It is hot. It has been hot for days and it looks like it will continue to be hot for the next week at least.
Yesterday it was 39 degrees Celsius. It felt like I was back in Africa, a wall of sweltering heat awaiting me outside the shelter of anything shady. Today is going to be the same and tomorrow is going to be hotter.
It is on days like these that I ascend the stairs in frantic haste in order to get to the office. On my wife’s desk lies a small white device covered in buttons; the air conditioner remote control! This is the only space in my house, apart from the bottom of the pool that has the potential to be a life saving oasis.
My kids, however, seem to have more intense afternoon sport than ever. The next few days will see a number of swimming galas and cricket matches. Hours in the heat of the afternoon sun! This, after hours of heat crammed into classrooms. And then there is judo, which is just sublime. A heavy white suite, vigorous exercise, hot house of a hall, and rivers of sweat; the epitome of discomfort! I almost feel sorry for them.
Sleeping has become an exercise in Zen control. As the evening approaches, the dying wind heralds the next full force mosquito invasion. With air as thick as pulp, one slowly leopard crawls to bed, trying desperately to avoid any exertion and the resultant sweat. Now that I am wise, I no longer towel off after my cold water shower. That way the possibility exists that If I am extremely lucky, I will be asleep before the last of the cold water droplets evaporate.
So glad we invested in solar heating, although I cannot remember what we needed all of this super hot water for anymore...
Showing posts with label Africa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Africa. Show all posts
Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, March 15, 2010
Creepy
Last night I had the most exciting tickling sensation between my toes. I am tired of slapping myself silly every time it feels as if a mosquito is investigating a potential snack site. Instead I move my foot and feel proud of the way that I have mastered my self control.
The tickling continues...
I move my foot again and carry on eating my dinner. A third round of tickling and I lose my cool. When I look under the table I am greeted by a large red armoured insect, the nasty cockroach!
It did not enjoy what happened next!
The tickling continues...
I move my foot again and carry on eating my dinner. A third round of tickling and I lose my cool. When I look under the table I am greeted by a large red armoured insect, the nasty cockroach!
It did not enjoy what happened next!
At Sea
I am invited on a deep sea fishing trip by the MD of the company I am consulting to. As a consultant, I cannot say no. So I say yes! I am not a fisherman at all, and I certainly have never been out to sea to catch fish, normally I skate over them all on my surfboard.
I gingerly take a motion sickness prevention tablet the night before the trip, just as the instruction packet tells me to do. Our rendezvous at a fishing lodge on the Kwanza River, some distance away requires me to get up with the birds in the darkness, again. One normally gets up this early to join everyone else dodging traffic, so as to all be late at work together. I take another tablet and hope for the best. I do not want to spend the day at sea, puking over the side of our craft.
The fishing lodge is very rustic and beautifully nestled on the banks of this river. I pack in a good breakfast of jam sandwiches and avocado toast, as one does before setting off to sea! I am not worried about the fish; instead I am very worried about my ability to ride the waves.
Our craft is an oversized motorboat with two 150HP motors on the back. It bristles with fishing rods and tackle. I am no closer to understanding how I will fare. I need to suck it up!
We cruise up the river and then make a run through the waves attacking the shore. They are bigger than I thought, perhaps I could do some surfing in this country. The skipper mistimes a big swell and the boat is launched into the air off its top. We are weightless until we crash down behind the wave. That was fun, I can enjoy this!
Five minutes later and we are out at sea. A clear brown swathe marks the edge of the river outflow with the rest of the sea. This is where we will be fishing. Lines are tossed over the side and some bait fish are caught practically instantaneously. These are then hooked and cast out on special lines for the fish that we are hunting this morning, the mighty Tarpin! A couple of minutes later, one of the rods starts a high pitched whine as fishing line unravels at a mighty speed. Boyce grabs the rod and hangs on for life. After a good 20 minute fight, the fish lies on the water alongside the boat. It is absolutely exhausted, as is Boyce!
