBNbn9ceuiQllmSBNObmUxrqxO2uH4V_mU-ofoFweL4CnGMtrc5s/s1600-h/electricity+small.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEnCHa7hqBJdhS2maCO8uPL0Rxkf6Rofx3lj9uzw37C1wNWnAt6y6VCDEnb4CsWNZQQY1fY0nzSSz2fudoC7r3Qp5JBNbn9ceuiQllmSBNObmUxrqxO2uH4V_mU-ofoFweL4CnGMtrc5s/s400/electricity+small.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413548483279850322" border="0" /></a>Typical Bangladesh/Indian wiring... an art not a science.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;">After a week waiting for the India embassy to issue our Indian visas so that we can continue our bike journey there - they turned our visa application down! Bastards! They rudely said we must go and get new visas in South Africa - and then chased us out of the embassy and wouldn't allow us to enquire why our visa was rejected.<br /><br />So that curveball means we're on a flight tomorrow to Nepal to try and get an Indian visa there - apparently that Indian embassy is more helpful. And then we'll be back on our way to Darjeeling to fetch our bike and our luggage and to carry on our Indian travels... unless of course we are seduced by some Nepalese adventures... </div></div>Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-1716533221079273732009-11-01T11:26:00.022+03:002009-11-04T10:48:34.625+03:00The 57 hour Express to Calcutta<div>From Manali we took two days to get to Kalka, from where we were to catch the train to Kolkata (Calcutta). Rejane had done some very diligent research and managed to figure out the fairly complicated but surprisingly efficient Indian Rail booking system. Being in the middle of school holidays, the time of Diwali and a very big festival dedicated to the Goddess Durga, all we could get were waitlisted tickets for our Kalka to Kolkata train ride. We’d been assured that since we were high up on the waiting list, we’d have no problem getting seated on the day of travel.<br /><br />We arrived at Kalka train station around 5pm and spent a hot, sweaty hour getting the bike wrapped and packed for the train trip. Then we settled in for the 3 hour wait until the waitlist charts were prepared and we’d know whether or not we had seats on the train. At around 9.30pm, when the waitlist sheets were released, we were told we had not been granted seats – it was the middle of holiday season afterall. We were then told to wait until 11pm to speak to the train station manager who might be able to organise something. At 11pm, the train station manager was nowhere to be found. Now what? The bike was already booked, packed and paid for to go onto Kolkata.<br /><br />That was when the chaos kicked in: our enquiries as to whether or not there was any way at all that we could get onto the train led to us being surrounded by several people, including the packing department guys, some police/military officers, porters and a couple of other random people all with very little English and each confidently claiming that he’d organised everything for us and knew what would happen next... each had a different story...:<br />1. we would be getting 2nd class tickets straight to Kolkata.<br />2. we would get 3rd class tickets to Delhi (about one third of the way to Kolkata) and would be given new tickets there to go immediately onto Kolkata.<br />3. we would get some ticket to Delhi and would have to wait there for a few days to get a new ticket to Kolkata.<br />4. we had to buy new unreserved class tickets for Kolkata (this option meant being squashed with an uncountable number of people on hard wooden seats for the 33 hour ride).<br /><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaB2P4U9iw47sHv8whQHP8ucgyKb10cDHatNKj8HhuvAEFxBOP-mC1FRfSFPnx28oqHax3OGkVzYQ0KEt-jS88KdYRRL2p4PJdNFfKo7mpu39J2KjVQK3-uVtvHXdtqi2AGXsWcbqr8UQK/s1600-h/PA020007.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399099679186968258" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 299px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaB2P4U9iw47sHv8whQHP8ucgyKb10cDHatNKj8HhuvAEFxBOP-mC1FRfSFPnx28oqHax3OGkVzYQ0KEt-jS88KdYRRL2p4PJdNFfKo7mpu39J2KjVQK3-uVtvHXdtqi2AGXsWcbqr8UQK/s400/PA020007.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong><em>Better not misplace those elephants...R1000 maximum liabilty claim</em></strong></span> </p>By 11.45pm we were sitting (listening at various times to whichever one of our ‘organisers’ was not running around at that point organising our tickets and/or tea) on the train station platform, hot, exhausted, hungry, not knowing whether or not we’d get on this train or not or have to find a hotel room at midnight in a small town we’d never been to before. About 5 minutes later and with 5 minutes to spare before the train was to leave and still with absolutely no idea as to what our eventual fate was to be, Dave was ushered to a desk on the platform, ordered to buy new unreserved class tickets (the class with the wooden benches that always has space for just one more) and we were ushered into comfortable 2nd class seats ...??? ...but we were not complaining... – this only took us to Delhi though. To have been in various states of limbo and confusion, surrounded by chaos for 7 hours and then for everything to turn out OK in the last 5 minutes is, well... what can I say... just a very special, very Indian experience...<br /><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGssLqhmQOHmTOq8MkcbTd2_pHcdcZPvTfyCerlgWEYB31t9GYEBGC1sISude3dz4jAgoU1WiXfv38ELuprzaUwo5xzRh8n5bXlgyInjaLY275oykZwRWqyUuE9loR5txU90E6YrBGVUPg/s1600-h/PA020008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399099672125569250" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGssLqhmQOHmTOq8MkcbTd2_pHcdcZPvTfyCerlgWEYB31t9GYEBGC1sISude3dz4jAgoU1WiXfv38ELuprzaUwo5xzRh8n5bXlgyInjaLY275oykZwRWqyUuE9loR5txU90E6YrBGVUPg/s400/PA020008.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Our bike-packing wallahs</span></em></strong></div><p align="center"> </p>We arrived in Delhi at 6am in the morning tired, lugging our backpacks, helmets and all the heavy bike stuff. No tickets to Kolkata were available for that day but we managed to get tickets to leave for Kolkata the following morning so we were forced to enjoy the Delhi chaos for a night. We arrived in Kolkata two days later – having taken 57 hours to complete what was meant to be a 33 hour express train journey.<br /><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDEc2pAo3WruV61Ah6FjzmVBwdhSjNFuM-a36FFpPcUH3zHURe62_5KsuFQdZkebr9wEK_T4x94dPZLBkd0VubbEDRFSkJsHwImb4bPJf9TmBtcKbotcPLmeSvKwDs0ajoyfhG_DlLK6c/s1600-h/PA050016.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399098803369629506" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbDEc2pAo3WruV61Ah6FjzmVBwdhSjNFuM-a36FFpPcUH3zHURe62_5KsuFQdZkebr9wEK_T4x94dPZLBkd0VubbEDRFSkJsHwImb4bPJf9TmBtcKbotcPLmeSvKwDs0ajoyfhG_DlLK6c/s400/PA050016.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>The Victoria Memorial and Museum - Kolkata</strong></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span></em></div><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong><br /></strong></span></em>As big Indian cities go, Kolkata is one of the nicest. It’s still an Indian city though, so after enjoying some especially lovely high teas and getting our Bangladeshi visas, we hightailed it out of there and headed north for Darjeeling.<br /><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmeGtEfbRjNDLy9zQzgUcWHTywZQvy9pSdE8rsXp_rqWZ637fJkIwbPxAlcjEWWnvlQreFclCYNUghYsQ6P4UjyMoWdL0KUK3vdrXPpNqKBOZ_NkMpLNR7tNp9IPuwbxTQw6PsWUMsSV0/s1600-h/PA070026.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399098801588580178" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmeGtEfbRjNDLy9zQzgUcWHTywZQvy9pSdE8rsXp_rqWZ637fJkIwbPxAlcjEWWnvlQreFclCYNUghYsQ6P4UjyMoWdL0KUK3vdrXPpNqKBOZ_NkMpLNR7tNp9IPuwbxTQw6PsWUMsSV0/s400/PA070026.