Mozambique

                                                                   Mozambique     (November 2018)

The children are grown up, and they live scattered around the world, but they do like getting together for family trips. My daughter, Slaine wanted to dive with whale sharks; the chosen destination was the Tofo Bay area in Mozambique.

Plans were put together. ‘Us girls will fly to Vilanculos, the boys can drive, and pick us up.’ Were her words. Driving would be over 1000km from home. Yes, the boys could drive, her dad and brothers would meet in Durban.

My older son wasn’t able to get to Durban in time, so he decided that he’d hire a car in Johannesburg and drive through on his own. Us girls didn’t think that fair, so we decided that we’d only fly to Johannesburg, and join him there. That almost went to plan. A car had been booked, with instructions that it needed all the papers and extras for Mozambique. Instructions hadn’t been followed, and the only car available with the necessary documentation was a mini bus. The car hire company, after rousting out their management, came to the party, and ensured that we would have a car waiting for us at the Kruger Mpumalanga Airport at Mbombela (formerly Nelspruit). As it was now much later than planned to go through the border post, and not knowing anything about Mozambique, we decided to spend the night on the SA side, and cross into Mozambique in the morning.

We booked into a delightful little cottage in Marloth Park, which is about 30 minutes from the border. We had bush babies come investigate who we were, and in the morning, we had impala munching our lawn. The whole area is so well geared tourism; everything runs smoothly, and there is so much to see.

We were on the road at 6.15am, to be at the border post at 7.00am when it opened.

The border crossing at Garcia de Ressanes near Komatipoort is exactly the reason why I will never recommend anyone driving through to Mozambique through that border post. Unless you have someone with you who is an old hand at it, or you have lots of patience, and want to throw your money at rogues.

Fly to Vilanculos, if you’re headed to Tofo and Guinjata Bay from Johannesburg. Hire a car there, don’t put yourself through the stress of crossing the border at

Roy and his cronies.

Garcia de Ressanes.

This was my post on Face Book about the border crossing:

"Mozambique Travel Warning:
Mozambique is a great country and is a wonderful holiday destination, but their Lebombo / Garcia de Ressanes border post near Komatipoort is going to hurt Mozambique and Mpumalanga Tourism badly if not gotten under some form of control.
My recommendation: if you don't absolutely have to use that border post: don't.
It was everything bad one has ever heard about Mozambique.
The South African side, is fast and friendly. There is a huge presence of SAPS there, who are all relaxed and helpful.
Then you cross over to Mozambique. You're immediately accosted by what seems a real border control officer, wearing an ID card with a photo. He is a lying, fraudulent impostor.

Garcia de Ressanes border post

We were accosted by Roy. May he be infested with the fleas of a thousand camels, and not be able to scratch himself.

He orders: come this way, do this, do that. I need R100 for this permit, R100 for that permit. Money flies out like a groupier's cards. There may be no visa costs: you just pay to the bandits. R800 was the final tally.
Not knowing the drill, and not wanting to attract the ire of border control if he was genuine, we complied. More money flew out.

Being had by a conman is one thing, that I will take responsibility for, but that the border control officers allow this, are complicit (they were happily accepting passed on R100 notes), and do nothing to stop it, is not going to do Mozambique any good. This does not happen at the southern border post, therefore it is mismanagement of the Garcia de Ressanes officers.
Mozambique: do something please, your police are great, why is your border so lousy?

The toll road has been built and is managed by Trans African Concession. It is a lovely road, and I imagine that they make good money from it. Why do they not do anything to curb the sheer criminality that goes on? Or is the tourism traffic negligible to them, after all, the huge trucks that move between Mpumalanga and Maputo makes them lots of money.

Sadly, Mpumalanga tourism will also suffer if people do not take this route. Coming and going, we spent the night at Komatipoort accommodation establishments. We had lovely dinners, breakfasts, bought petrol, snacks etc. A good few thousand rands were spent in the Komatipoort area. 

Sadly, Komatipoort, you won't benefit from me crossing that border post again, at least not until the conmen at the border are stopped and removed.

I recommend flying to your destination from Johannesburg. I reiterate: Mozambique is wonderful, just avoid the above mentioned areas.”

Having made it through the border control with less money in our wallets, as I had handed out R100 notes in the same fashion that a casino groupier hands out cards in a game, we drove on towards

Moamba Club

Maputo. Mrs Google Maps said that the road through the town of Moamba, was the best route. My printed map clearly indicated that the road was awful.

 A mini argument ensued, “Mom your map was printed a few years ago, the road will have been fixed by now.” I decided to shush and to enjoy the site seeing. The road to Moamba was everything my map had indicated; in places it was little more than a strip road, but the kids were adamant that it would get better. We arrived in Moamba, a little town that must have been delightful in its day. I bet not many people can proudly list Moamba as a ‘been to’ destination, as we can; but it isn’t on the ‘should visit again’ list, and I doubt we’ll go through there again.

We brought Mozambican SIM cards for our phones from very helpful street vendors, and then discovered that the road on the other side of town sort of peters out. A 4 x 4 and lots of time is what that road needs. We back tracked to the main road, politely pulling off in to the bush to allow oncoming cars to pass us. The country side in that area is pretty humdrum, but what made it special, was the lack of litter, and that people walking along the road, stopped to pick up litter if they saw any.

Glimpses of the turquoise sea are
seen from the road.

Mozambique’s history is a checkered one. The nomadic indigenous people were displaced by the migration of tribes from the north west of Africa, when they moved south east. Arab traders have been calling on the area for over 1500 years. They created the ancient port of Sofala, which together with Ilha de Mocambique was invaded by the Portuguese in the early 1500s, after having been sighted by Vasco Da Gama and his fleet on a sail past on Christmas Day in 1497, and naming it Natal (Yes, another one). He anchored at Inhambane in early 1498, and is regarded as the ‘discoverer’ of Mozambique – of course, the inhabitants’ ‘discovery’ of their homeland centuries earlier, wasn’t regarded as important to the Portuguese. 

The name, Mozambique, is thought to possibly be a corruption of the name Moussa Ben Mbiki, the Sultan of the island, Ilha de Mocambique, who founded the Muslim community there. Mozambique Island was the capital of the territory until 1886, when the southern port of Lourenco Marques (now Maputo) was made the capital, because of all the trade it did with South Africa.

