The Age VCE and Careers Expo 2010 Visitors Guide, page 24

Thanks very much to Jane Cafarella for writing this article! Click here for the online version.

Next Saturday, the 13^th of March, ‘those dreaded locks’ will be no more. As part of my attempts to raise money for important development initiatives in Africa I will be going completely bald. Sponsor money raised will go towards the organisation MASLIM. (See bottom of article for more details) With this in mind I think it is fitting to look (not ‘lock’) back on the trials and tribulations of having long hair…

The idea of returning home from Africa with a ‘well-travelled’ appearance to surprise my family was on the cards from the very beginning. Darrell asked me to promise him that I wouldn’t attempt to grow facial hair, while Mum gave me strict orders to see a hairdresser at least once a month. But when you’re halfway around the world you aren’t bound by the restrictions that home-life throws at you. In contrast you’re free to do whatever you want. Potentially this principle could have seen me become any of the following: alcoholic, avid party-goer, Nigerian drug lord, South African witch doctor, Somalian pirate or perhaps even a Masaai tribesman. Subsequently the act of growing my hair a little longer than usual doesn’t seem so bad, does it?

For obvious reasons I didn’t publically disclose much information about my hair growing progress to anyone at home. In fact I intentionally created suspense in at least two of my blogs by revealing that some form of surprise was awaiting them. Furthermore in a Skype video call to my parents I assured them my computer was webcam-free. Some were inclined to believe that I had become a father of a little African Kevin. I was quick to dismiss those accusations. Below is the uncensored story of my hair, as I figure that from Saturday onwards I won’t get much of a chance to tell it anymore.

My quest to attain dreadlocks was more complicated than I imagined it to be. No local hairdressers provided an adequate hairdressing service. The students in my class decided to have a crack, but their efforts failed due to the inappropriateness of my silky smooth straight hair (“Ohh, you’re hair is so beautiful! Is it real?” they would ask me after running their hands through it).

A trip to Swaziland saw better fortunes. As part of a traditional tour of the country I requested to be taken to a hairdresser. Having paid a bucket load for the overnight excursion I figured that I may as well make use of the chauffeur service and be dropped off at Manzini’s internationally renowned salon ‘The Dreadz Master’. Entering the shop felt a little surreal – one of my main African goals was about to finally be realised. However my anticipation was thwarted a minute later when one of the hairdressers gave me one quick glance and concluded that giving me dreadlocks was simply not possible. Immediately I gave up on my hopes and dreams and walked away dejectedly, however my tour guide evidently had a more fighting spirit. A few minutes of negotiations convinced them to call their head honcho, a guy who had previously dealt with extreme cases similar to me.

Thirty minutes later this supposed expert was still yet to arrive and once again I felt the weight of defeat. But lo and behold moments before I decided to walk out he appeared and brought me good news of great joy.

Two hours and five hairdressers later I was a new person. No longer was I Daggy Kevin, the kid with the unfashionable mop, but Slightly Cool Kevin, with hair that somewhat resembled dreadlocks.

This transformation process was painstaking and tedious but certainly worthwhile. It began with Celmusa – the head honcho – grabbing chunks of my hair, smothering them in ‘gel wax’ and twisting them in circles using his specialised comb. He continued this process for the next hour or so, slowly converting my Beatles-esque doo into a paddock of spikes. A second hairdresser came to the fore and was given the responsibility of tying up each of these individual chunks of twisted hair with bits of string. At one point a third hairdresser was on my case, which was slightly troubling (Was I going have to pay each of them separately? After all, how was I to know? This was my first time at a hairdresser in… well, my whole life). To finish off Celmusa returned to style my hair, but upon realising that he had made me look like a complete tool I refuted his work and asked him to simply make it look messy.

Braving the internal heat of the building and a ferocious storm outside I managed to get away with paying R200, the equivalent of about $30. At the time I didn’t know whether I had gained a bargain or had been ripped off, but word on the street says that the same process would have cost $200 in Australia.

Since that day – Monday November the 9^th for those who are interested – I have temporarily assumed a new identity, or at least some individuals have begun perceiving me a little differently. My fellow volunteers, teachers and students were once again lining up to touch my hair while random passers-by would often comment on how nice it looked. However honeymoon periods don’t last forever.

After a month of not washing it I returned home to surprise my family and friends at Melbourne airport. Within minutes my Mum – who, bare in mind, had not seen me in 8 months – was plotting ways to get rid of it and commenting on how disgusting she thought it was. The next day, upon finding out that I hadn’t washed it she was remarking about its foul smell. Nobody else seemed to notice this smell. Perhaps I just have nice friends?

Ironically washing my hair initiated a downward spiral. No longer did I own dreadlocks, but really long and messy hair. It reached the stage where I had to begin wearing a bandana, the only logical way of keeping it out of my eyes (I couldn’t manage to fit a hat on my head and the Velcro strip on the back of baseball caps had a tendency of pulling my hair apart). The bandana craze is still yet to take out, however I am yet to give up hope that I might have reignited this forgotten and highly underrated fashion.

My recent decision to have my hair shaved off was affirmed as the most suitable option one day when I was walking home from the shops. Upon gazing into the window of Cash Converters I noticed my mirror image reflection. I was looking at a boy with a mullet: a disgusting, disorderly, derelict mullet.

You can’t get a better reason for a haircut than that.

Arguably becoming bald is a more obscure fashion statement than gaining ‘dreadlocks’ but fashion has never really been my forte anyway. On the contrary my intention is raise some money for people that genuinely need it. From my time abroad I have learnt that financial contributions from overseas can do a lot in assisting the less fortunate and that is something I have since become very passionate about. MASLIM – an organisation that runs from Monash University – supports a variety of community initiatives in rural South Africa, and is certainly a worthy cause.

If you would like to sponsor me, I have set up a bank account dedicated to this event.

Alternatively if you don’t feel comfortable with that I can give you details for MASLIM’s account. Note that this is not tax deductable, if that means anything to you.

Furthermore if you are interested in coming along to watch it all take place, details can be found at http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/event.php?eid=340611244582

Alteratively, enjoy this video montage of my time in Africa:

Jane Furse / Marble Hall / Midrand / Johannesburg (South Africa)
Perth / Melbourne (Australia)

“I’ve been to cities that never close down,
From Jo’burg, to Jinga, and even Stone Town.
But no matter how far, or how wide I roam,
I still call Australia home.”
-         Peter Allen, after his 8 month trip to Africa

Living in deepest, darkest Africa can often make you feel like you’re living in the past. Technology is obviously not as advanced, education standards are inconsistent while living conditions are sometimes deplorable. Furthermore much of Africa is at least nine hours behind Melbourne, giving you that constant impression that you’re not quite up to speed with what’s going on abroad. Flying back to Melbourne meant I could finally put history behind me and start looking towards the future…

Returning home was far from a one-step process. On the contrary it took me over a week to get from my placement to the beautiful surrounds of my bedroom. Step one was the hardest part – saying goodbye to St Mark’s College.

In typical fashion, Mpho arrived late and received a speeding fine during his drive from Jane Furse to Johannesburg, however his swift door-to-door service should not be condemned; I have complete respect for anybody willing to drive me four hours for no charge.

To be honest, there is not much to write home about in regards to my ultimate week in Africa, however it would be a mistake to erase it completely from my travel memories. Based at the home of the Colletts in Midrand – where I had previously been accommodated in July – I spent my final days compensating for my prior lack of internet, sleep and Nine’s Wide World of Sports. My brother – deep in the jungles of Mozambique may have frowned on my perceived laziness – however after eight long months of ‘experiences’ I couldn’t handle another adventure. I just needed to relax.

The week in Jo’burg also allowed me to complete my grand assignment of Africa, which was of course… what, you don’t know?!?

Recently in the media there has been much debate concerning the moot issue of ‘What was the intention for Kevin’s eight months abroad?’  Well, now I can boldly reveal that the reasoning behind my trip to Africa was not related to curing diseases, nor eliminating poverty or even sabotaging the South African cricket team. On the contrary, KevInAfrica was merely the consequence of writer’s block; I desperately needed inspiration for some new songs. In Midrand I managed to put the finishing touches on a few tunes before I unleash them on the Australian populous. (Watch out for Kevin Hawkins Trio’s ‘Sounds of Africa EP’, set for release in late 2013.)

Just when I was beginning to forget that I was still in Africa one final piece of drama managed to fit its way into my itinerary. An airport is generally not the most ideal setting for tension, but there was little I could do.

Upon arriving at OR Tambo airport at 5pm I was more than prepared for my 10pm flight. A slight shock came my way when the departures board revealed that my flight was due to leave at midnight, however a confident employee at the check-in assured me that no delays had taken place. Four hours later news came through that the flight had indeed been postponed by two hours. You’re probably wondering ‘So what? Another 2 hours in Africa isn’t going to kill you, is it?’ but it was much more complicated than that, as my flight was Perth-bound; this new arrangement meant that I would have less than an hour in Perth to go through immigration, baggage claim, customs, airport transfers and various check-ins/baggage checks required for my Melbourne flight. TIA (This is Australia?).

Thankfully all was resolved ten hours later; conveniently another thirty people were in the exact same scenario as me. A sick Singaporean boy inadvertently delayed the Melbourne-bound aircraft by almost an hour, allowing everybody to board. A sigh of relief came to my face. Now that I was back in Australia; surely nothing could go wrong, could it?

The last time I played a significantly well-planned prank I almost ruined a couple of close friendships and became grounded. Hence this time around I was a little more careful to tie up the loose ends. As part of a big surprise I informed my family that I had recently shaved my head. Furthermore when I left the domestic terminal at Tullamarine I donned a pair of sunglasses and walked straight past the mob awaiting my arrival. The plan of walking past everybody unnoticed failed horribly, however my Mum’s reaction to my wild hairstyle – which, for those who haven’t seen me since my return, is the antithesis of a bald head – made it all worthwhile.

Being greeted by a generous crowd of church friends was a delightful way to recommence my life in Melbourne. The chance to re-acquaint myself with such close companions was quite a weird experience; despite having been separated for so long it was somewhat easy to converse with these strangers with vaguely recognisable faces. Huge thanks go to Ellen, Bek, Grace, Nick, Steve, Luke, Zoe, Xanthe and, last but not least, Mum!

Re-adjusting to a lifestyle that is so familiar yet different has likewise been uncanny, yet not as difficult as I imagined it to be. My first week back seemed to last forever; my busy schedule of trying to catch up with as many people as possible whilst trying to sort through the many kilograms of souvenirs gave me little chance to rest, not to mention an incredibly messy bedroom. Invitations to speak at public events, a brand new summer at Campion and a bit of modelling on the side have since added to the noise, however at the moment the number one priority is simply trying to settle down and re-gain my bearings. In unrelated news I returned to discover that the Australia post service was on strike. Perhaps Australia and South Africa aren’t so different after all…

* * * * *

Given all that has happened over the past eight months, there are obviously a few questions that need answering. The most obvious one is ‘How have I changed?’ Has eight months away from home changed me for better or worse? Have my values, perceptions, ideas and opinions been moulded by my experiences, or am I still just the same sarcastic kid I was in April?

To put everything in perspective eight months is an incredibly long time. Before I left Michael Jackson was a living legend, swine flu referred to when pigs gets cold, and Metro was what you called people who dressed a little too fashionable. Meanwhile Melbourne was on the bottom of the ladder and Australia was looking vulnerable in the cricket… I guess some things just don’t change!

In answer to the question I am actually not sure. Having lived with myself for the last eight months it’s obviously hard to notice subtle changes, while during my first week back people don’t seem to have noticed any significant differences in my behaviour or personality. Internally, however, I sense that Africa has enabled me to mature in terms of confidence and independence. From a worldly perspective I now rely less on ignorant perceptions and stereotypes; I’d much rather make my own judgement about people and places than gain my opinions from secondary sources. My initial objectives of broadening my comfort zone and challenging myself have certainly been met; the concept of travelling to a foreign culture no longer scares, but excites me.

The other question on everybody’s lips – or at least every African’s lips – is ‘What next?’ Will I return to Africa in the near future, or have I fulfilled my Africa fix for the rest of my lifetime?

As I revealed to many South Africans that I wouldn’t be returning for next year’s World Cup, confusion and shock overwhelmed them. In fact, I probably won’t be returning for a long time; expenses and the opportunity to discover the rest of the world currently stand in my way. Nonetheless it’s impossible to predict how the cards fall; for all I know I could be back in Africa in a few years time. After all, I’ve merely seen parts of the sub-Saharan region; the northern riches of Egypt and Morocco, in addition to the often-forgotten west still remain unseen by my young eyes.

I still intend to explore the roads less travelled before coming in contact with the rest of the Western World or Africa though; the intriguing options of South America, South-East Asia and perhaps even the Middle East are probably the next items on the menu. Regardless, my eight months in Africa were hopefully just an entrée. I’m pumped to see the entire world because, the ways things are going at the moment, there’s only so much time left.

South Africa is like a Rubik’s cube. Hard to solve, full of hope, colourful, yet dangerous. With an insane history comprising of an unbelievably racist apartheid policy and a couple of wars the nation of South Africa has some pretty severe scars, however about a decade and a half ago some guy by the name of Nelson tried to heal them. Now, in the year 2009, one can sense that there is still tension lurking somewhere however the focus is now on the future, and on next year’s World Cup.

Over here, you would have to be living under a rock to not be aware of the events unfolding in 2010. In fact, even a rock dweller would be 2010-conscious such is the hype and noise (created by annoying vuvuzelas) surrounding the coming year’s festivities. Despite South Africa’s incompetence in the world of soccer (Bafana Bafana – the national squad – will almost certainly be knocked out in round one) next year’s World Cup brings with it much anticipation. It’s a chance for the world to see South Africa as a prospering, first world nation rather than an eclectic landmass with an identity crisis.

My five months in South Africa were spent in a variety of places. Gauteng – the province home to crime-ridden Johannesburg and the safer capital of Pretoria – was my home for roughly a month and it was here that I witnessed the white-dominated, richer side of the country. Here, the rough and disgusting language of Afrikaans is spoken (think a sick love-child of German and Dutch) by diehard rugby supporters, however I prefer to remember this part of South Africa differently. While friendly locals go by their daily lives in the northern suburbs, protected by electric fences and security, the dangers of the city centre and Soweto lurk beneath. While I may not have seen any violence, crime or severe poverty it is understandable why many living in first-world Johannesburg prefer to remain relatively isolated from the horrors down south. The city does, after all, have a reputation for being the world’s most dangerous municipality.

Hence Jo’burg is a multi-dimesional city; a drive from one end of town to the other may take you two to three hours, however on the way you can witness astounding contrasts. Some elements – such as the high walls surrounding properties and the homeless people handing out flyers on the street – remain constant the whole way down, but the quality of living evidently decreases the further south one travels.

The province helps paint a much broader picture of the entire country in that vast differences exist practically everywhere. It’s hard to believe that poor people from small villages – where traditional healers and abortion clinics are the easiest shops to find – consider South Africa to be their home just as much as businessmen from Cape Town or Durban do. Many of those living in the bigger cities may admit to not living in the real Africa; it’s the seemingly forgotten towns in Limpopo and Mpumalanga that people are more likely to associate with women carrying bags on their head, crowded minibuses, wild animals and general dodginess (TIA kind of stuff).

Many travelers believe that living in South Africa can potentially make you more racist, and I can somewhat see where these people are coming from. In saying that, it really depends on who you hang out with while you’re here. As shocking as it is, there are still many white people who are intolerant of black people, and these individuals – who have spent the majority of their life in an apartheid era that offered them many privileges – are more likely to deliver a cynical, negative view of the country.

For example, the first South African I spoke to was a taxi driver who lived in Gauteng. She was a very nice lady, but her pessimism about the nation and its political situation (the president being accused of rape prior to his induction) was infectious. She made me believe that this beautiful country was on the verge of crashing like Zimbabwe and that Mandela’s imminent death could potentially bring rebellion and nationwide violence. Personally I don’t understand what motive any person could have for ruining South Africa – a country that is about to be placed on a pedestal in front of the entire world. I pray to God that Zuma is more of a Mandela than a Mugabe.

Speaking of God, religion is an interesting element of South Africa. It seems that most countries well-developed in terms of infrastructure and technology are predominantly atheist (in that civilians worship materialism and celebrities in place of a divine being), while countries of famine, poverty and disease seem to see the light. As South Africa combines the ‘best’ of both worlds there is subsequently a mix in beliefs. Nominally the nation is predominantly Christian and from what I’ve witnessed I would agree, but then again I spent 90% of my time teaching at a Christian school and working at a church so I’m probably not the most objective judge.

The ZCC – the fastest growing African church – is an interesting case as it combines the fundamental beliefs of Christianity with those of ancestral worship. This peculiar mix and match approach is popular amongst many South Africans, however some of their practices are perceived with disapproval by the remainder of the nation.

Perhaps the country’s most intriguing aspect is sport, with races divided by different codes. In response to apartheid, quotas were introduced that required at least one non-white player to be represented in the rugby and cricket squads. Thankfully these unintentionally racist regulations (that seemed to highlight discrimination rather than embrace unity) are no longer in place, however it is evident that different race groups place their allegiances in different games.

The ‘world game’ of soccer is of course supported by almost everybody, however matches seem to only be attended by blacks. Similarly rugby draws huge crowds, but the crowds are almost always dominated by whites. Cricket – being the world’s greatest sport – is possibly the most multi-racial contest; the black, white and coloured populations are well represented in both the national team and in the spectators.