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Stopping for tea under a very big, old tree on the way to Darjeeling</span></strong></em><br /></div><br />The bike ride to Darjeeling was beautiful. The lush, tropical landscape is a dead ringer for Port St, Johns on the Transkei Wild Coast. Darjeeling itself is prime tea growing area surrounded by the snow-capped Himalayas, with views of Kanchendzonga, which at 8600m is the world’s 3rd highest mountain. We got a great hotel room with panoramic views of the surrounding landscape and mountain tops and all we had to do for spectacular sunrises was to stretch over, pull open our curtains and wha-la!<br /><p><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdHGjU1xpeQjJSSIrZdppR8tYu_y6gMRhiThfIdF9Q6J2apwv0AjvSjgkFr4cGByq3fAMd7pgFUQAf8TPceqp8m9O9RxFzJQ6QXw-aU4g45CjzCaYQtNVe2GzXwxKcjxjYCgc0_TYJ_jEj/s1600-h/PA080039.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399098798057773218" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdHGjU1xpeQjJSSIrZdppR8tYu_y6gMRhiThfIdF9Q6J2apwv0AjvSjgkFr4cGByq3fAMd7pgFUQAf8TPceqp8m9O9RxFzJQ6QXw-aU4g45CjzCaYQtNVe2GzXwxKcjxjYCgc0_TYJ_jEj/s400/PA080039.JPG" border="0" /><br /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Beautiful views from the road of rice-paddies and farmers at work</span></strong></em><br /><em><strong></strong></em></div><p></p><br /><p align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfGIBjALYHmgTVT-rzwqjgId7KY__0-IxWRKvUnHnjlBHJJXrwQ6zn-tduaqcrqKaxWKyiRJ3azgnPhrDUKLRTif6KLTxi_jxIyskbUv_WZ6CMh_1lWynZNYl88RWwtEruR3q_Mkb0I9gB/s1600-h/PA260162.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399472661470607810" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfGIBjALYHmgTVT-rzwqjgId7KY__0-IxWRKvUnHnjlBHJJXrwQ6zn-tduaqcrqKaxWKyiRJ3azgnPhrDUKLRTif6KLTxi_jxIyskbUv_WZ6CMh_1lWynZNYl88RWwtEruR3q_Mkb0I9gB/s400/PA260162.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">A view from our hotel room in Darjeeling - Kanchendzonga in the distance<br /></span></em></strong></p>From Darjeeling we were on our bike again and up to the magical province of Sikkim. This used to be a kingdom under India’s protection, but a referendum in the 70’s resulted in the abandonment of the monarchy and Sikkim’s absorption into India. Sikkim is thought by many to be the true location of the fabled Shangri La, which is thought to be a derivative of Sikkim’s “Wild Alder Pass” or Sangali La. True or not, this is definitely one of the most beautiful regions we’ve ever seen (ja, we know we’ve said that before but this country just keeps on surprising).<br /><p><br />Sikkim is mountainous, but most of it is below 3000m above sea level and so it is covered with lush, pristine, indigenous forests dripping with vines, streams and rivers – some a startling bright blue, as well as all sorts of colourful flowers, butterflies and birds (including the Red Jungle Fowl – the original chicken). Towering in the west is the snow-capped Kanchendzonga.<br /><br />We headed first to the capital Gangtok which, despite being a bustling city, is still enclosed by forest – most cities are quickly deforested but somehow Gangtok’s forest has remained intact. There we spent a night before heading to nearby Rumtek the home of one of Sikkim’s most important monasteries. We stayed 3 nights at a beautiful lodge in a wood-panelled room with a balcony overlooking the forested valley.<br /><br />The lodge offered good food comprising of Tibetan/Ladakhi vegetarian meals including the ever-popular momo’s which are steamed dumplings filled with minced veggies and a lovely balcony with spectacular views from which to enjoy our meals. After a few days of veggie food, we located a non-vegetarian restaurant in the village and feasted on chicken and fish. The funny thing with many parts of both Buddhist and Hindu India is that eating meat is frowned upon and thus often only available at equally frowned upon alcohol bars. These bars generally consist of small curtained cubicles where you can secretly drink your beer and/or eat your chicken safe from the disapproving stares of the general public...<br /><br /></p><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NPzfEBF3TDVVSvxAjcdrMV9bybjp4Po688x3dKLx2GrFEJKkvjdOCGwSgviffuzO2Ay46JYBkQ9m93xk77ZTRdFzrskknNN1UDfFMVz-XASu_rjON8kfIbZBmoHPxRv_CeePKoSrZh9U/s1600-h/PA150056.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399098793839934834" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9NPzfEBF3TDVVSvxAjcdrMV9bybjp4Po688x3dKLx2GrFEJKkvjdOCGwSgviffuzO2Ay46JYBkQ9m93xk77ZTRdFzrskknNN1UDfFMVz-XASu_rjON8kfIbZBmoHPxRv_CeePKoSrZh9U/s400/PA150056.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">The working Buddhist monastery in Rumtek</span></strong></em></div><p align="center"> </p><p></p>In Rumtek we decided to explore the forest and ended up semi-lost for a few hours clambering through the thick vegetation beneath towering trees, wondering about the prevalence of tigers and king cobras in the area, until we emerged in tiny village where we walked back to Rumtek along the road. We also visited the Rumtek monastery which was colourful and filled with the usual Buddhist imagery of crazy fire-breathing monster-things and a huge statue of Buddha - for a religion without a god, Buddhism certainly incorporates a lot of other magical beings... The monastery did have a lot of positive environmental messages and was doing some good recycling work.<br /><p align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSr5x_L2AF_7Bi1thV9s3YVD7TtxvvtxUagaKZttttzKv8axTGb8rSim2UeNCWpTfBt_CEhGpE8CGQdsw1je11MFc-U2-tLpW53EX3C7Vrna2TnDjJ5fMQtgt3agbx_fRgo1NZzSGl4ctZ/s1600-h/PA150062.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399098789425387314" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSr5x_L2AF_7Bi1thV9s3YVD7TtxvvtxUagaKZttttzKv8axTGb8rSim2UeNCWpTfBt_CEhGpE8CGQdsw1je11MFc-U2-tLpW53EX3C7Vrna2TnDjJ5fMQtgt3agbx_fRgo1NZzSGl4ctZ/s400/PA150062.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Getting lost in Sikkim's lush forests </span></strong></em></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXL6kbG7tG6VRNxsSwV92_bHTQvy1xt20hA4qqhDKabncz4rjveXdgPmw6s23H5xylTUsF6jkmLxvQjJm30tZdOe90s8frtnuJMXjdQL8YriDxHZjQ3AeA-odIa3i5xY8J8zbH3dMliDhx/s1600-h/PA160065.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399097224996529906" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXL6kbG7tG6VRNxsSwV92_bHTQvy1xt20hA4qqhDKabncz4rjveXdgPmw6s23H5xylTUsF6jkmLxvQjJm30tZdOe90s8frtnuJMXjdQL8YriDxHZjQ3AeA-odIa3i5xY8J8zbH3dMliDhx/s400/PA160065.JPG" border="0" /></a> <em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Breakfast and spectacular forest views - on the balcony of our hotel room in Rumtek</span></strong></em></p>From Ravang La we travelled on to the town of Pelling which faces the mighty Kanchendzonga mountain. Here again we were blown away by the beautiful hotel room - complete with ensuite bathroom, balcony looking straight at the peaks and satellite TV - for just R80 a night… We did a couple of day trips from Pelling doing some of the best biking so far on empty roads through dense forest with the odd waterfall on to the road to keep you cool. First we visited Khecheopalri Lake, a beautiful peaceful lake filled with fish and surrounded by forest littered with prayer flags. Prayer flags are basically flags with prayers or mantras written on them that are thought to spread good vibrations to all livings beings when fluttered by the wind – nice thought, though like most superstitions completely illogical and can lead to beautiful natural places becoming defaced with millions of flags fluttering.