The Portuguese were the masters of the territory until independence was gained in 1975. They traded, they plundered, they fought for what they considered theirs. Like most other nations at that time in history, they also traded in slaves, bought from African chiefs in the interior.

Madagascan pirates on slaving expeditions were responsible for the depopulation of the area between Kilwa (now in Tanzania), and Ilha de Mozambique. The French bought plenty of slaves from the territory too – in one year, they transported 30 000 slaves to their sugar cane plantations on their Indian Ocean islands.

Vasco da Gama

The Dutch tried, but failed to overthrow the Portuguese in 1607 and again in 1608. They gave up and went to the Cape of Good Hope instead, ultimately giving birth to the Afrikaaner Nation and South Africa. Which just goes to show, that when assorted people want to blame South Africa’s woes on the arrival of Jan van Riebeeck in the Cape in 1652, it just isn’t justified – it was all the fault of the Portuguese chasing the Dutch southwards.

Many Portuguese married Africans, and this gave rise to the so called Muzungos of ‘prazos’, which were leased crown lands. These Afro Portuguese areas and villages, with their own warlords, were a law onto themselves, and were a major problem to Portugal. Eventually, agreements were made, that if the prazo holder took care of their area, land claims would be recognized by the government. Vast tracts of land became privately owned through this initiative. Prazo concessions were often given to female orphans and widows, in an attempt to increase the number of European women in the territory.

Portugal increased autonomy to Mozambique from the 1920s. The military coup in Portugal in 1926, and the changes there, caused Mozambique to become a province of Portugal in 1933.

The road to an independent Mozambique started after WWll, with the rise of African nationalism. In turn, MANU and Frelimo, both liberation parties, fought for independence, and eventually, in 1975,

A memorial to the Women of the Revolution

independence was gained. Samora Machel was the first president. His widow, Graca Machel, eventually married Nelson Mandela.

Samora Machel

Many name changes were made, and Lourenco Marques, the capital, named for a Portuguese trader in 1544, became Maputo, which is where we now were.

The outskirts and ring road of Maputo was busy. There were lots of huge trucks on their way to off load South African goods at the harbour, bakkies (pick-ups) and ordinary cars, bicycles and pedestrians were everywhere. All driving politely, and adhering to the speed limit.

The traffic laws in Mozambique are strict. We’ve all heard horror stories of people having run ins with the police, and every time we were stopped by police, we expected trouble. We only had polite, efficient staff to deal with. No asking for bribes were tried by them either. The trick to having a pleasant drive through Mozambique: stick to the speed limits, and make sure that you have what you need to comply with the laws, like reflector vests. Hang them over the seats so that they are visible when you are stopped, and you will have no problems.

Later when we got to Guinjata, and shared our travel stories, John told us of how he had been caught exceeding the speed limit. The police had told him the fine was 1500. As John had done his homework, and had spoken to friends who had driven through Mozambique, he was well prepared, and only had R400.00 in his wallet. He told the officers this, and showed them his wallet. After a lot of discussion, with John pleading that they should take what he had, they took it somewhat reluctantly. As they drove away, John turned to Colum to ask what he had wanted to say at the police check. “Dad – it was 1500 Meticals that they wanted, not rands. You gave much much more than you should have.” John was not impressed that we thought his generosity was very funny.

The road is good, but it is a long drive up the coast. Again, if you are limited for time, rather fly. 

The road up the coast is good.

Everyone (mostly) adheres to the speed limit, and the scenery is pleasant. Along the road, there are stalls which sell cashew nuts, peri peri sauce, coconuts and crafts. Toilets at petrol stations are clean and well looked after. The road is mostly away from the immediate coast, and the only clue one has of getting near the sea, is that the red sand on the side of the road changes to white sand. The glimpses of the sea are those of travel brochures: turquoise and gorgeous.

At Xai Xai (pronounced Shy Shy: - X in Portuguese is pronounced ‘sh’), we crossed the grey, greasy Limpopo, Dearly Beloved. There were no elephant children getting their trunks from crocodiles in sight, only a lone fisherman in a boat. It was quite idyllic.

Dearly Beloved, this is the greasy grey
Limpopo River.

The hours and miles kept on piling up. Coconut palms, mango trees laden with fruit, cashew trees, the odd hare, and red villages were what we saw. Vodacom is very well represented in Mozambique. Airtime and data are much cheaper than what they are in South Africa, so everyone can afford a cell phone. Vodacom’s advertising agents have literally painted the villages red, and the walls all advertise either Vodacom or the local beer.

A typical village.

Eventually, we got to our turn off to Guinjata bay. The road is loose sand, and without a 4x4 vehicle, you may get bogged down.

Guinjata Bay is lovely. There are a fair number of holiday homes, a few restaurants, a well-stocked little supermarket, and of course – dive centers. The house we had booked: Sentimos Dos Mar, was about half a kilometer from the Guinjata Dive Centre, which we had chosen to take care of all our diving.

Sentimos Dos Mar, is an extremely well-equipped self-catering holiday home. It can comfortably sleep 10 guests, and has a large lounge, dining room

White sand and turquoise water.

and open plan kitchen. The staff are delightful, and ever so helpful. For more info, see their Face Book page.

The beach was wide and white. Vehicles were allowed to drive on the beach in certain demarcated areas, which made getting to the restaurants at night very easy. A turtle had laid her eggs on the beach in front of a restaurant, and the area had been fenced off to protect the eggs.

Mangoes and coconuts

Local fishermen would bring you their catch to buy, and would happily agree to meet you at the house to complete the sale. Crafters would ask you to buy their art and capulanas, as sarongs are called there, but they would never harass you.

Diving was an everyday affair, for the others. I dived once; it was the first time in about 10 years, and I was so nervous. I had to smile – not so long ago, I held the kids’ hands in all sorts of situations. Now they held mine, and nodded when I told them not to let me out of their sight underwater.

Theft just doesn’t happen up at Guinjata, our house did not have keys. Anything could be left outside. The staff of the various houses helped each other, and everybody was so polite and pleasant.

