Jambo Express - Not!

It's a joyous affair to travel in Africa, the journey pendulum swings a wobbly arc from indulgent luxury to eye popping squalor with an adventure around every corner.  Things quite often don't go to plan but most times travellers return safely home towing a trunk full of stories which are told and retold for years. That's serious holiday add-on value.

Take 25th December 2015, for instance.  We exited our deluxe Nairobi (Kenya) hotel room in search of breakfast and were childishly enthralled by the morning paper in a stylish canvas bag jauntily hanging from the doorknob.  This, we decided, was a special touch of class, and on Christmas Day, too.

Minutes later an email plunged our joyful spirits to basement level.  Rift Valley Railways regrets the cancellation of the 18h30 Jambo Express today. The train will depart at 21h00 on the 26th December instead. Huh?  Christmas night, and we were unexpectedly homeless!

An extra day in Nairobi gave us the opportunity to visit Denys Finch-Hatton's grave and have lunch at the divine Talisman restaurant so all was not lost. As instructed, we arrived at the station at 20h30 and met the the puckish Station Foreman, William, who enthusiastically greeted "my customers" and confided that the train was running late, but we were welcome to wait in the restaurant. 

"What sort of delay?" we enquired.  "It'll arrive from Mombasa at 10pm," he gushed.  "Then I have to clean and disinfect it which will take an hour." Suspicious, we questioned how sure he was of the train arriving at 10. 

William's answer will forever sum up for me what Africa is all about.  "That is my closest guess," he chortled.  Such a jolly chap, he relishes meeting and chatting to travellers and his good cheer was so infectious we headed to the restaurant rather excited about the delay.  We now had an adventure on the go!

Previous "adventures" have taught us to prepare for the unexpected, so we broke into our emergency wine and snacks while playing a few hands of cards. 

Further confuddling any stereotyping, the charming, shabby station offered free (and very fast) wifi.  The cafe served cold Tusker beer and passengers could relax on several comfy couches and armchairs on the platform, which also accommodated handbasins that wouldn't look out of place in suburbia snuggled between baby cots and wooden beds. The Victorian building is delightful - cast iron pillars and beams support a tin roof, the sandstone blocks remain warm with the day's heat, wooden doors are hand carved, the brass light switches glow and cast iron lamp posts are straight from Jack the Ripper's London. 

Ten o'clock came and went. We paced the platform, desperate to photograph the pasted security notices - exhortations to report 'Idlers or people not doing anything. People with their thumbs on buttons. People wearing heavy clothing not suitable for the weather." So much more imaginative than warnings of suspicious packages. 

Finally, Jambo chugged into the station at 10.40 and rail staff came to life. William's estimate of an hour to clean and disinfect, however, was optimistic. And adventurous spirits tend to drop when expectations of boarding by midnight aren't met.  Indeed, we were invited to clamber up at 3am!  

The light at the end of the platform really is a train!

Wilting with fatigue, I was speechless when confronted by the cupboard two of us, with luggage, were to spend 15 hours in. Blithely ticketed as Carriage 2331, Compartment C, the space provided would fit into my car. Worse, due to Him Outdoor's gammy leg, there was no choice but for Vertiginous Moi to climb up a dolls house-sized ladder into the top bunk, where canvas straps are all that prevent sleeping bodies crashing to the floor while the train shunts, shuffles and bumps throughout the night.

The Rotter enjoying my horror

Stunned with fear, I obediently followed the dinner gong and we sat down to a 3 course meal at 3.15 am. Fate rewarded gobsmacked silence, however. On returning, we discovered that Compartment D was empty, so sliding back the interleading door doubled our space and provided 2 lower bunks. Relief!

It has to be said - sleeping on a train is the best night's rest ever.  The swaying motion and monotonous 'clickety clack' did the trick so well, we kept sliding into dreamland throughout the following, protracted day. 

Yes, of course.  The 15 hour scheduled journey expanded like yeasty bread dough into 21 hours, and we finally chugged into Mombasa station at midnight.

It wasn't all Train of Horror, though. We met interesting travellers and shared war stories.  We slept exceptionally well.  We dined off East Africa Rail and Harbour motifed plates which must be 50 years old. We laughed about pretty much everything and ticked another experience box.

And of course, we added one more story to the trunk!

Denting Perceptions

There I was, head bent and thumbs frantically tapping away at the touch screen, intent on letting a friend know I was parked outside the cinema, waiting for her.