<br /><p><br />We visited another temple called Tashiding, which was interesting, but far surpassed by the beautiful scenery on the ride there and back. After 4 days in Pelling we headed to our favourite spot in Sikkim, a brilliant homestay on top of the steepest road we’ve seen, in the village of Chakung.<br /><br /><br /></p><div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxVVyT28mE_InmYg-XWrxS1_paAwIKs4R5ntNtBWgihZFnJvr8KcgW8QpLML487MWaIk2E_gj5dnCW6cXeqWg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">VIDEO: The road to Khecheopalri Lake - forests, waterfalls, snow-capped mountain views, landslides..</span></strong></em><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtaIFlOJj4nBCvXkkbGcy5-lVqVfNAFlyKSPN_dz-x3CNnuVzamioZuyUqK38MFLVjGHH4bfCbH3EduNaoEAayA4iJz2WeJlCElwzX4d7LfP4vCNgHo2ibSMuulpba0QEW2XppGHAXxd3H/s1600-h/PA210076.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399475526157868034" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtaIFlOJj4nBCvXkkbGcy5-lVqVfNAFlyKSPN_dz-x3CNnuVzamioZuyUqK38MFLVjGHH4bfCbH3EduNaoEAayA4iJz2WeJlCElwzX4d7LfP4vCNgHo2ibSMuulpba0QEW2XppGHAXxd3H/s400/PA210076.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"> Khecheopalri Lake - surrounded by thick, indigenous forest</span></strong></em><br /></div><br /><br />The Kazi Koti homestay (<a href="http://www.kazikoti.weebly.com">www.kazikoti.weebly.com</a>) is the old home of one of Sikkim’s democracy leaders who fought the monarchy there. It is surrounded by a beautiful flower garden and working organic farm and is managed by his Grandson, Bhaila. The rooms are comfortable and the view of Kanchendzonga breathtaking. We ate meals with the family in the kitchen – with meat! - and enjoyed millet beer, a clearer version of umqombothi back home. The home had beautiful hanging chairs where we chilled drinking tea and reading books. Great spot!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOEGhX4RdywvaktEhlaMNnukpStN0eQM8_e-s59cavxwVhZ8MXo0oaWe-nh4OKpgA-ho21qFATlJ2_HT4qrpAnOqJgZv0f7Ug1kamUdK_E5WbDGQ85jZuRGKePdBWuNEsLtKP_kzv-iEV/s1600-h/PA240099.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399475525233597906" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOEGhX4RdywvaktEhlaMNnukpStN0eQM8_e-s59cavxwVhZ8MXo0oaWe-nh4OKpgA-ho21qFATlJ2_HT4qrpAnOqJgZv0f7Ug1kamUdK_E5WbDGQ85jZuRGKePdBWuNEsLtKP_kzv-iEV/s400/PA240099.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">The stunning front garden of the Kazi Koti homestay</span></strong></em><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRBgT9NwlyLi6Qxf69OVNyWqFW-y-2HWwtQKUIxqTgoNkc2fvabZUq134_BzcJP7l_JYMJCeQOeim4FSuXWayMn33RPpwJJ-k-FftLs2sNJN7JklhXE0lld17-D3F2nHsxwDlQ2BbxDqoH/s1600-h/PA240121.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399475517559207714" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRBgT9NwlyLi6Qxf69OVNyWqFW-y-2HWwtQKUIxqTgoNkc2fvabZUq134_BzcJP7l_JYMJCeQOeim4FSuXWayMn33RPpwJJ-k-FftLs2sNJN7JklhXE0lld17-D3F2nHsxwDlQ2BbxDqoH/s400/PA240121.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Relaxing in a garden swing chair </span></strong></em><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyR7sZjhD7R5SvnDe4lUvAzHPYlsP0q_q6xa4LTLdcKE_F1b3eSCnDIvgc6RBqQKFMldg4JcU3ISKk3Hr-H7PWCZew70Eb3Nlnon6Ea__fukgKPt7kwKwVkfzW6iNJN7hPJLkJ1e8NtEmn/s1600-h/PA240129.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399475513716773634" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyR7sZjhD7R5SvnDe4lUvAzHPYlsP0q_q6xa4LTLdcKE_F1b3eSCnDIvgc6RBqQKFMldg4JcU3ISKk3Hr-H7PWCZew70Eb3Nlnon6Ea__fukgKPt7kwKwVkfzW6iNJN7hPJLkJ1e8NtEmn/s400/PA240129.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">More swinging chairs, breathtaking views and beautiful organic gardens</span></strong></em><br /><em><strong></strong></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong></strong></em><br /><em><strong></strong></em></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPosZ8PYFgWziYIKWc74HtXrNS1BKM3n1hRxo-gC7_VldwXQMfvbII5JhoV-IbaNRH92fX747yypbVfnDdVc4yYwMH-AvH0qPn6GOhHtDxl2-igOoNFv6UC0tJNQONGcroy-S2qm8_l6_/s1600-h/PA250138.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399472667825964770" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPosZ8PYFgWziYIKWc74HtXrNS1BKM3n1hRxo-gC7_VldwXQMfvbII5JhoV-IbaNRH92fX747yypbVfnDdVc4yYwMH-AvH0qPn6GOhHtDxl2-igOoNFv6UC0tJNQONGcroy-S2qm8_l6_/s400/PA250138.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Making our contribution to the Kazi Koti gardens - two guava trees<br /><br /></span></strong></em></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqahPNCzF5SZZJ3Uldh8gVG6o-L9IOscQ1Mh1Ca_ctsBZxkDty3UoLih4ppkSJqcC9GbSQeyWUbXf0_pMTsYdeTaA-pRY3vBIk-VLMJzPxDT-M1PaEe3qajX8ExcrercQ8se_1nAnIFjIu/s1600-h/PA250150.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399472660860322850" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqahPNCzF5SZZJ3Uldh8gVG6o-L9IOscQ1Mh1Ca_ctsBZxkDty3UoLih4ppkSJqcC9GbSQeyWUbXf0_pMTsYdeTaA-pRY3vBIk-VLMJzPxDT-M1PaEe3qajX8ExcrercQ8se_1nAnIFjIu/s400/PA250150.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Our very hospitable family in Chakung<br /><br /></span></strong></em></div><br />After about 2 weeks in Sikkim we headed back to Darjeeling, where we left our motorbike at our friendly hotel and hopped on a bus to Bangladesh. We entered at the very north of the country at a little-used border so we were the centre of attention, attracting lots of crowds, as tourists are virtually unheard of here.<br /><br /><br />Our first night we slept in a basic hotel with big spiders and then headed to Rangpur, the first large town. Bangladesh is a very flat country with thousands of rivers in every direction. The giant Himalayan snow peaks and glaciers we visited in north India melt and flow down mostly towards Bangladesh with a third of the country looking like a giant river delta… one of the reasons why Bangladesh is so prone to flooding.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQO9W9mQzPNpPncPjjropoOK3qGKCW9xtONa6NjAIvwkb99z2t1rGAMHNpYx8znuSU5XbFVnEbdwamdGEpJXSxuYk2moW1gLiBibLutYyDhSyIp0Zjk5xTwDQRfDvs7LtowfZ9-HXmqbb/s1600-h/PA290169.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399472656614338626" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQO9W9mQzPNpPncPjjropoOK3qGKCW9xtONa6NjAIvwkb99z2t1rGAMHNpYx8znuSU5XbFVnEbdwamdGEpJXSxuYk2moW1gLiBibLutYyDhSyIp0Zjk5xTwDQRfDvs7LtowfZ9-HXmqbb/s400/PA290169.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Bicycles and 3-wheeler rickshaws everywhere - a welcome relief from the noisy, polluted traffic-jammed Indian towns</span></strong></em><br /><em><strong></strong></em></div><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></strong></em><br /><br />It is a beautiful country which feels like it is how India must have been 30 years ago. There’s very little motorised transport and the towns are filled with many thousands of 3-wheeler bicycle rickshaws which transport everyone all over the city for between R0-50c to R2 a trip. It is almost eerie travelling silently on a rickshaw amongst hundreds of others along road devoid of the very noisy traffic that India has, like a silent travel movie. Rangpur also has a new phenomenon which is the electric three wheeler taxi, a smart looking car-thing with a motorbike front which can take 4 – 6 passengers and runs on electricity. To buy, this taxi cost just R10,000 (US$1,300) and takes 8 hours to charge on a normal household socket and can cover 120km on a single charge. It’s made in China and is definitely something that other countries, including South Africa! should consider for inner-city transport.<br /><br />The rural landscape is lush green with endless rice paddies as far as the eye can see, with the odd banana grove here and there and tree-filled villages.