A day trip to Inhambane was organised. The ancient town must have been beautiful in its day. Today, it is still pretty, just a bit tired looking. It is clean; the buildings of beautiful architecture are mostly well taken care of, and are newly painted. The harbour area is a pleasure to walk along; I imagined the colonials of yesteryear strolling along at sunset, on their way to the club for a gin and tonic or two. We had coffee in a lovely little café, and then we decided to find the museum. I’m a museum groupie – I have to see them all. This museum, when we eventually found it, was rather sad. An enthusiastic official showed us around the various displays, proudly showing us ancient diagrams of what Inhambane had been like in its heyday.

Inhambane foreshore, the harbour is on the left.

We then took a drive to Tofo, which is really geared up for tourism. Restaurants, souvenir and craft stalls are everywhere, as are dive operators and deep-sea fishing charter boats. Sadly, sea shells were also on sale; tourists need to be educated that buying these deep-sea beauties, keeps the trade alive. Buying shells is the marine equivalent of rhino poaching. It’s like the plastic straw story: just say ‘no’.

Shells for sale at Tofo

Tofo has a giant turtle; a wire frame filled with a few thousand plastic bottles; this effigy reminds everyone of reducing, re-using and recycling their plastic. It seems to work, as the town is clean.

Hopefully the Mozambique government implements a ‘no shells to be brought or traded law’ one of these days. Conservation efforts along the coast are visible, one was only allowed to drive / launch boats on demarcated beach areas, everyone was picking up rubbish on the beach, restaurants displayed “NO straws available here” signs, but unseen, there are horror stories of what is happening to Mozambique’s natural resources. Forests are being felled and shark fishing is rife. It is actually shark torture and murder. The sharks, including the gentle giants, whale sharks, are caught, their fins are hacked off, and the animal is then thrown overboard, alive, only to die a slow and agonizing death.

I saw first hand why so many marine animals eat plastic. At the high-water mark, were thousands of tiny little balls, which looked exactly as if they were made of plastic.

Tiny Pteropods.

I picked them up, and squished some between my fingers. They crumbled; OK, I thought, so they weren’t plastic, what were they? I inquired from local divers as to what they were. They were all clueless. I then asked a marine biologist friend, who was delighted that I had asked, and asked that I bring him some of the little balls. Those tiny little balls were an organism called pteropods, which are eaten by other marine life. As pteropods look just like plastic, and some plastic looks just like pteropods, it is no wonder that marine life eats plastic.

Guinjata’s crafters are talented. On a walk, I discovered a shop with walls made of the odd piece of wood or branch, 

The walls of the craft shop.

which was scant security for the beautiful items inside the shop. Carvings and woven items were displayed for tourists to fall in love with, buy and take home with them.  A bit further down the sand road, was a ‘bakery’, not a real bakery, but the lady who lived there, made a living from baking bread and selling it. All one had to do was order what you wanted a few hours in advance, and you had the most delicious bread for your lunch.

I didn’t have time to do much of bird watching; I saw the common, ‘already ticked’ birds, but as there is a number of different habitats in the area, there are probably some interesting species around.

Much of the area around Guinjata is cultivated. Cashew trees are everywhere, as are coconut palms and mango trees. Vegetables are cultivated with extreme patience in the sandy soil. The spinach like leaves of the cassava plant are crushed and cooked as a vegetable, and served in a variety of ways.
 
My favorite is the Matapa soup made with cassava leaves, coconut milk and spices, it  is delicious. Cassava, being a tuberous root, does quite well in the sandy soil, and it has become a staple food; it is prepared in a number of ways, including frying and roasting.

Mozambique, is of course famous for its seafood. Lobster, prawns, crabs and many species of fish end up as gourmet meals. Local restaurants prepare these to perfection.

Peri Peri sauce at a
roadside stall.

Another of Mozambique’s famous culinary items is Peri Peri or Chilli Sauce. It can be super-hot, so do be careful, and test a little bit before happily pouring it over your prawns.

Mozambique has a number of locally produced drinks, ranging from non-alcoholic baobab juice, to potent rums. The country produces several varieties of beer. An order of ‘Doshem’ refers to two bottles the popular brand called 2M. Cashew nuts are distilled into a brandy by the name of Ekhaja. A must drink / have to drink Mozambican specialty for holiday makers is an R&R, ‘rum and raspberry’. This local concoction is best made from the local Tipo Tinto Rum, and Sparletta Sparberry. Be warned, the mix is potent, and may lead to unusual behavior.

Cashew nuts for sale

Our week of diving, Mozambican food, and chilling came to an end, and we got up early to do the long drive back, and run the border post gauntlet again. The trip southwards was fine; we used our last Meticals on cashew nuts at roadside stalls, and all went well, until half a kilometer from the border post. Talking too much, Liam didn’t concentrate, and we were pulled over for speeding, not badly, but we had exceeded the speed limit. We were guilty as charged, and needed to pay the fine, but we were Metical-less, having bought cashews and crafts on the road side to get rid of the Mozambique currency, as it is difficult to change it in South Africa.

Roadside crafts for sale.

Remembering how John had paid too much because he thought he was being charged in Rands, Liam, did some very careful negotiating, and converting from Meticals to Rands; he was not about to be ripped off. It was the same kind of story: ‘I don’t have Rands on me, but I do have some Euros’. The police weren’t sure about accepting Euros, and they discussed it amongst themselves.

One eventually declared that it was ‘ mucho grande pesos’, and they accepted the proffered Euros, and waved us on our way. Liam had not done a good conversion of Euros to Meticals – he had paid about twice of what the fine was. Yes, overpaying speeding fines runs in the family.

The border was ok going out – we now knew when to say ‘No’. A lodge on the banks of the Crocodile River, looking into the Kruger Park, was where we spent night, and a fair bit of money. My next trip to Mpumalanga will not be because I’m driving through to Mozambique – my next trip to Mozambique will be by plane, or through the southern border post in Kwa Zulu Natal.

Kilwa Sea Rescue

Kilwa Sea Rescue

If the place that you’re boating in doesn’t have any rescue facilities, and you develop a problem, what do you do?

In South Africa, the NSRI (National Sea Rescue Institute) is so synonymous with sea and ocean rescues: – with pleasure cruises going wrong, shipping disasters and any other water orientated ill that may be befall a hapless person, that we don’t even think twice about it – calling the NSRI is a given.

