Travels in KwaZulu Natal

By John Page

Dawn Patrol

It was seven in the morning and by chance, my birthday, so I had expected to be having a lay in with my wife, Rosemary. Instead I was looking into the eyes of a matriarch African elephant at about half a trunk’s length distance and she (not Rosemary) seemed intent on sniffing at my neck. We had been on a game drive in thick bush since five o’clock and had stopped for a flask of coffee fortified with the local milky Amarula liqueur, which is similar to Baileys. The elephants appeared from the trees in single file like the Dawn Patrol in Disney’s version of the Jungle Book. Our ranger, Sipu, had reversed the open Land Cruiser to clear their path but had come up against a boulder so they came rather closer than intended. It did not feel threatening as the elephants’ posture was clearly relaxed; the younger ones commenced tussling with each other while the adults trashed the surrounding trees and browsed on their thorny leaves. After a few minutes, they ambled off and magically disappeared into the bush again.

We were staying at Amakhosi Lodge, an excellent five-star establishment within a vast private game reserve. It has eight “villas” and we were initially disappointed to be allocated number eight which was a fair trek from the restaurant and reception area but turned out to be the honeymoon suite with its own “Do Not Disturb” gate and private plunge pool on the veranda. We were ten days into a tour which had been dogged by electrical storms. During our first night at Amakhosi, the lightning knocked out the air conditioning and wall sockets in our suite. When the alarm wakes you at four o’clock and covered in perspiration, you fumble sleepily through the mosquito net in the darkness for the alarm clock and a bedside light switch which doesn’t work anymore, it is not the best start to the day. The coffee, elephants and breakfast make it all worthwhile.

The number and type of animals on South African game reserves are regulated according to their area and type of vegetation. The reserve may cover several thousand acres but it is ultimately enclosed by fences nine feet high, so the only large animals which can range freely across the area are leopards. Amakhosi has more elephants than they should, but it is not permitted to sell them (transporting them would also be difficult) or cull them. In a humane attempt to control the numbers, a local vet calculates a suitable dose of contraceptive which is darted into selected females and lasts for twelve months. The land here is forest, unlike the open plains that I had previously seen in Kenya, so spotting animals can be more difficult but encounters are frequent and sometimes very close.

We had already booked a holiday in Italy when a brochure arrived from Titan Tours which including a new tour of “Battlefields of KwaZulu-Natal”. Having limited interest in battles, I put it to one side until Rosemary inserted it between my eyes and computer screen. She has the patience to read itineraries properly. The attractions were its unusual mixture of history, native culture, scenery and animal watching, so the children’s inheritance had to be raided. The party size is limited to fourteen; there were thirteen of us of whom only two were battlefield tour veterans. The eighteen seater bus was a little “cosy”, but we later realised that a larger vehicle would not have been able to access some of the places we visited.

After arriving from an overnight flight to Johannesburg, we drove out past the Marikana chrome and platinum mines where strikers were fired on by police in 2014. I was impressed by the high standard of the national highways, many of which are toll roads developed to support the football World Cup in 2010. They are four lane roads with modern, clean service areas and are extensively regulated by average speed cameras and traffic police. In two places, like all commercial vehicles, we had to pull off the road to drive slowly over automated weighbridges which have removed from the roads unsafely overloaded vehicles from countries to the north.

First port of call was Kedar Lodge set on land which was once the farm of Paul Kruger, the last Boer President who had declared war on the British Empire in October 1899. The owner of the Lodge is claimed to have the most extensive collection of Boer War memorabilia in the country and one has to believe that. The public areas of the lodge are covered in armaments, uniforms, photos, documents and cases of smaller items from the war. A talk was arranged with Major Pennyfather, an elderly historian who laid out the reasons for the war and gave details of some of the more interesting artefacts at Kedar. The lodge offers air conditioned huts and excellent food. Thanks to President Zuma wrecking the currency, a bottle of beer in the bar cost just under £1 which increased the country’s attraction.

Within the lodge grounds were numerous life size bronze and steel statues of personalities associated with the war including Gandhi, who led a first aid detachment, and Cecil Rhodes. In view of the controversy in Britain, it was interesting to note the prominence of Rhodes’ statue and the descriptions of his life which were mounted behind it. Our tour manager confirmed that many South Africans have a balanced view of Rhodes as an unscrupulous, imperial manipulator who caused a lot of trouble whilst lining his own pockets but was also a man of vision, planning a railway from the Cape to Cairo, who eventually left his wealth for good causes. The description given of him behind his statue erred on the kind side. It claimed correctly that his man, Dr Jamieson, had treated Zulu King Lobengula, but neglected to mention the allegations that he had addicted him to morphine in the process, allowing a degree of leverage over the mining concession that was then negotiated.

A small game reserve around the lodge has no large predators, so we were able to take a walk amongst the termite mounds to irritate the antelopes. After a pleasant minor game drive next morning, we visited Kruger’s original farm buildings. His first house still stands with its floor of mud and cow dung. There are a few artefacts from his time including a completely hairless old lion skin, his first game kill. A photo shows him sitting in a meeting at the end of his cabinet table with his feet resting on the bible. It is claimed to be the only book he ever read and he consulted its teachings in all his decisions. His two subsequent houses, still quite modest in scale stand nearby along with a chapel come schoolroom where he arranged for all comers to receive an education. The corrugated chapel roof was interesting as too few sheets had been ordered from Europe and took weeks to arrive before the error was discovered. They solved the problem by visibly stretching out the corrugations slightly to increase the sheets’ width.

The next morning, we were due to move on but delayed breakfast slightly as a horde of camera flashing Chinese had appeared, occupied all the tables and swept the buffet bare. The staff were struggling to replace things fast enough.