We take a picture of Boyce in the water with his fish. This is not a fish you find anywhere and certainly a proud fishing moment. If you are a fisherman of course! The hook is removed and the fish gladly swims off, probably keen for a sleep with its eyes open , safely locked away in its house.
Through the day another Tarpin is caught as well as plenty of King fish and two little Barracudas. Somehow I manage to bring in the Barracudas and some King fish. We release them all back into their watery home and I feel pretty thrilled about having taken part in this game of fish and hook.
Late in the afternoon we make our way back to shore. I am exhausted but excited that both breakfast and lunch stayed down the hatch! My sons will be most proud of me!
I gingerly take a motion sickness prevention tablet the night before the trip, just as the instruction packet tells me to do. Our rendezvous at a fishing lodge on the Kwanza River, some distance away requires me to get up with the birds in the darkness, again. One normally gets up this early to join everyone else dodging traffic, so as to all be late at work together. I take another tablet and hope for the best. I do not want to spend the day at sea, puking over the side of our craft.
The fishing lodge is very rustic and beautifully nestled on the banks of this river. I pack in a good breakfast of jam sandwiches and avocado toast, as one does before setting off to sea! I am not worried about the fish; instead I am very worried about my ability to ride the waves.
Our craft is an oversized motorboat with two 150HP motors on the back. It bristles with fishing rods and tackle. I am no closer to understanding how I will fare. I need to suck it up!
We cruise up the river and then make a run through the waves attacking the shore. They are bigger than I thought, perhaps I could do some surfing in this country. The skipper mistimes a big swell and the boat is launched into the air off its top. We are weightless until we crash down behind the wave. That was fun, I can enjoy this!
Five minutes later and we are out at sea. A clear brown swathe marks the edge of the river outflow with the rest of the sea. This is where we will be fishing. Lines are tossed over the side and some bait fish are caught practically instantaneously. These are then hooked and cast out on special lines for the fish that we are hunting this morning, the mighty Tarpin! A couple of minutes later, one of the rods starts a high pitched whine as fishing line unravels at a mighty speed. Boyce grabs the rod and hangs on for life. After a good 20 minute fight, the fish lies on the water alongside the boat. It is absolutely exhausted, as is Boyce!
We take a picture of Boyce in the water with his fish. This is not a fish you find anywhere and certainly a proud fishing moment. If you are a fisherman of course! The hook is removed and the fish gladly swims off, probably keen for a sleep with its eyes open , safely locked away in its house.
Through the day another Tarpin is caught as well as plenty of King fish and two little Barracudas. Somehow I manage to bring in the Barracudas and some King fish. We release them all back into their watery home and I feel pretty thrilled about having taken part in this game of fish and hook.
Late in the afternoon we make our way back to shore. I am exhausted but excited that both breakfast and lunch stayed down the hatch! My sons will be most proud of me!
Friday, March 12, 2010
Still in Traffic
I am fascinated by the world that unfolds daily outside of the car window. At home when stuck in traffic, there is little to keep ones attention bar the senseless chatter on the radio and the cramp in your right leg.
60% of the population here is under the age of 18 years old. Kids are everywhere, playing in the dirt and rubbish, carrying loads for their parents, and standing around outside their schools. Most babies can be seen strapped to their mothers backs, contentedly dreaming away the day. One just does not see old people; it is as if they have all vanished.
We drive down a road that is filled with graffiti, finger painted in the dust that cakes the abandoned cars. At its end we pass a free clinic. At least 100 woman and their babies stand around waiting for it to open. They are clothed in bright colours and even though there is a sense of desperation, there is also this joyous sense of hope.
I miss my own children. I feel as if I have abandoned them, swapped them out for a piece of Africa and 15 hour work days. I miss my wife, my other half, and hope that this trip, this small sacrifice of each other for a short time, is the right thing to do.