Lola heaved ungraciously, rocking onto her right hand tyres.  Heart and breath held for a nanosecond. Unbelievable - one of those blasted trucks has leapt the traffic circle and ploughed into Casterbridge again.  Correction - into Lola.

Still breathless but with pounding heart, I dared look out of the passenger window and saw a little lady of classic vintage blithely closing her car door.  No truck then, that slam had the weight of a Nissan X Trail door behind it.

I wish I could say I showed grace and charm under pressure.  Instead, I leapt out and stormed across, snarling "What have you done?!"  So, not only an absence of grace, charm and understanding but also a question from one of the upper echelons of stupidity.

"So sorry, I parked on a slope and the door swung open.  Look, there's no damage." was the reply. "There bloody is!" roared the viperous vixen from hell.  "Look at that scrape down the door.  How careless!" Hurriedly, LL of CV rubbed at it, and apologised again.

When she'd disappeared into the cinema I pulled out my torch and reinspected the damage.  Yup, it was really there. Without much hope, I placed a polite note beneath her windscreen wiper, asking her to call.

And she did.  The next day.  And a week later I've met her and her husband (lovely couple), who have organised a panelbeater to assess Lola (very minor damage) which they insist on repairing at their cost.  They are charm personified, I've blushingly apologised for my appalling reaction and we've had a sympathy chat about the car park chips and dents which cover our carefully parked vehicles like a smallpox rash.    

I drove back from the panelbeaters this morning reflecting on the goodness of people who live here. Almost every day, in a Heinz 57 variety of ways, I cross paths with, or hear stories of, human beings. The kind, generous, selfless, ethical residents of White River.  It's more usual to refer to 'people' rather than 'human beings' but I honestly believe my town is full of humans - each holding that extra dimension of humanity.  No wonder so much positive energy and creative talent is centred around here.

Now, if only I could harness some of that grace and patience for myself...

Navigating Country Landmarks

Whilst whizzing along to our adorable airport, Kruger Mpumalanga International, on Sunday my thoughts strayed to our early days in town.

For a few years, I commuted tween White River and Johannesburg for work, a speedy 35 minute flight. With taxi service between home and the airport courtesy of Him Outdoors.

Which was always a relief.  I'm a paid up subscriber to the theory that men navigate via route numbers and street names while women navigate by landmarks. Of course, some street names do stick - Jan Smuts Ave, William Nicol and Sandton Drives, Witkoppen Road, R40, N4, but mostly, it's "turn left at the Shell Garage / big yellow house / paint shop / mall" etc.

The country route is a little different.  There's a complete lack of identifiable structures, nary a building nestling the airport road. Just the odd roadside fruit stall or lodge entrance.  The rest is hectare upon hectare of macadamia or citrus orchards, interspersed with some avocado trees. The beautiful vista spreads right and left of the road, up and over hills which rise like verdant waves as far as the eye can see.



As a passenger, I was bamboozled all the time.  It's a fairly twisty route and how did the chauffeur know where to turn?  My internal Satnav totally defunct, I had no idea where home was or whether we were headed towards the airport. 

And of course, these country roads don't have a sign.  Not a one.  In local parlance, one takes the "Plaston road" to the airport which sounds OK until you realise there isn't any signage indicating the Plaston road.  In fact, there are three different routes, all known as "the Plaston Road." It beggars belief - imagine calling all the possible routes into Johannesburg the "Johannesburg Road!" 

So an icy hand clutched the innards when facing my first "self drive" to KMI. Demanding detailed, written directions listing visible landmarks, the old blood pressure was rising as I climbed into Lola. Fortunately, this was pre-reading glass days, so at least glancing down at the directions en route was possible!

Often a visitors first sight as they exit the terminal

Left at the hardware, meander round the bends for a few kilometres to the T junction, go left and keep going to the 3 way stop. Turn right and a few kilometres further on, the first sign to the airport appears. It sounds simple, but underplays long stretches of empty landscape and the feeling that one is heading into the blue yonder at 100 kms an hour.

Always a joy to arrive and see the resident Impala happily grazing

Nowadays, there is much more signage and I've travelled the route so often I suspect I could put Lola in gear and send her off driverless, but the first couple of times it was really a heart in throat journey.

Motoring along to meet the Sunday morning flight I felt my soul rise up in joy, greeting a sun-sprinkled azure sky - the air so clear it brought out hues and facets of colour beyond count, and my chest physically expanded to embrace the sheer freshness and exhilaration of being far from the madding crowd.  

Far from breeding contempt, familiarity has woven enchantment over the airport run which has now become breathing space rather than chore.  How many people can say that about their airport commute?