We reached our next stop, Spion Kop Lodge, in a sudden violent hailstorm which slowed our bus to a crawl. South Africa was suffering a severe drought but it seemed a pretty wet one to us. The first thing we noticed was a memorial seat to the Hillsborough disaster- British football kops take their name from this place. Our room was in the building which had been Winston Churchill’s billet as a young lieutenant in the Boer War and had been preserved, externally at least, in the same style. The Lodge’s owner, Ray Heron, had studied A Level history in his youth under the British Empire and found little of the Boer War in his syllabus, so he joined a local history group. He had been able to meet a few old men from an earlier generation who had witnessed the Battle of Spion Kop and gave first-hand accounts. He led our visit to the battle site and clearly had a real feel for his subject. The battle had been fought in an effort to relieve the siege of Ladysmith where Baden Powell had led a bold defence but it turned into a disaster for both British and Boers.

On Alice Hill, we stood where British General Redvers-Buller had watched through binoculars as his men were being slaughtered four miles away across the valley. We then visited the Kop which had been taken by the British in a night attack which had then left the troops exposed, in hot sun on a small, barren rock, under shell and bullet fire from an adjacent peak where, as the sun rose in their eyes, the soldiers could not even see the enemy snipers. It was not possible to dig trenches in the rock. The Boers had previously dynamited some shallow depressions for their defenders which the British captured by bayonet charges. After the battle those depressions were turned into mass graves, mostly for unnamed soldiers. The army issued wool weave tunics with first aid kits built in to their breast pockets containing a paper showing their only identification. In the heat, the tunics had to be abandoned. As night fell, the Boers withdrew, fearing that their artillery was in danger of capture and the British withdrew due to their losses.

The Boer War was described as the last of the “civilised” wars; there was no fighting on Sundays and both sides were allowed to recover casualties the day after a battle. One officer was identified as he was about to be placed in an unmarked grave when Churchill saw him and recognised him as a school friend. Standing there amongst the memorials was an evocative and emotional experience.

We unwound with another short game drive before departing towards the Drakensberg Mountains. Their name translates as Dragon’s Back in Afrikaans but they are known as the Wall of Spears in Zulu. They rise to over 11,000 feet and the approaching view was spectacular. The Cathedral Peak hotel complex was excellent and there were numerous marked walking trails in the surrounding mountains.

When we awoke next morning, the weather had caught up with us again and the peaks were lost in cloud. A planned visit to a raptor and reptile sanctuary was cancelled because the eagles could not fly without thermals, so we decided on a “short” walk on a trail labelled as Ashlea’s Amble. It was said to take twenty minutes.

An hour later, having crossed three streams and helped (make that hauled) Rosemary up some of the inclines where rough steps had been dug into the slope, we decided we were off track on a different trail. A further forty-five minutes brought us back to the hotel, passing a grazing antelope next to the track which seemed quite unperturbed by our presence. The planned afternoon walk was cancelled due to the danger of lightning strikes so we visited a small centre with exhibits of the San people. They were Stone Age hunter gatherers who moved down the south east coastal area as the Sahara advanced and they left cave art of animals such as the eland which they both hunted and worshipped. It seems that the last of them died early in the twentieth century and they interbred with the later Bantu population, passing on their features of high cheekbones. Nelson Mandela was believed to have some San blood in his veins.

We passed hundreds of modern Zulu settlements which typically consist of three or four single room square, breeze block buildings with flat roofs set apart from a small privy. Amongst them there were frequently two or three round, usually mud walled buildings with thatched or occasionally corrugated conical roofs. I assumed these to be store rooms but was wrong. One is a spirit house where the ancestors’ spirits dwell and the others are dower houses. The head man of the family lives in the largest of the square blocks; his wives occupy the smaller ones with their children.

The circular buildings are built for Granny and are shaped to protect her from a mythical creature called the tokoloshe. He is a small, hairy, brown coloured creature who likes to lurk in dark corners from where he spreads malevolence and misfortune – I had a boss like that but we called him Roger. The round houses have no dark corners for the creature to hide. Some Grannies have their beds raised on bricks to prevent him from biting their toes. When a Granny dies, it is not uncommon for her hut to be left to decay naturally and she may be buried beneath its dirt floor.

The next port of call was Durban where we stayed on the twelfth floor of a twenty-one storey edifice overlooking the broad sea front. It was a fine hotel but it, along with the city, felt a bit sterile after our previous lodgings. After a showery city tour and visit to the botanical gardens, we were happy to move on to Shakaland.

Shakaland was originally set up as a film set for a 1982 TV series and movie called Shaka Zulu so we were sceptical, expecting a Disney World Zulu experience. Our tour manager, Doug Hawkins, turned out to be a qualified guide who had written a book on Zulu culture and history. He assured us that the clan we were visiting were real and lived in huts on site. They certainly seemed authentic and demonstrated their traditional skills and dances with enthusiasm. The young “warriors” were certainly competing with each other in assegai throwing and the high kicking, stamping dances where they kicked so hard they fell over backwards. The drumming and stamping made the ground shake. One instrument in particular was interesting. It had a cylindrical drum case with a cowhide stretched across one end, its centre pierced by and fixed to, the end of a wooden rod about a centimetre in diameter. It was played by inserting the hands into the open end of the drum case and stroking the internal rod as if milking a cow to produce a sort of rhythmic wail.

One of the Zulu demonstrations was of beer production. Maize and a millet-like grain are ground up and boiled in water which is strained off after cooling by squeezing out through a woven rush mat. The murky liquid, wort to a modern brewer, is then left to ferment naturally for two or three days in the heat. The spent grains are thrown to the chickens who cluster round as the straining operation takes place. A ladle of beer was passed round after the dancing but most people just sniffed it politely. Small beer was widely drunk in Britain in earlier times because, having been boiled and containing alcohol as an inhibiter of micro-organisms, it was safer to drink than water. On that logic, being reluctant to pass up free alcohol, I took a swig. It tasted quite pleasant but more like cider than beer with no ill effects.

