Born With a Suitcase

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wogolin — Wed, 13 May 2015 17:27:00 GMT

Profile Pic

Age no Great Barrier on the Reef

wogolin — Wed, 13 May 2015 17:19:24 GMT

After 25 years I find myself once again anticipating one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the World. Sun kissed, scantily clad, Swedish, twenty somethings mingle onboard ensuring every tourist is attended to. My mind meanders to when I was a bronzed, bony, blonde full of youthful vibrance, working on a boat doing tours to the reef in the Red Sea. Unwittingly, I attracted the attention of an entire boatload of Syrian senior school boys who were on an excursion. The interrogative interest was equally unnerving and uneven, favouring the starboard side, conducive to an eminent capsizing until Captain Cobi disbanded the gathering for safety.

“We are now at Hastings Reef. Make sure you stay at the back of the boat at all times and remember the safety signals,” bellowed Ingrid, intercepting my nostalgia into nimbler, simpler times. These rules are ridiculous. A quarter of a century ago we dived in and were left to our own devices for hours on end. I can’t wait to escape the crowd to observe coral and sea life which no one else was looking at. After fifteen minutes I decided no Nazi would notice if I swim off in front of the boat. Of course, Ingrid wasn’t born yesterday and gestured for me to get back with the others. I have no choice but to go on an organised tour as I do not own a boat.

With no thought to the years that had elapsed since I was here last, I snorkle and duck dive like a child, never tiring of the world's largest aquarium brimming with tropical sea life which are completely oblivious to your presence. After a few hours, I need to float on my back to rest. Eagle eye Ingrid spots the flotsam and sends out a tender boat to check on me. "I'm fine," I protest but am tossed a noodle, just in case. My mask is now accumulating a litre of snot (a natural reflex when water goes up my nose due to my mask not sealing properly). I can't empty it as the camera is in one hand and the annoying noodle is in the other.) I notice a very strong current and no matter how hard I swim, I am now in the outer Great Barrier Reef.

A toned, topless, tanned tender boat driver arrives. I told him I have a bad cramp. His dazzling eyes lock with mine as he leans down and clasps my hand. "I'll give you a massage," he promises but it's like trying to haul in a walrus. As I lift off my mask and smear the mucus away, he cuts for it as quick as he can back to the vessel and no foot massage is forthcoming! Despite my decay, the reef remains a definite wonder and a timeless highlight.

Gallery: Meeting Mondesa

wogolin — Thu, 16 Nov 2006 22:30:00 GMT

Meeting Mondesa

wogolin — Thu, 16 Nov 2006 21:49:00 GMT

Some of the best preserved examples of German colonial architecture in the world are a striking feature of Swakopmund. This desert oasis clings to the western edge of southern Africa as the last bastion of German heritage. Along a spotless, peaceful beach dotted with palms and quaint villas, I meander through well watered green parks toward the centre of town. Picturesque Woermannhaus is a landmark on Swakopmund’s skyline. Built in 1896 the tower served as a water tower and navigation point for the ships of the Woermann Line. A short climb up the stairs is worth it. Panoramic views sweep from the jetty jutting out into the Atlantic, past the town and into the desert. I notice a large suburb nestled between the main part of town near the beach and the desert. With a population of approximately 30,000 it wasn’t a large town, so I couldn’t help but wonder why the city had expanded towards the desert rather than southwards or northwards along the coast.

After enjoying the vista, I headed toward the main shopping precinct. Charming shops line the immaculate paved streets and through an irresistible shop window I admire souvenirs. A barred gate prevents me from entering. I unsuccessfully try to open the locked latch and peer through the window to see if it is closed. Inside, a stout woman with Aryan features bellows in her brash accent ‘come in’ while pressing a button at the counter. Bewilderingly, the next shop is also barred, and it is here I notice a sign over the entrance proudly stating entry reserved. My quick mental calculation to divide South Africa with Namibia resulted in the last defenders of apartheid. Feeling indignant at my royal treatment, but more so by my naivety, I promptly leave the shop as the thin veneer of deceit crumbled to reveal Swakopmund’s dirty side. Back at the motel, I waste no time in finding out about the local township and discover there is a tour to Mondesa the next day and promptly book it.