As much as people try to deny it race relations and discrimination (whether it be racist or not) still play a huge part in this country. What is reaffirming, though, is how cross-cultural relationships are no longer uncommon. Seeing white and black children playing together is a positive step forward in the right direction. It may take a whole generation, or even two, for all racial tension to be eliminated but at least the future is bright.

Disregarding the politics and racial differences South Africa is an absolutely beautiful country. Not many nations can boast both skyscrapers and safaris; malls and mudhuts. It’s a land of versatility, positivity, and pride that shouldn’t be cancelled off your travel wish-list just because of an unfriendly reputation. It tends to be only the bad stories that are heard, but here’s an exception: I spent five months here and had an incredible time; I met amazing people, witnessed unbelievable natural wonders and did not come across any crime. But don’t take my word for it; why not check it out for yourself?

1.  GO ON SAFARI
Travelling to Africa and not going on Safari is like going to the cinemas just to watch the trailers. It’s like cueing up for a Grand Final ticket just to keep it as a souvenir. It’s like going into space and sleeping for the entire journey. You get the point.
I was fortunate enough to visit seven different game viewing areas on my travels, in addition to seeing wildlife at half a dozen other venues. It doesn’t matter how many zebra or ‘bloody impala’ you see, watching wild animals is an incredible experience, even if you’re not a nature fan. While not as authentic, many major cities offer other interactive wildlife activities such as walking with lions, kissing giraffes or trekking for monkeys, but in my opinion the real thing is a million times more rewarding. Just don’t go to the zoo and claim that you’ve seen the big 5. Not cool.

2. BARGAIN AT THE MARKET PLACES
Prior to my trip the extent of my bargaining experiences took place at Cash Converters and a variety of op-shops. Africa is much different, as you don’t bargain something a few cents down; you halve, if not quarter, the price. Perfecting one’s bargaining technique can be tricky, but once refined enough you will be able to purchase whatever you want for the price you are most comfortable with. Some of the little curios on offer are amazing, from clocks made of beer cans to rhinos made of candle wax, hence simply exploring these stores are a treat. However make sure to think up some alibis before you enter the marketplace, otherwise you will definitely leave with a thousand little knick-knacks you never wanted.

3. GO WALKABOUT
There is no denying that there is an unsafe element to some African streets, but in saying so Melbourne’s no paradise either. I explored dozens of capital cities by foot and remained scratch free, but I contribute that down to taking local advice, good luck and the occasional prayer. Disregarding the potential dangers walking is certainly the most rewarding mode of transport when it comes to exploring what the different areas have to offer. Enjoy conversations lost in translation, smile at friendly kids amazed at your skin colour, and admire the natural surroundings at your own leisurely pace. Just make sure to get home before sunset and to not be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

4. ATTEND CHURCH
Regardless of your religious affiliation – or non-affiliation for that matter – attending an African church service is priceless. Christianity, in addition to traditional beliefs, plays a huge part in the local cultures and hence it is essential to see first hand how the citizens worship and celebrate what they are passionate about. Services with music and dancing are obviously the most entertaining, while those held outside possess an atmosphere that you can bite. In saying that some churches tend to turn their music up a little too loud on occasion, but when the noise deafens you can always move next door to another church.

5. EAT AS THE AFRICANS EAT
Many African people eat at KFC. But that’s not what I mean. Pap (in South Africa) or ugali (in East Africa) is a most interesting dish and this maize meal is a staple part in almost every African diet. Eaten with the right hand and dipped into a variety of vegetables or meats this white mixture offers a unique and somewhat flavourless taste. Nevertheless, the opportunity to eat it with a local family is an essential practice that will help you appreciate the native culture. Some other delicacies include achar (imagine murdering a mango and sucking out its blood), caterpillars (rough texture, salty taste) and oily cabbage (surprisingly delicious). The more you eat, the more complete your taste of Africa will be.

6. SLEEP AS THE AFRICANS SLEEP
Again, the majority of Africans sleep in beds. There are some, though, that sleep on mats in beehive huts or on the dusty floors of mud-huts. While this idea may not tickle your fancy, living like the locals do is something you will never forget. It will also help you appreciate what you have; it’s amazing how content and happy some locals are with living in third-world conditions. If somebody invites you over for a night, don’t be scared; they won’t bite. On the contrary, they will feed you and show a keen interest in your contrasting way of life; they will treat you like a king.

7. CRAM INTO A MINIBUS TAXI
Minibuses (a.k.a. Dalal-dalas, Matatus and Death shuttles) are by far the most uncomfortable modes of transport on the planet, but don’t let that put you off hopping into one. On countless occasions I have been squeezed into awkward positions that my body is physically incapable of fitting into, however in Africa it’s all about the ‘experiences’ not the pain. Some taxis manage to fit over 30 people in them, requiring Tetris skills of a genius. From an alternative perspective, minibuses are often the cheapest and most convenient way of getting from A to B; just ensure that you get the best seat.

8. LEARN A LANGUAGE
Some, like myself, find it impossible to converse in a language other than English but, for those with a little more intellect, learning a language can be an enjoyable way of assimilating into a foreign culture. Even just learning one word a day can help you so much, and locals are always willing to assist you in broadening your vocabulary. If you’re Caucasian the handiest word to learn is the local expression for ‘white person’ as you will no doubt be followed by kids, screaming this word out at the top of their lungs. Don’t worry; they’re not intentionally trying to be racist!

9. CLIMB A MOUNTAIN
From a nature lover’s point of view the continent of Africa is nothing short of incredible. The Great Rift Valley, the Cape Peninsula and the Drakensberg Mountains all support this claim with overwhelming evidence. At the summit of a mountain one is treated to absolutely magnificent panoramas and Cape Town’s Table Mountain is a classic example; from the top, you can see the entire peninsula, the city and the faraway wine regions in all their glory. Climbing a mountain obviously requires a basic level of fitness so make sure you work out a bit before attempting anything too ridiculous. And you probably shouldn’t go alone. Do as I say, not as I do.

10. DO SOMETHING EXTREME!
Africa has long been nicknamed ‘The Dark Continent’. Its elusiveness and dangers scare people all over the world, so take advantage of it. On the mild end of the scale there’s eating caterpillars, waking around at night and jay-walking (trust me, this is scary!), but the best travel stories are those with a little more action. Bungee jump from ridiculous heights, whitewater raft through fierce floods, swim at the base of waterfalls or take a flight through the heavens on something that looks more like a bike than a plane. However, don’t be too stupid. Playing with a pussy cat is a lot different to wrestling with lions and leopards.

No. 1. Toilet Paper
You’d be surprised how many public toilets, backpacker lodges and petrol station rest stops there are that do not have toilet paper provided. Hence it’s always wise to carry along a big roll wherever you go. Sometimes carrying around toilet paper can be a little inconvenient, however I can assure you this: the consequences of not having any far outweigh the annoyances of carrying around a little extra weight in your bag. I know from experience.

No. 2. Tic Tacs
It’s true; nothing refreshes quite like a tic tac. In just one calorie, your breath is fresh and you have a lovely mint flavor in your mouth. My box of 100 tic tacs lasted me more than 3 months and was a handy replacement for toothpaste when I was on the go. What? That’s unhealthy? Get out of here!

No.  3. Pillow
Technically this shouldn’t make the list as I didn’t actually bring a pillow but I managed to ‘steal’ one from South Africa Airways on my flight to Jo’burg. Really I don’t think it’s stealing considering that I paid a few thousand for my flight, but that’s beside the point. Having a pillow was incredibly handy, especially during my 45 day camping trip because, as a general rule, sleeping bags and sleeping mats are not comfortable on the head, while backpacker pillows are always either too soft or too hard. SAA, meanwhile, make a mean pillow.

No. 4. Football
I am of course referring to an Australian Rules Football and not a stupid European thing. While I may have only used my footy less than a dozen times it proved to be a more-than-handy bargaining tool when it came to teaching. Most of my students probably still have no idea how to kick/hand-pass one (they still think it’s a rugby ball) but the point is that the loved playing with it, and that’s all that counts.

No. 5. A list of exchange rates
The stock market is a complex system that changes on a daily basis. However rates more or less remain pretty much the same, give or take a few cents. Hence it is essential to have a rough idea of rates during border crossings otherwise you could easily find yourself ripped off. In my travels, I crossed land borders ten times, and at most of these crossings I had to exchange money on the black market. In one exchange I lost more than $40AUD after I was offered the rate of 0.85 instead of 0.58. From then on I was a little wiser; in fact at one border I managed to obtain a significantly larger sum of money than I was supposed to.

No. 6. Jumper / Warm jacket
Now this item may seem like an obvious one but, believe it or not, I was close to not bringing any warm clothes. I was heading to Africa, after all, and as everybody knows Africa is dry, hot and sunny all day, every day. WRONG! Africa can be freezing, windy and stormy and can offer some of the biggest torrential downpours. Even during summer.

No.7. iPod
Again, you’re probably saying ‘Well that’s obvious’ but those that know me well will know that my iPod is the oldest model of iPod shuffle, with only enough space for 120 songs. They will also know that I inherited a 20gig iRiver from my brother. When I forgot to bring my iRiver charger I feared that I may have made the worst mistake of my life, but thankfully I still had my shuffle handy  – filled with my party playlist from April.

No.8. Simba toy
Those familiar with my Simba gallery on Facebook will understand the importance of this item. Over the last 8 months I have carried around this little toy and photographed it everywhere, from Victoria Falls to Table Mountain to a packet of Simba chips. And the gallery isn’t over just yet…

No.9. Maps
As inaccurate as Lonely Planet may be their maps are always better than nothing. Losing yourself in an African capital city can be deadly, hence having a map in hand can often bring great relief. On a larger scale (literally) maps are incredibly helpful for orientation; it’s always great being the expert on a bus trip when you’re the only person who knows where on earth you are.

No.10. ?????
CANNOT BE REVEALED JUST YET…

1. VICTORIA FALLS (Zambia-Zimbabwe border)
Some choose to bungee, some choose to microlight, and some choose to take in the lunar rainbow. I was lucky enough to do all three, making my experiences at this world heritage site – also one of the seven natural wonders of the world – truly unforgettable. However, one does not need to spend money here to gain satisfaction; simply seeing the falls with your own two eyes and getting splashed by the incredible backwash is truly remarkable. Rainbows rise from the tonnes of falling water as ‘rain’ magically defies the laws of gravity. Just make sure you don’t carry your passport.
See:  Winter Under The Sun(otherwise known as WUTS) and Leap of Faith

2. SERENGETI NATIONAL PARK / NGORONGORO CRATER (Tanzania)
Africa is obviously renowned for its wildlife and the national parks of northern Tanzania are arguably the best of the best. One can spend days on end here exploring the plains of the Serengeti in search of the big 5 – lions, leopards, elephants, rhinos and buffalo – and plenty of other feral animals. The migration of the wildebeest has to be seen to be believed as an implausible number of wildebeest cross from Tanzania into Kenya (without visas), while the sunset over the savannah provides endless photo opportunities. Next door the Ngorongoro Crater is one mammoth of a bowl; inside it are hundreds of animals waiting to be found.
See: Tanzania Mania!

3. CAPE TOWN / CAPE PENINSULA (South Africa)
Possibly the coolest city in the world (in terms of awesomeness, not weather) Cape Town is a tourist’s dream. Table Mountain, Devil’s Peak and Lion’s Head all tower over the city and its suburbs, providing picturesque panoramas from every angle. The vibrant Waterfront and the busy City Bowl showcase Western elements, while curio stores help keep the African scent intact. Down south baboons take their place in forests and houses as penguins and seals line the beaches. The Cape Peninsula peaks sculpt an impressive coastline, highlighted by the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve, while the nearby wine region presents some beautiful mountainous scenery.
See: esCape Town

4. STONE TOWN (Zanzibar Island, Tanzania)
The archipelago of Zanzibar is absolutely paradise (unless its raining) but disregarding the yellow beaches and the light blue shore this island still has a lot to offer. Stone Tone, a city that would be more appropriately situated in the Middle East during the 1800s, offers a completely different side to Tanzania. Tattered buildings and narrow back streets provide a maze for busy locals, while the seaside fish market comes alive when the sun goes down. Desperate touts may get on your nerves but the lively reggae bars provide a convenient escape route.

See: Tanzania Mania!

5. THE REPUBLIC OF RWANDA
It may be one of the most war-torn countries on the face of the planet, but this tiny nation is home to some outstanding natural scenery and the last remaining group of mountain gorillas. Doing their best to compensate for the 1994 genocide, which claimed up to 1 million citizens, the people of Rwanda are warm-hearted and friendly; everybody – from the excited children to the weary oldies – is willing to give a wave and say hello (in Swahili, English or French). Upon entering the country one witnesses amazing slopes of the countryside, before crashing into Virunga Mountains where trekking for gorillas is an intensely popular sport for tourists and locals alike. It may be small, but don’t forget to include the ‘Land of a Thousand Hills’ on your African itinerary.
See: Hakuna Matata – it means no worries

6. BLYDE RIVER CANYON (South Africa)
The Mpumulanga province may be home to the beautiful Drakensberg Escarpment and the Kruger National Park, however the real highlight is found at the world’s 3^rd largest canyon. The wonder of the Three Rondavels look-out is simply unbelievable; it’s like looking into a painting of heaven. Moreover, God’s Window, The Pinnacle, an abundance of waterfalls and quaint village towns vindicate this area as a necessary detour from the chaos of Johannesburg.
See: School of Rock

7. KAZINGA CHANNEL (Queen Elizabeth II NP, Uganda)
Boasting the highest concentration of hippopotamuses on the face of the planet this thin channel connects Lake George and Lake Edward in style. Stretching 32km in length one has to be blind to miss the hippo and buffalo population that call this lake their home. As the sun sets beautiful colours fill the sky as the wildlife depart the water and the kingfishers catch their dinner.
See: Hakuna Matata – it means no worries

8. THE GREAT RIFT VALLEY (Kenya, Tanzania, Malawi, etc.)
This is more of a long, series of mountains and lakes than a single location, however that shouldn’t negate its inclusion on this list. Stretching from Syria, all the way down to Mozambique, this geographical trench is a masterpiece and any opportunity to witness it should be grabbed with both hands. Travelling around East Africa allows one to see the peaks and troughs spread out all over the country. Of note, the Viphya Plateau in Malawi is a breathtaking drive, while the Ngorongoro Consevation Area’s provides an intriguing contrast to the flatness of the Serengeti.
See: Safari Njema , Hakuna Matata – it means no worries, Tanzania Mania! and Winter Under The Sun(otherwise known as WUTS)

9. THE KINGDOM OF SWAZILAND
It may be masked by the daunting landmasses of South Africa and Mozambique, but tiny Swaziland is a hidden treasure. Having avoided much of the political turmoil of its neighbours Swazi displays impressive amounts of independence, exemplified by its ruling monarchy. Furthermore the rolling hills of the countryside are home to cute beehive huts, home to traditional people, living traditional lives in a traditional culture. One looking for a genuine African experience needs not look further than Swazi.
See: Swazi Land Tuté

10. DODOMA (Tanzania)
There’s absolutely nothing special about Dodoma, the administrative capital of Tanzania, however I can’t help but feel attached to this place, having spent my first month in Africa here. Bustling market places, bumpy dirt roads, loud soccer games, cheap canteens and friendly people, however, ensure that tourists are treated to the heart of Africa. Swahili language skills are recommended and international volunteers are treated with reverence. All over Africa I’m certain that there are thousands of places with a similar vibe; perhaps when you visit Africa you’ll find your own Dodoma…
See: “Mambo!” – Conversations in Tanzania, You gotta have faith , Karibu! and Safari Njema

Jane Furse / Polokwane / Swaziland (see Swazi Land Tuté) / Apel / Ga-Masha / Ga-Masemola

Entering the final month of my 240-day holiday it was difficult not to think about my imminent return home. Small bits and pieces, here and there, reminded me of seemingly insignificant memories, and those were the moments that made me sigh and ponder ‘Why am I still in Africa?’ But this was an unhealthy mindset that I desperately needed to remove. After all, this was my holiday, my break and my vacation and I knew that a lot more than feeling homesick could be achieved in one month.

Needing to escape the Jane Furse ‘little 5’ – mosquitoes, centipedes, frogs, lizards and ants – I wrapped up October by exploring some real wildlife at the Polokwane Game Reserve. At the meager price of only R15 ($2.50AUD) I didn’t really know what to expect, but regardless I knew that I would attain my money’s worth.

For the most part Polokwane’s mild exhibition of wildlife was difficult to track down – in 6½ hours of walking I spotted roughly 6½ animals – however the opportunity to complete some form of exercise that didn’t consist of chasing naughty students was a welcome change. Just across the road from the game reserve was the Peter Mokaba stadium, destined for completion for the 2010 World Cup. It seemed unusual to find such a huge Telstra Dome replica (or Docklands, or Etihad Staidum, or whatever the hell they call it these days) sitting in the middle of bushveld, however its juxtaposition with nature accurately epitomised the astounding contrasts that South Africa had to offer.

Civic Square, Polokwane’s other potential tourist attraction, also showcased the nation’s diversity; surrounding this beautiful fountain/ statue arrangement were lazy locals, some of which looked a little worse for wear.