Shaka was the illegitimate son of a clan leader called Dingiswayo and was subject to bullying treatment by his half-brothers as he tried to defend his mother’s name. He left to join an inferior clan which paid tribute to his father and became a warrior there, rising to be a general. He introduced formal military tactics to them and realised that the traditional assegai throwing spear had limitations. If one missed, the spear could be returned, sharp end first. Accordingly, he had a short stabbing spear forged, its Zulu name ikiwa being the equivalent of ‘squelch’, based on the sound it made when inserted and retracted.  After Dingiswayo’s death, Shaka returned with his troops and took over as chief, naming the clan Zulu. He remained chief, conquering other clans and incorporating them into his empire until he was eventually murdered by one of his half-brothers. The Zulu were thus founded and raised as a warrior race with a formal army structure. Regiments had their own leaders and were distinguished by the patterns and colours of their shields. Young warriors, on the wings of horn shaped battle formations, had brown shields while the more mature fighters had lighter colour shields and fought in the centre of the formation.

We stayed overnight in comfortable thatched huts and awoke surrounded by horned cows and chickens. After breakfast, we moved on via a two-hour cruise on the St. Lucia estuary which is rich in bird life, crocodiles and hippos. The water is brackish, with mangrove swamps along part of the banks. Hippos do not swim, but rather bounce along on the mud, coming onto land only at night to avoid sunburn. They browse vegetation and move through the local town, smashing garden fences and devouring the plants. It put my own annoying badger incursion problems into perspective and made a pleasant break on the way to the aforementioned elephants and wildlife of Amakhosi.

Our final stop was Isandlwana Lodge, built into the rocks of a mountain from which, in 1879, the Zulu general commanded his 24,000 troops as they slaughtered and disembowelled most of the British 24th Regiment of foot. He had completely outmanoeuvred Lord Chelmsford, the British commander by diversionary tactics, leading him off into the hills with half his forces then attacking his base camp. Chelmsford had been warned by friendly Boers that the Zulu were superior to the other natives that he had encountered. He ordered the commanders of his three invading columns to make a defensive laager of wagons and build ramparts whenever they camped but then disregarded his own orders at Isandlwana. Adding to that he left in command Brevet Lt. Colonel Pulleine, a talented staff officer with no combat experience, as he marched off to where he thought his enemy was.

Many errors were made as the battle commenced, including not striking the tents by kicking out their centre poles. That was standard military policy as it prevented the enemy from hiding behind the tents and signalled to the telescopes of any relief force that the camp was under attack. One of the few errors that Chelmsford did not make when eating his breakfast in the hills was to send a naval officer with his telescope to check their rear. The officer reported that the tents still stood, so no serious attack was imminent.  The ensuing battle had everything, including a partial solar eclipse at its height. Our historian guide was Colonel Rob Gerrard who first gave a military-style briefing on the Lodge’s terrace overlooking the battlefield. He described the key terrain features, dead ground, tall grass and marsh areas, along with the disposition of forces on both sides. The lodge walls behind us were covered in photographs of the participants and Victorian era paintings of the battle.

Descending to the battlefield, the experience was more affecting than Spion Kop had been. The battle’s progress, with the detailed actions and heroic last stands of individuals whose photos we could recall, was outlined blow by blow. “Colonel Durnford made his last stand here. He had only one usable arm so raised his sword as his remaining men rallied around him. His grave and theirs, is just over there.” It made the hair stand on end as we moved amongst the cairns marking the graves of around 1,800 souls.

Towards the end of the battle, two young Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill gained posthumous Victoria Crosses when they were ordered to retreat on horseback with the Queen’s colours. They fought through the Zulus, but could not take the track back to Rorke’s drift as it was blocked by four thousand warriors. They were pursued over a hill to another river crossing, now known as Fugitives’ Drift, where they rode into the Buffalo River which was in full spate and they were swept away over rapids to land, still clutching the colours onto Coffin Rock along with a third fleeing officer. The colours were eventually swept away as they staggered, wounded to the far bank where the third officer climbed the hill and located three run away horses. As he urged his exhausted comrades on, they were hacked down by local Zulus out for revenge against the British. Their graves stand out on the hillside where they fell.  A cavalry patrol later recovered the colours when they spotted the pole amongst the riverside boulders.

We eventually moved on to Rorke’s drift, famously portrayed in the film Zulu which made Michael Caine a star despite him lacking the whiskers of the real heroes. The film was not made on the battle site but was largely accurate allowing for artistic licence. I recalled the film showing the hospital building being defended and escape holes being made through its walls from one room to another. I was never clear where the patients came from, or why they had to break through the walls. The original building was burnt during the battle, but a replacement has been built on its site with the same layout and it serves as a small museum.

The hospital had been the accommodation block for Rorke’s trading post and after his death by suicide (he was an alcoholic who ran out of gin), it was taken over by missionaries who created a chapel there. The army requisitioned the site to take wounded soldiers from a minor early action. A local Zulu clan chief had committed crimes against the British and Chelmsford had detached some of his local troops to attack his kraal in revenge as he wished to test their mettle. They were backed by a few regular troops and when the clan made a last stand in caves, the regulars had to finish them off at close quarters, resulting in some casualties.

The hospital building must have been built originally as a store, because it had several small rooms around the outside walls, most with no windows and each accessible only through an exterior door. There were no interior doors so as the defences were prepared, a volunteer soldier was placed in each room behind the barricaded outer door to protect the patients.

Unlike in the film, there was no debate between the officers as to who should take command. Lt. Chard had been placed in charge by Major Spalding, the detachment commander who had departed in search of a company which was overdue. Chard had gone forward to Isandlwana to clarify his orders and returned to Rorke’s Drift by wagon to warn them that Zulus had been observed locally. Given the choice to fight or flee, impeded by the wounded, they decided to make their famous stand which resulted in the award of eleven VCs.