Interesting landscaping details in the airport grounds

When the overindulging chickens come home to roost...

Two boiled eggs and unlimited cooked spinach for lunch?  Surely, someone’s idea of a joke.  A humourless troll, perhaps. 

But no, that’s what lies before me, the deep green shreds of spinach counterfoil to the rich yellow and blinding white of the soft boiled free range eggs nestled on top.  Laughing.  At me.  Really, who eats this stuff?

Another life lesson wrapped inside a foolproof, can’t-go-wrong 13 days to lose a minimum of 9kg metabolism diet.  Thirteen days.  I can do that – I survived pregnancy and raising two boys, for heaven’s sake.

Oh, no alcohol.  Minimal coffee and tea. No salt, chilli, gum.  No cheating – as soon as you do, stop immediately as the diet won’t work and you’re wasting your time.  Hmm.  This is a serious commitment.  I’ve ALWAYS cheated and picked up where I left off again. 

Still, a comrade has survived her first week, lost a chunk of weight, is feeling good and the diet reports on social media (always such a reliable source of factual information, don’t you think?) say the weight shed remains shed.  Confuddling the metabolism seems to work.

Today is the day and I leap onto the scale early, smugly confident that whatever the reading, it’s already history.  Gosh, can that be right?  Numbers I’ve never seen before (and not in a good way) stare accusingly from the display.  No matter, the weight loss will be even more spectacular.

 

Breakfast is…a cup of black coffee.  Easy, that’s my favourite morning brew.  But only one?  And it is to be savoured, as lunch is a long way away.  So delay, crawl back into bed (easy, a throbbing head and sore throat announced themselves at dawn) and put off this culinary treat as long as possible.

There’s no avoiding lunch, though.  Somehow, this colourful mess has to be glugged down.  As much cooked spinach as I like?  I don’t.  I’ve worked out why this regime works – unlimited quantities of disliked food = eating as little as possible. Fooling my stomach into pretended satiety rather than receiving more food it can’t bear.

And in a few hours I have dinner to look forward to – as much grilled steak as I like.  My idea of hell only one level above unlimited spinach.

It’s going to be a devilishly long two weeks. 

The Burning Issue

Hot on the heels of the Burning Hat incident, another one took place closer to home. Two fiery events in one week – what are the odds?

Wednesday night, clutching glasses of red wine and a pizza we snuggle up in our adorable Casterbridge Cinema to watch Mr Turner.  A drawn out, beautifully shot, wonderfully acted turgid piece of cinematography that presumes the viewer is intimately familiar with this apparently peculiar, if brilliant, artist’s life.

We weren’t, and by all accounts neither were many patrons but anyhow, that’s neither here nor there.  It merely sets the scene – we were locked into a cinema seat for 2 and a half hours watching a bizarre story unfold before us, understanding little and struggling to make sense of any of it.

A familiar mental playacting scenario began, perfectly synchronized with the opening credits.  Did I turn off the gas hob?  We all know how this goes – just at the point of no return a devilish sprite whispers doubts into our thoughts. Garden hose?  Tap?  Stove?  Lock the front door?  The car?  And of course, we always have completed said task so thoughtlessly, the action doesn’t dent our consciousness.  A lesson in being in the moment, which we rarely are.

Brushing the sprite off with a mental laugh, I remembered clearly lifting the lid on the chicken korma to toss in some vegetables, thinking that they’d meld beautifully as the dish slowly cooled while we were away.  Of course, the hob was turned off.  Just another one of those self-doubt moments.  No way am I clambering out of my chair and driving home to check.

The welcoming stench of burnt curry greeted us as we tumbled through the kitchen door hours later.  Never mind being turned off, the flame was at full throttle!  That was no devilish sprite, it was a guardian angel trying to save me from myself, to no avail.  Yuck, the reek of charred food lingered for days, despite fragrant Yankee candles placed strategically throughout the house. 

Of course, this korma is a Karmic symbol of a meal dispute between Him Outdoors and moi.  He can’t eat spicy food, and I’d endured enough boring cuisine.  So he was free to eat leftover stew, while I was indulging in a tasty dish.  As it turns out, neither of us ate a hot meal that night – he’d donated his meal to the gardener’s lunch, and mine was charcoal.  Cheese and pickles then.

Footnote - Clearly, the lesson hasn’t imprinted sufficiently.  So engrossed in jotting down this tale, I completely forgot the soup left simmering on the stove. To the open-mouthed stupification of Him Outdoors who rescued the blackened mess and is not one to believe in lightning striking twice! Yet another fine mess I’ve made, Stanley!