Back in Jane Furse things were livening up a little. The season of intense lightning storms began with a few bangs while security guards struggled to restrict the amount of eager shoppers trying to barge into the new Pick’n’Pay store. Furthermore the abortion clinics were offering half-price specials, as were the stores selling caterpillars (for eating, of course). Jane Furse may have still been the middle of nowhere, but we were now becoming sentimentally attached to this middle of nowhere.

With all the students unwilling to learn anymore I gave in and tried a new approach. Instead of taking textbooks to class I took footballs, vortexes and guitars. Amazingly this experiment was successful, although some of the rebellious kids still preferred the idea of sneaking behind the classroom to look at porn instead. My new found popularity converted my image from being the annoying teacher to the new kid on the block, however I still preferred my previous role. As much as I couldn’t stand it at the time I was already missing the opportunity to teach.

Scrabble, toasties, JFK (Jane Furse KFC) and the sacrilegiously-titled Gapper’s Bible were our best friends in November, however a few groups of students believed they were making strong claims. A grade nine boy by the name of Peace persistently tried to get his hands on Claudia, a situation which many found quite amusing. I told her that she should give Peace a chance. She told me to stick it where the sun don’t shine.

Peace and his crew, along with a few irritating grade 8 girls (who had previously tormented me with their screams of “Aowa sir” and “No way!” during lessons) began spending as much time in our dorm as we did. At first all they wanted was ice to relieve them of the heat, but before long they were virtually living in front of our television, watching B-grade Asian movies and even hardcore pornography.

During work my duties mainly comprised of word processing; every day I would become a different teacher’s assistant. Thankfully I managed to only make it onto the invigilating roster once, an experience which required me to slowly pace around a room for two hours. By the end of the exam my legs were in pain (I swear walking slowly is more difficult than walking fast) and I had no saliva left in my mouth (due to constantly whispering “Shh…” and “I’m sorry but I can’t tell you the answers”).

Running around the school undertaking a variety of errands also saw me face some fairly awkward and forgettable situations. In one crazy month I climbed my way out of a locked toilet cubicle, sat impatiently as grade 8 girls played hairdresser on me, burnt my hand on maize porridge, ate 18 pieces of bread in a single day, had my finger sliced by a student (who was playing with my swiss-army knife) and got proposed to by a 15 year-old girl. Furthermore the school’s principal disappeared off the face of the planet (for reasons I am not allowed to disclose… let’s just say that he’s not coming back anytime soon). November was certainly shaping up to be an interesting month…

After a weekend in which I visited Swaziland and the girls got mugged in Polokwane the mood once again changed. Sentiment was once again becoming mixed in with homesickness and a desire to escape the bitter realities of Africa. Nonetheless sentiment was once again victorious and our final weeks were not the tedious slogs we expected them to be.

The days may have passed as slow as the drops of water fall from my leaky roof but that was not necessarily a negative thing. Lucy’s 19th birthday and the expiry of our volunteer ‘contract’ gave us cause for celebrations and although the parties may have resembled typical morning teas (we would sit in silence as the teachers chatted away in Sepedi) we greatly appreciated the gestures. Final touches such as killing all the remaining mosquitoes, retrieving stolen items, saying farewell to students and teachers and painting on our walls kept us busy, but the drama was still far from over.

Wednesday, the 25^th of November will forever be remembered as one of the worst days of my life. In addition to being the day that my fellow volunteers set off on their travels, leaving me all alone, this Wednesday comprised 100% of stress. My first responsibility for the morning was to cash Claudia and my pocket money cheque before the girls’ 10am departure. Due to the incompetence of various individuals I arrived at the bank at around 10 and was stuck in a slow moving line for the next hour. To ‘calm’ myself from this period of impatience I began packing, only to find that my luggage was well in excess of the maximum weight. Then, later that evening some boarders returned to me a completely mangled-up vortex and a guitar with 3 broken strings. To make matters worse, when I returned to the girl’s dorm to obtain some refreshment, I found the fridge raided and my jelly lying all over the dormitory floor. EISH!

On the back of these 24 hours from hell, my five days of solitude in Jane Furse were shaping up to be equally as horrible. Thankfully, though, one of my student friends – BMG (stands for Bad Mafia Gangster, otherwise known as Katlego) – offered me the chance to chill at his house for the weekend. Chill probably isn’t the best word, considering that the sun was unbearably hot, but it was nonetheless a memorable weekend in which the hospitality of Africans was once again accentuated.

When I arrived at his house on Friday night there was no electricity and no tap water, however things thankfully improved from here on in. Despite having experienced this continent for 2/3rds of a year I was surprised at how nice his rurally-located home was and was impressed by how much food the family was willing to buy for me. In BMG I had a generous, loyal and kind-hearted friend, whose tendency to ask ‘Really?’ in response to all of my stupid, sarcastic remarks will never escape my memory.

It’s people like Katlego that I will remember most of all when I reflect on Africa. Obviously I’ll also remember the many non-African friends I’ve made on this trip as well, notably Lucy and Claudia – two of the weirdest girls I have ever met. From the bearded Brandon Butler, to the man from Malawi who carved me a ‘Kelvin’ keyring, to Olly Dick Willy Payne I have met some amazing people over the past eight months. Now the challenge is returning home and retaining these relationships. Some will last and some won’t, but most importantly my list of friends on Facebook is going to be remarkably long…

Ngwenya / Mbabane / Ezulwini Valley / Lobamba / Mantenga Nature Reserve / Little Usutu River / Mantenga Falls / Manzini / kaPhunga / Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary / Malkerns Valley / Mahlanya

As soon as I return home to fast internet, the first thing I will do is add ‘Traveling’ to the Interests on my Facebook page. Okay, it won’t exactly be the first thing I do, but you get the idea; over 7 months of exploring Africa has naturally provided me with a new love in life. But for the first 200-odd days, my travel had mostly been done alongside others. From Kampala to Victoria Falls I was accompanied by a truck-load of tourists, while various contacts assisted me in my journeys through Perth, Tanzania, Johannesburg, Cape Town and Pretoria.

Swaziland was a completely new type of adventure as for once I would be doing it all alone. This time there were no contacts, no acquaintances and no friends of friends. This time there was nobody to turn to but myself.

Things didn’t exactly get off to a flying start on the Friday of my departure. At 8am I began waiting for my lift, a lift that didn’t arrive for another three hours. Having being deprived half a day’s worth of orienting myself with this foreign country I was naturally a little annoyed, however I was more concerned about whether I would even enter Swaziland at all.

Receiving news that the school’s ute wasn’t insured outside of South Africa potentially meant that my eagerly awaited holiday would have to be cancelled. It thankfully turned out to be just a minor hiccup, although it did mean that I would have to be dropped off at the international border and find my own way from there.

My first impressions of the Kingdom of Swaziland were not particularly pleasant. A torrential downpour compounded with roaring thunder and fierce lightning to concoct a daunting sound and light performance. Furthermore this would be my first border crossing with my new passport, a passport that didn’t contain a valid South African visa.

Eventually I was granted access through the gates of my ninth African country, however it didn’t get any easier from there. Carrying a cumbersome backpack, a daypack and an awkwardly shaped tent on my person I had to somehow find a way of reaching Ezulwini Valley – the nation’s tourist hotspot. Exercising exquisite Tetris skills I managed to fit me and my three bags into one tiny minibus seat and before long I was on my way to the modest capital city of Mbabane.

The few minutes I spent in Mbabane epitomised what it means to be in Africa. Still carting along a few dozen kilos of luggage I was faced with the difficult task of finding another linking minibus and subsequently squeezing my way into the van’s back right corner. A couple of passengers in the seat in front were kind enough to nurse my two smaller bags. Nonetheless that still left me with the biggest load and I was literally up to my neck in it.

Given that my only sense of direction came from a vague, disproportional Lonely Planet map I had little idea where to alight from the minibus. To my relief, though, a local man knew the location of my backpacker’s and I managed to arrive safely. I had been in the country for no more than two hours and I had already experienced a whole week’s worth of drama.

As if God was trying to compensate for the raw deal I had endured the evening before, my second day began with remarkably ideal weather. Keen to make up for lost time I headed straight for the Swazi Cultural Village – a respectable replica of rural Swaziland. Complete with beehive huts, traditional dancers, smelly cows and pesky monkeys this tourist attraction – located in the midst of a nature reserve – showcased a culture I was not yet familiar with. Nonetheless small things, such as the Nike soccer boots I spotted in one of the huts, partially negated the authenticity of this experience.

More culture and history became apparent to me at the local museum and memorial park, two places that preserved Swaziland’s proud image as a monarchy. Much honor was given to the former king – elected when he was just four months old – who served 83 years as the country’s ruler. The current king takes residence down the road from these monuments.

With plenty of time to kill and a soccer stadium a few hundred metres away it wasn’t hard to decide on my evening activity. With the picturesque mountains of Lobamba providing a stunning backdrop this soccer stadium was in a prime position. More breathtaking, however, was my ability to withstand one and a half soccer games without falling asleep.

On day three I decided to take advice from an ancient proverb; ‘When in Swaziland, do as the Swazis do.’ As a means of familiarizing myself with the traditional lifestyles still lived by modern day Swazis I visited the village of a local tourist guide named Myxo. The overnight tour may have cost me two months worth of pocket money, however I was willing to trade cash for a genuine cultural experience.

Over the next 24 hours I was based in kaPhunga, a small town located more than an hour away from the main city. In Australian terms that might not mean much, but Swaziland is one of the world’s smallest countries. Perched on top of a lush, green mountain this village was as remote as you could get. Water came from a distant well, electricity was non-existent and English was a foreign language. Meanwhile the only constructions in sight were made entirely of sticks and mud, including the small toilet cubicles, which consisted of an uncomfortable wooden seat and a smelly hole in the ground.

Aside from observing life as lived by Myxo’s family I was given the opportunity to explore the rolling hills of kaPhunga on a mountain bike. Along the way I watched local elders laugh together in siSwati and kids greet me in broken English. Evidently that wasn’t the only thing broken about my journey; thirty minutes into my ride my bike pedals decided to conk out, leaving me with a strenuous uphill hike back to base camp.

I returned to find my tour guide at his neighbor’s residence, which consisted of more beehive huts and chicken coops. Here my freshly learnt siSwati was tested in front of locals, whose sentences had to continuously be translated by Myxo due to my language incompetence. On one occasion Myxo chucked me into the deep end, forcing me to converse with an older individual who I presume was drunk. In order for me to comprehend him he ignorantly began speaking slower and more deliberately, until I finally recognised his words. Having told me his name was James (which sounded more like ‘Champs’) he wanted to know mine. However, when he recited Kevin back to me a click managed to wring its way into my name, somewhere between the K and the E. Kqevin. That’s another nickname to add to the list.

Whilst waiting for a traditional dinner – consisting of pap, beans, cabbage and chicken breast (the first chicken breast I’ve eaten in about 7 months!) – I wandered off to a series of rocks, which overlooked the serene beauty of Swaziland’s mountains. Here I was able to gain some peace and quiet, as I reflected on the uniqueness of Africa. Where in Melbourne can one escape everything and simply surround themselves in nature?

If I had any remaining doubts about the legitimacy of this village community they were erased at 7.30pm, when the absolutely darkness took over and the stars came out. By 8 a comprehensive view of the night sky became apparent to me and by 9 I was finding rest inside my beehive hut.

The next morning I awoke at the unearthly hour of 4.30 to find light shining through the cracks in my door. Confused as to what was happening I wandered outside to find the sun already beginning to rise. TIA. By the time I ate breakfast (maize porridge) everybody had been awake for a few hours, having already completed through their morning chores.

To finish off the tour I took a seat in the pre-school – a centre made possible by overseas donations. Here about 20 kids exhibited competent language skills as they recited the complete lyrics to ‘Jesus Loves His Little Children’ and ‘If You’re Happy and You Know It’. They proceeded to introduce themselves at 1000 decibels, before practicing a traditional dance. Damn, if only I was brought up like that.

Having had my dose of culture and traditional for the weekend I was ready to experience the other mandatory aspect of African travel – wildlife. That night I entered my ninth game viewing area, the Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary. Before I had even reached my overnight accommodation I had seen blesbok, ostrich, ‘bloody impala’ and a frog. In saying that, I would have seen frogs if I remained in Jane Furse the whole time.

Something else significant happened before this, however I can’t reveal the details just yet. You’ll just have to wait until I return home…

My last morning in Swaziland was spent exploring the sanctuary by foot. For three hours I hiked around in search of hippos, crocs, warthogs, zebra and about 20 different species of antelope. To my great satisfaction I spotted everything I was looking for and the threatening clouds didn’t shed a single tear, but my adventure wasn’t over just yet; I still needed to get out of this place.

In true backpacker style I managed to hitch a ride from the sanctuary gate to the main road, where the eclectic House on Fire was located. This sculpture laden bar resembled more of an art gallery than a nightclub and took post-modern architecture to a new level. The idea of sticking around here for a party was tempting however I had two minibuses to catch and was determined to make it out of the country without being delayed by a single drop of rain.

Thankfully the journey to the border was less hectic than my arrival; I had succeeded in my first solo backpacking expedition. Having encountered no serious problems I reflected on how Africa wasn’t so bad after all in terms of safety and security, but boy was I wrong.

Less than an hour after I pondered those thoughts Lucy and Claudia were held at knife point and were mugged in the quiet streets of Polokwane. The incident – which saw them lose their money and phones – occurred on one of the city’s main suburban streets, a street I had walked along by myself a dozen times before.

The realisation that ‘it could have been me’ and the guilt that ‘it should have been me’ led me to re-assess my complacency, but at the same time helped me to appreciate the wonderful pain-free experiences I’ve had over the last seven months. From here on in my African travel is done, meaning the risks of danger are minimised, however one can never be too sure…

Jane Furse / Polokwane

 “We don’t need no education.
  We don’t need no thought control.
  No dark sarcasm in the classroom.
  Teacher, leave them kids alone.
  Hey, teacher! Leave us kids alone!
  All in all you’re just another brick in the wall”
                                                – 8A, 8B, 8C, 9B

Every day the irony hits me. As part of my gap year – my year dedicated to escaping education – I fled to a school, where I would be teaching for more than four months. I always expected the transition from student to teacher in the space of eight months to be a challenge, but it was only when I got here that I realised that, regardless of my role, school was a place of learning.

Term 4 began a lot differently to the previous term. Firstly there were now only three of us; Jenny – the Pom – left for a placement down south, leaving just the three Aussies. Her departure came due to a variety of reasons. My ‘sense of humour’ may or may not have been one of them.

It also commenced with a bit of an anti-climax feel. Having just explored Cape Town, arguably the world’s coolest city, travel and adventure was naturally the only thing on our minds. Unfortunately, from Jane Furse you can travel little further than the local hospital, while the greatest adventure on offer comprises of walking to the Zamani pub and back. Home sweet home.

With exams and holidays imminent the only things on the minds of the St Mark’s learners was having fun. As a teacher this is far from the ideal scenario, especially considering that controlling an indifferent class is challenging enough. Nonetheless I tried my hardest and results were mixed.

By far my worst lesson came one Friday, during period 9 – the last period of the week. Prior to my arrival I was already feeling pretty miserable; my body was aching from the heat and the water from the showers refused to comply with my desperate requests. Tired I made my way to 8C’s classroom, where I was received with a mandatory “AWA SIR!” For weeks I was unaware what this heavily repeated expression meant, however judging by the tone of my class’ voice I figured that it was the polar opposite of “Good evening sir. What a pleasure it is to see you!” (I was correct; ‘Awa’ simply translates to ‘NO!’) The students continued to vent their complaints at me, so much so that one kid offered to fist fight with me. The same boy subsequently reached down to pick up his drink bottle and from that moment I knew this lesson wasn’t going to end well.

Two minutes later I had to complete the walk of shame. Drenched and depressed I returned to my room with one thought on my mind… this would never happen to a qualified teacher.

Teaching a class that has little respect for you inside the classroom can take a lot out of you both physically and mentally, but thankfully not all classes end with me shaking my head in disbelief. To my surprise my two EMS classes both produced outstanding results in their recent tests, while my English students impressed me with their debating skills. In another victory my Life Orientation learners began the term by actually doing some work (trust me, this is a big deal!).

In an interesting turn of events one of my 8C students who never attended classes shocked me with his test result. In the lessons leading up to the test I found myself yelling “Come to class, otherwise you’ll fail” to him over and over again. He didn’t fail. He got 100%… without cheating.

Strangely my students seem to love me whenever I’m not teaching. Whenever I take cricket practice or instrumental music lessons the kids will treat me like I’m Graham Smith. Furthermore they often laugh at my jokes, try to teach me Sepedi and comment on how beautiful my hair is. So much so that often before I enter the classroom doors I have students stroking my long, straight hair in awe. On multiple occasions staff and students alike have asked me whether I’m wearing a wig.

Despite another two weeks remaining in this term I have strong doubts that I will ever teach another lesson. With most of the ‘real’ teachers either invigilating or just plain lazy the students have unanimously decided that they don’t want to learn. There’s only so much I can do in such a situation. Play games with them or surrender. Surrendering is always much easier.

My aim for the next fortnight is to teach the students a lesson worth remembering; that school is a place for learning. Currently these kids are running around the college like it’s some kind of theme park. The grade 8 and 9 area resembles a zoo and I am now being awoken by kids during the working week, who plead me to let them watch a movie on my television, or ask if I can “borrow them” a guitar.