A stray dog lingers in our dusty wake as we cross the railway toward the desert fringe township. The minibus arrives amidst a commotion of laughing children dressed in brightly coloured rags playing in the street. A crowd of children pose with silly antics as I take a photo. They gather round me as I display the pictures back to them on my digital camera. Two vibrant six year old girls grab my hand and excitedly yell ‘swing’ as they position themselves alternately in between the grip of another tourist. We indulge them as they delight in this simple pleasure. With no parents in sight, the youngsters remain under the watchful eye of neighbours relaxing on porches as upbeat, pulsating rhythms emanate from their portable radios. Further down the potholed road is an area officially named DRC (Democratic Resettlement Community). Far from the established small bland grey two bedroom homes of Mondesa, this area is a squatter camp. Impoverished rural migrants live here until they can afford a home in Mondesa. The residents make their homes with whatever they can find and it is here I visit a unique home. A brightly coloured exterior suggests eccentric owners. However, the occupants reveal a regular family headed by Ernst and Elsie. Ernst makes his living by and painting T-shirts for tourists and of course, by inviting tourists to his home for tea. Unbelievably, their house is made entirely of recycled objects from the nearby rubbish dump.

‘Please look through our house’, Ernst offers. Brightly painted hessian obscures tin walls, hanging to the dirt floor disguised by an emaciated layer of linoleum. Piled with stuffed toys, a rickety bunk bed in the kid’s room hint of happiness and harmony. Despite the rudimentary conditions, the house is indeed a home and a spotless one at that. I duck as I narrowly miss a Hartebeest’s head. Otherwise impossible if it wasn’t for its stuffed status, I scan its features at close proximately and find it difficult to understand why anyone would throw something like this away. Once in the lounge room I reel at the sight of a coffee table fashioned from an elephant’s foot. I had to remind myself that it wasn’t Ernst and Elsie’s fault that this unfortunate elephant had to be mutilated for the sake of a coffee table. Hopefully it was a pachyderm that had to be culled and not a poached one. At least the elephant’s demise wasn’t completely in vain, as they had rescued it from the tip. Despite my repugnancy I still manage to complement Ernst on their wonderful home. ‘Thankyou’, Ernst replies as he proudly accepts my accolade. Elsie emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray with her best tea set. Being mindful of the water being hand carted from the community pump, I humbly sip the mint tea, fully appreciative of the hospitality as it neared time to leave. Standing on the porch, made out of upturned beer bottles embedded in concrete, the family heartily waves good bye as if I were a visiting relative. Sitting back on the bus, I notice their sloped roof. An old billboard, held in place by old car tyres, advertised plush apartments.

Back at Mondesa, inside one of the grey brick homes I have the opportunity to meet an elder who is from the Damara tribe. Her name is Lena Moses but I am encouraged to call her ‘Oma’, the German word for grandma or elder. As with most older women from her tribe she still dresses in the voluminous Victorian-style dress. The unusual tradition stems from the influence of the early missionary wives from the early nineteenth century. The distinctive headdress with its two points symbolizes cattle horns. Despite the fact that she can speak three different languages, English is not one of them so the tour guide acts as my interpreter. I ask her all kinds of questions about the Damara culture and finally end my visit by asking her to give a brief historical account of her life. Her precocious grand children jump all over her as she explains ‘I was brought up in Swakopmund and had a very happy childhood with my mum, dad and siblings. In the 1940s all that changed when we were forced to live here. My father was a white man of German descent. As the new government enforced Apartheid and he happened to be married to a black woman, he was forced to live in Germany. I was about ten years old and I never saw my father again’, she said stoically and then reprimanded one of the children for being too rough. The saga is poignant but common and I try to imagine how hard her mother’s life would have been in raising the kids on her own after having her husband ripped away suddenly. It raises more questions in my mind, such as were they able to keep in touch after he left, but sadly it is time to leave.