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyUZ0HRQXavqvLsQZ-pevjCrQEkC_DodQ2hbGw7E9rOpLh5gxAtHkkxrcV-6LbQ4KQLdxXnf4lJmBAQmkD4Rg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />VIDEO: Cruising on the back of a 3-wheeler rickshaw taxi in Rangpur </span></strong></em><br /></div><br />Rangpur is a bustling university town with an awesome night bazaar filled with all sorts of weird and wonderful delights and it is where we began our street food fetish, kebabs, mini curries, breads, fruits, chai, sweetbreads - all costing just a few cents - is our standard dinner these days. While India is heaven for vegetarians, Bangladesh would be hell, there is meat in almost everything (which suits us carnivores just fine) although you have to look into the pots carefully or you could be in for a lung and tripe surprise...Other than the bazaar, though, Rangpur didn’t have much to detain us so we bordered another bus and headed to Rajshahi, another large town on the banks of the Padme river. In the evenings the riverside has a dilapidated boardwalk vibe with chai and food stalls which we’ve visited while watching the sun set across the river with India visible in the distance.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-7vcWYcpJPT3Hq8dPj1zb25Gse32orwhnbhPNKIfzjLFwWwO4tlctOH3BfHbq0jjgOHtMDJT437kteQCGz8BQWM71if8FOT91zfoQLTrpeJgYGe0BU_q0s0WYwSI1SAfgUM5BCHGAXe7/s1600-h/PA300173.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399472654670968322" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; cursor: pointer; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw-7vcWYcpJPT3Hq8dPj1zb25Gse32orwhnbhPNKIfzjLFwWwO4tlctOH3BfHbq0jjgOHtMDJT437kteQCGz8BQWM71if8FOT91zfoQLTrpeJgYGe0BU_q0s0WYwSI1SAfgUM5BCHGAXe7/s400/PA300173.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">This country is just one massive, beautiful rice paddy!<br /></span></strong></em></div><br />Bangladeshi’s are friendly people who have a standard series of questions:<br />What is your name?<br />What is your country?<br />What is your occupation?<br />What is your qualification? (Bachelor? Masters?)<br />What is the purpose of your visit?<br /><br />And Dave seems to be the man (or the badboy) for having a Bangladeshi girlfriend although sometimes Rejane is thought to be his interpreter… Dave has great novelty power here and can stop traffic by just crossing the road and can turn every head in the market with his (good? white?) looks!Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-35060081406202297022009-09-29T15:04:00.030+03:002009-09-30T16:52:19.267+03:00Darling I like you but not so fast<div>While walking around the main bazaar, a couple of days after reaching Leh, Dave says: "You know, with all these backpackers around, I wonder if we'll bump into anyone we know" ... well, this is the land where serendipity, fate and kismet actually work and about 5 minutes later, we bumped into Carlos, a Bulungula regular and Bridget, head of Eco-schools in South Africa. That was the beginning of many social lunches, teas and dinners we'd have in Leh during our 3 week stay. We used Leh as our base, stored most of our stuff at our guesthouse and explored the interesting and very beautiful mountainous region from there.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43De0VPKxvzeZ2Y4WcoGnb94_RbrpP1TBr9V7lOD58FBGNNV77G0hP6prEfPHkEcOF5TFgu4bcVVKjWbgxw-P2IyC_adRGHhBTzb4YwUbbWH8rJBFJJ8JWWL-PoRvrF4TMasbTZGuHmVi/s1600-h/photo+1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387204108571509682" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43De0VPKxvzeZ2Y4WcoGnb94_RbrpP1TBr9V7lOD58FBGNNV77G0hP6prEfPHkEcOF5TFgu4bcVVKjWbgxw-P2IyC_adRGHhBTzb4YwUbbWH8rJBFJJ8JWWL-PoRvrF4TMasbTZGuHmVi/s400/photo+1.JPG" border="0"></a> <strong><em><font size="2">Hanging with other travellers at Shanti Stupa - the town of Leh is in the background<br /></font></em></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6IQx4QpS6-qBpnYke1wogDrH5Pi7WIh5aluxRu3iFUORFhsaFJWIchDSEIWeIFxM3TpP1wN-XgYAkLuoCVK-Go9wNixfzRW1OLLioyd9IQr8ziTRjTUL4jFro-bpd1MR6Abi2phGORNx/s1600-h/photo+2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387203733839944834" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6IQx4QpS6-qBpnYke1wogDrH5Pi7WIh5aluxRu3iFUORFhsaFJWIchDSEIWeIFxM3TpP1wN-XgYAkLuoCVK-Go9wNixfzRW1OLLioyd9IQr8ziTRjTUL4jFro-bpd1MR6Abi2phGORNx/s400/photo+2.JPG" border="0"></a> <div><strong><em><font size="2">17th century Palace in Leh, modelled on the Potala Palace in Lhasa, Tibet </font></em></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><br />After a lot of aaauummmms and sun salutations at our medidation course, our first adventure was on a 5 day homestay trek in the Sham valley area, just west of Leh. The homestays are organised by the Snow Leopard Conservancy who have turned this natural home of the snow leopard into a tourist attraction and money earner for the villagers who were exterminating the leopards because of the threat to their livestock. A portion of the homestay earnings goes into a conservancy fund that provides insurance for any livestock lost to the snow leopards. In the 6 years since the programme began, the attitude towards snow leopards has changed markedly and their numbers have been growing. </div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlf2oA3qwZNDc6a7s1nZlQMIGAK3EI_GazWG2r39nk_mnc40lRd4csJ7KZ-8R1dUi_pOE90Kvhyphenhyphen0-BoeBcK58BCB2Hm3uIA0okFW-GJfs2NZ9Smp7227SEF2QGTlDEhhHzbT3usWj7UCN/s1600-h/photo+3.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387203323722255618" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlf2oA3qwZNDc6a7s1nZlQMIGAK3EI_GazWG2r39nk_mnc40lRd4csJ7KZ-8R1dUi_pOE90Kvhyphenhyphen0-BoeBcK58BCB2Hm3uIA0okFW-GJfs2NZ9Smp7227SEF2QGTlDEhhHzbT3usWj7UCN/s400/photo+3.JPG" border="0"></a> <div><strong><em><font size="2">Ladakhi women in traditional dress at the Leh Festival</font></em></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><br />Our first homestay was in the village of Ulley which has only 7 households and is situated at about 4200 metres above sea level. We planned to do some walking the following day (Rejane's birthday) but it snowed all day and we ended up huddled in the kitchen with the family eating traditional Ladakhi food, drinking lots of tea, playing cards and fooling around with the kids. We decided to stick to English tea after experimenting briefly with Tibetan butter tea, which is not a tea at all but a rich, salty, buttery soup that congeals in your cup as soon as it starts to cool. Trying to do the polite thing and gulping it down quickly is not much of a solution as it is Tibetan custom to keep the visitor's cup constantly topped up...</div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTxyQWEXRNi9x8E_r8OQCsoKdZP313sKzN89K6yKcq54E6t9eyXkRwWPDqidRVnAIOovXoHGopmd5aevF43Khpl1nJuu12n-S5Y6qDaF2CBNaBdd6qYEhCIly4J2JLgPQvDA85TzObwZf/s1600-h/photo+4.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387202847384567474" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTxyQWEXRNi9x8E_r8OQCsoKdZP313sKzN89K6yKcq54E6t9eyXkRwWPDqidRVnAIOovXoHGopmd5aevF43Khpl1nJuu12n-S5Y6qDaF2CBNaBdd6qYEhCIly4J2JLgPQvDA85TzObwZf/s400/photo+4.JPG" border="0"></a> <div><strong><em><font size="2">Don't look down! - on the way to our homestay in Ulley </font></em></strong></div><br /><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFBzj5ybSb7Eabnr33Y-qk88LYfHSNN1ghms0kw55TsvGs8Lf0l2elxP8Wj9C9vOU1JGHjRye0eH0KS5kSDloFZpg22ub5bhkLNX8WePQUg3bOlvb6Sccqi55-1aOVXVKD_Q6KwkyvXpg/s1600-h/photo+5.