In other developments Jenny’s chickens – a purchase that quickly became regret – transformed themselves into my dinner one night. Upon her departure she needed some way to rid herself of them and my mouth was naturally the default option. In the meantime, I have unwillingly become the school’s unofficial photographer; teachers now all want to borrow my camera for various purposes.

Moreover the three of us have finally made a white friend – Tom, a Yankie from the peace corp. Together we go for walks around the area in search of other lekgowas (white people). Having once seen three white people during one trip to the plaza (albinos don’t count) I hold the record.

From now until December (December the 6^th to be precise) the real challenge for the three of us is killing time. Invigilating, typing up tests, eating and guitar lessons will provide me the occasional ‘entertainment’, however filling up the other 150 hours of the week is a daunting prospect. Hopefully we are able to make the most out of our final 40-odd days, however there’s only so many movies one can watch and only so much Monopoly one can play…

Johannesburg / Cape Town / The Waterfront / Table Mountain / Hout Bay / Duiker Island / False Bay / Simon’s Town / Boulders Beach / Cape of Good Hope / Cape Point / Tokai / Fish Hoek / Sun Valley / The Karoo / Bloemfontein / Midrand / Centurion / Pretoria

For the entirety of my life I have maintained that beyond Melbourne, there is nowhere on earth that I would feel comfortable considering as my home. A few days in Cape Town forced me to re-assess my postition on this matter; I had finally discovered a city that I truly loved, one where I felt happy, safe and entertained. From belting out ‘Piano Man’ at the top of my lungs at a karaoke bar to climbing up the top of Table Mountain for the second time in a week, I had fallen in love with this famous African hotspot, and I didn’t have any intentions of leaving.

With the third school term behind us all the four of us set out on a plane journey over to the far end of the country. Jane Furse – positioned in the northeast – was the polar opposite to Cape Town – the most southwesterly tip of the continent – however we weren’t going to let this geographical inconvenience ruin our plans. It was either that or a fortnight spent watching movies and using the internet in Polokwane, and as attractive as that latter idea may seem we were after something a little more… amazing.

As we gazed at the rocky mountains of the Western Cape from our aircraft ‘amazing’ was naturally the first word to come to our minds. Lying before us was one of Africa’s finest cities, surrounded by a mountain range one would more likely find in the Great Rift Valley of Eastern Africa. From ground level Cape Town was even finer; the streets were busy without being intimidating, the nightspots were vibrant without being chaotic and the general vibe was generally Western but without compromising its African authenticity. In spite of the impressive cosmopolitan display of Westernised businesses it was the Greenmarket Square craft market that immediately attracted us and it was here that we lost a few hundred rand each. No, we weren’t mugged but, considering the amount of unwanted souvineers that had made their way into our shopping bags, we may as well have been.

To celebrate our first night of holidays we joined a group that were heading to the V&A Waterfront for some kareoke. Having not performed in public for quite a considerable stretch of time I was keen to warm up my vocal chords. ‘Piano Man’ was my song of choice and, judging by the crowd’s generous response, I think i pulled it off relatively well. Either that or everybody was a little too drunk, but I would prefer to examine the evening’s events with sober judgement.

The next day news that the Robben Island tours had been cancelled due to poor weather frustrauted us, as it meant that an impromptu change of plans was necessary. A subsequent technical difficulty a few days later prevented me from making the journey to the historic World Heritage Site, where Nelson Mandela spent a good chunk of his time in prison. Fortunately Cape Town has no shortage of options; a cancellation here means an opportunity elsewhere. By the day’s end I had comprehensively checked out the Waterfront, taken a harbour cruise, visited South Africa’s oldest castle, been to two museums, been out on a pub crawl (ironically I didn’t buy a single drink), collected a huge stack of brochures and snapped about 200 photos of the gigantic mountain that loomed over the top of us. But more on Tafelberg later.

Of these happenings the visit to the District Six Musuem was the most notable. The ‘inspiration’ for the suprise South African box office hit District Nine – which I have subsequently seen at the cinema at the laughable price of $3AUD – the events of District Six saw an entire suburb, populated by ‘coloured’ people, wiped out by the injustices of the racist South African government. Yet another horrifying example of the now infamous apartheid policy this museum portrayed what life was once like for these people and portayed the fresh struggle for them to reclaim their once owned land.

To overcome my emotions I subsequently did the manliest thing I could think of and climbed a mountain. Table Mountain in fact (previously referred to as Tafelberg, the Afrikaans name. Afrikaans, what a funny language!). With the girls either feeling sore or uninterested I set off towards this overwhelming geographical highlight by myself in the hope of running into a group of hikers upon arrival. In a strange compilation of coicedence and convenience I arrived at the base of Plattenlip Gorge at the exact same moment as an older couple, who happened to hail from Bendigo. More intriguing was the fact that this couple’s children were aged the same as my brother and I and attended the same university campuses as us. Subsequently we had plenty to talk about whilst ascending up this incredibly steep hill, making the hour hike (an incredibly fast climb considering 2-3 hours was the expected time) feel like a breeze.

Making it to the top was a feeling more bitter than sweet considering the large cloud cover that sat atop the mountain. Creatively referred to as the ‘Table Cloth’ this abundance of whiteness prevented us from seeing anything beyond a metre in front, meaning that our observations from the lookout points were not dissimilar to staring at blank piece of paper. Unmotivated to walk down I decided to descend via the cableway, a one minute ride from the top to the bottom. Again I was disappointed by the views and this ride, but with it came a determination to do it all again.

Next on the menu was the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, one of the world’s largest collections of flora. For the brief hour or two in which I spent here I got in touch with my less masculine side as I admired the wide array of flowers and plantlife. Any more time here, though, would have been too long as a) living with 3 girls has virtually turned me into a woman already, and b) my legs were unsurprisingly incredibly tired.

Day four of the holidays thankfully offered much better weather as it was the day of my much anticipated trip around the Cape Peninsula. Alongside 12 university students from England I was treated to a comprehensive tour of what the Cape Town ‘suburbs’ had to offer, starting with the beautiful Hout Bay. This harbour, complete with a thousand sailing boats and a million mountains, also offered the opportunity to take a ferry out to Duiker Island – something that sounded straight out of Monkey Island. The alternate name for this small landmass of rock was Seal Island, a highly fitting desciption as every square centimetre of the rocks were taken up by lazing seals. As potent as the sight of these seals were was the smell they gave off. Subsequently we spent just 10 minutes admiring these unique creatures before heading back to the mainland, where the stench of humans was comparitively wonderful.

After a detour around the closed scenic drive of Chapman’s Peak we arrived at Simon’s Town, a quaint coastal city that would have been much cooler had it been called Kevin’s Town. To my surprise, though, I found a bit of home amongst all the signs which revered the Mr. Grasshopper lead guitarist with such respect; hidden away was a side street named ‘Forest Hill’. Brilliant. The other highlight of Simon’s Town was the famous Boulders Beach, which – like Duiker Island – was as smelly as it was entertaining. Here, a few hundred malting penguins claimed the beach’s soft sand as its own turf, much to the delight of our tour group and a group of zealous Asian tourists.

From here we moved on past False Bay to the famous Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve. Often touted as the most southerly point of continental Africa this peninsula is actually the most south-westerly point, but I wasn’t going to let that small technicality sour the day. After a few mandatory photo stops of the brilliant coastal peaks looming over the Indian Ocean (or maybe it was the Atlantic…) I hopped onto a mountain bike that had faulty brakes. Fortunately I didn’t fall and die, which is always a good thing when you’re in Africa.

The two features of this heavily touristed park were the hikes to the top of Cape Point and the Cape of Good Hope. In both cases the higher we walked the greater the views were. Naturally we spent much of our time posing in front of these geographical landmasses, before a group of baboons decided they were better models. Posing in perfect position these apes soon drew a generous crowd of excited tourists, all eager to make use of a priceless photo opportunity. As we left the reserve some ostriches and large antelope-type creatures (there are about 100 different species and their differences are ever so subtle) grazed beside us, addings a safari element to this already spectacular tour.

Tired from all the hiking, cycling and being a tourist the next day was spent in relaxation but with my alarm ringing at 5.30am you wouldn’t have known it. My early wake-up, however, was for me to claim the TV lounge in order to follow the Aussie rules Grand Final, being broadcast on DSTV, the local equivalent of Foxtel. To my delight the game was followed immediately by the Champions Trophy cricket. Oh, how I love cable television… and Australia.

In the meantime our plans for the rest of the holidays ran into a little trouble when the rent-a-car organisation we had booked a car from decided not to let us have the car as we were all under 23. A few days earlier they had guaranteed us an automobile. TIA. Such news wasn’t all bad, though, as it meant we could stay in Cape Town for a few more days. In fact this itinerary was preferable, although it did mean that I would have to subsequently book a 19-hour bus ride across the country. Eish!

Determined not to let that ruin my day I was able to relax that afternoon when a friend from Tokai – one of the southerly suburbs of Cape Town – who I had met in Midrand three months earlier offered me accomodation for the next three nights. For the next few days I was able to experience the same fantastic city from a different viewpoint. Similar to living in the middle of the City Bowl, we were always ants in comparison to the mountains that stared down at us. The most impressive one was entitled Elephant’s Eye, so-called because it looks like the eye of an elephant. Quite clever, really.

Before we climbed to the eye itself, though, we returned to the city where Hillsong Cape Town was taking place. All my life I’ve wanted to attend this heavily-populated and world famous Christian conference… in Sydney. Ironically though I had to travel halfway around the world – in comparison to a few hundred kilmometres – to reach this Australian-initaited church.

Hiking up to the Elephant’s retina was a wonderful experience that was surprisingly more satisfying than my climb to the top of Table Mountain. The path up did not present Garteh and I with breathtaking landscapes of the suburbs below us; rather the path was a gigantic un-African forest, where baboons attacked one another and the trees seemed to never end. Reaching the top, though, provided us wit typical mountain peak scenery; the peninsula, the suburbs and the faraway mountains of the wine regions were revealed to us in all their glory.

Having already trekked for chimpanzees and mountain gorillas, looking for baboons was naturally the next item on the list. Baboons – famous for terrorising rubbish bins, breaking into houses and getting hit by oncoming traffic – are often regarded as pests in the Cape Peninsula, however during this hour-long tour a fresh side of them was revealed. Showing off a striking resemblance to humans, these family orientated apes provided plenty of entertainment. Most interesting was the behavior of the cheeky youngsters (which look like hairy fetuses) who, like human children, didn’t possess a ‘stop’ button. Eventually their mother got tired of these Energizer monkeys, though, and gave one a fierce bite. Corporal punishment if I’ve ever seen it…

 With the sun shining and not a single cloud in sight there was only one thing on my mind when I returned to central Cape Town – climb Table Mountain… again. On this sophomore occasion I didn’t run into any Victorians. Rather, I found myself ascending Plattenlip Gorge alongside a couple from Canada, who were hiking at a normal pace. Frustrated by their slowness I subsequently broke the golden rule of hiking and climbed to the top by myself. Naturally I got mugged and lost all my valuables – including my clothes – before getting completely lost and then jumping off the mountain as a result of my pure fear.

By the way I was being sarcastic (hard to convey through text, ay?)

My walk to Maclear’s Beacon – the mountain’s highest point, at over 1000m – and around the mountain’s remarkable plateau justified making the journey up for the second time. On one side I was treated to comprehensive panoramas of the entire Cape Peninsula and South Africa’s version of the Twelve Apostles (so named because there are… about twenty of them) while the opposite path offered me the chance to stroll above the city centre. This walk was quite a dangerous one, considering absolutely no fences were put in place to stop me from falling to a quick and painful death. I didn’t risk it for a biscuit, though, making sure that my feet were a good metre or two away from the cliff edge at all times.

Deciding not to rake out another R70 for the cableway I made my way back down the mountain via a different hiking route. By the time I had reached the bottom I had been hiking for roughly six hours straight; my knees were probably on the verge of breaking, such was the difficulty in descending down the steep track.

To celebrate my long-awaited hike, and subsequent survival, I returned to the karaoke bar that night with a few fellow Aussies, where our song of choice was Hakuna Matata. The crowd’s reaction was less flattering this time, a good indication that perhaps Cape Town was trying to get rid of me. I took the hint and less than 36 hours later I had departed. The majority of those hours were spent either in bed or in front of the TV as the Aussies played off for a game in the Champions Trophy final (fortunately for me they won on the final ball) but in my defence, had I done any more walking my feet would have most likely collapsed. And that would have been pretty inconvenient.

To my disbelief the 19 hour bus trip I took from Cape Town to Midrand was actually fairly comfortable. In addition to having a soft, reclining chair with air-con and plenty of leg room I was situated at a window seat, meaning that for the majority of the journey I was able to admire the fantastic scenery that ‘outback’ South Africa had on offer. Immediately after leaving Cape Town, the mountains and forests of the wine country provided rich color, before the deserted Karoo region took over. This plain, flat area of the country was exactly the kind of the thing I was expecting from Africa – wide open spaces of red and orange, where the occasional tree brought these seemingly dead fields alive.

What I wasn’t expecting to see in Africa, though, was Australia. Australia playing England, that is. As consolation for missing the entire Ashes series I was treated to the semi final of the ICC Champions Trophy where these two famous rivals came head-to-head. It was like an early homecoming, except that rather than being reunited with my family or mates I was looking at the familiar faces of Ricky, Michael, Shane, Cameron and Peter, right before my eyes (or Ponting, Hussey, Watson, White and Siddle for those of you not yet on a first name basis). The team also comprised of a few unfamiliar faces, illustrating how long it has been since I watched a cricket game, but evidently Australia’s winning ways had not changed; unbeaten centuries from both Watson and Ponting saw the Aussies win by an unbelievable 9 wickets. What was a little unusual was an interruption from some white, flying insects during the innings break. A few thousand of these little bugs seemed attracted to the oval, so much so that they mated and then fell from the sky… into Paul Collingwood’s mouth (don’t worry, he plays for England).

Three days later I returned to the same Centurion Stadium to watch the Aussies defeat New Zealand in the tournament’s grand final match. From the outset it was obvious that we were going to win, but it wasn’t until Shane Watson smashed his second consecutive century that I was able to fully embrace my long-hidden patriotism. Actually, the second last ball of the match was satisfying enough, considering it landed about a metre away from my feet (had I not had my camera in hand I would have caught it… honestly). The disappointment of missing the catch, however, was counteracted by the sight of my face on the huge television screen; I had made my long-awaited debut on international television. Youtube it!

In between these two exhilarating ‘contests’, I headed up north to Pretoria (or Tshwane) for two nights. This time I had the opportunity to do more than just apply for a new passport, however I can’t say that this capital (the third South African capital I had visited in three days) had a great deal of attractions on offer. What it did possess, though, was a greater amount of safety and security in comparison to its southerly neighbour Jo’burg; not once did I feel under threat whilst walking around the busy central business district. Aside from the cheap internet the biggest draw card to Pretoria was Freedom Park, a beautiful memorial site to South Africa’s freedom fighters, situated on top of a small kopje. I can’t say that the subject matter of this place was of much interest to me, but the pure brilliance of the architecture was enough for me to be impressed.

Just as entertaining was the local rugby union contest between the Blue Bulls and the Griquas (still have no idea what a griqua is), where white Afrikaans-speaking South Africans appeared in great numbers. With fans as passionate and drunk as AFL supporters the atmosphere of this one-sided rugby game felt quite familiar, even if I barely understood the rules of the game.

The lowlight of the holiday period was the unfortunate technicality that spring break doesn’t last forever. Returning to Jane Furse after two weeks of non-stop fun and entertainment was far from the greatest feeling in the world, but it was nonetheless inevitable. With two months left before I return to the comforts of home I am now aware that I am well and truly on the home stretch of this holiday, but if I’ve learnt anything on this six month adventure it is that two months can often take forever.

With two months to go before my pending departure to Africa there were endless possibilities of ways in which I could use my time. Having no job, no education and absolutely no responsibilities I was free to do whatever I wanted. Looking back on it all I occupied my time with three things: studying up on Africa, undertaking practice teaching at my old primary and secondary schools and acting for a TV show. As it turned out each of these skills had an equal share in helping me prepare for the eight months that awaited me.

As I have learnt over the eight weeks that have just recently passed me by teaching is a lot more difficult than I had imagined. Some things don’t call for much effort; preparing classes takes away only a few minutes from my afternoons, building up positive relationships with my learners is no more difficult than any other relationship, while the craft of making the students believe that I know what I am talking about simply requires a few lessons in Acting 101. What is a challenge is the process of transferring information into a child’s brain, in order for them to understand and memorise that particular piece of knowledge. Such a challenge became evident to me after marking my very first test.

The fact that 85% of my students passed the EMS test that I wrote for them should have made me overwhelmed with joy. On the contrary I found myself dwelling on the negatives as I tried to comprehend how two students managed to receive paltry marks below 10%. One of these kids filled his page with writing, all of which was completely irrelevant. He had memorised dozens of economic-related key terms; unfortunately he forgot to read a single question. A month later the same boy proved he was no fluke artist, delivering an equally miserable repeat performance.

Another struggle that I have to constantly deal with is the lack of discipline options on offer to me. With hitting the kids out of the question (I think it’s legal here, but I’m not willing to test to make sure) my most potent weapon is often my mouth. The problem of this is that all my threats are nothing more than talk and many of the learners are starting to realise this. A complete absense of a detention system means that I can’t force the bad kids to stay behind unless I wish to likewise remain with them, while forcing students to sit outside often results in them running off and treating the lesson as a free. Multiple times I have sprinted out of my classroom in order to catch sneaky students. Unsurprisingly my class seems to find this little performance quite entertaining.