What happens in countries where is no such thing as the NSRI? Where considerate seamanship doesn’t seem to exist? Where, if you get into trouble, you’re on your own?

The Great Mosque on Kilwa.

In Tanzania, in the Kilwa Bay, I unexpectedly became part of a rescue. There was nothing dramatic about it, there was no danger to any person, but if our boat hadn’t come along when we did, and passed close enough to be within shouting distance, the thirty odd people on the stranded boat would probably have spent the night on a remote sandbank.

Kilwa Bay, in southern Tanzania, is a vast expanse of water.  Several islands lie in this bay; islands on which some of Africa’s most fascinating ruins lie.

Getting your bearings.

The two largest, Kilwa Kisiwani and Songo Mnara, have been declared UNESCO World Heritage Sites. The area is renowned for deep-sea fishing, so much so, that lodges  specializing in this sport have opened there. If history or fishing isn’t your cup of tea, there isn’t much reason to visit this remote area of Africa.

We were returning to Kilwa Masoko, the town on the mainland, from Songo Mnara on an old tub of a dhow-ish boat, under sail,

The Portuguese Fort on Kilwa.

with all the time in the world, reflecting on the fascinating ruins which in the 11^th century, and for another two hundred years, had been a thriving city port.

We passed another old sail boat, which was stationery. I liked the colours of the people’s clothing, and started taking photographs. A shout went up, and our skipper answered, but didn’t seem interested. I actually thought that the shout had been directed at my photo taking – that once again,

The stranded vessel.

I was in trouble for photographing people without their permission. The exchange carried on, and eventually, the other boat skipper started shouting ‘mafuta mafuta’, which is petrol in Swahili.

It turned that the spark plugs weren’t functioning, and being stuck on the sand bar, they couldn’t use the sail either.  When they asked for help, our skipper was totally unhelpful, until the offer of their petrol was made.

All the petrol was transferred to
our dhow.

We came up alongside them, a line was thrown, and they were pulled off the bank, and up to us. Before our skipper would move off, all the petrol had to be transferred to our boat. No Sir – there was no trust there!

Towing the stricken boat.

With the petrol transferred (by crew members with lit cigarettes), we towed them, and another little boat, that claimed a free ride, all the way to Kilwa Masoko town, only slipping the tow rope as we neared the jetty.

Thank goodness for the NSRI here in South Africa, and other sea rescue organizations around the world - imagine if the NSRI behaved like that and demanded upfront payment before helping?

Many sea rescue organizations are non profit organizations that rely on donations from the public; often they are not funded by their governments. The South African National Sea Rescue Institute depends on you and me for donations. Be generous: one day, you and I may be dependent on them to be rescued. 

India: Mumbai, Kerala and Rajastan

The 'floating' Mosque, Haji Ali.

 India

India – why India? A really strange reason: I went to a school in Tanzania, and one of the guys who went there, had decided that India would be a great place for a bunch of us to meet. Rajasthan to be precise. At some place called Neemrana. The attitude in general was, why not, haven’t been there before, and since we all live all over the world, we would all be travelling far to catch up.

Originally, I thought I wouldn’t go – a case of ‘been there, done that’. As a child. We had lived in Pakistan (West Pakistan in those days), and had hopped across to India to see amazing sites; one of them being the Taj Mahal. Seeing things as a child and seeing things as an adult, are two very different things. I decided to go.

I booked my room at Neemrana Fort Palace. Then invited my daughter, and rebooked to accommodate her. And then made travel plans.

We landed in Mumbai just after midnight, expecting a quiet airport. Not so, it was buzzing like it was peak hour at any other airport. We found the taxi that the hotel at arranged with no problem, and drove into Mumbai proper. Our first taste of Indian traffic – it just doesn’t stop!

Mumbai at night

Our hotel, The Gardens in the suburb of Garala, was simple, but more than adequate. It had been an internet booking - our travel agent only had ‘recommended’ hotels at ridiculous prices on record, and all I’d read about Mumbai was that hotels were very expensive. This reasonably priced place was the most pleasant of surprises. 

After a good sleep, breakfast was served at their sister hotel two doors down, and there I ran into my first problem. With our waiter. His English was as bad as my Hindi, and as I didn’t know what to order, he brought me bowls of nearly everything the kitchen could deliver – and being polite I ate just about everything; curry for breakfast is a harsh way to get introduced the country’s cuisine. Other than the curried dishes, the breads and fruit salad were delicious.

Our first excursion was to be to Elephanta Island, an island off Mumbai Harbour. One catches a ferry from the impressive monument, Gateway of India, built to commemorate George V of Britain, when India was part of the British Empire.

Gateway to India & Taj Mahal Hotel

 

Elephanta caves.

It is built in Islamic style, so it doesn’t look very British at all. We had asked the reception desk at the hotel how to get there, could we do it by taxi? Rajesh, the front office man, looked at us quizzically. Taxi? Why do you want a taxi? It’s around the corner, he said. I asked if that was safe to go walk there, and was told, yes, of course it was. Rajesh went on to advise me to leave our passports at the hotel, not to take too much money, just what was needed, and to enjoy the stroll.

Off we walked. Someone asked if I wanted a taxi – I cheekily answered, no we had legs. Slaine was mortified – the taxi driver’s friend was legless and in a wheel chair, and I hadn’t noticed. I felt a complete twit.

Walking along the waterfront, we were harassed by assorted touts, but dodged them successfully, until a seller of jasmine flower bracelets came along. A child of about 14, complete with baby. ‘Food for the baby’ she beseeched us. All our ‘no’s’ only resulted in her deftly tying the bracelets on our wrists.

Jasmine and Blessed bracelets.

Now what? How much does one pay for a jasmine bracelet? A crowd gathered, we asked what we should pay, no-one was about to answer, so I eventually gave her Rs150 (about R10) for each one, and got away. A few metres, down, what I can only describe as a venerable elderly man approached us, and wanted to know why we had paid so much? I replied that I didn’t know what the going rate was, did I? Why didn’t the people in the crowd help? He shook his head in a ‘you’re a daft tourist’ manner and left us. 