60% of the population here is under the age of 18 years old. Kids are everywhere, playing in the dirt and rubbish, carrying loads for their parents, and standing around outside their schools. Most babies can be seen strapped to their mothers backs, contentedly dreaming away the day. One just does not see old people; it is as if they have all vanished.
We drive down a road that is filled with graffiti, finger painted in the dust that cakes the abandoned cars. At its end we pass a free clinic. At least 100 woman and their babies stand around waiting for it to open. They are clothed in bright colours and even though there is a sense of desperation, there is also this joyous sense of hope.
I miss my own children. I feel as if I have abandoned them, swapped them out for a piece of Africa and 15 hour work days. I miss my wife, my other half, and hope that this trip, this small sacrifice of each other for a short time, is the right thing to do.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Night Driving
Traffic in Luanda gives one plenty of time to stare out of the windows and to think. I have even fallen asleep, so hard was I staring and thinking! As a South African who avoids traffic at all costs, this kind of waste makes me want to cry. Most people spend four hours a day stuck or at least barely crawling along the streets.
Tonight is the first time that I have been driven when the world is dark. It does not seem to be too much different to the day. The dust hangs thickly in the air, people crowd the streets, abandoned cars laze around as if waiting to die, not knowing that they are already long dead. Lines of tail lights stretch lazily in all directions and frustrated drivers hoot at other frustrated drivers, especially if there is a metre or two of unused road space.
Our cocoon of air conditioned comfort completely cuts us off from the smells, dirt and squalor that is Africa at both its best and worst. Yet Africa is alive out there and we are pretty much asleep in here!
Tonight is the first time that I have been driven when the world is dark. It does not seem to be too much different to the day. The dust hangs thickly in the air, people crowd the streets, abandoned cars laze around as if waiting to die, not knowing that they are already long dead. Lines of tail lights stretch lazily in all directions and frustrated drivers hoot at other frustrated drivers, especially if there is a metre or two of unused road space.
Our cocoon of air conditioned comfort completely cuts us off from the smells, dirt and squalor that is Africa at both its best and worst. Yet Africa is alive out there and we are pretty much asleep in here!
Friday, March 5, 2010
Reflections on another world
This country is nothing like I imagined it to be and yet it is Africa at its heart. Angola was a place that most young South African men would get to see down the barrel of a rifle, as they were conscripted to fight against the supposed terrorists of the South African apartheid government here in the early nineties. I was lucky enough to miss getting asked to make the trip, yet many men I know were not. One friend laughingly asked me to apologise for all the things he did up here. It was meant as a joke but I do think he was deadly serious!
I am picked up at the airport by a tall Angolan in a red cap. He was easy to spot in the crowds of people thronging the exit. Improvised hand gestures allow his Portuguese and my English to coexist in a fragile understanding of each other. I follow him; it seems the right thing to do.
I discover that in Angola one drives on the right hand side of the road. Slowly, but furiously! I had heard about Angolan traffic but its immensity and intensity did not seem to phase my red capped Angolan in the least. His route to wherever we were going twisted and turned randomly as he threaded his way along back roads through densely packed suburbs.
Little girls walk hand in hand with their mothers, their hair braided prettily with pink and white shells. School children bustle along in their sparkling white shirts over their clothes, Angolan style school uniforms. Babies heads loll in sleep on their mothers backs as mothers go about their business. Everyone looks so young. I am told that 60% of the population here is under the age of 18; old people are just not seen.
Endless rabbit warrens of dirt potholed roads wind between grey concrete block houses, a decaying low slung concrete jungle that teems with life. These are not roads, just spaces between houses and yet here I am, peeking into those houses, a part of the general menace trying to avoid traffic. We really should not be here!
Litter abounds. It is everywhere and seems as if it has been lying outside forever. It shocks me how people can live with so much rubbish heaped in mounds on the road, next to houses, and in the open drains. Paper, plastic bottles, old appliances, and thousands of old cars! The cars are the worst! I wonder if people just leave them where they break down, calmly walk home, and forget about them. Is this a city where nobody has any pride?