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387202318675511794" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFBzj5ybSb7Eabnr33Y-qk88LYfHSNN1ghms0kw55TsvGs8Lf0l2elxP8Wj9C9vOU1JGHjRye0eH0KS5kSDloFZpg22ub5bhkLNX8WePQUg3bOlvb6Sccqi55-1aOVXVKD_Q6KwkyvXpg/s400/photo+5.JPG" border="0"></a><strong><em><font size="2"> The kitchen, the warmest place in the homestead - Ulley Village</font></em></strong><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDiSYyhvIsi3ha2f2Tww3NnkVOJJuRM681iV3KAcq8U3hQD49bZVetKX0BLc9o0pK_cEDl1WyjMuETbop6vcNtwAqEDvISj1U4ptOtYS2B5faghfP7GsWcrP9sH5hdfduFpyg7-Q_jmvz/s1600-h/photo+6.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387201967395693874" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDiSYyhvIsi3ha2f2Tww3NnkVOJJuRM681iV3KAcq8U3hQD49bZVetKX0BLc9o0pK_cEDl1WyjMuETbop6vcNtwAqEDvISj1U4ptOtYS2B5faghfP7GsWcrP9sH5hdfduFpyg7-Q_jmvz/s400/photo+6.JPG" border="0"></a> <strong><em><font size="2">Stone-throwing competition - with a 5 year old...mmm</font></em></strong><br /><br /><div align="left"><br />Wow! it's cold up there and it's still a way away from the winter months. All we had for washing was a basin of ice-cold water in the open courtyard and in the snow!<br /><br />The following day was bright, although still chilly, while we hiked up to Tso Rangan - a holy lake at around 4500m above sea level. On the way back, we met the mama (ama-ley) of our house very busy in the fields getting her barley harvested - they only have a few more weeks before they get completely snowed in - bringing the short 3/4 months of growing and harvesting to an end before about 9 months of bitter cold sets in. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2udn9V2fCX0fFkOIYLYkGEYAy8pQ5dRj03JtPrrPVG7K4_FJwCxXDUn-qH1dbqmHK_qmkEZ5kqzOPdEszMgDCk7Xf1oeHZaHtJKJRTWeCNmddbt4av8xm-pFnDUSEvrutCjsRBwWqKny/s1600-h/photo+7.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387201525208034626" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2udn9V2fCX0fFkOIYLYkGEYAy8pQ5dRj03JtPrrPVG7K4_FJwCxXDUn-qH1dbqmHK_qmkEZ5kqzOPdEszMgDCk7Xf1oeHZaHtJKJRTWeCNmddbt4av8xm-pFnDUSEvrutCjsRBwWqKny/s400/photo+7.JPG" border="0"></a><strong><em><font size="2">The holy lake, Tso Rangan, after a day of snow<br /></font></em></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><br />After Ulley we had a much easier walk down to the village of Hemis - which is considerably larger (about the size of Nqileni village). There we met a group of travellers and walked with them onto our next homestay in the village of Ang where there was lots of chang, the local barley beer, being brewed. The walk to Ang turned out to be particularly challenging because we'd missed the path up the mountain slope and had to traverse a very slippery sand and skree slope on all fours! ...a bit of an adrenaline rush that makes you forget completely about how tiring the climbing is and makes you concentrate on just trying not to fall!!!<br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KO2jAE-fPRoNwA-dq0CQLY_uTYHHoEAUOXKI9h_QvmIHt6LPObPBM9rT0F8lglIoI-ANTExrUspmq-hlM3IYvDDEGUljiQjTxgGuD9NuKWWu-Puj0IB77-aQ5EsvUUQt9tDlnuXpk9kJ/s1600-h/photo+8.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386871276419536034" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7KO2jAE-fPRoNwA-dq0CQLY_uTYHHoEAUOXKI9h_QvmIHt6LPObPBM9rT0F8lglIoI-ANTExrUspmq-hlM3IYvDDEGUljiQjTxgGuD9NuKWWu-Puj0IB77-aQ5EsvUUQt9tDlnuXpk9kJ/s400/photo+8.JPG" border="0"></a><em> </em><em><font size="2"><strong>Rejane (2nd from the front) on all fours climbing the slippery skree slope...</strong><br /></font></em><br /><br /><div align="left">Back at home base in Leh, we were pleasantly surprised by bumping into some more friends from home: Mike and Laura from Buccanneers - it was a real shock and such a treat - just what were chances of meeting up with some Wild Coast neighbours here in the Himalayas! After spending a couple of sociable days with the all new people we'd met around Leh and old friends from home, we headed to Nubra Valley - over Khardung La - the highest motorable road in the world at 5602 metres above sea level (18 380 feet). The drive was fantastic with more entertaining road signs dishing out good advice to motorists: "Darling, I like you but not so Fast", "Better to be Mr. Late than Late Mr.", " Love your Neighbour, but not while Driving" and some, sharing the philosophical musings of the state's authorities, like: " Without Geography, You Are Nowhere" (good point). </div><br /><div align="left"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_86NX8-rhN11844O9JBiCjHOXpylG7PvhQLwdumC3QH0R-Veaf-o8tQTP-v4f0nSXg0QGsMVBpZCnr0xxaAeAqhhgPbs60wOwkN5uOHo414utM6dX6DGe7e8LevJSJ4Px8yfI6Ac6P6J/s1600-h/photo+9.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386870992928814162" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_86NX8-rhN11844O9JBiCjHOXpylG7PvhQLwdumC3QH0R-Veaf-o8tQTP-v4f0nSXg0QGsMVBpZCnr0xxaAeAqhhgPbs60wOwkN5uOHo414utM6dX6DGe7e8LevJSJ4Px8yfI6Ac6P6J/s400/photo+9.JPG" border="0"></a><strong><em><font size="2">On the way to the top of Khardung La</font><br /></em></strong><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW5zhHDv_HpL7qxoezPdBU8j5evl3xtJAmsosaFANEwezxjmCVyNyPZIZdy2J2MqKcSztlcCArdWGdyB3TzfIveGWesW385uJ0DsBMflELH777n1Bwzm8hQ9Gl0N4P-OHo-rTTOj99QRFN/s1600-h/photo+10.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386870178409389410" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW5zhHDv_HpL7qxoezPdBU8j5evl3xtJAmsosaFANEwezxjmCVyNyPZIZdy2J2MqKcSztlcCArdWGdyB3TzfIveGWesW385uJ0DsBMflELH777n1Bwzm8hQ9Gl0N4P-OHo-rTTOj99QRFN/s400/photo+10.JPG" border="0"></a> <strong><em><font size="2">On the top at Khardung La - highest motorable road in the world</font></em></strong><br /><br /><br /><div align="left">There was lots of snow at the top of the mountain pass but that was no problem for Dave's new, finely honed biking skills. Having reached Nubra valley we headed for Hunder, a village surrounded by desert sand dunes, for a short two-humped camel safari. </div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZFsLhmrAIgHvxsib5wEZoyb0xA3MVxtN7u8JXhD-4CN9G0xroOTQVal-xExbiRjO_cZyH96627wBwxJ12xI7tQtvnS6N4zzoI2LFkVaMqDWsxw91pciubZo8s8brkcjPVaMoMt056MTFs/s1600-h/photo+11.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386869898943859218" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZFsLhmrAIgHvxsib5wEZoyb0xA3MVxtN7u8JXhD-4CN9G0xroOTQVal-xExbiRjO_cZyH96627wBwxJ12xI7tQtvnS6N4zzoI2LFkVaMqDWsxw91pciubZo8s8brkcjPVaMoMt056MTFs/s400/photo+11.JPG" border="0"></a><strong><em><font size="2"> Two-humped Camel Safari</font></em></strong><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJG_wLrWnU0ULoW5bhyphenhyphenctffHRaluhF0v5hAAOxwvHnFRoy_f4B0NDRPtz9jz664IdBLNM90_Otckx1dJAlZJ9LRlAhTIn2HM9NtuVu4phsVJYxOYfChBUFhWmQC1GhiWsBmhWR7rfAiDaF/s1600-h/photo+12.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386869629175003330" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJG_wLrWnU0ULoW5bhyphenhyphenctffHRaluhF0v5hAAOxwvHnFRoy_f4B0NDRPtz9jz664IdBLNM90_Otckx1dJAlZJ9LRlAhTIn2HM9NtuVu4phsVJYxOYfChBUFhWmQC1GhiWsBmhWR7rfAiDaF/s400/photo+12.JPG" border="0"></a> <em><strong><font size="2">Beautiful flower garden at our guest house in Hunder</font></strong></em><br /><br /><br /><div align="left">After Hunder, we explored Panamik, another beautiful village in the valley and, having met some interesting people, decided to socialise and just chill for an extra day before heading back to base in Leh. </div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXuqx5Rz8iS8j9TPnnRx3ZFex2LoDgfAPO9q-yOuDyZxp9r-jslKLWXoY9nxs2Mh4ty7JWlfjD6F4_kAcBEHQ3KXD0SPIEDLYWru2ABXkYcZFa5f9NGPFd4icxIAVsYdNvyvh1JgvwMUQu/s1600-h/photo+13.