We walked past the Taj Mahal Hotel, which had been the centre of the bombings in 2008. A magnificent hotel – built by an Indian in response to not being allowed into a prestigious British establishment because of his colour, in effect saying: ‘up yours’ to the British Sahibs. The park and square were bustling with tourists, vendors, priests and Holy Men. One Holy Man cornered me in the same manner that the young girl had, and deftly tied a red and yellow ‘holy’ bracelet on my arm. Not wanting to earn the ire of more locals, I walked away, without giving him anything, and still feel bad about it. 

How does one learn when to, and when not to give out money? We eventually learnt to have rolls of 1 Rupee notes on us. These notes, which are practically worthless to us tourists, can get given to everyone, and their small value is greatly appreciated.

We bought our ferry tickets, and the crossing was uneventful. Elephanta Island was breath-taking. On the island is a series of caves that have had the most amazing temples and statues carved into them, depicting scenes from Hindu religion, particularly the cult of Shiva.

Shiva carving at Elephanta Island.

The earliest dating is the 3^rd century BCE, although most of the carvings were done between 450 and 750 CE, and was known as Gharapuri, the Place of Caves.

A temple in the Elephanta Caves.

It was renamed Elephanta, because of the huge stone elephant that stood at the entrance. Unfortunately, colonists, particularly the Portuguese, caused a lot of damage by using the colossal monuments for target practice. Deep sigh, how could they be so stupid and arrogant?

Alighting from the ferry, one can either walk up to the caves, or take the miniature train. When the train stops, you can climb the steps, or you can hire a doli, a chair carried by four men, in royal fashion.

Being carried in a doli.

We got carried. It was an experience, and the men made a living, but I really don’t think I want to experience that again, humans should not have to carry other humans for a living; I felt very uncomfortable, perched at shoulder height, looking down on everybody.

Vendors line the steps, and everything can be bought. Jewels, clothes, incense, food. Sláine had her first experience of being suckered: a young man sold her several pairs of pants, supposedly sewn by his sister. As she was to find out, those same pants are sold all over India, made by the thousands for the tourist trade. But who are we to say that his sister wasn’t employed in such a factory?

The caves themselves are just fantastic.

A modern stylized Linga and Yoni

Just about every surface is covered in relief statuary, of Shiva mostly. Smaller temples hewn out rock in the caves, have the phallic Linga and female Yoni (Hindu male and female symbolism of life) symbols and statues, often surrounded by freshly placed flowers and burning incense.

What I really found fascinating was the number of Indian tourists who were there to marvel at their heritage.

Beautiful tourists in their own country.

Sláine was completely taken aback that Indians from different provinces have to speak to each other in English because of the language differences.

We also learnt how her blond hair was appreciated; she was continuously mobbed. Mobbed in the nicest possible way, but mobbed nevertheless, for photographs. There were times when she’d be surrounded by 20 odd people, mostly men, but also women, asking to be photographed with her. Having done modelling, she took it in good grace, and posed, and smiled. When she wasn’t in the mood for paparazzi, she simply covered her hair with a scarf. It was only when we were back in South Africa, that I realized what the attraction is. She may be blonde, but with her eyes and bone structure, she is actually looks like a blonde Indian. At Durban airport, not long after our trip, I saw an Indian lady who was a darker double of Sláine. I’m just sorry that I didn’t speak to her.

The rest of the days in Mumbai were spent playing real tourists.

Mumbai: slums and skyscrapers

We hired a car and driver, and saw as much as we had time for. Did you know, that on just about every street corner, and open patch of grass, you’re bound to see boys playing cricket? Traffic in Mumbai was interesting to say the least. Once we got stuck in a Muslim ceremony. Hundreds of cars, many floats, musicians and followers caused traffic to come to a stand till for a while. The traffic may be hectic, but it is always polite.

Muslim parade through Mumbai.

Hooters are continuously used, but as a warning: an ‘I’m coming, have you seen me?’ type of announcement.

One thing that we were asked before leaving home, was, how could we cope with the filth? I replied I lived in Transkei – filth and litter are the norm there, so I didn’t think it would affect me. Litter there was; the worst place was along the causeway to the ‘floating’ mosque, Haji Ali. Built on an island, at high tide, it gives the illusion of floating out in the bay. 

At low tide, the causeway is used by thousands of worshippers and

Beggars and filth en route to Haji Ali.

pilgrims visiting the tomb of the saint. But it is filthy, the litter is mind boggling; do not go there in open shoes.The causeway is also lined with beggars, who are mostly disfigured and maimed. These people have been taken into the beggar industry at an early age; they are purposefully maimed for life, sometimes by being blinded, sometimes by having limbs broken and twisted into grotesque shapes, and their lot in life is to earn money by begging, for their beggar masters. These sights are an ugly, but part every day Indian life. Avoid this site if you’re faint hearted.

Gandhi house was visited, so was the university, the amazingly beautiful railway station, the parks and the beach.

Mumbai Railway Station

 Café Leopold was on my go-to list and was ticked. Have you read the book Shantaram? Café Leopold features a lot in the book. Pistachio ice cream and their coffee is delicious.


Café Leopold was one of the locations attacked in November 2008, by Pakistan based Islamists. The attack on the Taj Mahal Hotel was the worst, but many other locations in Mumbai were also attacked, one being the Leopold Café, where the now famous bullet holes in the walls are clearly visible. 

The University in Mumbai

Our time in Mumbai, being up, we caught our flight south to Kerala. We landed in Thiruvananthapuram. Yep, seriously, that’s the name of Kerala’s capital. For what I think is an obvious reason, it is still referred to by its colonial name, Trivandrum. We got ourselves a taxi and drove down to our resort at Kovalam; eventually finding it down some narrow little lanes, after our driver had enquired several times about our destination from residents.

We weren’t quite on the beach, we were maybe a five minute walk away. Our resort, booked through time share, was supposedly self-catering, but equipment in the kitchen area, was minimal, so we explored the nearby restaurants. We found our favourite almost immediately, it was on the beach. They got me hooked on a south Indian dish: Mint Chicken Curry. It’s hardly curried, just full of the most divine flavours.

‘Our’ beach, wasn’t the greatest,

The locals' side of the beach.

the waves were of the dumping variety, so we spent more time in the resort’s swimming pool than there. We were rather surprised to find that the beach was segregated. 