Burning the Baobab...

We've all got one - a friend who's a constant source of entertainment.  To whom the impossible, improbable and unlikely seem to be irresistibly attracted. And thank heavens for that!

I have a very dear friend - highly intelligent, ever helpful and the kindest heart imaginable but oh, dear, never a dull moment in her life and consequently ours.

A few months ago, she broke several land speed records and pushed up the collective blood pressure of Airlink ground and cockpit crew.  And yes, here's another story from her collection.

Roadtripping through Kenya, Him Outdoors and I stumbled upon the perfect birthday gift for said friend (someone highly knowledgeable and passionate about nature, flora, the environment, trees and insects)  -  a floppy sunhat made from Baobab bark.

A precious Baobab tree in leaf

The hat safely made the long journey back to White River and was received with much appreciation by the birthday girl.

This is as good a time as any to mention that in addition to her stupendous knowledge of nature, Friend also enjoys juices extracted from juniper berries and grapes, particularly the bubbly kind.  And she owns a magnificent silver bowl, ideal for chilling many bottles of fermented juice.

And so it was, our infamous Uplands Festival and an emergency 911 call was made to Friend from our stand - the sweltering winter heat (31 deg C!) was putting our bottles of delicious bubbly under pressure, more ice and the large bowl needed, stat.

Dropping her beautiful rust-hued Baobab hat into the bowl, she placed it carefully into the back of her car, leaving the rear door open.  In scorching sunshine.  And went back to dilly dally inside the house.  


Some time later, while locking the kitchen door, Friend became aware of an odoriferous reminder of winter around here - a forest fire fume curled it's way around her nose and she was saddened that fire season had arrived again.

Imagine her surprise when she turned and saw spirals of smoke emerging from her Prado - a fire in her car?

Ahem, yes.  Silver bowl.  Bright sunlight.  Huge heat. Combustible material - tree bark.  End of hat. Seriously.

Please be advised that no bottles of bubbly were wasted upon fire control during the making of this story.

And please, dear reader, take heed and never, ever, put your bark hat inside a silver champagne cooler and leave it in the sun. Consequences there will be!

That Dammed Zambezi - The Cahora Bassa Story

Two thousand five hundred and seventy four kilometres long; flowing past six countries, through 2 hydroelectric dams, under seven bridges and over the magnificent Victoria Falls, the Zambezi River (’the Great River’ in Tsonga) is the longest river flowing east and the fourth longest  river in Africa, its catchment area (1 390 000km2) is half the size of Europe.

View of the gorge downriver from the dam wall

 
The second hydro-electric dam to be built on the Zambezi is at Mozambique’s Cahora Bassa gorge, 125 kilometres away from Tete, the provincial capital.  Even on the sunniest day, the gorge has an imposing manner; the chasm bursts with menace. Enormous rocks and boulders are chaotically piled and scattered as if some almighty infant deity, tired of his building blocks, swept them aside in a childish tantrum.  Millions of tons of water, forced into the narrow crevice created by the frowning and formidable ravine walls, crash and swirl down the impassable rapids.

Where the Work Ends

The local Tsonga named the rapids ‘Kebrabasa – where the work ends’, a faultless description of the impossibility of passage beyond that point.  And Kebrabasa was responsible for the failure of David Livingstone’s 1858 Zambezi expedition - the obstinate doctor finally conceding defeat when his paddle steamer, MaRobert, simply could not get more than three kilometres beyond the gorge entrance.  “God’s Highway”, as Livingstone had described the Zambezi to his financial backers in England, was not to be.  The river defied all attempts to exploit it as access to the continent’s interior, and Livingston referred to it as “that damned Zambezi”.

Apparently a Mr F Monks successfully navigated down the rapids in the early 1880’s, but as no printed report can be found details of his dugout trip remain a mystery.

Local fishing dugout on the dam

Damming the Impassable

With politics easily matching the turbulent river, fast forward to 1956 when the Portuguese government, determined to build a dam, sent a team of hydrologists to survey the region.  The positive report back by the team encouraged the colonial government to steam ahead with its plans.  Environmental impact studies, such as they were, served only to support the government’s objectives, being the expansion of agricultural production, development of mining, forestry promotion, reducing Mozambican dependency on foreign imports and uplifting the living conditions of the local communities.  