The attacking Zulus were disobeying the orders of their king, Cetshwayo who wanted the British driven from his land in a decisive manner so that he could negotiate a settlement of their dispute and he had ordered no incursions to be made across the Buffalo River into British territory. The attackers consisted of a regiment of 4,000 men who had blocked the line of retreat from Isandlwana where they had seen and heard the battle but taken no part. Their blood was up and rather than have them rampage, their commander led them in an organised assault.  At both Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift there are memorials to the Zulu dead in addition to the British soldiers’ graves. The Zulu removed their dead for burial at home and their numbers are uncertain.

We made our way back to the airport via a coffee stop in Ladysmith whose name has an interesting origin. In the 1812 Peninsular War against Napoleon, Wellington had laid siege to the Spanish town of Badajoz which he eventually shelled. When the town fell, two fourteen-year-old Spanish girls who were known to one of Wellington’s officers made their way to his headquarters where, in a scene reminiscent of Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe novels, they met a smart officer decked out in the green uniform of the Rifles. He fell for one of the girls, Juana Maria, and within three months, they were married. His name was Harry Smith and she followed him throughout the war, combing the field after each battle in case he was wounded. He was eventually knighted and became a Provincial governor in South Africa. Harrismith was named after him although he was never very popular, unlike his wife in whose honour, Ladysmith was named.

The trip was both exhausting and stimulating. It was also timely – like many places, South Africa is changing rapidly. Land claims by natives who can show that at some time their ancestors lived there, maybe a hundred years ago are threatening the game reserves. The historians who so vividly guided us to the battlefields are growing old, so we are moving a generation further away from the first-hand accounts. If anyone is tempted to go, then go soon.

First published in VISA 128 and 129 (August - October 2016)

More about Mali

After describing her 1975 visits to Timbuktu in Visa 107, Janice Booth moves on to Bamako

Back in 1975 the Grand Hotel in Bamako was impressively palatial, with masses of marble, a huge gleaming foyer, glossy reception desk and wide staircase leading up to a balustraded balcony. It was the first hotel built in Bamako in the colonial era, in 1952, just eight years before Mali gained independence from France; it had been part of French West Africa. We’d flown in late from Belgium – I was with the MD of a Belgian charity whose husband liked her to have company when travelling – and were glad to arrive. Our room (opening off the balcony) was large and opulent, with king-size beds and thick black curtains. My companion took a strong sleeping pill and went straight to sleep.

         

As I turned off the shower I heard a clunk; and on returning to the bedroom saw water pouring from a sleek fitted wardrobe – which turned out to contain a water tank so old that its bottom had finally rusted away. I piled our bags and shoes up on a chair, then phoned reception. Two impeccably dark-suited, white-shirted Malians appeared, and looked sadly at the flood. I suggested in French: ‘Perhaps one should turn it off at the mains?’ and they brightened.

         

‘Indeed, Madame, one should turn it off at the mains. One will do it.’ And they vanished.

         

Ten minutes later they were back. ‘Very unfortunately, Madame, he who can turn it off at the mains is at his home tonight. We must await the morning. Meanwhile we will transfer you to another room.’

Transfer? At midnight? With me in my nightie and my companion dead to the world? Anyway, the room seemed to be on a slight slope; the water was collecting along the wall furthest from the beds, and running out under the door rather than getting deeper. I declined their offer and went to sleep.

When I woke at 8.00 the flood had stopped and the floor was fairly dry. For almost six hours the water from the tank had continued flowing: under the door, across the balcony, through the balustrade and, in a gentle waterfall, down into the foyer, which surely had never been so well washed. I went back to the Grand Hotel nine months later, and as I checked in I could swear I heard a murmur of ‘cîterne’ (tank) from among the reception staff.  In 2004 it was refurbished and is now the Azalai Hotel Salem – presumably with better plumbing.

On my second visit, an American with a lurid, roughly dressed gash across her forehead came to sit with me in the restaurant, asking me to translate the menu. She’d been knocked down by a 15-year-old on a scooter (her fault, she readily acknowledged: she’d stepped out straight in front of him) and had had the wound scrubbed clean without anaesthetic (ouch...) in the city hospital. The boy then appeared with a huge bunch of flowers – he knew no-one blamed him but was still terribly shaken – and I translated his heartfelt and very well-spoken regret. From the menu, the woman chose hare while I had my favourite grilled capitaine. She received a massive haunch, enough to feed three people, which probably the leftovers would have done back in the kitchen; but to my great embarrassment she asked me to ask the courteous but puzzled waiter for a ‘doggy bag’ so she could finish it later in her room. The experiences of travel...

Bamako in those days was a lively, chaotic, very African capital, with some dramatic architecture, vibrant local restaurants and fantastic live music. The French influence lingered in the food, and the trays of fresh baguettes hawked in the streets each morning. Nearly four decades later I’m left with impressions rather than precise memories – of tall, graceful people, many shades of colour and types of bone structure, from fine, pale Tuareg to much darker and chunkier Moors and Mali’s numerous other ethnic groups; veiled faces, turbaned faces, open faces, stylishly dressed women in rainbow colours and dangling jewellery; dust and noise and the feeling of a confident city at ease with itself. Poor and rich areas, shabby and flamboyant buildings, sleek new-builds and chunky traditional homes, smart shops and outdoor markets all somehow rubbed along amicably together.

The wonderfully atmospheric  Marché Rose, a huge, pink, circular mud-brick market in neo-Sudanese style, with increasingly exotic items on increasingly dark stalls as you wound your way inwards, was destroyed by fire in 1993, but was so popular with both residents and visitors that it has been rebuilt. I bought dress-lengths of printed cotton there, and had them made up and embroidered by a tailor in Timbuktu. There were some pleasant parks and gardens – dusty, but with flowers and birds – and I remember a peaceful walk beside the River Niger, the city’s water-source. All along its sloping banks were small fruit and vegetable gardens, growing well in the irrigated sand. Bamako means ‘crocodile river’ but none appeared...