The long beach was sort of cut in half by a raised grassy area, that had coconut palms with squirrels living in them. Our section of the beach was for infidels and scantily clad tourists. The other side was where the Moslem residents chilled or played football.

The tourists' side of the beach.

Crows. Crows in their hundreds were everywhere, and the noise was incessant. A sort of harsh continuous background noise. As a keen bird watcher, I was disappointed that there were only a few other species of birds around; I do think most had been chased off by the Indian House crows.

We hired a car and driver, at a set price for the duration of our stay; the driver insisted on having a friend with him. This wasn’t an unpleasant arrangement, although the friend was a bit of a hustler. Once he realized we weren’t falling for his ‘best price’ and ‘made by my cousin’ stories, we all got along just fine. We went to temples, other beaches, touristy areas, and great restaurants where the locals ate. One meal in particular was memorable. It was a working man’s restaurant, and we got there at the lunch rush hour. We were presented with platters of small bowls,

Lunch at a locals' restaurant.

which all had different dishes in them. A waiter then went around with a huge pot of rice on his shoulder, and dished up rice to all those who wanted it. The price of our lunch for the four of us, was less than you’d pay for a toasted sandwich in South Africa.

The temples were amazing. Ancient, very often with sacred, holy lakes or pools next to them. The blatant sexuality depicted in some of them was educational. At one temple, I was warned about taking Sláine inside, because of the carvings. She went in, and got educated! The copy of the Karma Sutra that she was later given, had nothing in it, compared to what the temple’s carvings had. 

Offerings of fresh fruit to the pantheon of Gods were always plentiful, as was burning oil lamps and incense.

We visited palaces too, and were fascinated to visit the women’s living quarters, the harems. The women had to watch

The Harem's viewing gallery.

what their male relatives got up to, by crouching on the floor, and viewing the goings on through an intricately carved lattice screen. Later, we went down to the hall that they had viewed from above, and looking up, it was impossible to see anything, so the women’s modesty was well preserved.

The palaces looked after, and often, fed not only the royal families and their immediate retainers, which were numerous, but also whole armies. The logistics of producing enough food for them all must have been a nightmare.

My favourite Indian signboard.

Elephants were often seen in the streets. Dressed up and decorated for ceremonies, they were truly beautiful, with their Mahuts sitting atop them. 
Elephants are usually well respected,

Ceremonial elephant.

and are well looked after. While we were there, a newspaper ran the story of a temple elephant running amok, and killing an onlooker. The dead onlooker seemed to be the least of the authorities’ concerns. The wildlife people and vets descended on the elephant immediately, and removed her to a place of safety for observation, to check on her health. A few days later, there was an updated story that she, the elephant, had been found to be in good health, and was released back into her owner’s care. The dead onlooker, a woman, wasn’t mentioned.

Centuries old Ayurvedic medicine is practiced in the area. An Ayurvedic masseuse was next to the resort, and we had a number of these health improving massages. The massage table is a huge, carved affair, something like snooker table, with raised sides, so that the copious quantities of oil that are used on you, don’t get sloshed onto the floor, as the two masseuses work all your stress away, but drains away at a corner, very reminiscent of the holes where the snooker balls go.

Bananas and coconuts going to the market.

One cannot visit Kerala without taking a journey on the waterways, the so-called Backwaters of Kerala. There about 900 kilometers of waterways.

Punted boat on the Backwaters.

One can overnight on a houseboat, be chugged around in a motorised boat, or you can be punted through the watery maze. We chose to be punted, and I saw some amazing birds on the trip. Before roads were built, transport and commerce was water borne, and it still is to a large extent, in that area. We passed many boats heaped high with coconuts and bananas on their way to the market. Over peak tourism seasons, the waterways can get very clogged with traffic, so if that is the time you are visiting Kerala, it may be advisable to skip a Backwater trip.

Boat houses on the beach.

We also took a drive down to Kanyakumari, officially formerly known as, but still called Cape Comorin. This is the tip of the Indian sub-continent, over the water is the island of Sri Lanka. Our driver pointed out that this was where three oceans met. “Look – see the different colours of the water? Three different colours, because 3 different oceans meet here: the Indian Ocean, the Sea of Bengal, and the Laccadive Sea”. We duly acknowledged that indeed the water at the tip of India was multicoloured, and we didn’t tell him the facts, as that would have ruined his story telling. The water is tri-coloured, but that has nothing to do with three different oceans, it has to do with water density, and the amount of fresh water and mud held in suspension, in waters spewed out in to the ocean from different rivers.

Cape Comorin was also hit by the massive 2004 Tsunami that devastated Thailand. It is sad, but if we don’t see a report in main stream media of what is happening in the world, we just don’t get involved. All the news had been about the horrors experienced in Thailand; we were all familiar with the devastation that that had wreaked havoc there – but who saw anything about Cape Comorin having been hit, also almost being in direct line of the massive wave? Thailand had been fixed up, because so much international attention had focused on it. Sadly, not many people in the word outside of India knew about Cape Comorin. We could still see the damage 10 years later.

A smaller, closer island, really a rock, is the home to the shrine or temple to one of India’s greatest spiritual men: Swami Vivekananda, a disciple of Ramakrishna, and the founder of the Ramakrishna Mission. 

Kanyakumari.

This memorial, the Vivekananda Rock Memorial, very nearly caused a religious war in India, in the early 1960s. That would have been anathema to Svami Vivekananda, as he preached love and empathy to all. A group of his followers decided to build a memorial on this rock, which is said to be where the Goddess Kumari attained enlightenment. Her name is incorporated into the name Kanyakumari. The Catholics of the area objected, insisting that the Rock should be named St Xavier’s Rock. A huge cross was erected, and it was mysteriously taken down one night. Both factions were in in uproar. 

The environmental affairs office of the Indian government intervened, and declared that the building of a memorial would not be environmentally sound, so the idea was scrapped for a while. Then, a member of the Memorial Committee went and

The giant statue of Swami Vivekananda.

petitioned Indian members of Parliament to support the building of the memorial. With enough signatures to hand, the government had no choice but to allow the building of the monument. Fund raising was done, and many Indians donated as little as one rupee, but they can rightly say that they contributed to the erection of the buildings.