A major underlying motive at the time, however, was to encourage an increased population of European settlers who, alongside the physical geographical obstruction of a lake 240kms long and 31kms wide, would act as a barrier to guerrilla forces entering Mozambique from bases in Zambia and Malawi.

The prospect of a massive hydro-electric scheme attracted the South African government into a joint venture with the Portuguese, and construction began on the dam in 1969. It’s hard to comprehend the foolhardy determination to build the biggest hydro-electric dam in Southern Africa, in an inaccessible site on a river famous for unpredictable and frightening floods.  Politically, an international outcry arose, forcing several global companies and banks to withdraw expertise and funding.  Labour, both skilled and unskilled, was in short supply.  Bizarrely, the tragic deaths of seven workers finally convinced local labour that the project was sufficiently dangerous to match the prestigious peril of working on the South African gold mines, and they began signing on to work at Cahora Bassa.

As if determined to shake off the intrusion by man, the gorge delivered a climate of sweltering heat (at times reaching 60° C) with heavy rains in the wet season; combining that with pestilential tropical diseases such as malaria, bilharzia and yellow fever to create indescribable hardship and difficulties for the workers.

Add to this ongoing sabotage - part of the political upheaval signifying the approaching end of colonial Portuguese rule - and you begin to get a picture of complete misery driven by political pride and posturing.

Size Does Count

Costing US$500 million to build, the contract to construct the dam was awarded to Zambeze Consorcio Hidroelectrica Lda (ZAMCO) and included the installation of the electricity generation system and electricity transmission.  The arch dam is 171m high and 303m wide at the crest, with a volume of 510 000 000m3. 

Transport issues arising from its remote location led to the construction in 1973 of the Caetano Bridge (now called Samora Machel Bridge) in Tete, 440 years after the Portuguese first settled in the town.  Completion of the bridge enabled access for the enormous construction machinery required for the building of Cahora Bassa.

Filling of the dam commenced in December 1974 and by April 1975 the dam was virtually complete.  In June of that year Hidroelectrica de Cahora Bassa (HCB) was formed to operate the dam and power station, which has five hydraulic turbines and a total generating capacity of 2075MW.

A White Elephant?

However, Cahora Bassa hadn’t finished its malevolent challenging of the project.  Two days after HCB’s formation, Mozambican independence was declared and the Portuguese left Mozambique forever.  But while Portugal may have handed over the colony, it was adamant the new government take responsibility for the cost of the dam, and insisted that Portugal would retain ownership of Cahora Bassa until that debt was paid off.

The new regime signed a contract with South African electricity giant Eskom to buy the dam’s output, only to have the Mozambique civil war intervene in 1977, putting Cahora Bassa out of service between 1985 and 1997.  The irony of the once Cahora Bassa saboteurs, now the government, fruitlessly trying to secure the power lines and transmitters against rebel guerrillas will not be lost on the reader.

Endless wrangling and negotiation over decades between Mozambique and Portugal culminated in Mozambique obtaining an 85% stake in the scheme for US$ 700m in 2007.  In April 2012, Portugal finally relinquished its interest in the hydro-electric dam - 7.5% sold for US$ 42m to the Mozambican government, and 7.5% passed to Portuguese company Redes Energéticas Nacionais (REN - which operates the Portuguese electricity grid), as part of a future share swap deal.

The wall from the top of the gorge

‘Kebrabasa’

Will the work ever end?  The mighty river is resistant to taming and continues to flood, with politics playing out across the map - oddly reminiscent of the scenario confronting the early European explorers.  Aging facilities have already caused a costly upgrade, and Cahora Bassa reported its first profit only in 2010. 

Things are slowly looking up, however.  In a press release dated 25^th November 2014, HCB reported that the 2014 annual power output of the dam had reached 15,892 GWh, an increase of 6.35% on the previous year.

For much of its 39 years, Cahora Bassa has not operated at anything close to capacity; however the Mozambique government is proposing to build a new dam, Mphanda Nkuwa, 60kms downstream, while environmentalists are still unravelling the impact of the existing dam and trying to find solutions.

A new dam may prove to be a wall too many.

Sources:

Zambezi – Journey of a River.  Michael Main 1990 Southern Book Publishers (Pty) Ltd

www.internationalrivers.org

www.mozambiquehistory.net

www.hcb.co.mz

www.iol.co.za (15 April 2012)

www.hcb.co.mz

A. Isaacman, C. Sneddon “Portuguese Colonial Intervention, Regional Conflict and Post-Colonial Amnesia: Cahora Bassa Dam, Mozambique 1965–2002” Cornell Institute for African Development (May 2003)