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386869364319532802" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXuqx5Rz8iS8j9TPnnRx3ZFex2LoDgfAPO9q-yOuDyZxp9r-jslKLWXoY9nxs2Mh4ty7JWlfjD6F4_kAcBEHQ3KXD0SPIEDLYWru2ABXkYcZFa5f9NGPFd4icxIAVsYdNvyvh1JgvwMUQu/s400/photo+13.JPG" border="0"></a> <em><strong><font size="2">A few AAAaammmss on the river at Panicker Village to rebalance those chakras</font></strong></em><br /><br /><div align="left"><br />Then, after more socialising and enjoying Leh's great restaurants, we decided to explore Pangong Lake on the Chinese border. It is the highest salt-water lake in the world that lies 25% in India and 75% in China. Because we'd already been over Khardung La, the highest motorable pass in the world, we figured that going to Pangong Lake, which was on the other side of only the third highest pass in the world, would be a piece of cake. It certainly didn't cross our minds that it could possibly be colder - big mistake! Well, before we had even reached the top of the pass, we were freezing and hungry - having left without having had any breakfast. There are no villages for miles on the way to the pass and nowhere to get a cup of tea or anything to eat. In desperation, we stopped at an army base, manning the sensitive India-China border, to ask how far the next village was and to our surprise the soldiers treated us to hot tea and snacks - they must have been concerned about losing a couple of tourists to hypothermia! </div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjec6ykB7ZPMCn-63qwkbhYjnHuQDxvjIyHBiDuLgloW3hcOppeQl8ognBpYzrtimfF_ZelOZR4s18Z_un_UVpWAHZVh9Hdeq725k6OzCRvCPJ7ESvwnVQfpdp3b9H_B9LxsdIB9N4rzIqJ/s1600-h/photo+14.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386868726106308818" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjec6ykB7ZPMCn-63qwkbhYjnHuQDxvjIyHBiDuLgloW3hcOppeQl8ognBpYzrtimfF_ZelOZR4s18Z_un_UVpWAHZVh9Hdeq725k6OzCRvCPJ7ESvwnVQfpdp3b9H_B9LxsdIB9N4rzIqJ/s400/photo+14.JPG" border="0"></a> <div><em><strong><font size="2">On the road to Pangong Lake</font></strong></em> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjJX-_QPyhVxcgNhw9a3ei5tZOSABXrmHLtgd80hMIxXB1_RMw-gjfbKNNE-ICk2LntnEIeOWJ-QGWxzi5hTqFKfZeCmeOEv9AHRsIDLd0aYDItfcVQOefrr6saiwWY5NMJ2iSpVC43_b/s1600-h/photo+15.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386868484610385426" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmjJX-_QPyhVxcgNhw9a3ei5tZOSABXrmHLtgd80hMIxXB1_RMw-gjfbKNNE-ICk2LntnEIeOWJ-QGWxzi5hTqFKfZeCmeOEv9AHRsIDLd0aYDItfcVQOefrr6saiwWY5NMJ2iSpVC43_b/s400/photo+15.JPG" border="0"></a> <em><strong><font size="2">Pangong Lake</font></strong></em><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div align="left">Pangong Lake was breathtakingly beautiful but cold, very cold and the following day, as we got ready to return to Leh, it starting snowing... and we'd thought the previous day's trip had been cold... The road over the pass was covered in ice, making the bike ride a slippery one and Rejane had to get off and walk the downhills while Daredevil Dave enjoyed the slip-and-slide. </div><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7NTQTiYrnetsFky2paof9QD77vYQ5VDbjHNyKFu6lgYQzH73Sff3xj9YEqx3K8hyg0t7QqiI5ffsEd1oTj3OA0iDn8obmy8iTtaQBsv4SQ_b5G4LFdpY7NbF9fM39ek7aAqVDxE1-1FXc/s1600-h/photo+16.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386866717677977730" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7NTQTiYrnetsFky2paof9QD77vYQ5VDbjHNyKFu6lgYQzH73Sff3xj9YEqx3K8hyg0t7QqiI5ffsEd1oTj3OA0iDn8obmy8iTtaQBsv4SQ_b5G4LFdpY7NbF9fM39ek7aAqVDxE1-1FXc/s400/photo+16.JPG" border="0"></a> <strong><em><font size="2">Enjoying the icy slip-and-slide back down to Leh<br /></font></em></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><br />Leh was starting to look like a ghost town when we got back, the buses and flights were chocoblock with tourists hightailing it out of there before it got completely snowed in. We started to make our own plans to leave but not before saying goodbye to all our new friends and enjoying our last Himalayan cuisine and fruit. In our 35 years on this earth, we have simply not tasted apples until we'd tasted the organic, homegrown apples of the small farmers of Ladakh and that's not an exaggeration - Woolies kan gaan slaap. So, finally we left Leh, Ladakh, our home for more than 3 weeks and headed south, via Tso Moriri, yet another stunning lake set in a cold and stark Himalayan rural village, the scenery taking over first place for the most beautiful we've seen on the trip so far.<br /></div><div align="center"><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyBpbx27PM7cNSCwk1OQGE7d8YZrKybxhh0oH6AG9vzNo2oiOtjkJ5N8MuFSXYvoZ2Q5XJEETeBzNXWyeg6Wg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><strong><em><font size="2">VIDEO (press play!): Purple road on the way to Tso Moriri<br /></font></em></strong></div><br /><div align="left"><br />The road from Leh, south to Manali, has a voracious reputation that didn't disappoint; our bike was duly ravished and it took three days, one flat tyre and two busted shock absorbers before we reached Manali. The road although beautiful was, once again, stark and devoid of any settled villages. We overnighted in a tented camp without any toilets and little privacy afforded by the desert landscape - challenging even for a couple of Transkei locals.<br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyF9Bz_36Mm2MB3XbUbXbRfjXxemqlm2STejGNxbv_6y5Wq9faifjudD9oFGm68vdO_41G6cUMWDNiEksBTag' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><strong><em><font size="2">VIDEO: Snow Road on the Leh-Manali road</font></em></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dywFyxPoLRN4DD2iqfSnBq1jYMVbLGjHpFU1iSSBpveK_aDF9Xjo8muCVO9LH427hCHaA_w-OFv-uD6_Zy3KQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><strong><em><font size="2">VIDEO: No river is wide enough...small river crossing</font></em></strong><br /></div><br /><div align="left"><br />After 4 of our hardest travelling days yet, the landscape started to become greener and the air more moist. Our bodies were parched after the dry desert air in Ladakh where we'd had nosebleeds and skin rashes that only pure Vaseline petroleum jelly, applied twice a day (to our entire bodies) made any difference - we'd really tried everything and, yes, good old fashioned Vaseline was the only solution.<br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9MC4dMTERFFWnjG_aY3e9QSMaSmXzu1AHEzfczvdCYSZsLgaV5Xel_l_71pMBpYWulVXwDdIhG40vvgrvDkYie0PhfH2kBYNvqiR1U6bkAeluK2LiSolsrbWZQtiOUqu6qI8BsW7R-PH0/s1600-h/photo+17.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386859323389911058" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; height: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9MC4dMTERFFWnjG_aY3e9QSMaSmXzu1AHEzfczvdCYSZsLgaV5Xel_l_71pMBpYWulVXwDdIhG40vvgrvDkYie0PhfH2kBYNvqiR1U6bkAeluK2LiSolsrbWZQtiOUqu6qI8BsW7R-PH0/s400/photo+17.JPG" border="0"></a><strong><em> <font size="2">Back below the tree line</font></em></strong><br /></div><br /><div align="left"><br />In Manali we had a good rest, watched lots of cricket and planned the way forward. We have to leave India at the end of October to renew our Indian visas. Tomorrow we start heading east to explore the region called Sikkim & Darjeeling before crossing over to Bangladesh to get new visas and to explore that country for about 6 weeks.