It is also a tourist attraction. An extremely ancient, engine spluttering ferry was to take us over to the Rock. The ferry was overcrowded, the wooden rails were rotted, bits of what seemed important parts of the vessel were tied together with wire. I told Sláine to stand with me at the rail; not to lean against it, mind you, as it really looked like it would collapse at any stage, and should anything happen, that she should climb as high as she could, and jump as far into water as far from the boat as possible. We spent a few hours on the Rock, and then made our way back to Cape Comorin, passing through the three different seas.

Our driver and his friend, who had been so amazing during our week in Kerala, let us down on the last day. We had arranged that they would drive us to Trivandrum airport for our early flight to Delhi. Well, they just didn’t pitch. The trip to the airport was an extra fare, but maybe they had made enough money from the week, not to bother to come pick us up. Thank goodness that the night manager was on hand to call another taxi, and we caught our flight with no problem.

India is huge, I suppose that is why it is referred to as the Indian subcontinent. A flight of nearly 5 hours got us to Delhi airport, where a number of the other school reunion attendees had also arrived, some straight from Europe, some from Nepal, some from Goa. Seeing old friends for the first time in years is always fun, but it can be hectic at an airport like Delhi’s. 

When applying for your Indian visa, make sure you request a multiple entry one. Those of the group who had first gone to Kathmandu, had made the mistake of going through India, as in setting foot on Indian soil. Coming back to India, constituted a second (attempt) to enter India on a single-entry visa. Obviously, without the correct visa, entry was refused, and they had to stay in Kathmandu.

A camel on  the road.

Thank goodness that one of our group’s father was a highly placed lawyer, and he was able to sort the mess out after a few days.

We all piled into a bus, and were driven along the highway to Neemrana. Occasionally, traffic would slow on account of a camel with rider, taking up a lane. Neemrana is about halfway between Delhi and Jaipur, in northern Rajasthan. The mountains on our left were the Himalayas.

Neemrana, a fort palace, 

Neemrana. Fort Palace

now converted into a hotel, is built on eleven different levels. Nearly all rooms and public areas have kept the style and furnishings of the palace. It is reached up a winding driveway, to the entrance gate, which was built to accommodate elephants, the then mode of transport. Elephant steps are used. Elephants do not like lifting their feet, so in all historical Indian palaces, forts and temples, the entrance is wide and high, and of a gradual slope with steps about a meter deep, and only a few centimeters high.

Rajasthan, as the guide books say: is a mix of near desert, ancient palaces and the people dressed in amazing colours.

The odd Rhesus Macaque monkeys were seen, but that was all in the way of wildlife. The few trees there were, were literally bowed down

Ring-necked Parakeet

with ring necked parakeets. There were hundreds of these bright green birds, and they would fly about in large flocks.

We were taken to a Step Well.This is a well, that is most easily described as a gutted multi-storey house that has been inverted and sunk into the ground. This one had something like 13 levels. Water levels were low, so we could walk down to about the 10th level.

The Step Well.

Maybe that should be the 3^rd level? Steps lead down, and on the sides of the steps, are niches or hollows, where the people would take shelter while washing or collecting water. This well was hundreds of years old, I wondered how many thousands of people has walked those steps over the eons.

Our get together was fun, we had a great time. We were entertained by local dancers, and entertainers. We had the distinct impression that an unseen being joined us, when we were near our rooms.; so we asked the hotel management about it, but they knew nothing about it, so we just accepted its presence and enjoyed ourselves.

Taj Mahal in the distance. The view from Shah Jahan's prison
 at he Red Fort,

The Taj Mahal and gardeners.

A trip to Agra was arranged; we’d spend the night in the ancient city. Agra is where the Taj Mahal tomb of Empress Mumtaz Mahal is. This magnificent building, built by the Empress’ grieving husband, Emperor Shah Jahan, built in Islamic architectural style, is clad in marble and decorated with precious stones, cut into floral shapes. 

No description, no matter how florid, can do this monument justice. Shah Jahan was later deposed and imprisoned by his son Aurangzeb in the Red Fort in Agra. The rooms where he was confined, look out towards the Taj Mahal.
The entrance to the

The Red Fort.

Taj Mahal makes one wonder if one got the address right. Its red brick entry, gives no hint of the magnificence behind it. Security is tight, and is manned by army personnel. No liquids or paper are allowed in, and shoe covers have to be worn. Even guide books had to be left at the security check. Water bottles are issued when you buy your entry ticket, and all bags are checked and searched. I must have looked like a won’t-set-fire-to the-Taj-Mahal-person, as I was allowed to keep my guide books. One of our party had marijuana in her bag. The army guy pulled it out, and asked her what it is. She replied as nonchalantly as possible: ‘oh, that’s just some shit’. He opened up the bag with the air of a connoisseur, sniffed it, wrinkled up his nose in disgust, and agreed, ‘yes, that is some shit. Very bad quality’, and then threw it the trash can.

The Taj Mahal: visit it, and you can write your own tome of its splendour. Everything about it, from the immaculately

No words can do the
Taj Mahal justice

manicured gardens, to the views, the verses of the Quran inlaid in the marble, the decorations, the cenotaphs of the fake tombs (Mumtaz and Jahan rest together, in an underground vault closed to the public), is magnificent.

Taj Mahal gardenrs.

Flowers crafted from precious
stones, set into the marble.

One of my best memories of Agra, was visiting a craftsman who creates beautiful, useful, pieces of art from marble inlaid with precious stones, in similar patterns to those on the Taj Mahal, with the same age-old method, as the craftsmen used on the Taj Mahal. No power saws, no drills, just amazing skill, and hard work done with traditional tools. I brought a small tray, which sits on my dressing table. One day, when I’m big (read: rich), I’m going to order a table for my verandah, a huge, yes, kinda kitch, marble table, inlaid with precious stones in flower patterns. 

My other best memory, was that as we were about to leave our hotel in the new part of Agra, I asked our taxi driver to first take us to where friends were staying, at a guest house in the Old City. He refused. I involved the hotel management – after all, I was very happy to pay for the extra route and time. It turned out that the refusal was because he couldn’t go.

A gallant knight and I.