On the contrary, the teaching style of one particular teacher has been far from entertaining for both students and myself alike. Believing that EMS is an essential subject - on par with English and Mathematics - this teacher has been forcing all of Grade 8 to attend school on Saturdays for a two hour lecture on this ridiculously difficult and unnecessary subject. Even worse is the fact that she expects all these students to be familiar with these complex economic concepts, concepts which I only starting learning about in VCE Business Management. Eish!

But teaching isn’t the worst part. And neither are the students. Likewise dealing with things like water shortages, electricity cuts and poor facilities is a walk in the park. The one thing that is a struggle, however, is dealing with the concept of time; how does one keep oneself busy for four more months? Thankfully I can now consider this a problem of the past, but for a few weeks I was in a bit of a kerfuffle.

As it turns out homesickness can be cured and although the antidote is not always effective 24/7 things have begun to improve. My solution was deciding to do the type of things that, in my personal life, characterise home; things like playing cricket, writing music and playing instruments. With that my weekly working hours suddenly doubled, but in contrast time started to fly.

One of the first things I noticed when at St Mark’s was the lack of music facilities. It seemed a little unusual considering the amazing talent present in the school’s choral group – which performs daily at assemblies and at local community concerts. Subsequently I decided that I wanted to do something about it. With the help of some donations from abroad I purchased two guitars for the school. Now, a month on, the school has four guitars, two keyboards, a tambourine and a drum. It also has a music teacher – me.

Despite not actually being able to play guitar and being an absolute hack on keyboard I now teach both these instruments as part of an after school music program. Such knowledge would surely make the Mr Grasshopper boys and my mother cringe with fear, but the simple fact is that I’m the only person in St Mark’s who knows how to play the guitar or keyboard (note that doesn’t mean that I can play them) .

Likewise I’m the school’s best batsman and bowler, a fact that will shock all members of Forest Hill Cricket Club. On Mondays and Wednesdays respectively I ‘teach’ cricket to the junior and senior school. Furthermore I am introducing more and more students to the grand sport of Australian Rules Football although, in spite of my initial presumptions, I can no longer claim to being the school’s best footballer after one afternoon, when I contested some Grade 9 boys in a game of 3 on 3 Aussie Rules. Despite being completely new to the game my opponents put me in my rightful place.

Such a busy lifestyle now leaves me with merely one spare afternoon per week – Friday – which is more often than not utilised as a day of travel in order for us to escape the utter boredom of Jane Furse, where the only remaining ‘recreational’ activities include jogging laps of the shattered glass laden soccer pitch and trying to write lyrically potent songs with the guitars. We knew the day would come when our DVD supply would run out, but we foolishly refrained from making the effort of creating any contigency plans.

Our first expedition for month 2 of the placement was a trip to apparently South Africa’s most proficient witch doctor (although he likes to be known as a traditional healer). Disappointed that he was charging R150 ($24) for a consultation and that his office actually resembled a normal doctor’s surgery I decided to not ask him about voodoo and my explosive flatulence. Rather I laughed as the other volunteers each spent a fair chunk of their money on discovering that there is no immediate witchcraft in their future. I guess that’s a good thing, but I honestly reckon I could have delivered the same news for a smaller price.

Being in the witch doctor mood – sorry, traditional healer – the next day we ventured to Tafelkop for a festival which entailed more than 200 of these guys dancing barefoot. This was one of those unique African experiences that you would expect to find on the Discovery Channel, however when you have to watch this for three hours on end you begin to crave unique Australian experiences instead. Being subject to something – that is, talking to ancestors and matters involving witchcraft – that I do not believe in the slightest left me feeling quite cynical; it was as if I was watching an episode of Crossing Over with John Edward except with Sepedi dialogue and frequent breaks for musical dancing. Nonetheless I found the whole concept to be incredibly intriguing, particular the fact that these people also believe in God and the fundamentals of Christianity. Centuries ago when European missionaries brought the Word of God to Africa the locals believed what they were hearing however, unwilling to denounce their beliefs, these people continued worshipping ancestors and decided to combine the two belief systems together.

Our journey a few weeks later was less of an African thing to do and more of a touristy idea. Venturing into Blyde River Canyon, the third largest in the world, and admiring three amazing world-renowned viewpoints came as much needed relief to all of us. One of the most beautiful pieces of scenery that my eyes have ever gazed upon this awe-inspiring sight confidently positioned itself high on my imaginary list of African highlights whilst affirming the fact that God is out there, and that He knows how to mould a perfect sculpture. Gazing at the Three Rondavels was almost surreal; it was like looking into a postcard or painting as it moved ever so slightly. Naturally photo opportunities were a plenty and foolishly we all succumbed to the rich temptation of cheating death and posing on the awkwardly positioned rocks, which provided the foreground to this magnificent backdrop. A wrong step could have very easily taken us to an early grave, but there was no chance that we were going to miss such an opportunity by obeying the signs that read ‘Do Not Go Beyond This Point’.

Given its reputation and generous name God’s Window didn’t live up to our expectations. Nonetheless it was a picturesque lookout that showcased how massive this canyon really was, justifying the strenuous walk involved in reaching the rainforest view. Lastly but not leastly The Pinnacle proved to be another wonderful spectacle. Taking centre stage before an endless row of low-altitude valleys this upright rock structure closely resembled a giant…
“Wang! Pay attention!” “I was distracted by that enormous flying…”
“Willie!” “Yeah?” “What’s that?” “Well it looks like a giant…”
“Johnson!” “Yes sir” (you get the idea)

On our way back from Mpumulunga we made a pitstop in the quaint old gold-mining town of Pilgrim’s Rest, a combination of Sovereign Hill and the Dandenong Ranges. Unfortunately we only got a small preview of this little village but a whole term of weekends still awaits, so a return is certainly on the cards. South Africa is beginning to creep its way up my list of favourite countries; the sights it has on offer are beginning to convince me that there is a sheer volume of light at the end of the inconsistent tunnel known as teaching. I don’t want to go home anymore. Well, not yet anyway.

As I sit here in the wondrous city of Cape Town, where Table Mountain keeps watch over a vibrant waterfront city and where internet is only R5/hr rather than R60/hr I can’t wait to begin typing out another blog that captures the sheer brilliance of this place. But the holidays have only just begun, meaning I’ll just have to wait, and so will you.

“They call her Luuucy,
They call her Jenin,
They call her Claudy,
They call him Kelvin.
That’s not our names. That’s not our names. That’s not our names.
That’s not our _ names”

Nobody on earth has any clue where Jane Furse is.

Okay, that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration. There are actually at least two people in the world who know the location. That’s two South Africans out of at least 50 that I mentioned the name of the town to.  To many I explained that Jane Furse was located approximately 200km away from Polokwane, one of South Africa’s smallest ‘main’ cities, to which I discovered that “everything is about 200kms from Polokwane”. I was being sent to the middle of nowhere, far away from everywhere and everybody else.

In addition to this, the only cartographers who could bother pointing out Jane Furse worked for Google Earth. And even they had no idea; somehow the town Jane Furse had become situated on the top of a deserted mountain.

With this in mind I really had no idea what to expect from this evidently forgotten municipality. The only image I could conjure up in my mind consisted of poverty-stricken families cramped up in broken shelters. I imagined St Mark’s College – the school where I would be working – to have absolutely no facilities, to be a poor man’s Box Hill High. I also assumed that shops would be non-existent; trading at markets where only Sepedi – the local language – was spoken would be our source of food for the next five months.

A day prior to our arrival into Jane Furse we – me and my three fellow volunteers, that is; Lucy from somewhere near Geelong, Claudia from somewhere near Perth and Jenny from somewhere in Europe – departed central Johannesburg by bus. Finding our way around Park Station – literally situated in the heart of the city – was a challenge in itself, but once we hit the roads and progressed towards Limpopo Province a sigh of relief echoed amongst us. For the last 6 months the four of us had been getting to know each other via Facebook. Now we were all meeting face to face; the volunteer placement we had been so eagerly awaiting had finally dawned on us.

Our two days of driving were broken up by a night in Polokwane, a modest city of a few hundred thousand. First impressions of the place were difficult to establish; after departing the bus we were left stranded by ourselves – and our mass pile of suitcases and backpacks – by the taxi rank.

After a night spent at the house of Maureen and John – an older couple responsible for us – and their two gigantic dogs we were introduced to Mpho. We took a liking to this bald man with a beirut almost immediately; his willingness to drive us wherever we wanted made our search for a second-hand car no longer necessary, while his comprehensive knowledge on everything Jane Furse-related assured us we were in good hands. Seated in the back of his minivan we admired the beautiful kopjes and mountains that the South African countryside offered us. Not so beautiful, however, was the confronting sight of a truck which had crashed head-on into a hillside. Any remaining desires to purchase a car were subsequently eliminated.

Bearing in mind my imaginations Jane Furse greatly impressed me. Upon entering the town I was overcome with joy; this was no Johannesburg – or even Polokwane for that matter – but it was much larger than I thought and much wealthier than I thought. Plus, they had a Shoprite – the African equivalent of a Safeway but with cues longer than Benjamin Button – and a whole plaza worth of shops. Signs revealed a local KFC was also nearby, a piece of news that lifted my spirits so high that when I discovered that the franchise was still under construction I fell completely flat.

Evidently Jane Furse was also the local hotspot for quite a number of handy services; there seemed to be a surplus supply of funeral parlours, abortion clinics, haircut salons, herbal healers and fast food ‘restaurants’. It also wasn’t short of creepy men, the type that will either propose to you, ask you for money or SMS your number ten times a day. That’s the last time I give out my number to a stranger on the street.

St Mark’s College – our home and workplace until the end of the school year – also surpassed my expectations. This was no poor man’s BHHS; rather this was sitting on par with a pre-2009 Box Hill High. For those unfamiliar with my example, think a school with few facilities and tolerable buildings but with an underlying charm. Furthermore the kids who attended here were not street kids with ragged clothes hanging off them; rather, they had smart uniforms with iPods in their pockets, and had school fees five times higher than what I used to pay… back in my day.

Similarly our housing situation was far from disgraceful. My room, separated from the girls’ dorm by two locked gates and a dirt road, was twice the size of my room back at home and was complete with a fridge, TV, DVD player and comfortable bed. To add to my shock the showers actually had hot water. Watch this space.

With only teacher’s rooms neighbouring mine the girls’ dorm naturally became my second home, however living with three girls has had both its pros and cons. Pros include cooking, cleaning, washing up (only kidding… oh come one, it was just a joke!), while cons include Cosmo; whenever that magazine is brought out my contribution to conversations suddenly diminishes. As a measure of ensuring I remain sane – and male (I have already started using the girl’s toilets… after knocking first, of course) – I make sure to return to my home premises every night by 8.30pm. Staying in any later results in being locked in at the wrong side of the tracks.

Considering the greater appeal of living with three teenagers than being a loner in a solitary confinement cell 30 metres away  – and how large their joint DVD collection is – I assumed that at some point during my five months I would accidentally be locked in the girl’s dorm. What I didn’t expect was that such an occurrence would take place on day two. But seriously, who on earth would lock the gates at 7.30pm? A makeshift bed on one of the coldest nights of the year was my punishment and since then I’ve always made it back ‘home’ before my dreaded curfew.

The 5 month challenge that awaited each of us was teaching; we were to be placed in front of classroom after classroom with a single textbook and a bit of chalk. Upon our arrival we were seated in the principal’s office as he briefed us on our roles and responsibilities. I seriously considered making a run for it at this point, before realising that this was the reason why I came to African. Not to travel, not to relax, not to go shopping, but to teach.

Although timetables took a while to get sorted I ended up with two Grade 8 EMS (Economic and Management Sciences) and English classes and a Grade 9 Life Orientation class, the Serth Efrikan equivalent of HPE. This brought my tally to 17 periods a week, child’s play when you consider that some teachers have to work all 9 periods every day. That’s correct, there are nine (including periods 1-5 consecutive, without a break). Our first week was interrupted by a school-wide strike, organised by all the learners, however this blew over fairly quickly and we were back teaching the next morning.

Grade 8A and 8B – both nearing 40 students – are an inconsistent bunch that are a genuine challenge to teach. During one class my 8Bs locked me out of their room, before – in chorus unison – chanting something in Sepedi, directed at me. I decided to be resilient, knowing full well that ignoring their pleas would ensure I remained in full control. Funnily enough the next day my class behaved like angels and worked without a single fuss. 8C has been a little easier to manage, considering that there are only 25 students – including one girl who has a click in her name;  I often find myself exerting a sigh of relief whenever one of that class’ three weekly lessons appears on my timetable.

Preparing for classes has – to my great surprise – been much easier than I had imagined. A quick glance through the textbook the night before is often enough for me to ‘wing it’ pretty well, giving the students the impression that I am an EMS/English genius. The one lesson I did not plan properly for (in all fairness I wasn’t supposed to be teaching) turned into footy practice; I showed a few kids my weirdly shaped Aussie rules football and before I knew it they were all running riot. No windows were broken. Well, at least I don’t think so.

Once you add marking, invigilating, writing tests and writing sermons to the equation, though, you start getting a little overwhelmed. Teaching may mean that every hour is different and that every day is a new challenge, but this is certainly a profession I will not be considering for my future.

Being a boarding school there is unsurprisingly more to St Mark’s than simply education. A breakfast of ‘porridge’ (may actually be vomit, but we’re not entirely sure), a lunch of pap and ‘KFC’ chicken and a dinner of something more tolerable is my daily diet. However, with Lucy and Claudia usually willing to cook proper meals, I am often rewarded the luxury of two serves for every meal… which means I eat a hell of a lot of pap, something that surely can’t be good for me.

Boarding also means that students share the dormitory area with us. These same students introduced themselves to us with three questions: “Do you drink?”, “Do you smoke” and “Are you a sex addict?” I must say that we sadly disappointed them.

In addition to this, a Sepedi-speaking church service is held every night at 6.30pm, a service where loud, joyous choral singing and synchronised dancing is the norm.  Unlike Christian schools in Melbourne this is a school of Christians; worship and praise is not perceived with raised eyebrows as it might be back home. In fact even during the Matric formal dinner – an opportunity for me to dress up nicely alongside my three dates – a viciously aggressive sermon was preached. I can only imagine how that would have gone down at my Year 12 formal.

My last responsibility here in Jane Furse is teaching at the local mentally disabled childcare centre. As one can imagine this is an incredibly challenging task. Preparing a lesson takes no time at all – mainly because I was thrust into the hot seat without warning – but communicating the message succesfully is a difficult skill that I am eager to learn.

One of the great advantages of being a teacher is that every weekend is a break. Most of our breaks have thus far consisted of sleeping 24/7 in Jane Furse or shopping in Polokwane – one of the host cities for Twenty Ten – however, amidst this we have managed to find ourselves some much needed relief a little further out.

Unwilling to dish out another few hundred dollars for a national park game drive Jenny and I decided to spend our first long weekend in Sabie, a quaint tourist town in Mpumalunga – a province with a name only I can pronounce. It was here that I finally received confirmation that my digital camera, broken in Livingstone, resurrected in Midrand and broken again in Jane Furse, was unable to be fixed. I also spent over 70 rand on an assortment of cakes/ice creams (proving that I still cannot be trusted with money), fell in love with Spur – an amazing restaurant chain – and, in my spare time, participated in a few extreme sports.

Despite having no idea what on earth kloofing was we decided to give it a go. Otherwise known as canyoning, kloofing turned out to be a mixture of hiking, swimming, falling, climbing and being showered by waterfalls. In saying all this I still have little idea what exactly it is. Dressed in tight water suits and helmets this turned out to be more than we bargained for. However this was only the start.

Considering the kind of things I had done over the past few months – bunjee jumping, bridge swinging, white water rafting and horse riding – abseiling was hardly a thrill. What did make it memorable – and incredibly cold – was the fact that once I reached the bottom of the rock face, which sat parallel to a flowing waterfall, I landed on the water’s surface. Here I floated downstream in what were my only dry clothes and shoes. Perfect. I subsequently added that to my imaginary list of things never to do in the middle of winter. Even in Africa.

The last component of our 3 day thrill weekend was white water tubing, what I thought would be a baby’s version of rafting. Again I was surprised at the severity of what I had signed myself up for; on three separate occasions I found myself capsizing on rapids.

My only other experience outside of Jane Furse was at a large pilgrimage, named after the late Manche Masemola. Thousands of people from all over the country gathered for this annual event, held at the gravesite of this martyred girl (google her, she should be on the interweb somewhere). Food may not have been provided and half the service may have been in Sepedi, but overall this was a worthwhile trip that helped me understand a little more about the part of the world I had accidentally found myself in.

One month down means that I still have almost four to go. Thankfully homesickness hasn’t got the better of me yet; the long slog ahead is more exciting than frightening. Currently I am trying to implement an instrumental music program at the school – relying on donations from abroad – whilst trying to pen my first novel. At the same time, I am slowly coming to terms with the lack of water (shortages occur three times a week), electricity (only off once a week), internet access (prices are too expensive, plus I got into an argument with one of the managers) and now post access (after the entire South African postal service decided to take an 8 day strike!). There’s only one thing suitable to say at this moment; Eish!