Back in Mondesa, I am introduced to a local medicine man, Stanley Witbooi who is of the Nama tribe and is an expert in herbal remedies. Stanley explains ‘this knowledge has been told to me by my grandfather and it is only handed to those children who display the gift for healing’. Some of the more strange items include the rare wild dog dung which once the aroma is smelt after burning it, is reputed to make headaches disappear. Learning about the different cultures is thirsty work so naturally the next stop is the ‘Back of the Moon’ shebeen (African bar). I’m not normally a beer drinker, but as the old cliché goes, ‘when in Rome do as the Romans do’, besides the inclement heat is a good excuse to sample the local brew Tafel while playing some pool with the locals.

As the tour draws to an end, I am ravishing hungry and am both surprised and excited to be escorted to enjoy some traditional local cuisine at Lumbumbashi Restaurant which is located in a customary Ovambo thatched hut. The food is served on woven baskets and wooden plates and I can’t help but notice the strange looking items in one of the bowls so I enquire ‘what is that’? The short version is they are big juicy grubs. I manage to stomach about one tiny mouthful. It isn’t so much the taste of it that is nauseating, just the thought of it is. I try to wash it down with what is described to me as sorghum beer. However, I wonder if it is in fact donkey’s urine I am drinking. Certainly different to the Tafel taste. The absence of any pot plants makes me just spit it back into the wooden cup. No longer curious over the disgusting gastronomic fare, I stick to the bread.

Children begin to gather outside the hut and start to sing in a wonderful melodic harmonious unison. I am beckoned outside and the children gather in a semi circle around one child who is dancing as if her life depended on it. Different children come out in succession and vigorously perform the Ovambo Dance. The performers are encouraged by the succinct clapping crowd as they hop and jump in the dust with gyrating buts. It is proof that only Africans can execute this primeval prance with absolute dexterity. The day makes its finale as I look behind through the back window of the bus. The sun set over the many workers cycling back from the dirty side toward Mondesa.

Walking With Lions

wogolin — Sat, 4 Nov 2006 21:46:00 GMT

Zimabawe is a beautiful nation which has the capacity to be self sufficient. However, under the rule of its current dictator, Robert Mugabe, who lines his owns pockets with extorted wealth, the supermarkets shelves are empty and his countrymen and women are forced to eat scaps from rubbish dumps just to survive. Meanwhile rich government officials act as the mafia to local businesses. This is why I don't condone travel to Zimbabwe with the current situation. Inflation at this time was around 2000%, but now (2009) it is about 100 times that and typhoid fever is rife with no medicines the treat the masses. Despite this, my tour started in Victoria Falls, rather than in Livingstone, a couple of kilometres away across the Zambezi in Zambia, which would have been preferable.