We happen upon a car wash. Perhaps 50 cars lined up under the attention of furiously scrubbing attendants. The ground is a greasy black marsh and unused hosepipes belch water pumped by pumps lined up on a nearby river bank. It seems a pathetic attempt to defy the elements, as it probably will not take more than a 100 metre drive to cake on the dust just as thickly as before.
We continue our dance with endless cars, pedestrians, and potholes. I stare out of my window, fascinated. The rhythm is frenetic and relentless. I have to continually remember to hang on to solid bits of the car or suffer the agony of my head trying to leave the vehicle but being stopped by the window glass, again!
Every now and then we pass an open doorway, an invitation to peer into somebody’s life. The scene does not change much, a tiny courtyard filled with junk. White plastic chairs try to look useful, but reveal little about the inhabitants.
We suddenly wheel spin aggressively onto a highway. Eight lanes of traffic jammed into a three lane road. Now we sit and wait. My red capped Angolan is very annoyed with himself; I assume he has many more back roads up his sleeve. After an eternity of Portuguese English silence, and a short stretch of highway, we are off into the obscurity of another Luanda suburb.
I hang on for dear life and wonder what a lifetime of this must feel like. I seriously wonder if I can survive for just a couple of weeks here...
I am picked up at the airport by a tall Angolan in a red cap. He was easy to spot in the crowds of people thronging the exit. Improvised hand gestures allow his Portuguese and my English to coexist in a fragile understanding of each other. I follow him; it seems the right thing to do.
I discover that in Angola one drives on the right hand side of the road. Slowly, but furiously! I had heard about Angolan traffic but its immensity and intensity did not seem to phase my red capped Angolan in the least. His route to wherever we were going twisted and turned randomly as he threaded his way along back roads through densely packed suburbs.
Little girls walk hand in hand with their mothers, their hair braided prettily with pink and white shells. School children bustle along in their sparkling white shirts over their clothes, Angolan style school uniforms. Babies heads loll in sleep on their mothers backs as mothers go about their business. Everyone looks so young. I am told that 60% of the population here is under the age of 18; old people are just not seen.
Endless rabbit warrens of dirt potholed roads wind between grey concrete block houses, a decaying low slung concrete jungle that teems with life. These are not roads, just spaces between houses and yet here I am, peeking into those houses, a part of the general menace trying to avoid traffic. We really should not be here!
Litter abounds. It is everywhere and seems as if it has been lying outside forever. It shocks me how people can live with so much rubbish heaped in mounds on the road, next to houses, and in the open drains. Paper, plastic bottles, old appliances, and thousands of old cars! The cars are the worst! I wonder if people just leave them where they break down, calmly walk home, and forget about them. Is this a city where nobody has any pride?
We happen upon a car wash. Perhaps 50 cars lined up under the attention of furiously scrubbing attendants. The ground is a greasy black marsh and unused hosepipes belch water pumped by pumps lined up on a nearby river bank. It seems a pathetic attempt to defy the elements, as it probably will not take more than a 100 metre drive to cake on the dust just as thickly as before.
We continue our dance with endless cars, pedestrians, and potholes. I stare out of my window, fascinated. The rhythm is frenetic and relentless. I have to continually remember to hang on to solid bits of the car or suffer the agony of my head trying to leave the vehicle but being stopped by the window glass, again!
Every now and then we pass an open doorway, an invitation to peer into somebody’s life. The scene does not change much, a tiny courtyard filled with junk. White plastic chairs try to look useful, but reveal little about the inhabitants.
We suddenly wheel spin aggressively onto a highway. Eight lanes of traffic jammed into a three lane road. Now we sit and wait. My red capped Angolan is very annoyed with himself; I assume he has many more back roads up his sleeve. After an eternity of Portuguese English silence, and a short stretch of highway, we are off into the obscurity of another Luanda suburb.
