5. Emergency Sewing Kit – Traveling can sometimes be a test of upkeep. Tiny little niggling misfortunes creep up day after day: a hole in my backpack, a tear in my shoulder bag, a rip in my shorts, dirt all over my clothes, and on and on and on. There are a ton of miniature items of maintenance that you have to attend to day after day and fix before they become big, unsolvable problems. The ability to have a needle and thread at my disposal whenever I need it, the moment a tear comes up, has been an incredible stroke of good planning. You wouldn’t believe how many jagged metal edges exist on the undersides of seats of minibuses, and how pushy the operators can be at shoving you into one, throwing your bag around, and forcing things into spaces that can’t fit them, all with the aim of “going faster”, when in reality, getting them stuck and ripping fabric takes more time for them and more repair time for me. It’s a pain, but the fact that I can repair my things myself is a comfort, and a good way to pass the time on slower days.

4. Duct Tape – I’ve used it to put on heels to prevent blisters, to close holes in shady mosquito nets, to patch up my shoelaces the time that guy tried to (and succeeded) cut them off my pack, to strengthen the mended holes in both my shoulder bag and backpack, and more. The inside of the duct tape roll also makes a perfect holding place for a rolled up belt, and saves you just a little bit, but a good amount, of space in your pack.

3. Stuff Sacks – By stuff sacks I don’t mean the $20, synthetic mesh kind you can probably buy at Patagonia to show how rugged and outdoorsy you are, but any old bag you have lying around the house. A Crown Royal drawstring bag works perfectly, as does anything that clasps at the top. Instead of having to dig through my pack to find that one last pair of clean underwear or the bottle of doxycycline pills, I can just identify the bag that I know it’s in, open it, and extract the needed item. By this point in the trip I can even do it blind – without unpacking, by reaching under the items in my bag and finding the item by feel. Incredible time-saver.

2. Headlamp – Many hostels, campsites, and even guest houses we’ve stayed at have had either no electricity, sparse electricity, or good electricity, but for some reason, the power had been cut and would come back on “in one hour or so”, which means, of course, sometime around 3 AM. The ability to have a light to search through your pack, determine areas of un-level ground so you don’t trip and fall into lord-knows-what, or figure out what you’re doing in the bathroom has been a life-saver. So simple, yet so effective. Even though moths fly into your face when you put it on your head, the convenience of not tip-toeing through the dark has been worth it.

1. Emergency Toilet Paper – Wow, I can’t even begin to tell you how few bathrooms contain toilet paper and just assume that you will either bring your own or become an olfactory menace. This
easy-to-overlook item has saved both of us a number of times, and has also been useful to absorb blood and stop bleeding when one of us has cut a toe or a finger while out on the street. It may not look like much on the surface, but its practical application has been
immeasurable. Thanks again to my dad for teaching me about this best travel item years and years ago.

Note that none of the above items is a piece of clothing. This is because clothing, while important, is the single most overpacked item on any trip, and the easiest thing to cut down on if you really know what you’re doing. I’ve actually lost BOTH my fleeces and a hat so far on this trip, and I’ve moved on and found ways to keep going without losing stride. But if I were to lose any of the items up above, I’d have to replace it immediately, to keep up the comfort and rhythm I’ve established on my trip.

After spending over two months traveling in Africa, I’ve gained some pretty interesting insight into human behavior that I most certainly didn’t have before.

Let me just say, straight off, that I am in no way comparing my experiences while in Africa to the injustices suffered by African Americans during the 1960s and before. Those were undoubtedly more harrowing, illegal, and debasing experiences than anyone should ever have to undergo. What I am trying to do, however, is shed some light on what it is like to live as a minority, and to be treated as such, in as accurate a way as I can, considering I’ve moved through many different countries, cultures, and regions on my trip.