Traffic was bad, pollution worse. Traffic lights did work – mostly – but the vehicles on either side confronted each other like adversaries, revving fiercely and hell-bent on being first away. I remember once, opposite me across the lights, the nearside wheel of a stationary 2CV gently detached itself and rolled slowly into the cross traffic, causing  no small amount of braking and blaring of horns.

Djenne Mosque

We were heading for Timbuktu, and sadly I’d no time to see more of the country. Borders have changed over the years, but the area of today’s Mali, with the River Niger at its heart, has been for centuries a crossroads of races and civilisations. Many prehistoric remains, including some vivid cave paintings and finely made artefacts, have been found, and first European accounts of its history start around the 3rd century AD. I should have loved to see Djenné, with its massive mosque – the largest mud-brick structure in the world, designated a World Heritage Site in 1988 – and excavations at nearby Djenné-Djeno, possibly the oldest-known city in West Africa, dating from about 250BC.  

Also I missed the Bandiagara area, so-called ‘Dogon country’ and probably the part of Mali most visited by tourists, with its intriguing culture, distinctive art, burial caves and characteristic cliff villages clustered below a towering escarpment. (Remember Robert Temple’s controversial ‘The Sirius Mystery’ in 1973 and the African tribe that apparently knew more about the Dog Star than astronomers did? Rightly or wrongly, they were the Dogon.)

In fact art and culture are fascinating throughout Mali, very often specific to particular areas, and I returned home with far too many souvenirs which, thirty years later, I still had. Through editing Ross Velton’s Bradt Guide to Mali I’d discovered a small charity, the Joliba Trust, based on Dartmoor that was doing useful work (farming, health, livestock, children...) among villagers in central/southern Mali; in 2009 they held an exhibition-cum-sale of Malian handicrafts to raise funds and, as I live in Devon, I filled up a box and drove over. It was lovely to see a display of the bright colours, fine weaving and characterful carvings that I remembered – and even better to see mine being sold to Joliba’s profit! They work on a narrow shoestring. As I watched, a small, carved wooden door from a Dogon grain-store went for £75...

Joliba have kindly provided some of these photos and some updates about the present situation: life in the south of the country seems tense but fairly normal, while in the north prices of everyday goods are rocketing and there is still sporadic violence – today a suicide bomb has killed a Malian soldier in Timbuktu, and Gao is a target of rebel attacks. The Joliba website includes a heartfelt letter from a Timbuktu inhabitant, written during last year’s ‘Islamist’ occupation. In Bamako and other towns there’s suspicion now among the inhabitants, as lighter-skinned and darker-skinned wonder who may be supporting whom. Although the French intervention in January did (vitally) drive the insurgents from the northern towns and prevent their further advance, not much is solved in the long term by killing a few dozen ‘Islamists’ and destroying some of their hideouts; it’s the very, very rich pickings offered by drug trafficking in the desert that need to be tackled, internationally. Meanwhile, the insurgents will simply return and the country can’t stabilise; also its tourism income – particularly important in Djenné, Timbuktu and Bandiagara – has been stripped away.

As always in wars, it’s the ‘little people’ who suffer, and Mali is already a poor nation. Some governments have withdrawn much-needed  development aid from the north but NGOs such as Joliba are plugging away throughout the country – and Mali is so rewarding in that respect because, as I’ve seen for myself, its people are happy to organise themselves and work energetically on projects that provide the basic finance or materials they lack.  It’s a beautiful, fascinating and very varied country, well worth considering as a destination once the unrest is over. In fact – Mali needs you!

First Published in VISA 108 (April 2013)

Remembering Timbuktu

By Janice Booth

By the time you read this, we’ll know how much of Timbuktu’s priceless heritage has survived; latest news is that thousands of irreplaceable ancient manuscripts, some dating from the 13^th century, may have been burned by the retreating “Islamists”, and historic shrines have been brutally demolished. The manuscripts have a value far, far beyond that of just their ink and parchment; they hold nine centuries of West Africa’s cultural and intellectual history, and the people of Timbuktu are intensely proud to be their guardians. Resourcefully, they seem to have smuggled some into safety before the insurgents struck; but the destruction of others is a great tragedy.

Bread Oven and Mosque

I was there in 1975. My memories of Timbuktu and its people evoke words like dignity, history, pride, grace, intellect, wisdom, honour and tradition; and recalling the immensity and emptiness of the surrounding desert still tingles my skin.

“Salt comes from the north, gold from the south and money from the

white countries; but the word of God, wisdom, history and the telling of

good tales come only from Timbuktu.”  (Sudanese saying, 16^th century)

A long straight sandy road stretched southward from the town, mud-brick buildings on either side giving way to a straggle of beehive-shaped huts made from woven mats attached to wooden frames. As I walked down this road at dusk, small fires or braziers glowed red in front of the huts and my mouth watered at the spicy smell of cooking. Children played and women crouched over their pots, preparing the evening meal. African music throbbed into the twilight from a transistor radio.

A kilometre or so to the west, a canal built by USAID carried water from the river port of Kabara to the edge of Timbuktu; the busy little market at its terminus was known as the place “where camel meets canoe”. All manner of market-garden crops – tomatoes, beans, gourds, pulses and leafy vegetables – grew on the canal’s steep sandy banks. I remember the plump juiciness of the tomatoes, and piles of colourful produce on market stalls.

On a street corner, a wonderful smell of fresh baking wafted towards me from one of the town’s domed bread ovens. A woman was extracting flat loaves with a long spatula. I bought one, dusted off the ash and bit into it: tough, tasting of wood-smoke, and my teeth crunched on the desert sand that invades every aspect of life in Timbuktu.