I hang on for dear life and wonder what a lifetime of this must feel like. I seriously wonder if I can survive for just a couple of weeks here...
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Driving, driving, driving
Took a trip on Sunday that turned out to be rather interesting. A road trip in Tanzania is not the same as one back home in the good old South of Africa. The drive to a place called Morogorro was a short 200km that took close to four hours. The main highway going East is a simple 2 lane road, jam packed with trucks and busses. To make matters more interesting, road speed is controlled through speed humps on the road at every village. There are many, many villages on this highway and so most time is spent on the lookout for unmarked humps and riding the rollercoaster when you don’t see them.
Many of the well maintained vehicles sharing the road, stop in order to effect basic repairs like changing a piston or replace a gearbox. There is no verge and so their stop is on the road. In order to prevent repairs to the rear of their vehicles, a high tech solution has been devised to warn other road users. Branches are broken off trees and placed in the road. It is then very simple, when you find yourself ploughing through a forest on the road, either swerve and take your chances with oncoming traffic or prepare to inspect the bugs on your windscreen a little more closely!
We made it through the mayhem of the highway and arrived in Morogorro. From there we headed further east for a further 60km towards the Mikhani National Park. In true African style, the highway goes right through the middle of this national park. There are no fancy gates or fences, you just drive on through and if lucky get to spot a whole heap of game. We were not lucky and instead discovered that a fire had ravaged a great portion of the place. We turned right to do a bit of our own exploring and were pleasantly surprised by a herd of elephant, hippo and a suckling baby giraffe. At a peaceful waterhole we fished out our special lunch of tuna and crackers. None of the wild beasts seemed remotely interested.
On leaving the park, our car developed amnesia and forgot how to work any of its gauges. We thought that pretty strange and pushed on home regardless. We made good progress until we were about 100km away from home. The car lost all of its power and so like good men we debated the merits of turbo engines. We then debated the merits of stopping at a garage and like good men decided to take our chances on making it home. The car decided otherwise, spluttered, wheezed and died at the garage exit. I got to push it back onto the garage forecourt and there it stood for the next couple of hours soaking up the Chillensi darkness.
Our eventful day trip, which some would consider a prolonged streak of madness, took an interesting turn as we cooled our heels in a Nyama Choma (translated as bits of meat – which is the local delicacy), drinking Bitter Lemon. We tried our hand at applying our advanced mechanical skills to resolve the cars health issues. Unfortunately our revival efforts failed dismally car and we resorted to reading by overhead light pollution. Surprisingly the mechanic showed up and ruined our chances of a free night’s accommodation curled up in the front seat! A simple battery switch and we were back on the road again, all the way back to out hotel. The next morning the car was as dead as my USA presidential campaign, again!
A sore butt, the memory of ten hours of driving, and a few cracker photographs were all we had to show for our day out. Just another day in Africa!
Many of the well maintained vehicles sharing the road, stop in order to effect basic repairs like changing a piston or replace a gearbox. There is no verge and so their stop is on the road. In order to prevent repairs to the rear of their vehicles, a high tech solution has been devised to warn other road users. Branches are broken off trees and placed in the road. It is then very simple, when you find yourself ploughing through a forest on the road, either swerve and take your chances with oncoming traffic or prepare to inspect the bugs on your windscreen a little more closely!
We made it through the mayhem of the highway and arrived in Morogorro. From there we headed further east for a further 60km towards the Mikhani National Park. In true African style, the highway goes right through the middle of this national park. There are no fancy gates or fences, you just drive on through and if lucky get to spot a whole heap of game. We were not lucky and instead discovered that a fire had ravaged a great portion of the place. We turned right to do a bit of our own exploring and were pleasantly surprised by a herd of elephant, hippo and a suckling baby giraffe. At a peaceful waterhole we fished out our special lunch of tuna and crackers. None of the wild beasts seemed remotely interested.