I want to start with the pan-African word “mzungu”, and its plural, “wazungu”, Swahili words co-opted into every African language to mean “whitey.” It’s not uncommon, and in fact, it’s an everyday
occurrence, to be walking down a street in a city, or a dirt path in a village, and hear people mutter “blah blah blah mzungu blah blah” as you pass. Or to walk into a bar or a shop to buy something, and have the other patrons say “mzungu” to each other as you’re standing there. Or to have children shout at you, running down their lawns and waving, shouting, “Wazungu! Wazungu! Good morning, wazungu!”

This last example you might say is cute; little kids running to greet you. But when you consider that children, from an early age, know to shout “mzungu” at a white person, you know that they’re learning to identify you as someone different, and to label you as such. Imagine if white American children shouted the n-word, or even, “Blackie!” at any passing African American.

Another thing that irks me to no end is that the children often follow up their shouts of “mzungu!” with “give me money.” What could be seen as a child’s innocence (what American child doesn’t relish a single dollar bill given by an uncle or a grandparent?) takes on a whole different feeling when legions of children ignore dozens of adults that pass them by, but then key in on a white person and demand money. White people are not made of money, but unfortunately, that’s how we are seen and treated. As a giant, fat wallet just waiting to be opened. It’s the reason you can’t walk down the street without taxis and motorcycles honking at you, touts for hotels or businesses surrounding you, or complete strangers continually approaching you with, “My friend! How are you?”

Mind you, there are plenty of Africans (and I use the term loosely, as these people span multiple countries, cultures, and languages) who have been warm and kind, more than I would expect from even an American friend of mine. And the majority of people will walk past you on the street without even a word, or perhaps with just a greeting. But the constant stream of harassment from people who want your money makes it difficult to befriend people. More times than I can count, people have walked up to me, chatted amiably about any subject, accompanied me along the route I was already going, without trying to lead me anywhere in particular, and then getting angry and demanding when I wouldn’t give them money for being a “guide.” This is often followed up with “help me.” I’m sorry – why let dozens of people walk past you and then focus on the white people, only seeing them as a source of money?

Another Rosa Parks-like injustice is when stepping onto buses or minibus taxis. These things are often over-packed with people, several standing. In the rare cases in which I’ve gotten an actual seat, the money-collector (always separate from the driver, who never interacts with passengers) will usually point at me and aggressively gesture to the back of the bus, demanding that I move to the back to clear space. I’ve been adamant in saying “No, I prefer to sit here. People can walk past me if they want.” Sometimes, though, the driver won’t drive, and you’ll be shuffled along to the back of the bus, bumpy and
uncomfortable, as other passengers fill the front seats.

Again, I realize that having white skin and dressing the way we do will generally mean you come from a wealthier, western country. People don’t know I’m from the USA at a glance, but I’d guess that it’s a pretty safe bet that it’s either the USA, Australia, England, or somewhere in Europe. I also realize that even poor people in those countries tend to have more money on an absolute scale than many people in the countries I’ve been visiting, and that the western world is seen as a ticket to opportunity. But when you are called “mzungu” without being asked your name, hassled with claims of “give me money” multiple times per day, and stared at unashamedly while being shunted to the back of the bus, you begin to feel like an object. A white object that is the same as all the other white objects, and not a person with a personality, feelings, hopes, dreams, desires, a history, a family, a life. You become a ghost that floats through this world you’re walking in, and people see right through you to what they want to see, without noticing the details.

This must definitely only scratch the surface of the racism that some people experience. I haven’t been beaten, harmed, subjugated, or jailed. I HAVE, however, been charged exorbitant fees, not just by market vendors, which is expected, but by official transportation company offices and grocers, been forced to show my ID papers and empty my backpack on the street to ensure I didn’t carry contraband, and treated with a smile one minute and a scowl the next, after it was made clear I was not handing over whatever money was desired.

