Everything All of the Time

By Stuart O'Brien

‘You know there is a war here?’ It was not the strangest question Stu was asked in Africa. That prize could go to any number of characters he met, on a confronting, humourous and astonishing backpacking adventure. Three years later, unable to shake the Africa travel bug, Stu moved to Tanzania where he founded a community project for young women and traveled further, encountering many more extraordinary questions and characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483536873

Book preview

Africa

‘Wouldn’t you rather go to Europe?’ Mum asks me, again. ‘Don’t you want to see France and Italy, and Greece and Switzerland, and Germany? Paris is a beautiful city and Rome, oh your father and I had such a wonderful time there last year! I think you would really like Europe, it has so much history and culture and great food, and there are lots of other young people your age travelling there too, I really think you should go there instead,’

I shake my head.

‘I’m going to Africa Mum,’ the five words no parent ever wants to hear.

‘Ok, well…’ she pauses, ‘what about America, you would love San Francisco and wouldn’t you like to see New York and Las Vegas, Los Angeles? Or India, you really should go to India, you have to go there,’ she demands.

‘They’re all on the list,’ but she doesn’t hear me, she’s lost in a frantic mental search for anywhere other than Africa.

‘Or Thailand, Vietnam – they’re not too far away, or what about working for twelve months in London? You know I did that when I was your age and I had a wonderful time,’

I shake my head again.

‘I’ll go to all those places, but I’m also going to Africa,’ She looks to dad for support.

‘If he wants to go there he will,’ he says, with a shrug of his shoulders and air of resignation.

Silence.

‘Well make sure you take a money belt,’ Mum warns me.

November 2005 and I was preparing for a fairly typical Australian twenty-something around the world backpacking trip. From Melbourne I was travelling to Thailand and over eight months travelling the hippy trail from Bangkok to Ho Chi Minh City, seeing most of the UK, some of Europe, before finishing in North America. Stuck in the middle though, were the names Mauritania, Burkina Faso, Togo and Guinea and to my mum they were red letter warning words from the Book of Responsible Parenting. Do not let your son, who has only been to a handful of countries, who thinks he is indestructible, who has never travelled solo, wander aimlessly around Africa, alone.

Four months later.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Flight MS738 Istanbul to Cairo, there will be a slight delay before we take off, due to immigration clearances, however shortly after we will be on our way’. After our ‘slight delay’ of one hour, three handcuffed men, their eyes to the ground, were marched down the aisles, escorted by a group of stern faced and moustached guards before being contemptuously shoved into their seats in the back row. So, even before I arrived in Africa, I was introduced to some of the hallmarks I would befriend in the coming months – tardiness, absurdity, vague explanations and an exciting butterfly-in-the-stomach feeling that comes from surrendering some of your personal safety in the name of adventure.

Africa. Speaking the word stirs the emotions and releases a mass of images, feelings, conceptions, opinions and stories. It is a word to evoke passion, disgust, fascination, pity, fear and mystery. Without fail, every person on the planet has an impression of what ‘Africa’ is and what it means to them. To my mother it equalled a black hole from which her son might never return. To me, it was much more.

As a child I grew up fascinated with Hergé’s Africa. I spent hours in libraries trekking with Tintin and Snowy through the wild, untamed jungles of the Congo, into the sparkling temples of ancient Egypt and through the deserts and Medinas of Morocco. From an early age those stories instilled in me not only a desire for travel, but adventure. When I grew older, the mystique, perceived threats and dangers of Africa seduced and excited me. Traditional destinations held little appeal. I wanted to discover, to dare, to be confronted. When it came time to pack my bags, Africa was the only answer to these desires. It was the one place where I could satisfy my thirst for intrigue, unpredictability, magic and adventure.

As I would discover, Africa is a place that is often and at times unbearably dirty, dusty, smelly, hot, noisy, dangerous, confronting, late and unpredictable. However therein lays it endless appeal. A white, suburban, Australian life is often and at times unbearably predictable, repetitive, sanitised, over governed, ordered, routine and sensible, everything that life should not be. Africa is a continent unmatched in its simultaneous delicate natural beauty and brutally harsh realities. It is a continent in which you will meet some of the most delightful, generous and caring people, while at the same time encounter stories of shocking violence and hardship. It is a place where the extraordinary and the ordinary sit comfortably alongside each other, every day. In Africa you will fall in love, travel through time, get lost, dance, cry, laugh and be angered, amazed and humbled. For a traveller, Africa is a continent that will either make you or break you. There will be times when you question why you ever came to such a wretched place and then, from out of nowhere, as you sit defeated, you will see something so effortlessly beautiful it will remind you exactly why you, excuse the term, fell in love with Africa.

And so, twenty years after I first opened ‘Cigars of the Pharaoh’ at my local library, I landed in Cairo, as, in the words of Elton John, a wide eyed wanderer – a traveller and adventure seeker. I was beginning my journey in Cairo, although I was not about to embark on the traditional Cairo to Cape Town route. For me this route felt clichéd, a well worth path, traversed and documented many times over, a checklist tour of Africa.

I wanted something different, there had to be more to Africa than tribes, wild animals, savannah sunsets and game parks. Nothing could grate me more, than being shipped through Africa in an oversized 4WD, instructed when to take photos, with a bunch of Nikon wielding, pith helmet wearing, white tourists speaking poorly enunciated Swahili from a Lonely Planet phrasebook. No thanks, from Egypt I was heading west to Morocco and through the former French West Africa, where I could use my poorly enunciated French. There, amongst the former African empires, through the ruins of modern day civil wars and across the unforgiving Saharan desert, would be more scope for adventure and unpredictability.