CCM Testimony
Photos coming soon…

With the Zambian authorities allowing me to leave their country and South African immigration granting me permission to enter theirs I was able to complete my last planned border crossing without difficulty. My passport picture may have still looked blurry and messy, but airport security didn’t seem to mind; all my ‘Border Security’ nightmares were removed the moment the passport check man took a glance at my damaged piece of identity: “Hey! You’re birthdays almost the same day as mine!” TIA.

As soon as my 18^th birthday came about I caught a lift up to Pretoria to the Australian High Commission, where I applied for a new adult passport. It was nice to return to Australian territory – even if it was for no more than an hour – but the simple fact was that this part of South Africa felt so much like Melbourne that I had no need to feel homesick anymore.

My first two weeks in Johannesburg were spent working at a church/school in Midrand – a suburb so large that it may as well be regarded as a separate town. My connection to this location involved a long and confusing link; my minister at home had forwarded my contact details to another local minister he knew, who in turn put me in contact with a guy who worked at this Midrand congregation. To make it even more complicated this same guy was in the middle of his two weeks leave when I arrived. In short, I was living and working alongside people who were 4 degrees of separation away from me.

I initially feared that it would feel awkward to ‘make myself at home’ at a complete stranger’s residence. However, to my great relief, the Colletts – my week 1 host family – were a lovely bunch of people who provided me with luxury accommodation. After sleeping in a freezing cold tent for the last leg of my journey I felt spoilt to return to heated bedding and warm showers, not to mention fast internet, cable TV (with AFL!), a piano, a washing machine and toasted cheese sandwiches. I had returned to Western civilisation and boy, it felt incredible.

Working at the church was a humbling experience. Considering that I had little qualifications and no plans I assumed that my two weeks would be more or less wasted. On the contrary the staff members at Christ Church Midrand treated me as if I was a special guest. Without my knowledge people I had never met were inviting me out for meals, and every time I attended a meeting or service I was offered a personal introduction. One family even went as far as making me a birthday cake when I turned 18. I had tried my best to make the day a low-key event, however word slowly got around and before long I was being swamped with gifts of biltong – the local delicacy.

My activities comprised of more than just fun and games; in between parties and free days dedicated to reading I had a few tasks at hand. The majority of my two weeks were spent at my desk (that’s right, they even gave me a desk!) as I prepared a sermon for the affiliated primary school. Speaking for 15 minutes in front of a room full of kids could have potentially been a demanding task, but for the most part these children gave me their complete attention – disregarding a few moments when something vaguely interesting occured in the background, causing the entire congregation to turn their backs to me in curiosity. To read the transcript, click here.

The only responsibility on my plate was assisting with the youth group, where I was amazingly the only person capable of playing the piano. Back at home, I’m the only one incapable of playing that particular instrument.

Beyond the church and housing area – separated by a large field – where I spent virtually the entirety of my fortnight stay, I jumped from house to house as a result of unnecessary acts of generosity. On my second day as a legal adult I experienced my first brie. I expected that coming to Africa would mean being starved and malnourished, but my hosts evidently had different ideas in mind; my plate was being piled with all kinds of different meats, including kudu – my first piece of game meat – and an interesting mixture known as pap. Watch this space.

Another member of staff was nice enough to take me out to Montecasino – one of South Africa’s most interesting entertainment plazas. Designed to resemble a Mediterranean street scene this extravagant shopping complex was a tourist attraction in itself. Pigeon sculptures sat on fake windowsills, faded movie posters were pasted on cartoon-like houses, while the designers even went as far as painting the ceiling as a clear blue sky. Cheesy, yes. But damn, I wish they had one in Melbourne.

The hospitality of these people was nothing short of spectacular and it reminded me of my experiences in Dodoma three months earlier. These people may have been middle-to-upper class and mostly white – the complete opposite of the Tanzanian community I interacted with – but that didn’t matter.  This may sound like a generalisation, but I think being generous is simply the African way.

Having wasted enough time uploading Facebook photos and watching Billy Joel video clips it was time to move on. Time to move on, down the road, towards the heart of Johannesburg. Jo’burg – as the locals call it – is considered to be one of the world’s most dangerous cities. To be perfectly honest I didn’t find myself particular scared by this gigantic municipality (think Melbourne, but upsized), however the stories and evidence of the lurking dangers were hard to miss; every single house and building was protected by large opaque fences and electric wires.

My reason for being here was incidentally also the reason for coming to Africa, to volunteer with Lattitude. To mark my 100^th day away from home I met up with my fellow volunteers, three of whom I would be spending the next 100 or so days alongside. For four days I was reminded what being a teenager is like, having been given the chance to hang out with 40-odd likeminded 18-year-olds. We learnt about South African culture and history, teaching methods and various diseases, but most of all we learnt each other’s names… and then forget them minutes later. I must have had conversations with almost all the volunteers, yet strangely I can remember only about 10 names. It makes me wonder, how are my going to cope with learning the names of my African students next week?

Seeing as we were in Johannesburg – the home of ‘2010’ (pronounced Twenty Ten and refers only to next year’s pending World Cup, never the year itself) – it would have been a crime not to explore this notoriously lively city. None of us were brave enough to see the sights from ground level; rather, we rode through the city three metres above ground level on the back of a very touristy bus. With Nelson Mandela’s 91^st birthday celebrations fresh on our minds, our first stop was Constitution Hill – the former site of a prison, where Mandela himself and some dude named Gandhi were once held. This, along with the Hector Peterson Memorial, gave us an exclusive insight into South Africa’s intriguing and troubled history, a fitting prelude before confronting the city itself and the world famous township of Soweto.

Considering all the extraordinary tales I had heard about Jo’burg – possibly the richest and most Western city in all of Africa – my mental images comprised of burning buildings, tramps with shopping trolleys and dodgy black market traders. In contrast I was experiencing a vibrant city where skyscrapers occupied every block and sophisticated business people sipped lattes in expensive cafes. Minutes out of town an enormous soccer stadium was being constructed. In essence, this was Melbourne – but a little more dangerous.

Soweto also surpassed my expectations. Given what I had heard I expected this infamous city of millions to be full of slums and overwhelming poverty. It may have been far from utopia, but Soweto was also far from hell. The lower class areas resembled prison and Survivor-esque shelters, but a fair chunk of this area was also surprisingly wealthy and looked similar to the suburban areas I had become accustomed to.

What awaits is the main component of my African adventure – five months of teaching in rural South Africa. At present I am at St. Mark’s College in Jane Furse – a town so remote not a single map bothers to mark it. I won’t elaborate now, but in short teaching is a challenge. A challenge so difficult that I am loving every second…

Note: Up until this point, the following information has been kept secret from everybody back home. Mum and Dad, I am very sorry. But I’m still alive… that’s all that matters.

“Take a leap of faith; you know you can.
All it takes is a bunch of guts.
Sitting on the fence will leave you dead”
 - Voice of Apollo, before they sold out

If you asked me, three months ago, to make a list of the activities I hoped to never do in my lifetime, getting chased by a sheepdog would probably sit in first place. Down in probably third or fourth place, though, would have been the act of jumping from a 110m high bridge. Yet somehow, almost mysteriously, I found myself doing that exact thing.

That’s right, Mum; I bungee jumped. Once again, I apologise, as well as reiterating the fact that I’m still alive. In fact, more alive than ever before.

Making the fateful decision to bungee was an unusual progression. Before arriving in Africa bungee wasn’t even an option. To be perfectly honest I wouldn’t have considered it even if somebody paid me. The whole activity goes against the laws of sanity; you don’t jump off bridges. Period.

However when you spend your time twiddling your thumbs on long truck trips you can’t help but give the idea some thought. For weeks I’d been telling myself ‘No, I’m not going to do it’, until one day when I thought about it from an entirely new perspective. Bungee jumping was my greatest fear, right? Hence, if I did it then surely I’d be invincible? If I could do the impossible, surely nothing in life would ever faze me again. This decision had nothing to do with peer pressure or making myself appear cool in front of others. Rather, it was about proving myself wrong.

As the days got closer my nerves grew larger. Every moment of the day which I thought about it – which was most hours – my palms would sweat profusely. At night my dreams were all somehow related to leaping off a bridge; even before I had reached Victoria Falls, I had bungee jumped a hundred times inside my head. There was nothing I could do to relax. Not until I jumped.

The night before my leap of faith I unsurprisingly had trouble sleeping. Due to the freezing cold, I awoke around 5 and subsequently spent the next three hours having lucid dreams about the only thing on my mind. As soon as my alarm rang I left my tent I rushed straight to the toilet. I would make another four toilet stops before lunchtime.

Almost as if some higher power wanted to increase the suspense the three of us – Ollie, Jen and I – arrived at the Victoria Falls bridge (which connects Zambia to Zimbabwe) during the staff members’ lunch break. It wasn’t until two hours later that we were able to even sign up and place our names at the end of a lengthy waiting list.

Ever since making the decision to bungee I desperately wanted to find a way out. A perfect opportunity arose when the indemnity forms came my way; at the top of the paper was a question: ‘Are you over 18?’ Being two weeks shy of that age I had the ideal excuse to pull out. Nevertheless I wasn’t going to chicken out for a minor technicality. I illegally ticked the box and made my way towards the bridge.

What followed was possibly the worst preparation one could imagine for bungee jumping: watching others do it. Every time I tried telling myself that ‘It’s not that far’ or ‘It’s not that scary’ I heard screams from the platform. I couldn’t help but look down the edge and see these falling figures dive towards the Zambezi River and be pulled like a puppet by a solitary rubber rope.

In saying all this watching some people actually calmed my nerves. Noticing that normal, sane people were jumping and surviving not only reassured me that I would be safe, but also that I wasn’t the craziest person in the world for wanting to catapult off a bridge. It had even got to the point where I was eagerly looking forward to my jump; I was ready to get it over and done with. But all that changed in an instance, as I watched an Asian woman express more fear than I thought was imaginable.

Making noises probably more suited to an X-rated film than anything else this lady was not dealing with her stress in the best possible manner. Now I was afraid of two things: a) jumping; and b) being as scared as this lady. If her reaction didn’t unsettle me than that of another nervous jumper certainly did. An unnamed member of our tour group (Jen) showcased almost the same amount of fear – except without the disturbing grunting noises. Her frightened screams as she reluctantly fell towards the water seemed to last forever. If there was any time to be petrified, it was now. And that’s when they called out my name.

Initially I controlled myself very well. I sat still, avoided looking down and took in deep breaths. A cameraman interviewed me and tried to distract me, while the supervisor slowly went over the instructions. Whilst tying up Velcro straps to my ankles he explained exactly what I needed to do in order to be safe. At this point in time adrenaline was accelerating fast and little of what this man was telling me was being successfully encoded in my brain. I paused to say a prayer and hoped this wasn’t the last prayer of my life. But before I could say ‘Amen’ the man was asking me to stand at the platform, with my toes slightly over the edge. Any reservations I had about looking down were immediately dismissed; looking at my toes meant I had to survey what lied beneath me. That’s when he started to count.

“5, 4, 3…”

What? He’s counting already? I haven’t even seen him attach me to the rope. Am I attached? I must be attached? What if not attached? Oh my gosh, what am I going to do?

“…2, 1…”

This is it. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh. Do I jump? Do I jump? Do I jump? If I don’t jump I’ll sound like the Asian lady. If I don’t jump it’ll only get scarier…

“BUNGEE!”

I jump. And it all happens so fast. With so little time to think I jump forwards rather than leaping out, leaving my body upright for the first 50 metres down. It’s like walking in midair, except I’m not walking forwards, I’m walking downwards. Everything is a complete blur and I close my eyes for a moment or two out of pure fear.

Before I know it I’m bouncing up. I look around and everything is upside down. It only just dawns on me that I’ve actually done it. I’ve conquered my greatest fear, but it isn’t over just yet.

With the bounce taking me almost the entire way up again I am virtually going for a second bungee. Except this time I’m upside down the whole way. There’s no time – or point – in closing my eyes. I’m falling head first towards the water and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“OH MY GOSH!!!!!!!!!” I scream. It’s weird; I don’t really ever say this phrase, but at this very point in time it’s the only thing I can release from my mouth. This experience is unbelievable yet so very, very real. Screaming seems to be the only option. Within seconds I have lost my voice.

With everything happening so fast I don’t have nearly enough time to get my bearings. I’m falling from the sky for the third time now and it’s not getting any easier. All sense of direction is lost but I realise that there is little point worrying about that; rather, it’s wiser to just take it all in and try to comprehend the significance of what I’m doing.

Within 30 seconds the whole ride is over. But I’m still far from comfort. Tied upside down and hanging from a bridge 100m above me I am left helpless, as I rest my head in the air – just metres above the Zambezi. Tilting my head upwards I notice an abseiller descending down towards me. He lifts me and brings me upright. But that doesn’t make things better. Because now I have the worst wedgie imaginable. Horse riding last week was bad enough, but this is nothing short of hell. It’s like there’s a funeral in my pants and everybodys invited. To my surprise the man hoisting me up has a lazy eye. I find this fact quite concerning considering that I am completely relying on him for my safety. However the dangerous part is over. It’s now time to return to the bridge and celebrate my victory.

On the way up I can’t help but smile. From ear to ear I am one very happy chap, and I have every reason to be as well. I did it! I actually did it! My greatest fear in life has been defeated. But I’m never doing that ever again…

…well at least that’s what I think. Within seconds of returning to the bridge I am putting on a new harness. The Gorge Swing is still to come.

Picture this situation: you are in hospital and the GP comes over with a massive needle. He forcefully sticks it into your arm, giving you the most painful injection of your life. Then, he takes the needle out and assesses the situation; “Oops, missed your vain. Better try again,” he says.

Upon watching Ollie do the gorge swing I was feeling that exact feeling of fear. I’d done giant swings before, so I naturally assumed that this one would be a pushover. Boy, was I wrong. This one looked worse than the bungee..

With my short lived celebrations out of the way I proceeded to the platform for the second time in five minutes. This time I could clearly see that I was attached to the rope, but at the same time I could feel the pull of the rope tugging me towards the edge. Once again I positioned my toes and panicked as the supervisor counted down.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1… SWING!”

As scary as the first second was – the second where I had to step over the edge of the platform into nothing – the remainder of this ride was pure exhilaration. Freefalling 100m vertically could have potentially been the most frightening thing in my life, but on the contrary it felt like absolutely liberation.

“WOOHOO!” I screamed excitedly. I let go of the rope and relaxed, using this opportunity to take in the beautiful views and feel on top of the world. Ironically I was at the bottom of a gorge but nobody was here to correct me. I was in my own world and could not believe it.

Once I had been hoisted up to the top I enthusiastically made my way back into Zambia, where the last of our extreme ‘Big Air’ activities was taking place. Known as the gorge slide I was curious to know what awaited me. As it turned out gorge slide was merely a pseudonym for flying fox.

Normally flying foxes thrill me – especially ones which take place 120m above sea level. However, with the bungee and swing fresh in mind, the flying fox failed to excite me at all. It was cool, but I can’t say that I was impressed. And with that judgment I suddenly realised something pretty severe; my expectations had dramatically risen in the last half hour. Would I ever be impressed by anything ever again?

One thing I must admit was impressive about the slide was that it began in Zambia and finished across the other side in Zimbabwe. All day I had walking in and out of Zimbabwe – arguably the world’s most dangerous country – without a problem. It seemed like a pretty cool place… well, at least the 500m I saw of it was anyway.

An African extreme sports experience wouldn’t be complete without a token T.I.A. (This is Africa) moment. Thankfully our dodgy incident didn’t involve a broken rope or a loose harness, but a display of carelessness by the bungee video makers. When Ollie, Jen and I returned two days after our bungee – this time less scared of the bridge and the subsequent drop to the bottom – we were shocked to discover that our videos and photos had all been erased from the computer. Looking at it from a broader perspective such a disappointment probably didn’t matter too much; we had each completed the jump and nobody could take that away from us. Not even a frustratingly foolish Zambian staff member.

Besides, we got t-shirts to prove it anyway.

Kev in Africa #8 – Malawi and Zambia
Kev in Africa #9 – Livingstone / Victoria Falls
Simba in Africa photos

I’d seen it all already: wild animals, awe-inspiring mountain ranges, golden beaches, calm oceans, native tribespeople… even naked bunjee jumpers. So what on earth was I still doing travelling around Africa, I wondered. Malawi had better impress me, I thought to myself…

To be blunt my first impressions of Malawi weren’t particularly grand. With an appearance not unlike the rest of East Africa, this thin country was unmistakably beautiful, yet certainly didn’t offer anything I hadn’t seen before. Africa’s charm may have been clearly evident via the locals who waved and yelled greetings at our truck, but I wanted something… well, something different.

The next morning my dreams were realised. Having got used to waking up at unearthly hours of the morning watching the sunrise was no longer a novelty but a convention. The Malawi sunrise is something special, though, especially as it rises over the beautiful freshlaker lake – creatively named Lake Malawi (the lake was actually named before the nation, so I shouldn’t really criticise it). This was the typical Malawi image I had been expecting to see, which really illustrates how little I knew about the country. The extent of my national knowledge was that Madonna had adopted a child from the country and that the flag consisted of a half-risen black sun. And there was little doubt which of those features I was more eager to see. (Clue: not Madonna)

The other person synonmous with Malawi is the great explorer David Livingstone who, to be honest, is also synonomous with pretty much every single other African country. Livingstone’s influence, though, was evidently felt here more than anywhere else; sitting high in the mountains was an old half-completed missionary settlement known as Livingstonia.