These thoughts have been building for a while, and it’s by no means an exhaustive account of what I’ve been feeling, nor is it an edited treatise (although I plan to make it so). It’s a top-of-the-head, stream-of-consciousness recounting of how I feel about this issue, without going back to check anything. It’s interesting, to say the least, to live as a minority here, and all I can say is that it’s mentally and emotionally exhausting. You’re constantly aware of your outsider status, and at the moments at which you might forget it and relax, someone will shout “mzungu” at you and bring it right back into focus.

I don’t know if anyone who reads this has had a similar experience living as a minority anywhere, be it Africa, Asia, the USA, or even in a smaller community, but this is an issue I’ve always thought that I understood. I’ve lived my life well, treated people equally, respected differences, and lived as though everyone wanted the same things out of life – to be happy, loved, and peaceful. But never have I fully UNDERSTOOD the trials of living this way. I’m curious to know if anything I’ve been experiencing is on par with how other people have felt under similar circumstances. If so, I’m terribly sorry. It’s a brand new experience to me, and one that I feel that everyone should undergo. As well as I feel I’ve been taught about equal treatment and unfair objectifying of “others,” it’s been a true shock to my system to actually have been here and have lived through what is undoubtedly a minor version, although a no less powerful one, of racism.

It is customary here for a business owner or worker and a customer to greet each other two to four times before entering into business. A Soup Nazi environment, this is not.

Other greetings include “Mambo, vipi” (how’s it going?) and “karibu/karibune” (welcome), to which you’d answer “poa” (good) and “Asante” (thank you), respectively.

Swahili is a really interesting language. My knowledge of Swahili before coming to Tanzania was limited to the same basic knowledge that most Americans have: it’s the most foreign-sounding, strange language spoken somewhere in Africa. What I didn’t know was that it spans several countries (Tanzania, Kenya, and Mozambique at the very least), and is a mix of Bantu, Arabic, English, and German.

It’s not all that difficult either, at least in theory, and I’m possessed with a desire to learn at least a beginner’s level of Swahili. And, I bet you didn’t know it, but each of you speaks a little bit of Swahili already. At least, you do if you’ve seen The Lion King.

“Rafiki” is Swahili for friend, and “Simba” means lion.

Coriander, cardamom, pepper, vanilla, cinnamon, various blends of masala, and turmeric infuse every bite of food with unparalleled bursts of flavor far better than anything we’ve eaten so far in Africa.

This is partially due to its history and blen of cultures, from Swahili and Masai to Arab and Indian, all of which are present on a daily basis.

By far the best thing I’ve eaten here, though, is a local soup called “urojo”, which has, in the span of only two days, distinguished itself as my favorite soup in the entire world. A spicy mix of falafel, spiced potato, crunchy noodles, hard-boiled egg, beef skewers, salad, and chili sauce, urojo is more a meal than a soup, and its blend of flavors swirls around the mouth even when you’re not eating it, enticing you to buy more. And at 60 cents per bowl, I’ve done just that.

I tried five bowls yesterday, all from different vendors, and three the day before that. It’s a staple of my diet here, and I’ve finally found the best bowl in town, which I’m on my way to eat right now.

Why I was carrying such an odd number, I had no idea. I don’t know where the other $23 went, or even if it ever existed, but I was short, and they would not let me into Tanzania without it. They also accept only US Dollars and Euros, and not the equivalent amount in any other currency, even their own, Tanzanian Shillings. So, I had to get a special police escort back into Malawi just to use the ATM, since I had technically left Malawi and didn’t want to re-enter ten minutes later.

I took out 5,000 Malawian Kwacha, enough for 23 US Dollars and a bit more, in case I needed to bribe anyone. I went back into the between border region to the Foreign Exchange office and asked to exchange my Kwacha for US Dollars.

The guy told me they only had Kwacha. They accepted other currency, but could only give out Kwacha. I said that they probably had whatever currency people had turned in that day in order to receive Kwacha, so he could give me whatever that was. He said no, they only had Kwacha.

