Cape to Cairo.

My only trip to Africa north of the equator took place almost four years ago, at the end of 2005. I was on a journey along the crescent of the eastern Mediterranean; from Istanbul to the centre of Turkey, through Syria, to Beirut and back, and down through Jordan to the blue shores of the Red Sea. It was a bizarre and unforgettable trip, taking in humble cave churches and gleaming mosques, abandoned desert ruins and crowded souks. Egypt would be my final stop. From my plastic chair at a dockside café, I could see the distant peaks of the African coastline. It seemed to me at the time to be waiting for my return. Though to be honest, Africa cared very little about either my movements or myself—it was I who couldn’t wait to be back.

I would be reaching Egypt by ferry, and though it was a short journey, it felt strangely romantic to be approaching the continent by ship. Or at least, it had the potential of being romantic. The ship was perhaps too commonplace, too modern to fuel any fantasies: grey upholstery seats, and TVs blaring action movies in Arabic. I didn’t have to enjoy these movies for too long, however, before we were unloaded onto Africa. A thick blue light burnt into my eyes as I stepped off the boat; it reflected off the green-blue sea and against the golden hills of sand. I was running out of time before my departure ticket, and therefore I had no chance to see the Sinai Peninsula, unfortunately. So it was onto a bus, and straight off toward Cairo.

I had come to Egypt expecting the pyramids, expecting the Valley of Kings, expecting Luxor. But I hadn’t come expecting Cairo. My face pressed against the window of the bus, I looked out to see a city lit up in the night: towering mosques with spotlights; shoe shops and fruit stands and cafes glowing along crowded avenues; neon lights blared, the words ‘Coca Cola’ switching to Arabic script as the giant bottle emptied itself; and all these lights reflected in the murky silent Nile.
Over the next few days, I would come to see how strange and fantastic Cairo really was. It was so long ago that I no longer remember the route my days followed, instead, I can only picture a strangely incongruous mesh of images. The old pink museum, stuffed with sarcophagi and stele. Stylish student cafes, selling muffins and non-fat lattes. Souks packed with fresh fruit, caged ducks, and baskets of chilli peppers. Tacky hotel souvenir shops. A dusty old city, seemingly transported in tact from the pages of 1001 Arabian Nights. Even after all of the other places I have been, Cairo still seems one of the most unusual, the most distinct. It seemed to me a strange melding of the journey I had just completed, and the journey I was about to begin. I could see traces of Syria and Jordan in the culture, the architecture and the food, but I felt too that I was clearly on African soil. As if Africa had drifted like silt along the Nile, to be deposited at the foot of the Middle East.

It seems even stranger now, looking back to it from the quiet avenues and ordered apartment blocks of my home in Cape Town. It seems like it should be much farther away, on a far more distant part of the globe. But it sits on the continent as well, on nearly the opposite corner from Cape Town, reflecting back a very different Africa than what we see from here. Africa is but one story, and Cape Town and Cairo are merely two very different tellings.

Technicolor tropic.

Maputo, the capital city of Mozambique, is positioned on the Southern curve of Africa, where it feels astoundingly out of place. If you are driving toward it from South Africa, you will likely first pass through Neilspruit, a town notable primarily for its mediocrity. It is an unremarkable city of lifeless brick apartment buildings, Hungry Lion takeaways, and Caterpillar sales-yards. Its wide streets are open to the sky, feeling a bit like a long yawn triggered by the lazy warmth of the afternoon sun. All the more surprising then, when one departs this sleepy city, crosses the border, travels several hours through dry scrub and bush, and appears suddenly in a town that seems to have been lifted out of the Technicolor tropics, transported from a Caribbean musical, and left on Africa’s shore.

The air in Maputo is sticky with a tropical torpor, which its energetic Modernist buildings seem to rebel against, vibrating in angular forms and ice cream hues of rose, lime and buttercream. Flames of bougainvillea lick against the balconies of decrepit villas, and flamboyants litter the uneven pavement with their fiery petals. Not to be outdone by their spectacular surrounds, Maputo’s citizens dress with an equal measure of finesse. Men stroll in sleeveless shirts and calf-length shorts to catch the sun; women wear bright hues, in spaghetti straps and slip-on-shoes if young, in wrap skirts and headscarves if old.

As a city, Maputo has more of a sense of history and architecture than anywhere else in Southern Africa. This grandiose vaulted market was built by someone; that art deco movie theatre was built by someone else. Perhaps most impressive is the city’s train station, a pistachio coloured confection that, depending on who you ask, was designed by Eiffel himself, or, more likely, a student of his. A heavyset tower marks the entrance, its iron dome shielding a baroquely ornate clock. Inside, travellers stroll through arched colonnades en route to catch their trains.

In mid-day, the sun can be brutal, so it’s the best time to slip under the awning of a sidewalk café. Face to the street for people watching, and spend a leisurely afternoon sipping strong coffee, sweetened with bites of a sugary pastry. The darkened interior of one such corner spot was decorated with a sprawling world map, browning now from age, that hints to an era when the city was still known as Lorenco Marques, and still a destination for the adventurous jet set.

Nearing sunset, ones attention is drawn to an old carnival ground near the waterfront. In the sunlight, it had seemed deserted; Ferris wheel caught midair, cars hanging as if stopped mid-sentence. But at night, there is no trace of abandon. Electricity switched on, the amusements are now studded with the pinpricks of light from hundred of glowing light bulbs. But most of the visitors have not come to wait in line at the carousel. Instead, they’ve come for the nightlife: the village of bars and restaurants that roll up their shutters after sunset. After a meal of flame-grilled chicken, they move to the low-key bar next door, to savour a beer in the seaside cool of a Maputo evening.