On leaving the park, our car developed amnesia and forgot how to work any of its gauges. We thought that pretty strange and pushed on home regardless. We made good progress until we were about 100km away from home. The car lost all of its power and so like good men we debated the merits of turbo engines. We then debated the merits of stopping at a garage and like good men decided to take our chances on making it home. The car decided otherwise, spluttered, wheezed and died at the garage exit. I got to push it back onto the garage forecourt and there it stood for the next couple of hours soaking up the Chillensi darkness.
Our eventful day trip, which some would consider a prolonged streak of madness, took an interesting turn as we cooled our heels in a Nyama Choma (translated as bits of meat – which is the local delicacy), drinking Bitter Lemon. We tried our hand at applying our advanced mechanical skills to resolve the cars health issues. Unfortunately our revival efforts failed dismally car and we resorted to reading by overhead light pollution. Surprisingly the mechanic showed up and ruined our chances of a free night’s accommodation curled up in the front seat! A simple battery switch and we were back on the road again, all the way back to out hotel. The next morning the car was as dead as my USA presidential campaign, again!
A sore butt, the memory of ten hours of driving, and a few cracker photographs were all we had to show for our day out. Just another day in Africa!
Monday, October 6, 2008
Baobabs and Action
I travelled recently to a small town in the rural North of Tanzania, called Kahama. The drive was two things for me; Baobabs and Action!
I am not sure if you have seen a Baobab in person, but it is truly a majestic sight. Most of them while being absolutely massive and easily able to substitute as the space within the ring a roses circle of any pre school, are also seemingly deformed. I found my eyes drawn to them almost like the rubberneckers at any accident scene. Either way they seemed to exude an ethereal beauty, standing tall in a country side of very short stuff. Perhaps it was their sheer bulk, or their timelessness as they seem to have been standing there long before time but, I want one in my garden! Maybe two....
We passed a lot of baobabs and then we found ourselves there. The town was busy and packed with people. People were not just ambling along, instead they moved with a sense of purpose. The streets were a blur of colour as people darted and wove to get ahead.
A restless activity pervaded everything. Some were digging out sand to make bricks to build their own houses. Others were cutting thatch to roof those houses. Some pedalled their bicycles furiously with the load of a passenger. Sometimes two passengers and sometimes those passengers were goats. Still others strained in front of carts loaded high and heavy with stuff. Their well defined muscles, glistened with sweat, and spoke of a life of consistent toil.
Here one cannot sit on the corner and expect that food will miraculously appear, or a shelter just raise itself above your head. Here there are no rich benefactors or tourists with bulging wallets. Instead, life comes down to you alone. If you are not prepared to make your own difference, nobody else is going to do it for you.
In Africa there is no time for idleness. If there is no food on the table, you starve and then you die!
I always thought that I could carve out a life of ease for myself. My stint at home this year has certainly opened my eyes to the joys of surfing at my leisure. Surf bum may not sound like a great occupation, but it certainly felt like a good life!
Africa has taught me many lessons, but the one that really struck home has been the value of hard work. Me, bobbing on my surfboard in the beautiful Indian Ocean does not seem right when billions around the world slave to put morsels on the table to feed their families. Surely I can do better than that?
I am not sure if you have seen a Baobab in person, but it is truly a majestic sight. Most of them while being absolutely massive and easily able to substitute as the space within the ring a roses circle of any pre school, are also seemingly deformed. I found my eyes drawn to them almost like the rubberneckers at any accident scene. Either way they seemed to exude an ethereal beauty, standing tall in a country side of very short stuff. Perhaps it was their sheer bulk, or their timelessness as they seem to have been standing there long before time but, I want one in my garden! Maybe two....
We passed a lot of baobabs and then we found ourselves there. The town was busy and packed with people. People were not just ambling along, instead they moved with a sense of purpose. The streets were a blur of colour as people darted and wove to get ahead.