Walking on sand is like walking on snow: footsteps are deadened and sounds don’t carry. Timbuktu’s streets, with their mud-brick buildings, distinctive mosques and heavy studded doors, echoed the silence of the surrounding desert. Men’s robes swished up flurries of dust as they walked, and their leather sandals scuffed through the sand. Tarmac hadn’t yet arrived. I visited a workshop where the doors were made, using hardwood imported from Ivory Coast. The smell of fresh wood-shavings is universal! Doors in various states of completion were stacked on the sand. I’m comfortable speaking French (it’s necessary in Timbuktu), so got chatting. The grizzled maître of the workshop grumbled benevolently: “You can’t get serious labour nowadays, these youngsters just want to be off having a good time. And as for the price of wood...!”

There weren’t many organised tourist activities back then, although the tall and impeccably robed tourist-board representative for Timbuktu, Mr Moulaye Sidi Yahiya, was full of plans. He was so proud of “his” town, and had painstakingly typed out information for visitors. Five houses that had been used by explorers (Laing, Caillié, Barth, Lenz and Berky) were marked with plaques. Several traditional houses with their characteristic architecture (decorative pilasters, oddly shaped windows, heavy wooden doors with metal studs) were on the “tourist trail”. Some say (although others don’t!) that the style dates back to a Muslim architect of Spanish origin brought to Timbuktu by its ruler Kankou-Moussa in 1325. There was just one “hotel” – a plain and rather bleak building crouched on the edge of town, with a breathtaking view over the desert. Looking out into the space and silence of the dunes at dusk, I felt no bigger than a grain of sand.

'Gold' Straw Necklace

In the narrow streets of the old town I found traditional craftsmen – jewellers working intricately in gold and silver, tailors clacking away on old manual sewing-machines, weavers with hand-held wooden looms, and makers of various decorative items (bracelets, amulets, masks, sandals, carving...) in bone, wood, leather or metal. One style of sandal had a strip of leather at the toe like the prow of a boat, for cutting through the desert sand. I was intrigued by the straw jewellery: necklaces, bracelets, anklets and rings made of straw, sometimes dyed yellow, on a base of wax. In olden times it was said, from a distance, to look like gold, so that visitors approaching Timbuktu, and seeing women wearing it, would be impressed by their wealth.

 I remember the buzz and activity at the river port of Kabara, about 8km south of the town: pirogues loading and unloading, traders bartering, fishermen bringing home their catch. Long-legged Malian lads in patched shorts and faded t-shirts, white-robed merchants, turbaned Tuareg tribesmen, the smell of fish, the cacophony of chatter, sunlight bouncing off the water... Among the crowd were also tall, graceful Malian women, like gaudy desert butterflies in their multicoloured boubous and stylish headdresses; their enforced drab clothing during the recent months of Sharia incursion must have been a bitter pill.

 “These people have very singular customs, the men are not jealous of their

wives, and the wives do not seem to be embarrassed by the presence

of other men.”  Ibn Batuta, writing about Timbuktu in 1350.

Out in the desert (I was on a camel!) a Tuareg boy of about 12 was trying to sell me some silver bracelets; I said that I’d think about it and let him know later. He drew himself up to his full height. “That’s quite right Madame, I know one should always reflect before taking action!” I said: “That’s very good – where did you learn it?” “I learnt it at school, Madame. In Morals.” In Timbuktu, so many of the people I spoke to showed the same dignity and intellectual poise.

The history of this sand-choked, desert-coloured town is extraordinary. It started in the 11^th century as a Tuareg campsite, a stopping-place for merchants and caravans crossing the Sahara, and by 1300 was a market town with several thousand inhabitants. Under various rulers it prospered and expanded. By the early 16th century it had up to 180 Koranic schools and an Islamic university, teaching literature, theology, Koranic jurisprudence, history, maths, geography, astrology...  Its fame spread to Venice, Geneva, Cairo, Rome and Spain. Students and scholars flocked to the town; one scholar had a library of several thousand books, while in Europe most could rise to only a few dozen.

“More profit is made selling books in Timbuktu than from any other

branch of trade.”  Leo Africanus, 1525.

 But – a wealthy town is coveted: it becomes a prize for marauders. Timbuktu had already known many rulers, and in 1591 a destructive Moroccan administration seized power. The town’s glory began to fade; its scholars and students drifted away. Further destructive régimes followed and by the 19^th century it was in a sorry state, full of sand, dilapidated buildings and an impoverished population. When the French explorer René Caillié reached it in 1828, he spoke of “a mass of ill-looking houses, built of earth”. Timbuktu’s inhabitants, however, have remained immensely aware – and proud – of their early history.

*********

Twenty-five years after my visit, I edited the first edition of the Bradt Guide to Mali (by Ross Velton, published in 2000) – and discovered how much had changed. Ross’s Timbuktu was very different from mine. It had more hotels and restaurants, more shops, more stretches of tarmac, more libraries and museums, more tourist facilities and attractions (and thus more hassle from tourist touts) – but less water. The desert was creeping in. The “camel meets canoe” canal from Kabara to Timbuktu had dried out two decades before; and Kabara itself had been unusable as a port for several years, until the silted-up 3km canal linking it to the River Niger (originally built by a benevolent emperor in the 15^th century) was dredged and reopened. The straw jewellery no longer exists, and there are fewer traditional craftsmen.

On my first visit, in March 1975, I was accompanying the MD of a Belgian charity whose husband didn’t like her travelling abroad alone. The charity (Iles de Paix; www.ilesdepaix.org) subsequently set up nursery schools, women’s co-ops, health teams and agricultural activities in and around Timbuktu – which in 1994 were handed over to Malian management. It has since had smaller projects elsewhere in Mali. Then in December the same year, captivated by the town and wanting a responsibility-free visit, I returned to spend Christmas with friends who were working there – and that’s when I fell under Timbuktu’s extraordinary spell. I so badly want it, its people and its amazing heritage to survive.