One can be forgiven for assuming the main attraction in Victoria Falls is the waterfall. While the thunderous might of the falls are impressive, it doesn’t compare with experiencing a lifelong dream whilst in town. With some time to kill before my main camping tour to Cape Town commences, I visit the tourist centre. There is a plethora of tours to choose from, ranging from joy flights and elephant rides to bunging jumping off the striking Victoria Falls Bridge. Far from being an adrenalin junkie, I want something more sedentary and after noticing the cute lion posters on the walls it doesn’t take long to decide. After fantasising about my favourite childhood movie Born Free, I excitedly rush back to camp clutching my Walk With Lions pamphlet. At dawn the next day I travel by minibus with a small group of tourists to a conservation park about an hour away. Over a fabulously strong coffee, we are given a tedious lecture on lion behaviour and safety. I start to day dream and wonder if my tourist dollars are going directly to the conservation of wildlife or into the pockets of corrupt government officials. Suddenly some one thrusts a big stick into my hand as everyone dutifully moves to follow the guide through the scrub over meandering dirt tracks. Perhaps we need the stick to steady ourselves in case the terrain gets rough.
The guide points out various footprints the different wild life make along the way. After twenty minutes and no sign of any lions, my impatience is exacerbated by the ever present flies becoming more intense with the heat of the day. The stroll is frustratingly punctuated as the ranger finds elephant faeces. With incredible fascination the guide dissects it with his bare hands and imparts facts on pachyderm cuisine. Increasingly agitated, this offending elephant is eating into my quality lion time. Tiring of the David Attenborough style documentary, we continues the search and negotiate our way through the unforgiving thorny acacias swishing away flies attracted by the moisture forming on my brow. My mind wanders to the infamous colonial explorer, Livingstone. The hardships he must’ve endured as he slashed his way through the ‘dark continent’. What was with those ridiculous pith helmets anyway? My corduroy hat gets hopelessly stuck on a sharp acacia and I take great care to extract it but nonetheless manage to stab my finger. My persistence pays off as the ranger points and elatedly whispers ‘there’s Tamagunge and his twin brother.’

The delightful five month old cubs trot side by side towards us. They take refuge from the encroaching heat and rest in the shade. The whole group swarms around them and act like panthera paparazzi as everyone’s shutter clicks in unison. The cubs patiently wait as everyone has their turn in having a picture taken with them. It is my turn next and I am instructed to stand behind the cubs. Eagerly I crouch down behind Tamagunge to pat him. Unlike my furry feline friend back home, I’m surprised to feel his rough and very coarse fur. In contrast to the other tourists, the young predator loses patience and upon my vigorous caresses he takes it as a cue to be playful. He becomes particularly mischievous and starts play biting my wrist putting his paw on my forearm to gain leverage. Suddenly, the wise words of the authoritative park ranger emerge from my subconscious, ‘One playful swipe from a five month old cub can cause some serious damage’.

I am frozen with panic. D o I whack him across the nose like a mother cat or just play dead. Desperately I try to imagine what the famous naturalist, Joy Adamson would do to gain control and confidence. It's useless, I flash back to the induction and remember all too well ‘they can smell fear and prey on the vulnerable’ warning as I ponder imminent mauling. Luckily the capable guide springs into action and calmly motions me to put my stick across his scary incisors to prevent serious injury to my limb. Back at the lodge the adrenalin induces a wild hunger, making me fully appreciative of the hearty cooked breakfast awaiting us in the open air viewing deck. After refreshing the palate with a platter of cold tropical fruit, I digested the events of the previous hours and felt sure Joy Adamson never bothered with any stick for protection. Sipping on freshly brewed coffee and overlooking the fresh African dawn I reflect further. I gained a healthy new respect for the continent’s ferocious big cats but maybe tomorrow I should book the fishing tour instead. I’m sure there are no flesh eating Piranhas here.

Dhowtful

wogolin — Fri, 9 Sep 1994 22:17:00 GMT

Zanzibar, a small island off the coast of Tanzania, had captured my imagination ever since learning about the exotic spice island in my history class. As if the prospect of going to this tropical paradise wasn't enough to feed my fantasy, an opportunity to travel there by traditional motorized, cargo dhow boat was more than I could resist.