Only tuk tuks , motorcycles, donkey or horse drawn carts and feet are allowed on the ancient streets. Also, an ordinary car, is just too wide for the alley ways. What to do? I had to say good bye. Call a tuk tuk I said. No, that would take too long, said the manager. He had a better idea, and disappeared, only to reappear a few minutes later on a motorbike. Hop on, let’s go, said he. Our luggage was in the taxi, the taxi was unknown. He was asked to wait. My daughter couldn’t go, and her face at the thought of being abandoned by mommy riding off on a motorbike with a strange man,

Crooked photo taken from
a moving motorbike
of  delivery donkeys.

was classic. I ordered her to go into the hotel and wait for me there, with my handbag; I only took my phone, and some cash in a pocket of my jeans. ‘Mommiiiii……..  ‘, she wailed. We headed off, weaving through the traffic, then got into the old part of town, and negotiated the narrow alley ways, missing children playing, politely hooting at pedestrians, having to wait for some donkeys laden with bricks to get out the way. They didn’t have a herder/driver/guide – what does one call a donkey looker after? They seemed to know where they were going, all abreast, blocking the road, as if they owned it. 

We got to the guesthouse, I said my au revoirs, jumped back on the motorbike, took the same route back to the hotel, and was reunited with my very worried daughter, and a taxi driver who wasn’t too sure of the sanity of his one passenger.

A child carrying dung, for use on
cooking fires.

Our destination was Gurgaon, somewhere on the outskirts of Delhi. I had booked it through timeshare, and the journey seemed to take forever. We bounced around on very pot holed dirt roads, at times slushing through muddy spots that would have made a 4x 4 track proud.

It had been dark for a few hours when we arrived at Gurgaon. I do think the taxi driver took a very scenic roundabout route, making the taxi fare seem worth every rupee. 

We checked in, were allocated a lovely cottage, and had an early night, after first watching a bit of TV, with one of our now favourite Indian adverts being aired, the Gujarat Tourism adverts, featuring the actor Amitabh Bachchat, with the catch line: 'Breathe in a bit of Gujarat'. If you need convincing to visit India, search for these adverts on You Tube – you’ll be packing for India shortly.

In the morning, we explored the resort – a typical resort, with swimming pools, beautiful gardens and entertainment facilities.

Differently, there were guards that were armed with some serious looking rifles. I asked why they were armed to that extent, and I was told it was for monkeys.

Monkeys.

The resort gardens.

Seriously? How big were these monkeys? The monkeys turned out to be Rhesus Macques, and they were quite attenuated to humans, which made the potentially dangerous. Sláine had a near run-in with one. I had gone bird watching, and my phone, a Blackberry, kept ‘pinging’. ‘Pinging’ was a Blackberry feature; it allowed you to try to get someone’s attention without actually calling or messaging them. It was Sláine, and I ignored it for a while, then decided to check what she wanted. I turned out, that as she had been lying on the bed, messaging her boyfriend, she had heard a ting ting type of noise, a metallic rattle. She’d ignored it, until a movement caught her eye, and it turned out to be a whopping great big male monkey, standing at the door, playing with the keys in the lock. Being brought up in an area where vervet monkeys were common, she knew the last thing she should do, was try and get past it, and out. She told it in no uncertain unladylike terms where to go, but that only made it leave the keys and go into the room. Ping! Ping! Ping! But she got no reaction from me, so she decided the best thing to do was make a run for the bathroom, and lock herself in there. Which she did, and then opened the door slightly to see what Mr Monkey was doing. He was pretty interested in our open suitcases, so she picked up the trash bin and threw it had him. He got the message that he wasn’t welcome, and loped off out of the front door. Maybe the rifles really were necessary.

Exploring the area was so different to Kerala. This are was dry, and pretty cold.

Gurgaon - walls everywhere.

The road to the nearby village had marijuana growing on both sides, like it does in Transkei, so we felt quite at home. The properties, fields included, were surrounded by high walls. There was none of the colour that made Rajasthan and Kerala so vibrant. Everything was a dull brown, the colour of the soil, or grey. Being a Muslim area, the men wore colourless shalwar kameez, a long tunic worn over pants, and the women wore black chadors, niqab or burkas, depending on how modest they were. With a chador, your hair is covered, and your face is open. Only your eyes are visible in a niqab, and in a burka – well, who knows if it is actually a woman  or a man under that all enveloping mask?

The camels are colourful; harnesses and saddles are bright and beautiful, and other bits of colour would pop up unexpectedly in places: wild peafowl were common, and the male peacocks were magnificent.

A brightly dressed camel. 

Chiru Antelope

We did a day trip to Delhi by taxi.  We did the tourist thing and visited the crazy, oh so crazy market. We purchased pretty scarves, etc, did our utmost not to get ripped off by vendors trying to sell us items that we knew little about. One of these was scarves was supposedly made of Shahtoosh wool (literally: King of fine wools), made from the rare and endangered Tibetan Chiru Antelope.

I wasn’t popular, when I asked the vendor to do the test for the genuine product. The wool is so fine, that a scarf made of it, can be passed through a wedding ring. Even if it had been genuine, I would not have purchased it, as the only way to harvest the wool from this endangered antelope is to kill it. Herds of them get mowed down by machine gun fire in the mountains, by poachers, as it takes the wool of three to five antelope to make one Shahtoosh shawl.

Chiru Antelope after the wool
has been harvested.

The market was completely crazy, but an unforgettable experience. Leaving it, we lost our driver and his taxi. This was not a pleasant experience, and I was catching a little panic, but after a while, he spotted us. Having picked us up, he said that he refused to take us back to Gurgaon, without first seeing some of the sights of Delhi.

Ancient Delhi

We were happy to comply, and we visited assorted monuments, including the Qutb Minar complex, which has ruins dating back to 1100CE.

Ancient Delhi.

Or departure day arrived, and we flew from Delhi to Mumbai, another longish flight. Mumbai airport was hectic, some thing had gone wrong, flights were delayed, and the ensuing chaos had us not getting into the departure area at all. I was disappointed, I had planned to do some last minute shopping there, as we had had a few hours before our flight to South Africa. Because of the chaos, we spent the entire time in customs halls and on buses, getting shunted from one terminal to the other; I swear the one drive was an hour long! At last we got on to our plane, after being herded at a very fast march to it, by the ground crew, who did their utmost to make the best of a bad situation. We all found are seats, and we took off almost immediately, and dinner was served quickly. Yep you guessed it, it was curry!