First published in VISA 107 (February 2013)

Robbie and Other Animals

By Anne Rothwell

The biggest, fattest fur seal I’ve ever seen weighed down the small boat as he lolloped up the open steps at the back and plonked down along the narrow table in the middle of the boat, shaking us alarmingly. We were in Walvis Bay, Namibia and had gone out looking for seals, dolphins, pelicans and other seabirds. The seal, Robbie, was clearly a friend of the boatman as he opened his mouth in readiness for the fish which was waiting in a bucket.

Spotty, A Cape Fur Seal

Though alarmingly large, Robbie was not threatening, so we approached to stroke him. Instead of the wet, shiny feel we expected, he had lovely thick fur to protect him from the worst of the Atlantic weather. When he decided he’d had enough of the petting he left, not out of the back where he’d arrived, but over the side, almost overturning the boat in the process.

We were staying in Swakopmund on the coast. This is an attractive German-style town, due to its colonisation by Germany between 1884 and 1915. We had hired a car and were touring around this very varied country with its coastline, enormous, fabulously sculpted sand dunes and Etosha National Park filled with all the usual African wildlife.

We’d seen the 2,000 year old welwitschia plant, the beetles which do handstands to let the dew run down their backs into their mouths in the very hot desert and the prehistoric cave paintings. There were also the Herrero women who wore the crinoline-type dresses brought over by the missionaries and the more natural and beautiful Himba women with their skin and hair plastered with the rich, reddish-brown mud.

We drove up along the coast to Cape Cross where the seals gather in their hundreds upon hundreds and where jackals prowl amongst them, looking for pups they can snatch.  The smell was indescribable, but worth it for the view.  We’d hoped to drive further up the ‘skeleton coast’ where the wrecks of so many ships dashed onto the rocks, still stand, but without a 4-wheel drive, it was impossible to get so far.

It’s amazing the number of people, who know little about the country, who said, ‘You didn’t drive over there, did you?’, fearing that we would be pounced on by bandits or wild animals. In fact, although we went long distances, the roads are straight, quiet and well-surfaced and the animals in the main are limited to the National Park. Due to the size of the country, there aren’t large numbers of roads, just what are necessary to get from A to B, so we couldn’t get lost. It was so easy and fuel was not expensive.

On the last night of our trip, we stayed in a guesthouse off the beaten track. We had a comfy little cabin, but were some distance from the reception and dining room. We were the only people there and there was very little in the kitchen, but they managed to rustle up some supper, which was fine.

Unfortunately, there were no lights whatsoever outside, so we had to stumble along with our torch.

Before dinner, Marven sat down on one of the rickety chairs on the verandah in the dark in an area very open to wildlife. Suddenly he was aware that there was something very close as he heard the breathing before it leapt on him. I dashed out with the torch to see two large dogs wagging their tails and frantically licking his face.

First published in VISA 112 (December 2013)

Africa, but for how long?

by Neil Harris

Most people imagine Ethiopia to be a barren and parched country where starving women and children in rags beg for food aid. The truth comes as a shock. In fact it is a very fertile country, especially the highlands, perhaps the most fertile and potentially productive in Africa, also the topography is not what most people expect, jagged hills, lakes and raging rivers. I visited Ethiopia twice in the 90s, essentially to raft down the Lower Omo River, but also for a brief look around the historic north. It was a memorable experience, partly as on the second trip I got stranded in the south due to heavy rains sweeping away bridges thanks to the last big El Nino. Would I be disappointed upon my return?

My trip was for four weeks, two in the south, two in the north. I was motivated to return as the completion of the Gibe III hydroelectric dam in 2013 would change the way of life of the Omolitic tribes that live in the lower Omo valley for ever. At present they live much as they would have before the arrival of Europeans, a lifestyle almost extinct elsewhere in Africa.

Trips to Ethiopia usually start in Addis Ababa, the capital. Situated at around 7700 feet, its climate is equitable, but as it was only founded in the 1880s there is little history. My first leg was to the south. This is 4x4 country, although the road network of the whole country is being upgraded to a standard that will see it having one of the best infrastructures in Africa within five years, if the finance continues. Heading south the first stop is the Rift Valley lakes, the haunt of twitchers (often seen in groups of 10-15 looking through large binoculars) as they harbour a plethora of bird life. The combination of fresh and soda water lakes contributes to the variety. My first night was spent in a bungalow on the edge of Lake Langano situated at around 5000 feet, the first taste of rural Ethiopian plumbing. The brown water, when available, is pumped straight from the lake into the bathroom, so you may not get a lot cleaner. Wealthier Ethiopians use this lake as their seaside: there are 'beach resorts'; it is allegedly safe to swim in the lake. Not being a birder, the avian interest was largely lost on me, although my opinion of the maribou stork was changed. Described in the Lonely Planet guide as a bird with a face 'only a mother could love', I rather liked its ugly sinister looks, partly because it is possible to get up close for photographs.

The next overnight stop was Arba Minch, the main town of the south and now a base for American operations against Somalia… oops, not meant to know that. It is situated on a ridge at about 5000 feet overlooking Lakes Abaya and Chamo. These form a National Park. The fauna is meagre, lots of zebras and crocodiles, so little to keep one here. The next day the rains arrived, and a thunderstorm started at 3.00am; thankfully it stopped around dawn. We thought our five hour drive to Key Afar market might be interesting. We reached there soon after midday. Walking into the market area was a very muddy experience - the red-brown stuff that leaves its mark on trouser legs, often for ever. The main tribal group here are the Hamar (pronounced hammer), the most numerous tribe in the far south, easily spotted as the womenfolk often wear a gourd on their head. Where better to keep one's sorghum bowl? Amongst the grain on sale was a 'stall', actually a tarpaulin on the ground, selling underpants, not as strange as it sounds as the men, who are prone to walk around with no clothes on when herding their cattle, are encouraged to wear blankets wrapped around their waist as a kind of miniskirt for modesty (very sexy according to a woman I was with). The pants provide extra safety against flashing.