Eager to escape the stinking cesspool of Mombasa my travelling companions, Pamela, another Aussie, Will, from the UK and I arrive early at the dock for our voyage. ‘Excuse me, which boat is going to Zanzibar today?’ Pamela asks a grimy African wearing a well worn grease stained T-shirt who stares at us blankly. Appallingly, Pamela points at all the boats and yells ‘Zanzibar, Zanzibar’ as if he is deaf. After much gesticulating with his peers, we find the right boat. ‘Oh my God, it’s not what I expected’ mumbles Sue with her jaw dropping in disappointment. Spotting the rickety wooden vessel, I too try and imagine the next 200km and four days travelling in it. Like extras in The Pirates of the Caribbean, we embark by walking the plank, tightly hugging our packs. I didn’t have anything valuable in there, but I’ve grown very fond of my two sets of clothes during the last year of backpacking. Staking my claim to a slimy area of the deck, it isn’t long before the results of a hearty curry, from a local Indian establishment the night before, become an instant concern. ‘Excuse me, but where is the toilet?’ I ask urgently. My third world naivety makes the African deck hands laugh loudly in obvious mockery. Desperately wanting to take on the persona of a hard core backpacker, I pretend not to care and secretly tremble at the prospect of hanging my delicate white female ass over the side of the boat in full view of twenty African men. In a frightful mood of anxiety, I practice tightening sphincter muscles and decide to relieve myself in the moonlight when every one was asleep. Planning ahead, I scan the boat for any life jackets to reduce the likelihood of reaching a most undignified end to my life. Noticing a complete absence of any, I resist further ridicule by asking after their whereabouts.

Perched on our packs, we patiently wait for our scheduled departure time of twelve noon….African time as we later discover. After a while Edward politely asks ‘what seems to be taking so long?’ In broken English, the explanation is the cargo hadn’t arrived yet. Just as I contemplate the prospect of spending the next two nights sleeping on a hard, diesel infused deck, the goods appear. Excitedly, we welcome the freight as a truck load of useful foam mattresses are unpacked! Over the next few hours, our prospective bedding is being passed overhead and underfoot by Kenyans who are completely oblivious to our presence. I begin to wonder if this is some kind of Guinness Book of Records stunt to ascertain how many it would take before the dhow actually sinks.

Inevitably, yet another delay presents itself in the guise of engine trouble. Whilst the “mechanics” set about to repair the problem, we spend the ensuing hours under the searing sun, swimming in our sweat on the plastic covered mattresses. After another string of hold ups, Edward’s well-mannered stiff upper lip facade crumbles into a tirade of tense obscenities and threats. Pamela does her best to placate him as it will do little to hasten our departure time. Finally relieved, at dusk, we set sail. With the day's pantomime of hindrances behind us, it really couldn't have been a more perfect time to leave. I lay back and watched another typically perfect African sun set over serene, balmy, waters as we cruise out of the bay into the Indian Ocean. Several hours pass as the hypnotic drone of the engine, fused with the warm tropical breeze gently lapping at my face, cause me to drift into a heavy slumber.

With a start, I awake as a large, heavy drop of rain plunges down and hits me right between the eyes. Quickly orientating myself I realise darkness has fallen, and the weather has unexpectedly taken a turn for the worse. Unfortunately, the ancient leaky tarpaulin cover isn’t providing much protection from the torrential downpour, which has suddenly developed. With the swell now a couple of metres, we decide to move to the vessel’s centre for safety reasons. Amongst the panic and wretched escalating seasickness, we manage to wedge one of the mattresses horizontally between the piles of vertical ones to form a barrier against the turbulent conditions.

Adding to our paralysing fear, we could no longer hear the steady noise of the engine. The coastal lights diminish in the horizon. We are powerless in Mother Nature’s unrelenting force. Soaked to the bone, we desperately cling to each other as the waves mercilessly toss the dhow and dares to engulf us. Anticipating a capsize with the next rapidly approaching wave, a loud sharp bang echoes my terror. Utterly relieved, it is only a forty four gallon drum hitting the deck as the wave passes under us. A slight reprieve in the swell allows me to steal a glance in the direction of the coastal lights. To my horror the distant shore lights are hidden behind a wall of water threatening to swamp us. Convinced of a certain watery death, the dinghy fortuitously negotiates its way over the colossal swell. In spontaneous, compulsive sobs, Pamela and I embrace each other while Will in his posh accent, becomes quite irrational, constantly muttering that this trip was a mistake.

Finally, we hear the glorious sound of the engine choking but struggling to start. It manages to maintain momentum and I am infinitely thankful to discover the crew decide not to jeopardise our lives further and put us on course straight back to Mombasa. We spend the return journey recuperating from seasickness with intermittent crying and huddling to keep warm in our saturated clothing.

Accidental Imposters

wogolin — Mon, 6 Sep 1993 00:13:00 GMT

With Zimbabwe being our final destination, the route via Malawi and Mozambique is the only safe option due to political instability in Zambia some 15 years ago. The mysteriously named ‘”Express” train takes 22 hours from Dar Es Salaam to Mbeya, the last stop before it enters Zambia. At Mbeya my compatriot, Pamela and I are still about 30 kilometers from the border and we discover there is no public transport. It is no time to be shrinking violets so we muscle our way onto the back of an enterprising man’s utility. He is quick to recognise the supply and demand dilemma to the captive consumers and demands a fee of USD$5.50 in Tanzanian Shillings, an exorbitant amount considering we paid the equivalent to travel the last 840km. We succumb to the extortion and manage to arrive at the Songwe border crossing in time before it closes for the day, but after passing through the long bureaucratic maze, we miss the last bus to any where for at least two days. It isn’t long before we realise we are stranded and Pam is in a panic because the Zimbabwean embassy in Tanzania has only given her a two week temporary visa to pass through Zimbabwe in order to reach South Africa. Utterly fed up, filthy, famished and flaming hot in the searing heat we seek shelter under the shade of a nearby Acacia tree. Tears culminate the rough past few weeks of overland travel in difficult circumstances and we sit dumb founded as we ponder our next course of action. Oddly enough, we are lucky enough to score the only basic wooden hut with two sleeping cots as shelter for the night. It is unsecured, so we sleep uncomfortably on our packs and try not to think about surreptitious snakes and scorpions.

In the morning, we are eager for a wash after three days without one, but with no running water anywhere we make do with just a change of underwear. It is also time for another makeover. Malawi’s president, an autocratic octogenarian, and a very old fashioned one at that, dictates every woman in the country must wear a skirt down to their ankles. So our first job for the morning is to don our sarongs, the closest thing we had to a skirt in our packs. The wrap around was accessorised by a pair of well worn, dusty hiking boots. I could quite easily stand on the lonely road side waiting for our fortunes to change whilst eating unpalatable stale bread from about two breakfasts ago, but to commit fashion suicide just to stay within the local laws for all to see was unbearable. Our situation gets desperate as the heat of the day sets in and Pamela decides to hail down a passing military jeep. Lucky for us, the driver dressed in civilian clothing has no hesitation in taking on two blonde attractive hitch hikers and agrees to take us as far as he could.

Allen turns out to be a great personal tour guide. We stop at Mt Livingstone which provides panoramic views of the massive expanse that is Lake Malawi. We pass through a village where an initiation ceremony is taking place. The locals are only too happy for us to take part in the festivities. Allen then stops at road side stalls where we buy some wooden artifacts and crafts. My naturally cautious demeanor occasionally makes me wonder if we are being groomed and eventually taken to some Middle Eastern harem never to be seen again. However, by evening we arrive at his home where we meet his wife, Shirley and their children and this softens my suspicions. Shirley prepares us a wonderful Malawian meal of meat, vegetables and rice before continuing on to our ambiguous southerly destination. Finally we arrive at military barracks where Allen is let in by security after a saluting ritual. Allen obviously works here as he had told us earlier that he is in the air force. He takes us to a house at the base and it is very modern by African standards.

We must’ve looked and smelt as bad as we imagined as Allen suggested we have a shower but then remembers that the water system is broken and apologises. ‘I’ll arrange to get it fixed’, he said purposefully as he left us to our own curiosity. Meanwhile we had military personnel coming in and out, laden with clean linen, towels, food and even offered to wash our clothes. A huge military truck pulled up outside and four soldiers climbed onto the roof. There is all kinds of banging and clanking going on and after half an hour a soldier knocks on the door and announces ‘the water has been fixed, you may now have a shower’. It becomes apparent every one treats Allen and his new friends like gods. When Allen eventually returns we offer him some money, if only to pay for the petrol, but he refuses to accept it.