Welcome to Bulawayo.

I pulled into town in the afternoon, a long bus trip gratefully concluded. I had crossed much of Zimbabwe that day, but the bus’s slow pace and uncomfortable seats made me feel as though I had crossed much of Africa instead. As our bus rattled to a stop, my gaze was caught by my seatmate, a round-faced church going woman wearing a prim dress and oversized glasses. She looked me firmly in the eyes, hers becoming pinpricks behind their thick lenses. “You must be careful of thieves,” she warned me in a hushed voice. “They will steal from you, and they will do it with magic, so you won’t even realize.” Then her face softened again, and with a smile she wished me a pleasant welcome to Bulawayo.

I, however, was less concerned with thieves at that moment. Over the course of the six-hour bus trip, a minor headache had blossomed into a shattering, thudding pain that was even beginning to make me feel nauseous. Whether it had been the effects of the heat of the clear winter sun trapped inside the bus, or that my only sustenance for the day had been a loaf of white bread purchased through the window from the hands of an eager vendor at a brief stop, I was feeling decidedly ill. So ill, that after making my way across town to my guesthouse, I barely gave a thought to protest when informed that the rate per night for a dorm bed was $15, more than four times the price listed in my guidebook.

The next morning, feeling a little better, I decided to take up the issue with the manager of the hostel.
“I am very sorry,” he said with a resigned tone. “It is the law now—we cannot charge you any less.” He was a tall, handsome man whose mannerisms verged on being camp. There was nothing in his face or in his voice that seemed dishonest. Still, I felt it better to ask around and verify the information.
And in fact, he was being honest. Not one guesthouse, hotel, or backpackers’ (not that there were many still in operation, to begin with) could offer a bed for less than $15. Apparently, there were so few travelers coming through Bulawayo lately, that the local government felt they needed to make as much off the few who did come as possible.

Over the course of my stay in the town, I came to find that it wasn’t only for accommodation that these laws applied. On my second full day in the city, I walked through a stately quarter of town to the Natural History Museum—which, my guidebook assured me, was fantastically out of date and old fashioned, and a bargain for only 40 cents US. As I walked into the foyer and peeked past the guard at the taxidermy animals and mid-century displays, I could tell I was not going to be disappointed. I was, in fact.
“20 dollars,” the stone faced guard mumbled when I told him I wanted to see the museum. His eyes seemed trained at a stop somewhere over my head that he had been studying before I entered; my presence had not been interesting enough to incite his glance.
“20 dollars?” I asked, a little confused. I had never heard anything quoted in Zim dollars for less than a million.
“You can go in if you’d like, but you have to pay 20 dollars US,” he replied, still looking beyond me, with a hint in his voice acknowledging that very few people actually paid that amount.

It seemed an odd scheme, likely to squash the desires of any tourists interested in visiting the town. During my stay I met exactly one other traveller, a man from Spain who was assigned to share my room with me. He had planned to stay in Bulawayo for over a week; he left after two days, complaining of the prices and the attitude of the town.

Signs suggested that the town had once been a profitable vacation getaway. A dusty sign decorated with leopard print decals marked the ‘Safari Bar’ on one street corner. A large billboard advertised flights to London, surely long discontinued. And though sun damage had nearly erased the image entirely, you could still make out the phrase “Zimbabwe: Paradise of Africa” on travel posters that hung around the town. There was a strange air of abandonment to the town, compounded by the fact that I rarely passed anyone on the street. Yet everything was well maintained and clean, giving it the Twilight Zone feel of a city suddenly and unexplainably evacuated of all life.

It felt a cold, lonely place to me. I did manage to find one comfortable spot in town, though: a friendly café serving good coffee, Greek food, and tasty desserts. And amazingly for the town, it always seemed busy. The matron of the restaurant, a large blonde woman who stood behind the counter, was always engaged greeting customers, preparing to-go parcels, and overseeing the flow of the dining room. It was in some way odd for me to see her, to see that white people remained living in Zimbabwe, were continuing their lives with some element of determination.
I found it on my first afternoon in town, and visited on my second and my third as well. I was able to get decent lattes (not Nescafe!), which I paired with a slice of whatever cake they were offering—obviously seeking some insulation from the town’s aura of depression. There was a young waitress who always seemed excited to see a new phase, and between serving customers would stop by my table to ask about my travels.

A less charming incident occurred on my last visit, however. The matron of the restaurant had taken a seat with a visiting friend, and the two were waiting for their lunch. One of the waitresses emerged from the kitchen, and politely set down their plates. The ceramic had just touched the table when the matron picked up the plate, turned it upside down, and flopped its contents onto the floor.

“No, no, no,” she stated with a firm razor-edged voice. “That is not right. That looks terrible. Go back and make it again.”

As the waitress retreated into the kitchen, she addressed her dining companion in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “You must tell them like that. Otherwise, they simply never learn…”

I returned to my hotel, where the manager greeted me and covertly pulled me aside.
“I had your money exchanged,” he informed me in a clipped tone, handing it to me in a paper bag.
I went to my room to inspect it, and found that my two twenty dollar bills had been transformed through the magic of the black market into rolls and rolls of pastel coloured paper money. I gathered it up, stuffed it into my backpack.

I woke early the next morning, before breakfast plates were set at the guesthouse, and with the streets still asleep, caught the first bus out of town.