We made Jinka, the regional hub, late in the afternoon. Here the South Omo Museum provides a good introduction to the Omolitic tribes. There is also a great view from its hilltop location. I was stranded in Jinka in 1997 before hiring a 4x4 to drive back to Addis Ababa, so I was interested to see how much it had changed. The answer was not a lot, although the airstrip was no longer in use (in 1996 an American I was with was carted off to the local jail before we took off; he was carrying a loaded firearm). From here we headed into the Mago National Park, set astride the lower Omo River, home to wild animals and the Omo Mursi, perhaps the most famous of the Omolitic tribes thanks to the large lip plates worn by the women. The government are improving the roads here as a large area has been earmarked for use as a sugar cane plantation. As the tribes have no land rights they are forcibly resettled. A potential problem is that the land here is limited, as most tribal groups are armed with rifles. There is the real risk of inter-tribal warfare as the best areas are sequestrated.

After overnight storms at our campsite, we headed off to find the Mursi, or rather they found us at our lunch stop. Wearing their most outrageous clothes, they await passing tourists in the hope of making money by posing for photographs. The price varies and is very negotiable, but 2 Birr (about 12p) usually buys a photo. With experience I found 10 Birr for multiple photos was a better way of transacting business. For a group photo, everyone expects their fee. The women with their lip plates look mean, the children less so, especially as the young girls are plateless. Later we visited a Mursi village with the permission of the elders. The Mursi can be quite aggressive en masse when they see the chance to make some money, and eventually I felt the need to retreat to our vehicle as the persistence of some of the Mursi got to me.

The next day we headed for Turmi in the far south, stopping at Dimeka on the way for the weekly market. Mainly Hamar, this was small and pleasantly free of other tourists. We were pestered by kids in Western clothes, Hamar who for whatever reason were being educated at a local school. On the face of it this was good news, but once a child goes to school, he or she is no longer welcome in the tribe: not an encouragement to seek an education. Apparently Hamar educated in this way return as administrators with power over the tribes that spurned them.

For three nights we camped outside Turmi in very basic conditions. The campsite is a magnet for tourists, but a great base for visiting local tribes. After yet more rain we headed south to Omorate, close to the Kenyan border not far from Lake Turkana. As we approached the puddles got bigger, not the parched barren landscape expected at this time of year. Our guide said he had never seen it so wet in fourteen years of visiting. The plan was to go down the Omo river and visit a Dassenach village. However, the boat's motor was defunct so we took the ferry across to a village opposite instead. When I say ferry, I actually mean a dugout canoe, not the most stable of craft, although the main problem was negotiating the muddy bank to get in, especially as I was carrying expensive photographic equipment. The punter kept the craft steady although getting out the other side involved a wet shoe as I slid down the slippery bank into the Omo. The Dassenach village was very basic and wet, the houses constructed of anything that came to hand, including offcuts of corrugated iron. The village was almost exclusively women and children; the men and youths were out with the cattle. A common misconception of Europeans is to see tribes like the Dassenach as poor, which by Ethiopian standards they are not. They choose to keep their wealth on four legs rather than in a bank account, or noticeably, spending it on home improvement.

Back in Turmi we went to a Hamar village. These are tidy affairs, thatched round houses surrounded by fences. The Hamar women were the friendliest we came across, with a sense of fun. I allowed one of the girls to take some photos with my camera. Another playfully tried to grab it, but I had a secure hold on it.

The next day would be memorable and tiring. Our first target was a Kara village about three hours away. The Kara are famous for their body painting, the young males especially. This has become a source of tourist income as it makes them very photogenic, though it has led to some going over the top to get noticed. The family pot plant is likely to end up on the head for instance to attract attention. The village we visited, Kochi, is located atop a cliff overlooking the meandering Omo River. The Kara, though, are not cattle headers like the other tribes. Apparently their stock succumbed to the tsetse fly and were never replaced, so they make a living from selling sorghum, maize and beans. They also keep bees and fish. Back in Turmi we visited the Monday market, perhaps the best known in the southern Omo Valley. Here Hamar predominate. Seeing women (never men) laden with firewood brought home how hard life is here.

The afternoon would be the highlight of the trip. A Hamar initiation ceremony was to take place across the river. For around £25, tourists can attend. Before a Hamar male can marry, he has to jump the bulls. The initiates can be anything from 12 upwards. His family are expected to pay for two days of feasting afterwards, hence the tourists to help pay the bills. Some ceremonies are shams put on to make money, but there is an easy, rather unpleasant way, of telling if it is genuine. If there is fresh blood on the backs of some of the Hamar woman attending, it is the real thing. The initiate jumps the bulls naked, mimicking the way he came into the world, twice in each direction. There can be anything up to 20 bulls: on this occasion there were only seven, and to make it easier they are heifers and held in position. Why the blood? The female relatives are whipped, not against their will, in fact the whipper, a recently initiated male, often has to restrain the women who beg to be whipped. When whipped the woman must show absolutely no pain or emotion, the face totally blank. It forms the Hamar social security system. The logic goes like this: with scars on her back to show she was whipped at the ceremony, if she becomes widowed in later years, her male relative is obliged to look after her.

This lifestyle is almost certainly going to change in the next few years, and there is the threat of tribal warfare if the government continue to take Omolitic tribal land. Go soon, or the chance may never happen again.

First published in VISA 102 (Apr 2012)