And that would be exactly what I found.

The Travel Gods

As important as US dollars, a passport and a book are when travelling in Africa, as is having the Travel Gods on your side.

On a good day they can be benevolent and wise, while on others, ruthless and unforgiving, or simply absent. One quickly learns not to resist the Travel Gods nor curse their name, for it shall only bring upon further misfortune. As I discovered, the Travel Gods provide sound guidance and sometimes harsh lessons, even if their reasons are not immediately evident. No matter how sticky the web of African travel became, they did not allow me to be consumed – somehow, somewhere they were always planning my escape – even if it was right at the last minute.

Hermes

Home region: Greece, Europe.

Depiction: Young, athletic, wearing a winged hat and sandals, carrying a staff

Traits: A trickster, a thief, an inventor and escort for the dead to the Underworld.

Legend: The patron of travellers, Hermes would ensure a safe journey and warm hospitality for all. In Ancient Greece many travellers made offerings and sacrifices to Hermes before setting off on their expeditions.

St. Christopher

Home region: The Holy Land, Middle East

Depiction: Tall, broad shouldered and bearded

Legend: St. Christopher, or Christopher, as he was then known, spied a young boy standing on the edge of a river, wanting to cross, yet unable. Unbeknownst to Christopher the boy was a young Jesus Christ. Christopher placed Jesus upon his shoulders and began wading through the river. The further he walked the heavier the boy became. He became so heavy he was almost impossible to carry. When Christopher asked Jesus why he had grown so heavy, he replied, ‘Because I carry the sins of the world upon my shoulders’. When they finally reached the other side of the river, Jesus climbed from Christopher’s shoulders and he collapsed to the ground, exhausted. Christopher’s reward for carrying Jesus across the river was canonisation. Unfortunately for Christopher, he was stripped of his sainthood in the late twentieth century when Rome decreed he was not a real person, and the story simply a legend. Nevertheless, most Christians, particularly Mexicans and Italians still carry Christopher’s image and believe in his power as the true Patron Saint of travellers.

Dosojin & Jizou

Home region: East & South Asia

Depiction: Diminutive monks dressed in robes with magical gems or a staff

Traits: Kind, generous, selfless, protectors and guardians

Legend: The Dosojin and Jizou are represented through stone markers, which are sometimes found carved in human form while at other times large stones with inscriptions. Statues of both Jizou and Dosojin are placed along road sides and at intersections to ward off evil spirits, protect villagers and ensure a safe journey for travellers.

Wamungu

Home region: Congo and Central Africa

Depiction: Omnipresent and invisible

Traits: All powerful and ruthlessly unforgiving

Legend: In Redmond O’Hanlon’s Congo Journey he writes, ‘…they love no one but themselves: the best you can do in life is simply to try and protect yourself, to give them things, to buy them off, to avoid them whenever possible. They only care about you when you are behind with your offerings…’ He and his party did all they possibly could to avoid encounters with them. They made sacrifices prior to and along their journey and at times refused to speak the names of the Gods for fear of disturbing them.

Xu (aka Huwe)

Home region: Southern Africa

Depiction: Residing in the sky with the souls of the dead

Traits: Generous

Legend: In Southern African legend, Xu is known for having a generous nature and is often summoned by Southern African Bushmen before they embark on a journey.

Wambeen (aka Muuruup)

Home region: Australian outback

Depiction: In the form of lightning or a putrid smelling man with lightning

Traits: Erratic and temperamental

Legend: Spoken of only in hushed tones, Wambeen comes to earth in either of his forms to wreak havoc. He is blamed for all misfortunes in the world and prefers to strike at travellers and wanderers.

Pyramids & proposals

‘Quick, in here,’ I pushed open a metal gate at the back entrance of Luxor’s Winter Palace Hotel. I closed it carefully, quietly and knew, finally, we were safe. Kristine leaned against the gate and exhaled. The street noise was muffled behind the high concrete walls and she could breathe and relax, we felt sure he could no longer find us.

The Winter Palace was a grand hotel, far outside our modest backpacker budgets and we arrived shaken and confused. From the back gate we walked through the gardens to the courtyard, found a comfortable couch under a gazebo and over an apple sheesha reflected on our strange proposal.

Before setting foot on African soil I put myself through the mandatory human pin cushioning experience of travel vaccinations. The multitude of injections left my arms numb and limp, like the legs of ventriloquist dummy, and from the Polio tablet, a lingering foul taste in my mouth – though I much preferred any of those to the alternatives – raging tropical fevers, nausea, vomiting or diarrhoea, stuck up in an African hospital. Afterwards, my vaccination certificate had more stamps than my passport and included such exotic names as Tuberculosis, Tetanus, Japanese Encephalitis, Typhoid, Yellow Fever, Cholera, Rabies and Influenza. Influenza, I discovered, could be transmitted through direct contact with bird droppings, Tetanus through stepping on rusty nails and Rabies through being bitten by a rabid dog, all of which appeared nowhere on my ‘101 things to do in Africa’ list.

Another ailment I was warned about before reaching Egypt was the dreaded temple fatigue. The condition, exclusive to travellers, is found throughout the country and strikes after consecutive day’s exposure to Egypt’s ancient tombs, palaces and ruins. Its effects include a distortion of the dates, names and individual glory of temples and a mental melting of those tombs and ruins into one giant Escheresque mega temple. I was already feeling symptoms of temple fatigue prior to arriving in Egypt, having immediately travelled through England and Turkey, gazing at their palaces, gaols, mosques and ancient cities.

The surreality of visiting the Pyramids and Sphinx delayed the onset. