Victorian Island Style

 We wake up. The sun glints off the mercurial water in front of the tent. We stroll down the muddy roads to breakfast. Our chapati-and-beans man greets us by name by now. He also feels a need to shout whenever numerical values are involved. "FIVE THOUSAND SHILLINGS!'. The pineapple lady gives us our daily, child-sized pineapple over the bizarre din of Bad Boys II dubbed into Lugandan blaring from the local cinema behind her stall. We almost lose the pineapple to the islands sole - and therefore overconfident - donkey. We placate it with a paper bag. We head to the pier to find out if any boats are heading out to any of the other islands today. As with every other day, no one has a clue. Not even the man from the governments fisheries department, who enforces local maritime law through the aggressive use of a spear and a life-jacket. His side-kick is packing a more substantial AK-47 as well as an impressive geographical knowledge. "Northern Kenya has low population density as a result of its semi-arid climate" he informs us, unrelated to any previous conversation topics.

We mosey back to our accommodation via some pristine rainforest that we try traverse as a shortcut. We lose the trail, panic and discuss the use of smoke-signals. We eventually break out into sunlight where the configuration of nearby islands tells us we are not far from home. We dodge a psychopathic scooter driver and arrive back in one piece. The rest of the day is spent reading in hammocks to the relaxing calls of fish-eagles and the less relaxing helicopter-like wing flutters of the local hornbills. An impossible sunset is ruined only by the heartburn caused by the local 'Bond 007' whiskey.

And so another day on the Ssese archipelago in the middle of Lake Victoria draws to a close. Much the same as the one before it. And the one before that. Im pretty sure we had greater ambitions when we arrived here but neither myself nor Tough Guy can be sure. So we just go to bed.

...When Men and Mountains Meet

The expedition assembled. It had been called the strongest team since Scott and Oates set off to conquer the south pole with a couple of huskys and an endless supply of flags.The team was at their physical peak. Firstly there was David Cloete, primed after regular sessions on the pool-side Stairmaster aboard the Love Boat. Then James White, carbo-loaded to the hilt after months of company luncheons. Lawrence Mallen had proved his might by recently shrugging off the ardor of a Comrades marathon, while Tough Guy and myself had had five weeks of intense cardio, sprinting either away from hoards of Ethiopias children or murderously towards its horrific touts. This was a crew well-drilled, motivated and – above all – flatulent. The destination was Mount Kenya. The aim, nudity on a grand scale.

The purple sun rose on the horizon and Lenana Peak came vividly into view. So too did the dense snow that covered it. This was a particular concern given that we had pledged, for no ostensible reason, to summit naked. Hours of scrambling against a conveyer-belt of scree in the pitch black finally seemed worth it. Of more dubious valuewas our altitude medication and its myriad side-effects: toes and fingers tingling like Harry Potters wand, bladders reduced to those of senile octagenarians, mouths complaining that everything tasted of Robocops urine. And despite these, Whitey began to display one of the cardinal signs of altitude sickness: persistent conversation about how attractive Cloetes father was. More alarming, no one disagreed.

The expedition reached the peak. The smug cloud hanging over us could be viewed from the park entrance. On all sides everything about Mount Kenya was gigantic: giant valleys covered in giant loeblias, giant peaks covered in giant snow, giant hyrax, giant noses. That was until the time came to de-robe. Nothing was giant about this. A vicious combination of freezing temperatures and bad genetics combined to form what was to be, at best,a forgettable photo shoot, at worst a severe blow to our collective self-esteems and future job prospects.  Our guide Richard – a man of few words – was overheard telling his friend “You see, I was right. The mzungu are a cursed race!”.  No matter. Morale was high. And so was Whitey. So nothing really mattered except the fact that we had made it. As the old adage goes ‘Weird things happen when men and mountains meet’. We certainly proved this beyond a shadow of a doubt.

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Also, in this spirit of achieving goals our fund to raise money for the Key School for Autism has just surpassed the R40,000 mark thanks to the kind generosity of many of you out there! Weve still got a long way to go to get to our magic R100,000 mark but already you have all given more than we ever thought we would raise. Big up.

The Great Civilisations of Ethiopia

Circa 1500BC: It all began in Ethiopia with a goat. So you know they were on to something good. The cryptic civilisation of Yeha worshipped the Walia Ibex – a wild goat of Biblical awesomeness. Little else is known about them. But then again, what else is necessary?

Circa 800BC: Early Jewish civilisations settled along the shores of Lake Tana. They may have been direct decendents of the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon. Or they may have got wind of the Old Testament, pooped themselves, then decided that this was a God you wanted playing for the home team.

1 – 700AD: The Axumites rose in the north and their kingdom spread to include much of north-east Africa, the Red Sea and Yemen. They were skilled linguists who developed Ethiopias first language, Ge’ez. More skilled, however, were their masons. Not content with a good old-fashioned tombstone, these artisans decided the best way to mark a grave was with a thirty-three metre, thousand ton obelisk. Their physics was less astute and the biggest of them collapsed. Together with their empire.

1000-1200AD: The Zagwe dynasty brought some stability after Ethiopias Dark Ages. Not much is known about them as they weren’t keen on record keeping. What they were keen on were churches and rocks. And they somehow managed to combine these two unlikely and diverse interests. Much to the chagrin of their slaves.

1635-1855AD: The kings of Gonder didn’t get the memo. They thought they were somewhere in northern Europe so crafted castles and royal enclosures like something out of Westchester to protect them from marauding hordes of attackers. Likewise they modelled their lifestyles on their European monarchical brethren – complete with betrayals, poisonings, political intrigue and very tight corsets.

1855-1913AD: the rulers of the line supposedly mined from King Solomons fiery loins joined the disparate tribes of Ethiopia into one united kingdom that successfully sent the Italian military and all their tagliatelli packing.

1913-1974AD: Whatever Emperor Haile Selassie did or did not do is unimportant. What matters is that he is responsible for the world’s most self-defeating religion in Rastafarianism. Even he found dreadlocks unhygienic and tried his best to distance himself from the dope-smoking masses that called him ‘Messiah’. He failed. So now we have a people whose core belief encourages them to not wear shoes, never to wash and to scent themselves with essence of cabbage.

Circa 2012: The era of the locust. Millennia of history undone by the simple act of copulation. Ethiopias population growth is one of the highest on the planet – it has ballooned by twenty-five million in the last ten years alone. Still their church forbids contraception. The country’s resources can’t continue to support this burgeoning swarm. There are just too many children with no supervision, too many youths with nothing to do and not enough foreigners for all of them pester. And in case you were in doubt about the seriousness of it all, this is the generation that has almost eradicated the Walia Ibex. So, it seems, it may also end exactly where it all began. With a goat.

An Inconvenient Temp.

I have glimpsed the apocalypse. The overweight Magi Al Gore foretold of it. And he has been vindicated. And forgiven for eating so many pies. Here, Gaia is in rebellion. All bets are off. The ground has sunk below that of the seas. Night time temperatures flirt with the mid-thirties, by day they bash down the door of fifty. The earth is sin-black or virgin-white. And neither supports life. Volcanoes crackle and groan with restless magma. Sharp tendrils of serrated salt burst from the earths bowels. Lakes fizzle with sulphur or bubble with potassium. Geysers ejaculate concentrated acid teasingly. The air smells like Mother Nature has partaken of too much fermented injera and cut the cheese with cataclysmic force.

The people of these Badlands are a tough bunch. The men all wear skirts, but face no ridicule. This is likely because they have serrated teeth and carry semi-automatic weapons. They are quick on the draw to protect what is theirs - the only things hated more than each other are out-of-towners. The local chief - a man with a lava-red beard that rages around his face like an inferno - can offer protection. For a hefty fee. But in these lands currency is useless. The dollar, Yuan and, yes, even the Rand have all collapsed. What is of value is salt. Eight kilogram blocks of solid salt, chiseled day and night off the earths baked surface by a new breed of human whose toughness is matched only by their resignation. Kilometer long caravans of camels stretch to the horizon, bearing this precious commodity.

Yes, I have glimpsed the apocalypse. It is a place called Danakil. Now kindly hand me that energy-saving lightbulb.