<br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8305157105927863689.post-6487443617930416472009-09-01T16:48:00.014+03:002009-09-08T14:17:36.503+03:00From a Backpacker's Paradise to Paradise on EarthAfter a very relaxing time indulging in Shimla's good food and beautiful promenades, we headed off to Daramsala, the Dalai Lama's residence in exile. In Daramsala we stayed in the little town of Macleod Ganj, a backpacker's paradise. So far, our route has taken us on the Indian pilgrimage routes and to Indian holiday towns, like Shimla, so it was nice to experience the foreign backpacker circuit for a little while. Macleod Ganj has the typical backpacker chillout-type restaurants with Tibetan, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Korean, Italian, Thai and Israeli food, several German bakeries, English breakfasts (the real deal with all the works - not easy to find in India), Continental breakfasts with croissants and lots of the local bhang going around. So we did the backpacker thing and sat around for hours talking to Tibetan monks about China’s actions towards Tibet (Dave taking the provocative side of the argument, of course), the history of Tibet and all our past and future lives. It was a busy social calendar having met up with our friend Glynnis from back home and Anke, another lovely South African, who spoilt us with our first home-cooked meal in 2 months, introduced us to their local mates and to some lovely restaurants and hang-out spots.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjl9ItdmAy4sS1zs9ob9wgHJxPvzIxle8CBW9FgfgAogelBLUSGL5hDMJ-Rp-LGN04-q7munfYudEmBqus2b-DLBeWKvSJ2yqfERbTK1kYU0GfrKJUT-KQSLoZ6w0MdBp9U-WZFp8fCfuD/s1600-h/glynnis+small.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376500804640394354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjl9ItdmAy4sS1zs9ob9wgHJxPvzIxle8CBW9FgfgAogelBLUSGL5hDMJ-Rp-LGN04-q7munfYudEmBqus2b-DLBeWKvSJ2yqfERbTK1kYU0GfrKJUT-KQSLoZ6w0MdBp9U-WZFp8fCfuD/s400/glynnis+small.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Delicious dinner with Glynnis and Anke at a Korean Restaurant in Macleod Ganj</em></span></strong> </div><br />Having managed to finally escape from Daramsala (a couple of days later than originally planned) we were off to a whole new world in Kashmir - Paradise on Earth - as we were told by one of the thousands of army guys posted there, who stopped us to take all our details on the way in. There's no need to be nervous going to Kashmir, India has literally posted personnel every few 100 meters on the 250km road in - in full army gear. In Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, we planned to find a houseboat on the lake - it's the thing to do there. There are hundreds on the lake (it's a big lake so there seems to be plenty of room for all) but with tourism still a little slow post the trouble between Pakistan and India, you have to be prepared to handle all the touts trying to get you stay on their houseboat (the first tout followed our motorbike - 8kms from the lake - shouting at us from his bike!).<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkiBbYDcNkf25wQ8XL_VYlrdc_Q6LyIL7dGmGtV71X3Vfc-T9NmAsf8izLASbc39SRZTxM7BFzE4VA-WCVzngtz1KPqq1FrAjTheiXzEnlVS6p_p3BWHJ3pJa29uH_PLxF-UakYIZX7-sS/s1600-h/P8200063.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376500792437649602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkiBbYDcNkf25wQ8XL_VYlrdc_Q6LyIL7dGmGtV71X3Vfc-T9NmAsf8izLASbc39SRZTxM7BFzE4VA-WCVzngtz1KPqq1FrAjTheiXzEnlVS6p_p3BWHJ3pJa29uH_PLxF-UakYIZX7-sS/s400/P8200063.JPG" border="0" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;"> Flipping through Satellite TV channels in the luxury of our houseboat</span><br /></em></strong></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">With Dave's tough negotiating skills we managed to find a great houseboat at a ridiculously low price - 100ft long, very luxuriously decorated with a personal butler at your service 24/7 - all for about R250 per day for both of us including fantastic Kashmiri meals! It was strange having the butler, Rajah, ready to get us anything we needed – all we had to do was shout (like the manager of the boat did) at the top of our lungs: “RaaaaJAAAAAHHHH” and tea or laundry or dinner would appear but - being boring South Africans - we’d wait around until he happened to walk by and then, having caught his eye, we’d politely enquire whether or not a cup of tea was at all possible…<br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6gTeTOeCT0xVbSEH2EvYXUlgiZCuN2x6GFZY-fjWnqpoZ5CEN472ty5N6-0FM0xIDBCkgkJYDpk__H7M1bsExXNmMNvXRF9ojKs-m20DX5CvqIRAfFNyQ6PVFmU-s5Dwo2Q-zpkFHqYl2/s1600-h/P8190040.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376500788981703666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6gTeTOeCT0xVbSEH2EvYXUlgiZCuN2x6GFZY-fjWnqpoZ5CEN472ty5N6-0FM0xIDBCkgkJYDpk__H7M1bsExXNmMNvXRF9ojKs-m20DX5CvqIRAfFNyQ6PVFmU-s5Dwo2Q-zpkFHqYl2/s400/P8190040.JPG" border="0" /></a> <em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Dal Lake at sunset from the veranda of our houseboat</span></strong></em><br /></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">The houseboat thing on the lakes in Srinagar was started by the British because the Maharaja of Kashmir wouldn't allow them to buy property there - and they really decked them out well: our houseboat was lavishly decorated with hand-embroidered Kashmiri curtains and bedspreads, hand-carved walnut-wood furniture, hand-painted vases and lamps, thick maroon carpets, fine china tea-sets and satellite TV.<br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VGZwTWlMJlY6OKrhut3yW7eTDYlO_zVltXVV0bP_ol-T4luT4OFy5RJaesqE2AODBWQAv2dlq2Lu54N5JKRL9m81bMB1ev6ctiTddCmMhBjlnUiyGo2KM23s0Tb09t61Rmf7pNqPdbCj/s1600-h/P8210071.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376497590197598290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VGZwTWlMJlY6OKrhut3yW7eTDYlO_zVltXVV0bP_ol-T4luT4OFy5RJaesqE2AODBWQAv2dlq2Lu54N5JKRL9m81bMB1ev6ctiTddCmMhBjlnUiyGo2KM23s0Tb09t61Rmf7pNqPdbCj/s400/P8210071.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><strong>Lillies on Dal Lake</strong></em><br /></span></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">The lake is peaceful and beautiful - especially at sunset although you do get bugged a lot by salesmen coming around to the boats selling vegetables, flowers, saffron, Kashmiri shawls and fabrics, painted artwork and all sorts of other things. They're really tough businessmen and you have to have your negotiating skills finely tuned - it can be pretty hard work - Dave's really good at it but Rejane just gets skinned!<br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8cg6UsDLoey6NxTenc-ovjpiikOYHGqGNvEw4o6lGhyBRfZSFKTmqZUjlvNpvK2_h3raYNmT-DHNbRxpy5OW4eIp7q3qjlH4UnWom2y289LUaGlDrDuv7AjpQvYMCYDcFHBpdSgYCGVg/s1600-h/P8210075.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376497585895654258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8cg6UsDLoey6NxTenc-ovjpiikOYHGqGNvEw4o6lGhyBRfZSFKTmqZUjlvNpvK2_h3raYNmT-DHNbRxpy5OW4eIp7q3qjlH4UnWom2y289LUaGlDrDuv7AjpQvYMCYDcFHBpdSgYCGVg/s400/P8210075.JPG" border="0" /></a><em><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Boat tour on the lake</span></strong></em><br /></div><div align="left"><br />After enjoying days on boat tours around the lakes and being thoroughly spoilt by Rajah and the family who manages the houseboat, we headed off to the eastern half of Kashmir, following the ancient silk route that crossed through Asia to Europe, passing wild looking mountain nomads with their huge herds of goats – tough looking people who traverse mountains thousands of meters above sea level to graze their animals in the short summer months and who you probably wouldn’t want to challenge to a game of Survivor!<br /></div><div align="left"><br /> </div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf0BEwdRyH5mmOFEXP20g4C59P7goGRhgXpeTWU8z8iWchzatqo-YyWkc_1hvO3zpzK-qWkxjfbSsJhPg8rorU9bUAYRk8Mch4OSz_lZmp_rL0UitMbBQl2sp5hnBRl6SvlwavY3leuzwa/s1600-h/P8230092.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376497577451605890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf0BEwdRyH5mmOFEXP20g4C59P7goGRhgXpeTWU8z8iWchzatqo-YyWkc_1hvO3zpzK-qWkxjfbSsJhPg8rorU9bUAYRk8Mch4OSz_lZmp_rL0UitMbBQl2sp5hnBRl6SvlwavY3leuzwa/s400/P8230092.