Livingstonia was a great disappointment. Not because the buildings were so old or that the population was so tiny. Not even for the fact that the local restuarant only served one dish (rice with chicken, for those of you playing at home). Rather, Livingstonia failed to meet our expectations because walking there took 3 hours. A 15km uphill climb was not the most enjoyable bushwalk of my life, but to be fair it wasn’t all bad and we all got some much needed exercise.

Viewing Manchewe Falls and subsequently getting the chance to swim in it partially justified the difficult trek. Before I left Australia, one of the things I remember telling friends was that I’d be swimming in waterfalls while they were busy studying. Here my ambitious dream became a surprisingly reality. I’m probably going to get bilharzia disease as a result, but that was a sacrifice worth making.

Speaking of bilharzia, Lake Malawi is the place where the disease is most common. Nevertheless, swimming in this warm freshwater lake – which takes up 20% of the country’s ‘land’ – was difficult to resist; how could one not want to dip their feet into the beautiful and transparent water? Such was the lake’s calmness that fish could be seen swimming at my feet as I walked. Unfortunately my uncoordinated attempts of catching them were in vain.

A few lazy days in Chitimba were followed by a drive down to Kande – a similarly languid beach area by the coast of Lake Malawi. Drive days are usually dedicated to filling in my diary, eating cheap supermarket biscuits and reflecting on life in general, but the Viphya Plateau was certainly a sight worth seeing. Yet another component of the Rift Valley – which never ceases to amaze me – this mountain range was a timely reminder of Africa’s never-ending beauty. Any doubts I had about Malawi had been well and truly erased.

‘I Want Kande’ Beach gave us all a few more days to laze around and forgot about life’s worries. With the hot sun bearing down on us and the waves breaking on my legs I was able to do some reading and write some music (a relativedly difficult task without the aid of a piano). But there’s only so many days of nothing one can tolerate. Hence I decided to challenge myself.

Horse riding was an activity I’d never really given much thought to, but when the opportunity came along I was keen to give it a shot. I must say that it was a more than worthwhile experience, but after definitely losing any chances of future fertility as a result of trotting I don’t think I’ll be too keen to try it again anytime soon.

What made up for my nut sandwhich was the novelty of being able to ride a horse through Lake Malawi. Fergus, my stallion, was incredibly reluctant to move once we hit the waves but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. For the past two hours I had been desperately trying to make Fergus stop eating and pulling me in random directions. Comparitively, sitting stationary was actually quite a relaxing change.

To celebrate my final morning at Lake Malawi I awoke for the sunrise once more. What made this experience more special was the opportunity to meet a security guard, who worked on the beach from 6pm to 6am every night. He and I chatted about all things, from job satisfaction (or job dissatisfaction rather) to faith, and by the time I decided to head back into bed (or tent rather) I had made a new friend. That night Joseph came to find me again, but this time with a gift in hand. I will never forgot the homemade keyring he gave me, especially considering that he went to such great effort to carve out my name: KELVIN.

Our last destination for Malawi was the nation’s capital of Lilongwe. Personally I didn’t understand why we were going Lilongwe when we could have easily gone the short way, but I figured that in Africa there are no short cuts and one has to  learn to appreciate each and every place. Lilongwe possessed a little bit of charm, mainly because I felt a little sympathetic towards the city. Spread out over quite a large distance the municipality resembled more of an outer suburb than a central business district. Most amusing was the sign welcoming us at the beginning of the Lilongwe boundary, that read ‘City Centre’. Not a single building, house or person was in sight.

What was most memorable about our time in Lilongwe was that it corresponded with the death of Michael Jackson. Considering that for the last 40-odd days world news was rarely sighted it was remarkable how fast we received this report. The rest of town were obviously following the story as well; replacing reggae music on the public radios was MJ, and it could be heard almost everywhere we drove.

My seventh consecutive border crossing – into Zambia this time – was thankfully just as stress-free as the previous six. Being my last land crossing for the trip (well, the last planned one anyway) I felt a little sentimental; never being able to trade money on the black market ever again could have potentially brought a tear to my eye. Thankfully I managed to withold my tears because I needed to save up my energy for four nights of… well, nothing.

Looking back on it all our introduction to Zambia was kind of like the calm before the storm (or should I say ‘the calm before the smoke that thunders’… no, wait, that sounds pretty lame, forget that). With Victoria Falls on our minds there was always an incentive to move on, but each stop we made was far from forgettable. In fact we even had the odd bit of fun. Enjoying ourselves on holiday, huh. Sounds unbelievable.

To summarise these few days we bought a tortoise, we managed to get through to a Zimbabwean border just for the fun of it, we survived a night’s sleep beside a dam full of hippos and we visited a crocodile farm – where an attention-seeking croc with a severe underbite entertained us. I also got my first dose of homesickness.

Amazingly, Zambia’s captial of Lusaka managed to cure my desire to return to Melbourne; in fact, the city reminded me of the eastern suburbs. Roads has painted markings on them, traffic lights actually worked and there was a surprisingly pleasant balance between concrete and flora. Such minor details had never really made me so excited before. But in Africa things change. Things change a lot.

I also learnt that things change very quickly. In particular, city seems to transform into country within a matter of kilometres. Less than 10km outside of Lusaka we were staying at a little farmyard where wild zebra, giraffe and antelope wandered around without a care in the world. When I wasn’t taking photos or having face-offs with these curious animals I couldn’t help but ponder what it would be like if kangaroos and emus were seen walking around somewhere like Camberwell.

I’m almost certain that more interesting activities took place between Lilongwe and our next stop – and also my final destination – Livingstone, but the excitement of the following four days seemed to virtually erase our recent memories. Being host to Victoria Falls – one of the seven natural wonders of the world – Livingstone was where it all happened. Every stone I had left unturned over the past two months was given a mighty shake down here.

Unfortunately there are no prizes for guessing where our first port of call was. For the sake of those slow individuals out there I will spell it out: V.I.C.T.O.R.I.A F.A.L.L.S. And for the sake of the fast individuals out there I hope you were smart enough to skip that last sentence.

Before this blog gets too silly, though, I must write about the spectacular nature of this mighty and world renowend waterfall. Known as ‘the smoke that thunders’ (hence my earlier comment), this noisy and constant flow of falling water was something to marvel. For not the first on my trip I was having one of those awe-inspired moments where my mouth was on auto-pilot. My catchcrys of “Awesome”, “Wow” and one of those amazed laughs were being replayed over and over by my voicebox without my conscious control. Vic Falls was an incredible sight to see and hear and I couldn’t have believe how close we were.

Too close in fact. Way too close. One of the thing that makes the Falls such a landmark is the misty water that rises up from the ground, almost like smoke. In fact, if weather forecasts were to be given for Vic Falls it would always be ‘Misty with rain’, because that’s exactly what it felt like: rain. Even at nightime, during the full moon lunar rainbow – a worthwhile yet relatively dear-priced sight – the water kept continuing its intriguing circuit. But it was during the day that I got really soaked.

As rain hurtled at me from one side a bright rainbow shone from the other. My natural instinct to take photos overtook natural logic, which states that water and electronic items don’t mix. Luckily for me my camera came out in one piece, but the miserable state of one of the other tour member’s cameras was a different story. My passport was another tale altogether.

Note to self: Do not get your passport wet.
Note to anybody reading: Taking my passport was necessary, considering that Zambia shares the border with Zimbabwe. So before you say ‘Oh my gosh, Kevin is such a doofus!’ please realise that I never intended for such a disaster to take place.

Sorting out passports, not to mention 8kg parcels that needed posting home and debit cards that refused to work in local ATMs, was a frustruating inconvenience to finish my journey on but these are not the things I will remember Victoria Falls for. My irritating traveller troubles may have added some unnecessary stress to my final days before my flight out to Johannesburg, but they certainly didn’t ruin my experience. No force on heaven and earth could have possibly made me think badly of this wonderful destination. Plus, I was now a multi-trillionaire. Well, in Zimbabwe anyway.

To occupy my time over the next few days I took part in three life-changing acitivites. The first of these was microlighting, an aircraft which resembles one of those flying bicycles from E.T. Flying above Victoria Falls and the Zambezi was a breathtaking experience that simply cannot be described. I could try, but I would undoubtedly fail. Sure, this may sound lazy, but neither my vocabularly nor the English language itself has enough powerful words to justify what I saw. I guess you’ll just have to try it for yourself.

The third activity – also my last for the trip – was also indescribable, but I’ll give it a shot. Named the Lion Encounter, this attraction involved walking with adolescent, albeit relatively large, lions. Considering how amazed I was to see a lion from a safari vehicle a month earlier (see previous blog) one only needs to imagine how I felt when given the chance to pat and even hold the tail of one of these creatures. Comprehending the fact that three lions were walking around me was quite difficult; in fact, it was all a bit of a surreal experience. Simbas aren’t meant to get along with humans, they’re supposed to attack us. So what on earth was going on?

Speaking of simba, my little Lion King toy which I had been carrying all over Africa got lost on this journey. Then, minutes later my digital camera decided to conk out. To my relief our tour guide managed to find my plastic figurine, but to be perfectly honest the latter problem was more of an issue. Looking on the positive side of things, though, at least my camera took its toll on the last day of my safari rather than the first. Nonetheless it was another annoyance to add to the list.

Those observant enough would have noticed that I skipped from activity no.1 to activity no.3. Believe it or not this was completely intentional; activity numbero duo is worthy of its own blog entry…

Having thrilled myself and pushed myself passed boundaries Livingstone was the ideal place to conclude my 45 day safari. From a social point of view I had made lifelong friendships and developed ongoing in-jokes, but on the last night – whilst listening to my fellow travellers reminisce about stories and ridiculous quotes for probably the tenth time – I knew it was a fitting time to move on.

I had forged myself a reputation for being the biggest consumer of food, something which worked in my favour at expensive resturants and even truck dinners. I had also established myself as the biggest spender at curio stores; it seemed my pocket was always running dry when around salesman. Finally, I somehow managed to forge a rather surprising knack for disappearing; my youthful curiosity with African often saw me wandering around independently and exploring the countries the way I liked to best. Now, the time had come to move on. Johannesburg awaited me and I couldn’t wait to return to a nice, comfortable bed.

But don’t forgot to read the next blog. Because its an absolute cracker!

Kev in Africa #6 – Nairobi to Iringa
Kev in Africa #7 – Serengeti NP and Ngorongoro Crater
Simba in Africa photos

“I’ve got the old man’s car;
I’ve got a jazz guitar;
I’ve got a tab at Zanzibar.”

OK, that’s not 100% accurate. I don’t have the old man’s car, I don’t have a jazz guitar and I don’t even have a tab at Zanzibar. But I did buy a coke at a bar in Zanzibar, so technically I could have had a tab there. Anyway…

There are three reasons why any normal person would want to visit Tanzania.
i. To come face to face with the abundance of rare and unique wildlife
ii. To observe some of earth’s most astounding geographical features
iii. To relax on the sandy beaches of the Indian Ocean

During my 2 week relapse into Tanzania I’ve managed to tick off all three of those boxes, reaffirming it as my favourite country on the planet; there is little doubt why this nation has such a firm reputation for being one of the world’s most beautiful.

It didn’t take long for me to be reminded why I loved the land of Tanzania so much the first time around. Just minutes into the journey I was staring at the 4.5km high Mt Meru to the south and the base of some little hill known as Kilimanjaro (or something like that) to the east. Unfortunately I never got a clear view of Kili due to clouds covering the entirety of the mountain – which surely must be the definition of frustration – however I didn’t let this minor disappointment get in the way. Bigger and better things were still to come…

The Serengeti National Park – internationally renowned as the best game viewing arena on earth – is an amazing spectacle that, from a geographical perspective, doesn’t fit in with the rest of the country. Being a member of the Great Rift Valley club, Tanzania is often associated with huge mountain ranges. Serengeti, on the other hand, literally translates to ‘endless plains’ and it is easy to see why. Upon entering the world heritage listed national park, you get the feeling that the imaginary line you are passing is a defined border between overwhelming works of God and fields of complete flatness. As one might expect this can get a little boring at times, however all this changes once you spot your first animal. Because animals don’t hang around by themselves. They are part of families. Really, really, really big families…

It’s pretty easy to see why the flatness of the Serengeti is considered a positive characteristic. It is truly a magical sight to be able to look in every direction and see miles and miles filled to their brim by wild zebra, wildebeest and antelope. Of course the distant wildlife look no bigger than an ant, but fortunately my vision is strong enough to distinguish between a wildebeest and a giant ant.

Within just two hours of entering the national park our luck was already showing. On our way to our overnight campsite our guide spotted something lurking in a tree. As we got closer we began to understand why he had become so excited; he was looking at a leopard. For those who don’t know the leopard is one of the rarest animals to see, despite being a member of ‘the Big 5′. Coming within five metres of such an animal is a special experience, especially when the sun is setting and the other safari vehicles are waiting behind yours, all eagerly trying to gain the prime position. My trigger fingers were going crazy on my camera, which wasn’t exactly a good thing…

…Tension built up before 10am on the next morning when already two of my three camera batteries had depleted. If it wasn’t for the pitstop we made at the visitors centre a few hours later I would have probably suffered the horrible fate of being in the Serengeti and not being able to use a camera. Such a nightmare situation would be comparable with going to school without not only a pen, but pants as well. Thankfully all was well and my pants and camera were intact, because I had some wildebeest to shoot.

If there’s one thing to see in the Serengeti it’s the world famous migration of the wildebeest. Before I entered the national park my aim was to see more animals of a single species than I had seen of cattle. And believe me, I’ve seen a lot of cow. The migration made my quest a success; I was given the opportunity of viewing three separate groups of noisy wildebeest as they made their way from Tanzania into Kenya. As our safari vehicle split right through the middle of the pack, all my expectations were met. These ‘wild beasts’ – which resemble thin, bearded buffalo – exhibited a remarkably structured formation as they ran across the plains of the Serengeti. Then again such organisation was completely reasonable, considering that there was probably more than 10,000 of these animals in the one place. There may have even been 100,000 but to be perfectly honest I wasn’t really counting.

My cynical side came out at one point when our safari search turned into a quest for the rare rock hyrax. The hyrax, to be generous, looks like a rat and is famous simply because of its distant relationship to the elephant. Thankfully the others eventually joined in with my cynicism, and as we sang along to our favourite Lion King tunes our mission to find respectable wildlife continued.

Some people lose patience in safaris; if they don’t see a lion they get frustrated and refuse to enjoy themselves. Personally I’m a bit more appreciative; it didn’t matter how many million zebra or giraffe I saw I was continually impressed. This really shouldn’t have been the case, as days earlier – in Nairobi – I came so close to a giraffe that I kissed it. On the mouth. Sloppy, yes, but so worth it for the photo alone.

The intrigue continued that night when we camped on the lip of the Ngorongoro Crater at about 0 degrees celcius. To make matters more extreme buffalo and zebra were camped alongside us, sniffing past our tents in the middle of the night. When we awoke the next morning the temperature seemed even colder. A light drizzle compounded with a thick fog, making it impossible for one to see further than a few metres. To be perfectly honest, though, I could not care less. Today we were heading into the crater and I wasn’t going to miss it for a couple of rain drops.

As freezing as it was the Ngorongoro Crater didn’t disappoint. Once a mountain the size of Kilimanjaro (before caving in a few million years ago), the crater is an imposing 160km². And you can see it all. It’s like the Serengeti in a nutsell. A very large nutshell, mind you. It wouldn’t matter whether you were the worst photographer in the world, taking a bad photo here would be a virtually impossible task.

With mountains surrounding the perimeter and the inside as flat as an African Coca-Cola it couldn’t be a more difficult place for game to hide. Nevertheless rhinos are evidently masters at hide and seek. Hence, this remaining member of the big 5 eluded me (however I did come across a baby rhino in a Nairobi elephant sanctuary, but I don’t think that counts). Oh well, looks like I’ll have to wait until Kruger…

While an early cheetah sighting got everybody buzzing a remarkably empty couple of hours followed, causing my smile to turn upside down. Anticipating a pride of lions to attack a rogue buffalo we waited for an hour for a kill to take place. At one point the lion walked directly in front of the buffalo, giving us all the sense that something big was about to happen. Despite being a metre away from each other, though, neither animal even acknowledged its opposing species. Cool; I went to Ngorongoro Crater and all I got was this stupid sunburn.

On our way out of the national park I was still not convinced of the crater’s brilliance, but as it turned out my expensive safari experience was worth every shilling. After three days of impatience I couldn’t believe my eyes when I spotted a large male lion sitting beside the road. Although the simba didn’t sing or dance as the movies suggested I was still highly entertained. It’s not every day that you get within a metre of the king of the jungle. But here I was. And I was loving it.

With wildlife out of the way we headed on towards Dar Es Salaam, the city where I first got the chance to experience African culture, two months earlier. At Mikadi Beach - a few minutes from the city – I was able to relax in a hammock beside the calm Indian Ocean. I can’t say that this was a particularly noteworthy experience, but I just thought it’d be nice to slip in that extra piece of information. Purely for your pleasure.

Before beginning my research on Africa I knew two things about Zanzibar:
a) It was the birthplace of one Freddy Mercury
b) Billy Joel wrote a song about the island
Those two pieces of trivia alone were enough to make me interested about the exotic archipelago. Surely Billy wouldn’t lie to me?