‘I have an official function tonight and would like to invite you girls to accompany me’, requests Allen. ‘Of course, that would be lovely’, we reply in excited unison. Like naïve teenagers just being asked out on a date, we screeched to each other ‘oh my god, what are we going to wear?’ Hard core back packing through Africa requires the ruthless culling of any glad rags, so fortunately Allen, being a typical male, tells us not to worry about what to wear. However, despite the back packer ruse, I am a deep rooted fashionista and still worry about the sassy circumstances and dig up the cleanest matching T-shirt for my sarong. The real crowning glory to the current attire is the daggy pair of sandals, still marginally better than my hideous boots. Allen left us again to prepare for the evening.

After spending ages in the glorious shower and getting ready, we waited for Allen’s return. Pam takes the opportunity to snoop around the otherwise unused, sparse house. ‘Hey, come in here’, she yells. She points to the label on a lone cardboard box. ‘Attention: Colonel Allen Ghambi’ it read as Pam waits for my reaction. I stood there with my jaw gaping and eyes widening. ‘God, I wonder where we’re going tonight’, I exclaimed. Allen returns and we get into a chauffeur driven car and begin to interrogate Allen with our newly acquired information.

‘So Allen, you obviously have some standing in the Malawian military, what is it that you actually do’, I asked. He confesses he is the highest ranking officer in air force section of the Malawian Army. Allen trained at Sandhurst and stories of flying Maggie Thatcher and other international VIPs around this very small countryside are also told to us. I am now humbled in his presence and am not feeling worthy of his special treatment after what he had just said, but nonetheless filled with nervous excitement as we pull up outside one of the finest resorts I had ever seen.

The unmistakable African rhythmic beats are pulsating, and a sumptuous, colourful display of food is spread along the entire side of the swimming pool which is lined with softly lit tea lights. Large trees loom overhead as the recently invented fairy lights are threaded through it. I look around in awe, feeling like the leading lady in a fractured fairytale. Cinderella attends the ball but her Negroid fairy godfather has no idea about ball gowns. Allen points in the direction of men, dressed in well tailored suits, seated at the head of the festivities. ‘There is the Minister of Defence, he is the President’s right hand man. ‘It is his birthday today’, Allen informs us. Pam and I exchange glances in an unspoken realisation this is actually his birthday party, and undoubtedly paid for by an impoverished population. Allen then makes his way toward the Minister and announced ‘Sir, may I introduce Adrianne and Pamela, they are the daughters of the Australian Minister of Defence’. I already feel extremely embarrassed at my lack of formal attire, but the lie further exacerbates my shame. The same accent and both of us being blessed with blonde hair is a convincing claim we are sisters and it wouldn’t be likely anyone would question this fact. However, keeping an international VIPs façade is difficult to carry off when one is not used to an ‘A’ List, air kissing lifestyle. I feel indignant at Allen as we shake the Minister’s hand, wish him a happy birthday and exchange pleasantries, praying he won’t ask any questions that would expose us. I wonder what the local sentence is for imposters. We promise to pass on our regards to daddy and continue with our sister act as we meet the rest of the entourage. It isn’t long before we forget about the little lie and, for once, live in the moment and enjoy being the centre of Caucasian attention at the Minister’s “official” gala occasion.

After an evening of feasting, frolicking and new friends, we are escorted a short distance to a beautifully appointed room in the early hours of the morning. I slide between fresh, clean, crisp sheets. My head finds the softest pillow imaginable as I slip into a dream-like surreal state, I think this must all be just that, a dream, and I keep waiting for the bed bugs to bite and for the rats to start rummaging through my back packs. Of course, it didn’t happen, instead I dream of my love affair with the Malawian people, their generosity, kindness and slightly corrupt nuances.