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Herdsmen and their goats on the old silk road<br /></span></em></strong></div><div align="left"><br />After a tough day of bike-riding, we reached the town of Kargil, an important town during the time when the silk route was the main trading road through Asia. It’s largely populated with very devout Shia muslims – girls as young as 3 years old are covered up in burkhas. The next day, we took a detour south to the Suru valley and got our first puncture. Being a little inexperienced at motorbike tyre changes, it took a couple of hours to get it done, surrounded by curious, snot-nosed kids and very helpful local guys.<br /></div><div align="left"><br /> </div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR-K6uh5QZDHzeFmvSWglD6lIAL6wtdmC6rQv213jU2dCha0qqbeWIt0ofJkgfMlDd9at7UPY6KBOzXmlOayKR3y89nOJ0VvKSG6zbEeAUWiVfnElYLUxVrhDAV8KAu6ilwdkphWpie3ZD/s1600-h/P8240112.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376497566551818082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR-K6uh5QZDHzeFmvSWglD6lIAL6wtdmC6rQv213jU2dCha0qqbeWIt0ofJkgfMlDd9at7UPY6KBOzXmlOayKR3y89nOJ0VvKSG6zbEeAUWiVfnElYLUxVrhDAV8KAu6ilwdkphWpie3ZD/s400/P8240112.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Changing the flat tyre on the Suru Valley Road</span></em></strong><br /></div><div align="left"><br />In the morning we took the first shot at our mission in the Suru valley – to see the majestic snow-capped Nun-Kun peaks and glacier fields. We got very lost and had to try it all again the following day – but it was worth it! The views of the peaks and the valley below were just breathtaking. The villages during these summer months are just idyllic with families very busy harvesting barley and wheat crops in a breathtakingly beautiful setting. The winter months are tough, though, with the villages under snow 6 feet deep for 9 months of the year and the only way in and out is to walk on the frozen river.<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHqXXpdqUlbuyKlz37s1uFV7sW-rUCYtTZRjYQAbW1hmylHlNj0p65CFtA_XFR50ss9PpEZzcvVLrMuy-l_XOCFeT2OH9SXckrBbj9IwU6nz2Uozm0dDGfT976tCfYc3d7wuJU1VH-fdJ/s1600-h/P8260127.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376497563444243010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHqXXpdqUlbuyKlz37s1uFV7sW-rUCYtTZRjYQAbW1hmylHlNj0p65CFtA_XFR50ss9PpEZzcvVLrMuy-l_XOCFeT2OH9SXckrBbj9IwU6nz2Uozm0dDGfT976tCfYc3d7wuJU1VH-fdJ/s400/P8260127.JPG" border="0" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Views of the Valley from the mountain top</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5o2g47GaRa-9DUxamzEIdxqR2WX_1zT7Z8wb28q14Thr5wGARLwCpc4BF1WC_5c840tBkL6ebF2gq-kn8oc73JYXjoQ_NCAIizo2OCBwGM7lC7NSnB_AYB8rhw4x4A3sPSbZTogzyr4e7/s1600-h/P8260126.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376496195969499906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5o2g47GaRa-9DUxamzEIdxqR2WX_1zT7Z8wb28q14Thr5wGARLwCpc4BF1WC_5c840tBkL6ebF2gq-kn8oc73JYXjoQ_NCAIizo2OCBwGM7lC7NSnB_AYB8rhw4x4A3sPSbZTogzyr4e7/s400/P8260126.JPG" border="0" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">The Nun-Kun Peaks<br /></span></em></strong></div><div align="left"><br />We planned to carry on further into the remote Zanskar Valley, to see its ancient Buddhist monasteries but we busted a shock absorber on the motorbike and given the atrocious state of the roads, it was best to head back to Kargil to get it fixed. Despite its claim to fame as having been a major town on the old silk route, there isn’t much to see in Kargil itself so, having fixed the shocks, we headed to our next big destination –Leh, Ladakh, in the eastern, undisputed, half of Kashmir.<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9zFQlET66UJhH0kX262sfEJjOrUhx9y_jz1pj_YbDP_WBqYn_kvI6ywubw48bUJE_E-VZs1pqIhcUyMKJLThTd1M5x3lQaixnw_h7PRi3T_d1zWkZTew6Ljb46TM9bEJJiz3Ul88-0d4/s1600-h/P8270140.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376496185554402098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9zFQlET66UJhH0kX262sfEJjOrUhx9y_jz1pj_YbDP_WBqYn_kvI6ywubw48bUJE_E-VZs1pqIhcUyMKJLThTd1M5x3lQaixnw_h7PRi3T_d1zWkZTew6Ljb46TM9bEJJiz3Ul88-0d4/s400/P8270140.JPG" border="0" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Dry desert stretch on the Kargil-Leh Road<br /></span></em></strong><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE14Pn29yVkGN9I0lEXrdjGt0cz_UbnLhNv6x_WX6WvMDw4AojsCFWU1HTYnFoEg7WRl9UJMq-Ebdm2nr_3TyiiWuaujZXv5LUAgS2lh3dh27E47dqXxk868UVUp_9uXQYgkG_Umo-YM4O/s1600-h/P8270151.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376496173065529522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE14Pn29yVkGN9I0lEXrdjGt0cz_UbnLhNv6x_WX6WvMDw4AojsCFWU1HTYnFoEg7WRl9UJMq-Ebdm2nr_3TyiiWuaujZXv5LUAgS2lh3dh27E47dqXxk868UVUp_9uXQYgkG_Umo-YM4O/s400/P8270151.JPG" border="0" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Breathtaking views of the desert Himalaya mountains</span></em></strong><br /></div><div align="left"><br />On the 234kms stretch of road, the towns became less Muslim and more Buddhist, with pure white Stupas (Buddhist shrines) gleaming against the stark desert landscape. We were well above tree-line now and crossed a mountain pass 4019 meters (13479 feet) above sea level. The views were undoubtedly some of the most beautiful we’ve ever seen. We were lucky to have just missed a landslide and managed to wind our way cheekily through the traffic jam of hundreds buses and trucks, backed up while the landslide was being cleared – one of the biggest advantages of being on a bike! The mountain pass is so narrow that the huge trucks had to pass each other literally inches from the edge of the pass in order to clear the traffic jam.<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6j98RLPYhanVa1q4VAv1kfKs9aQuhb64m8gpuGfaCEqVOn8o34hMHP_48xaqaGIGHTuJ8L0ffXgIz5b71R11YwEhzPJG9yQWxoS2xRQzEgKyHAe4Bx9IkHJnYtxoFZsXIfo1n7rQ4kqt/s1600-h/P8270131.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376496167388472418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6j98RLPYhanVa1q4VAv1kfKs9aQuhb64m8gpuGfaCEqVOn8o34hMHP_48xaqaGIGHTuJ8L0ffXgIz5b71R11YwEhzPJG9yQWxoS2xRQzEgKyHAe4Bx9IkHJnYtxoFZsXIfo1n7rQ4kqt/s400/P8270131.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Psychedelic trucks passing each other with inches away from a tumble down the mountain pass!</span></em></strong><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTiTHRB9kfHX8AcECD1wg6nEOeGK77N7x_EN6b-h1i2dkppZgI31h5WwnvqaJO8z6ADdq5I_FyrTUd35_fXdD5x47UEheJDOSPBL762W-GUoeCJWQpQ-kMTjpNaIPwV_CbQPavBUtEa4Jm/s1600-h/P8270155.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376496158561416386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTiTHRB9kfHX8AcECD1wg6nEOeGK77N7x_EN6b-h1i2dkppZgI31h5WwnvqaJO8z6ADdq5I_FyrTUd35_fXdD5x47UEheJDOSPBL762W-GUoeCJWQpQ-kMTjpNaIPwV_CbQPavBUtEa4Jm/s400/P8270155.JPG" border="0" /></a><strong><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Dave on the mountain pass at 4019m (13479ft) above sea level</span></em></strong><br /><br /><div align="left">Having arrived in Leh, gob-smacked by the spectacular drive, we were further impressed by the fantastic value of the accommodation – lovely, bright rooms with beautiful flower and veggie gardens and views of the snow-capped peaks in the distance. Leh is also teeming with environmental, cultural, womens’ rights and other NGO’s that have managed to ban plastic in the town and who have made interesting documentaries about the changes (good and bad) that tourism has brought to the region. We participated in some fascinating and thought-provoking discussion groups before heading to relaxing meditation classes...<br /></div></div></div>Dave & Rejanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18402878372406138869noreply@blogger.com1