To my great excitement Billy’s fascination with the island was justified; Zanzibar was everything I expected it to be and more. In fact, if it wasn’t for the rain – which fell on three of the five days in which we were there – it probably would have felt like a tropical paradise.

In all seriousness, though, Zanzibar was nothing short of spectacular. Stone Town – a maze of narrow Arabian-influenced alleyways and the home of fresh seafood – quickly became my dream home, while the northern beaches – with their white sand and aqua blue waters – painted a perfect, pulsating picture. (Note: ‘colorful’ would have been a much more appropriate word than ‘pulsating’ but honestly, who can resist alliteration?)

The only downside to the island was the alarmingly high presence of street vendors. Unlike on the mainland, where the salesman hassle you for five minutes and then give up, these guys were persistent and desperate and refused to give up until you gave in. By day they pleaded me to buy their mediocre mass-produced gifts and by night they stalked me in the fish market, asking if I could spare a few shillings so that they can buy dinner. It’s a sorry sight and it’s a real shame that this is the way I’ll remember Zanzibar.

OK… that’s not completely true. When I think of Zanzibar I’ll probably remember the night I spent in a reggae nightclub. Being a victim of the twoleftus-feetus syndrome I cannot dance to save my life. Fortunately for me reggae dancing requires no skill or effort; all you do is bob around with your feet in a stationary position and feel the groove. But the most hilarious moment of the night was not on the dancefloor, but in the men’s toilets. As I went to take a wiz I was surprised to see a Masai warrior relieving himself in the neighboring cubicle. Initially he – like many other blind locals – assumed I was Japanese (I mean, seriously, do I look Japanese?) before I corrected him and revealed I was from the land down under, where women flow and men plunder. Immediately a smile came to his face: “Ohh, Kanagaroo!” he cried whilst slapping me on the backside. I couldn’t help but ponder the randomness of this chain of events; that’s certainly a story to tell the grandkids…

Upon our return to Dar, we were naturally on a little bit of a high. Hence it was fitting that we did something crazy. Charlie – celebrating his last night with us – was the mastermind behind our night’s shenanigans, when he suggested that we hire tuk-tuks (weird looking motorbikes used to carry two or more passengers) and drag race them on the streets.

Considering that a day earlier a few tourists got mugged in the area and that last time I drove a motorbike I crashed it into a brick wall, this was far from the wisest thing I had ever decided to take part in. But nonetheless I was up for a challenge and as it turned out, my instinct was right and my brain was just trying to scare me. This adventure could have very easily resulted in total disaster but fortunately we all came back in one piece. And all we paid was 5,000 shillings. ($5AUD)

T.I.A.

Topping off my lovely Tanzanian cake with a bowl of ripe cherries was an out-of-this-world experience. Literally. Parked in the middle of nowhere our small Tucan group looked in astonishment at the brilliant night sky. With not a single municipal light getting in the way the full milky-way was revealed in all its glory. It was like a trip to the Planetarium, except that I didn’t feel like going to sleep. There was no way I wanted to say goodnight to Tanzania.

*

At present I write from Johannesburg, a few thousand miles from Tanzania, which goes to show how rare it is to find a reliable and cheap internet. The recent leg of my journey has been quite an unusual one, considering that my original travel plans were to finish off in Zanzibar. Nonetheless I have had an amazing time; in the last couple of weeks I have ridden a horse through one of the world’s most dangerous lakes, achieved my African dream of swimming in a waterfall and done possibly the stupidest and craziest thing in my entire life. But more on that after the break…

Kev in Africa #4 – Kampala to Rwanda
Kev in Africa #5 – Lake Bunyoni to Nairobi
Simba in Africa photos

There are two types of travellers:
There are those that engulf themselves in the local culture in search of life-changing experiences; they eat the native cuisine, take the local transport and even try and learn the language. Then there are those that prefer to just have fun; they experience the sights and sounds of the country but hardly remove themselves from their comfort zone.

For the first month of my trip, I’d like to think that I was the former type of tourist. I may have been living in a pretty decent house, surrounded by English speaking people, but as much as I could I tried to experience life as the locals do. Now, two weeks into my safari adventure, I am starting to experience the latter form. This is by no means an inferior type of travel; one merely views their journey from a new perspective.

On the 20th of May as I watched the Tucan truck speed past me on the Old Port Bell road I knew that a new page of my life was about to be written. With great anticipation I quickly made my way to the hotel, where I met up with my tour group – the people with whom I was about to spend the next 45 days. As a 17-year-old on a tour for ’18s to 35′ I was unsurprisingly the youngest in a collective made up of a dozen 20-somethings. While not as uncomfortable as a lunch with the Barclays, I was certainly out of my social comfort zone. Nevertheless, leaving my comfort zone was the principle reason for travelling Africa in the first place. And I presumed that this challenge would be a little easier than others bound to confront me along the way.

On just my third day on tour I had already visited a national park, the first of four. Entering Queen Elizabeth II National Park – or QE2 for short – was one of the most amazing experiences of my life; it didn’t take long for me to be convinced that the $4000-odd I was investing in this tour was worthwhile. Even before we had officially made it passed the park gates I had seen elephants, hippo, antelope, warthogs (or ‘Pumbas’ as we like to call them), buffalo and a monitor lizard.

Over the next 24 hours my voicebox was on repeat; the words “Wow!” and “Mad” continuously made it through my mouth even without realising. In the morning our chimpanzee trekking expedition was unsuccessful – unless you consider seeing one chimpanzee bum for one second a victory – however the opportunity to wander through a jungle was simply unbelievable. This adventure was shortly followed by my first ever game drive and a crater tour – where token African landscapes appeared right in front of my eyes. All this, however, was merely an entree to the main course: a cruise down the Kazinga Channel.

Boasting the world’s largest concentration of hippo, the Kazinga Channel did not disappoint; words cannot explain the sheer awe I was experiencing. Ten minutes into the journey I became conscious of the wide smile on my face as I watched hundreds of hippo and buffalo go about their daily life just metres away from our boat. With the sunset coming down on the lake and the kingfisher birds darting along the water I was in my element (not in the same sense that John Wade was “in his element” though). And this was only the start…

Before making my way into Rwanda – a country infamous for the 1994 genocides – I didn’t have great expectations. However, with ‘Superstitious’ blaring through the stereo and my head taking in fresh air out the truck window, I quickly affirmed Rwanda as the most beautiful country I had ever been to. The background of steep hills descending into dense farmland was complimented by the friendly locals in the foreground – who waved excitedly and yelled out French greetings. Potentially, the notion of a French-speaking African nation where cars drove on the ‘wrong’ side of the road could have concerned me, but I was in Africa and hence prepared for anything.

A sadistic turn of luck helped ensure that the following couple of days were used wisely. Initially my plans for the ‘Land of a Thousand Hills’ were to relax in peace, however after one of my fellow tour members incurred an injury a spare gorilla trekking permit became available for half price (still a costly AUD$430). I quickly pounced on the offer and I couldn’t have been more happy with my hasty decision.

Widely touted as being the best tourist attraction on earth, I was not disappointed. While I can’t say that the opportunity to get up close with the gorillas met the lofty expectations placed on it, I was nonetheless impressed with the experience and would strongly recommend it to others.

Being one of the rarest and most confined species of wildlife on the planet the gorillas are usually difficult to find. Our guide, however, took just 30 minutes to locate them; never have I been so excited over seeing a drop of gorilla feaces. Despite the regulations being a) don’t get closer than 7 metres to the gorillas; and b) You only get 45 minutes with them; our group spent over an hour with the family and got within centimetres of a couple of them. Not quite a life-changing experience but still pretty damn awesome.

After a stopover at the confronting, yet thought provoking, genocide memorial in Kigali – the lively and beautiful centre of Rwanda – we re-entered Uganda. Here, we spent a couple of nights beside Lake Bunyoni, a stunning collection of islands. Our time here was hardly strenuous; the extent of my activities was a cruise down the lake to a pygmy village, where a group of young children immediately attached themselves to my hand, before I joined in with the local dance. Despite over 5 years of drumming experience I still couldn’t understand the rhythm of the village music. 5 years wasted it seems…

If my first experience of Kampala was chaotic, then my sophomore visit – at night time – was absolute madness. While the markets were populated with bustling vendors and eager shoppers, the roads were filled to the brim with taxis, minibuses motorbikes, each vying for front position. Road rules were non-existent; so too were traffic lights.

Thankfully Kampala was no more than a pitstop on our way to Jinja – the extreme sports hub of east Africa. After watching a bit of bunjee jumping – where one of the brave participants forgot to pack clothes – I decided to go for a less intense activity. Surprisingly our taxi drive, where the whole lot of us squeezed into a 7 seat vehicle – forcing me to sit in the boot – was exciting, however that was perhaps a little too tame for my liking.

On the morning of my 50th day of travel I was scared as hell; whitewater rafting up some insignificant river known as the Nile awaited. To my great pleasure I did not die whilst negotiating the potentially deadly grade 5 rapids; the experience was more thrilling than frightening. Due to the competence of our rafting guide I only capsized twice. My bladder was another problem though; I’d hate to dampen this blog with a story about my toilet schedule but you try holding on for six hours whilst floating on the Nile – in the rain I might add. That is an extreme sport in itself.

With those thrills out of the way I made my way into Kenya – the land where ‘Hakuna Matata’ is a phrase, not a song. Originally I was disappointed with the country because nobody spoke like the Williams’ brothers, however the country redeemed itself at Lake Naivasha (or Naive Asha as I like to call it) where hippos like to enter the campsite as monkeys playfully jump around in the trees.

This was our base for three nights, allowing us to explore the frighteningly named Hell’s Gate National Park. Exploring the multitude of game – including zebra, giraffe, buffalo, antelope and a lot of sneaky baboons – on mountain bike was a priceless experience; I was given the freedom of coming face to face with wildlife, all at my own pace. Furthermore, the rift valley scenery was nothing short of breathtaking; even when the animals were outside my visual range I was taken away by the magical sights.

The name Hell’s Gate became more obvious after a short walk down a gorge. Venturing towards hot springs – caused by a volcano – involved challenging rock climbing and delicate balance (something I didn’t possess, hence my shoes and socks are currently drenched), however I could deal with most of it. After all, we only had to cycle 34km that day.

At present I sit in an internet cafe in Karen, a small town off the edge of Nairobi (alternatively known as Nairobbery). Tomorrow, all but four tour members depart as another two enter. New friends, new in-jokes and new experiences await, however my reputation as the group’s hungriest member and angriest pool player are likely to stay intact.

By the time I write next I will have visited Serengeti – the most famous national park in the world – Ngorongoro Crater and the exotic island of Zanzibar. This is what could certainly be the climax of my African adventure. Boy I love Africa.

Kev in Africa #3 photos
Simba in Africa photos

Night after night in Dodoma, I experience a recurring dream. In the dream I awake to find a zebra grazing outside my house. I look further and see elephants, giraffes, zebras and hippos all living harmoniously in the background. This happy scene is picture perfect and I subconsciously find myself smiling to myself in bed.

One doesn’t need to be a psychologist to conclude that safari was on my mind. The prospect of travelling around eastern and southern Africa with a tour company greatly excited me. But first I needed to get a few things out of the way.

Determined to finish off my time in Dodoma on a good note, my last week was packed full of memories. Minor celebrations were in place after I managed to snare an unused laptop for a week. Such a prize entitled me and Brandon – the American – to our very own office. Humourously, the title of ‘Head of Department of Biology’ remained on the door, while all we were doing was chillin’. (Not actually that true; I still had quite a bit of annoying work to do, such as proofreading a 20 page document written in broken Tanzanian English. By the end of my edit there was more red marks on the page than black text). In other St John’s news, the photocopier machine broke for good, more than 20,000 books were donated from the States, a 500 million shilling grant was accepted and the entire government body resigned in a bloodless – yet fiery – meeting. My temporary presence had evidently been felt.

Outside of the university, Dodoma continued to amuse me. One night, when Brandon and I were walking home via the dark Dodoma streets, we could have potentially been in great danger. However, with a bow and arrow in his hand, and a spear in mine, one would have had to have been pretty brave to confront us. Despite not knowing how to operate my weapon of choice, we averted danger, however a few nights later the story was much different. In a confrontation with a man we nicknamed ‘Strong man’, an angry guy threatened to pick a fight with a group of volunteers that I was hanging out with. Looking back on the encounter it was probably more humorous than dangerous, considering that there were seven of us and just one of him. And he wasn’t really that strong anyway. Just angry.

Not all trips outside of the university were marred with paranoia. When a nice man from the local cathedral invited me to his underfunded university I was treated to my first meal of ugali – a tasteless mixture of porridge and maize flour. Before I arrived in Africa I was told that ugali would be a daily meal. How wrong those travel guides were. In other pleasant news I was appointed the drummer of the church choir; playing the djembe after a month of banging tables with cutlery was a great relief.  Furthermore, just before I left I visited my fifth and final village church. However, with hardly any food provided and absolutely no music I got the sense that rural Africa was starting to grow on me.

Finally, my home life provided plenty of unexpected quirks. The street seller returned once more, this time wanting to trade back the watch I had bartered him a fortnight earlier in return for the replacement watch I now wore on my wrist. I also managed to smash multiple plates and glasses in an unfortunate washing accident, in addition to losing the spare house keys. With that in mind, it was probably a wise time to move forward.

Before I left Australia, my brother comprehensively assessed my trip and concluded that the most dangerous component of my 8 and a half months would be my journey from Dodoma to Kampala. Being one of the only times in Africa where I would be travelling alone, his prediction was certainly justifiable. And as it turned out, I did run into some trouble. Nevertheless, the worst was avoided. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be writing this blog.

Unsurprisingly, the 23 continous hours that I spent on a bus from Dodoma to Bukoba, in addition to the 8 hour journey from Bukoba to Kampala the next day, did not reach the heights of the Tanzanian bus journey I had taken a month earlier. With limited leg room, ridiculously tiny seats, no fans and a terrible in-bus movie playing out the front, there were numerous reasons to be frustruated.

Thankfully, the Tanzanian landscapes continued to impress me, and helped my mind focus on the positives. Upon leaving Dodoma large rock formations puzzled me, vast countryside mountains made me believe I was in Europe, while dusty red dirt roads had an intriguing Arabian feel to it. But by far the best scenery was evident up north when we passed Lake Victoria. Driving at a high altitude, I was able to look down on the enormous lake from one side. On the other, a series of mountains and valleys took centre stage, which were most remarkable due to one factor; out altitude was so high that we were driving above the level of the clouds.

My first pitstop was Kahama, a town so small that not a single travel guide I could find managed to mention it. Here, I was given the ultimate privledge of sleeping the night on a bus. Being a hot night – and being in a shoddy bus – meant that sleep was hard to come by; for much of the night I had to entertain myself with books and mobile phone games in order to finally find some slumber.

Bukoba – my next stop – was far more pleasant in terms of sleep, however I can’t say that it was any more enjoyable. Disregarding the opportunity to admire the stunning Lake Victoria, my experiences in the small border city were forgettable. On my way to dinner I ran into a young man who, like many Tanzanians, was very welcoming. The conversation quickly turned , however, when I realised that he was after money. From the onset, his tale of poverty, unemployment and desperation was not very convincing; there was no way that I was going to give him the 10,000 shillings he asked for. Being the sympathetic person I am, though, I offered to buy this man dinner. Food in Tanzania cheap and it was the least I could do. However, just before the man and I sat down to eat our meals I received a text message from the local tourist guide. Word for word, his message read ‘Hi Kelvin. Take care that guy is Con Man! Last 2 weeks he stole things at our campsite’. With that I hastily made up a lame excuse and fled the scene. My carelessness had seen me already spend 3,000 shillings on this guy. So, along with my 40,000 shillings I escaped and made my way back safely to my hotel.

My last two solitary days were thankfully less eventful, in spite of being located in Kampala – the capital of Uganda. While the scenery when crossing the border from Tanzania to Uganda was indistinguishable, Kampala completely exceeded my expectations of eastern Africa. After being stuck in city traffic for more than an hour, I quickly found the town to be overwhelming and chaotic. Unlike other cities I had visited thus far, Kampala was non-stop busy; it seemed that here, every hour was peak hour.

Hence, my first day of exploration was spent in one of the smaller towns near my hotel. The only confronting there here were the little children that followed me. Amazed at my sight, the kids stalked me with wide eyes, screaming “Mzungu! Mzungu!” (“White person! White person!”) as I walked past them. Such an experience allowed me to imagine the outrage that would follow a corresponding scene in Australia. I wondered how much media attention would be given to a small white child yelling out “Negro! Negro!” to an innocent black traveller?

After my negative first impressions of Kampala, I could have easily spent the next morning in my hotel. Nonetheless, I was determined to explore the city, so my instinct took over once more. My perception of the city didn’t really change after my subsequent encounter. In the market place an eager salesman tried desperately to sell me weed. Not that I’d want to buy any, but if I had a shilling for every time I almost got hit by a car/minibus/motorcyle I probably would have been able to afford some.

That evening I watched as the Tucan Travel bus bustled its way up Old Port Bell Road towards my hotel. With that sight a smile grew on my face. My next adventure was just minutes away from beginning, and I couldn’t have been more relieved.

Since my safari began, I have visited two countries and got within metres of another, taken a boat cruise past the world’s largest concentration of hippos, and trekked the world famous mountain gorillas in the Virunga volcanoes. These have been some of the most amazing experiences of my life so far, but will not be elaborated on just yet. You’ll just wait to wait for the next blog…