A restless activity pervaded everything. Some were digging out sand to make bricks to build their own houses. Others were cutting thatch to roof those houses. Some pedalled their bicycles furiously with the load of a passenger. Sometimes two passengers and sometimes those passengers were goats. Still others strained in front of carts loaded high and heavy with stuff. Their well defined muscles, glistened with sweat, and spoke of a life of consistent toil.
Here one cannot sit on the corner and expect that food will miraculously appear, or a shelter just raise itself above your head. Here there are no rich benefactors or tourists with bulging wallets. Instead, life comes down to you alone. If you are not prepared to make your own difference, nobody else is going to do it for you.
In Africa there is no time for idleness. If there is no food on the table, you starve and then you die!
I always thought that I could carve out a life of ease for myself. My stint at home this year has certainly opened my eyes to the joys of surfing at my leisure. Surf bum may not sound like a great occupation, but it certainly felt like a good life!
Africa has taught me many lessons, but the one that really struck home has been the value of hard work. Me, bobbing on my surfboard in the beautiful Indian Ocean does not seem right when billions around the world slave to put morsels on the table to feed their families. Surely I can do better than that?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
HOME Bru in Lusaka
I am an African!
I wrongly believed that South Africa was really the place to be in Africa. But it now seems to me that my home country is really just Africa light! To my amazement, I have discovered that the lands further north are full of interest and allure.
I was privileged to spend most of last week in Lusaka in Zambia. Just as Accra in Ghana surprised me, so too did Lusaka! It was not the deepest darkest Africa that I have imagined for all of my life. Instead I could have been in Nelspruit.
As usual, I got to go and see places that no tourist would ever get to see. My immersion into the local culture was completed this time with a stop in a bar. To be honest, we did not stop in only one bar, after all we were there to understand the retail liquor trade. This particular bar was in a very poor area but what made it special for me was that we stopped in an tested their local brew.
Africa is not the cleanest place and this bar was no different. Their Chibuku was brewing in a big blue drum. When we asked for a tester, we were given the bottom end of an old plastic milk carton. The communal cup! There was no way I was going to touch the thing for fear of a thousand different and equally vial disease possibilities. Then, I was handed this magnificent receptacle. And like any good boy, I lifted it to my lips and drank to the cheers of all the locals.
Oh, it was vile! Yet this is considered something worthy of a breakfast drink! The equal to orange juice, I think not!
I am still alive today, none the worse for wear. I am also a little less sceptical about dirt and disease, and am ready to meet my next home brew with far more anticipation!
I wrongly believed that South Africa was really the place to be in Africa. But it now seems to me that my home country is really just Africa light! To my amazement, I have discovered that the lands further north are full of interest and allure.
I was privileged to spend most of last week in Lusaka in Zambia. Just as Accra in Ghana surprised me, so too did Lusaka! It was not the deepest darkest Africa that I have imagined for all of my life. Instead I could have been in Nelspruit.
As usual, I got to go and see places that no tourist would ever get to see. My immersion into the local culture was completed this time with a stop in a bar. To be honest, we did not stop in only one bar, after all we were there to understand the retail liquor trade. This particular bar was in a very poor area but what made it special for me was that we stopped in an tested their local brew.
Africa is not the cleanest place and this bar was no different. Their Chibuku was brewing in a big blue drum. When we asked for a tester, we were given the bottom end of an old plastic milk carton. The communal cup! There was no way I was going to touch the thing for fear of a thousand different and equally vial disease possibilities. Then, I was handed this magnificent receptacle. And like any good boy, I lifted it to my lips and drank to the cheers of all the locals.
Oh, it was vile! Yet this is considered something worthy of a breakfast drink! The equal to orange juice, I think not!
I am still alive today, none the worse for wear. I am also a little less sceptical about dirt and disease, and am ready to meet my next home brew with far more anticipation!
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