The problem is that the president of Malawi and other corrupt government officials have created a fuel crisis that have pushed prices to $12/gallon, and food prices through the roof as well. Consequently, nobody wants Malawian Kwacha. The currency has almost no value, and this guy at the window was not going to give me any foreign currency, no matter what it was.

So I crossed to the Tanzanian side to use their ForEx, but it was closed. I related my story to the immigration officials, and asked them what I could do. One of them got on his cell phone and told me that a guy was coming to help me.

Soon, a guy in a polo shirt and jeans walked in, and we were both escorted to a back room, where I made a decided effort to take the chair nearest the door. He told me that the rate was 280 Malawian Kwacha for every US Dollar, so I’d need 6,400 Kwacha for 23 dollars. I told him that that was the black market rate (it is), and that the official rate that you can check anywhere (government, banks, xe.com, etc.) is 161 Kwacha to the dollar, which is around 3,700 Kwacha for 23 dollars. I told him I’d give him 4,000, so a little extra (two bucks), just to get the deal done.

I pulled the 4,000 out of my wallet, keeping the other 1,000 hidden in another pocket, and told the guy that this was all I had, since I had done the conversion myself before going to the ATM, and knew I needed 3,700.

We argued without getting anywhere for about five minutes, when the immigration officer walked in, asking what was taking so long. We each explained the situation in our own language, and the officer pretended to consider it for a moment.

“It’s ok,” he said, “four thousand is fine. Pay him.” I asked for the US Dollars first, and the officer said “it’s ok, you can trust him.” I told him that that was really great and wonderful that he was such a trustworthy guy, but I’d really rather have the US dollars before I handed over the Kwacha. The guy reluctantly agreed, left the office, and came back five minutes later. He slapped 23 rolled US dollars into my hand, I gave him my “only” 4,000 Kwacha, and I got my passport stamped.

Now I’m in Tanzania with 1,000 leftover Kwacha that apparently has no value. Maybe I’ll meet another traveler who’s going to Malawi for whom it WILL have value. Otherwise, does anyone want a paper souvenir?

I asked a local guy I met, Gibson, why Malawians are so friendly, and he gave a two-pronged answer. First, he said that there has never been a war in Malawi. No war for independence, no civil war, nothing. The people are peace-loving. Secondly, and more of a harsh reality, they are poor. And because of that, he said, there isn’t tons of competition among people like there is in the US. It made me think. Were Americans once that way, before the industrial revolution? Before the Civil War? Not to take anything away from our culture: one of the most interesting things I’ve learned on my travels is that Americans are some of the friendliest, most open people on the planet, and that’s with war and competition everywhere. Maybe that makes the US a really special place. Malawi certainly is.

One of the hardest things to do on this trip is to ration our time. I know, I know, we’re traveling for a year. But there is so much to see that even a year begins to seem short at this point. We already made the decision to skip Victoria Falls, one of the marquee destinations in Africa, and this morning decided to skip both Ruarwe and Likoma Island, two beautiful places in Malawi, so as not to rush our upcoming time in Zanzibar, Ethiopia, or jeopardize a chance to go to Djibouti. All that means is that another trip to this part of the world is on the horizon, and Malawi, with its relaxed, decidedly Carribean feel, is definitely a place I’d love to come back to.

For all you people out there for whom the name “Africa” inspires a fear of the wild, unknown, and dangerous, I invite you to read more about Malawi, often described as Africa Lite or Africa for Beginners. It has certainly won me over in a very short time.

Translation: abandoned buildings with garbage in the street.

Africa’s “most European capital” was anything but, with fetid human waste festering in roadside pools because of the lack of a proper sanitation system, and rotting fruit littering every available surface, giving the city a plethora of giant black clouds as swarms of flies took back the land that was once theirs before humans “civilized” it.

Speaking of “civilization,” Maputo has a unique distinction as far as its roads are concerned. Nearly every major street in the city is named after that oxymoron of paradoxes, a communist dictator.

We stayed in a hostel on Avenida Mao Tse Tung, just around the corner from Rua Vladimir Lenine, just down the road from Ho Chi Minh Street. There was Kenneth Kaunda, Julius Nyere, Samora Machel, and on and on. A Google Maps search will bear a veritable litany of names that would serve as entire university courses in horrendous leadership and mistreatment of populations. It’s Human Rights Violations 101, with a walking tour of Maputo.

The country is not yet 20 years removed from a heinous civil war which saw the “bad guys”, Renamo, burn down schools and hospitals, while the “good guys”, the corrupt Frelimo, won the people’s hearts basically by not being Renamo.

I’ve been to several countries recently removed from war, from Nicaragua to Serbia to Bosnia, to El Salvador. On the horizon is Rwanda. Apparently it has come a long way in a short period of time. I can only hope there is no Fidel Castro Street anywhere near.

The strangest thing of all is that since this is summer holiday time in a holiday town, today is a big business day and everything is open to try to make money. It’s kind of sad, that people can’t be home with their families today, but I guess that’s just how things work here.

Malawi is an easy, fun, English-speaking country that loves reggae. They call it “The warm heart of Africa”. I don’t know if that refers to the weather, the friendliness of the people, or both, but I think it’s an apt name.

Missing egg nog and cold weather and family, but making the best of it. Merry Christmas to all!

Chris and I bought a bag of about 40-50 mangos for 10 meticais, which is about 40 cents. We’ve been on a veritable mango binge for the past week. I’m sure that I’ve eaten more mangos in the last two weeks than I had in my entire life combined up to this point. I’ve never seen so many mangos in my life. There must be millions. Literally millions of mangos, so that the difference between eating a million mangos and eating 999,950 but having 40 extra cents makes it worth it to sell a bag for such a cheap price. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Another interesting snack that you can buy pretty much anywhere is hard-boiled eggs. Going for 7.5 meticais (25 cents) per egg, it’s not even a great deal in the States, but is a filling, protein-filled, and safe snack on those long, 16-hour bus rides.

It took us a few days to get from Inhambane to Beira to Nampula to Pemba to Quissanga to Tandanhangue to Ibo Island to Matemo Island (phew), but we’re finally on Matemo Island, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. It’s relaxing, with water that guidebook writers strain themselves to think of new ways to describe. (Azure, shimmering turquoise, white-sand paradisian, etc.) We have a little A-frame bungalow about ten yards from the water, and a host at the campsite who will cook you coconut rice (a staple here), beans, eggs, and any kind of meat available (fish, chicken, duck, or presumably goat, although we asked for it today and he said he couldn’t get any) for six bucks.

The remoteness of this island is striking. We got dropped off by a boat, not at a dock, but about fifty yards off shore, where we had to walk with our backpacks on our heads to land. From there, we walked for half an hour before "the car" on the island came by and picked us up to drive us to the campsite. On the way, women with painted faces appeared out of their thatched-roof huts (yes, really), to chase after the children who shouted and scampered after the car, waving frantically as it drove by. It was like the driver of the car was a celebrity that passed once per day, and the children were just pent up with energy waiting to greet him and whomever else might be passing.

This was a nice break after one of the strangest evenings I’ve ever had. Chris and I were walking to a hostel in Pemba, when a couple of policemen stopped us and asked to see our IDs. We handed over our passports and showed them our visas, and then they proceeded to make us take off our packs, empty them, open every little bag and show them what was inside. I asked them who they represented, and they said the government of Mozambique. I also asked them what they were looking for, and they said drugs or anything else illegal. They asked me if this kind of thing happens in our country. I told them no, that it was very illegal, but that one state (Arizona, my former home) has a law sort of like it, but everyone, including human rights groups and even president Barack Obama is fighting against it.

Anyway, we’ll spend a few days in paradise and then head back down to Nampula to get to Malawi. In the meantime, crystalline, azure waters will lap at the pristine white sand under our bare feet. Yada yada yada. Merry Christmas from summertime.

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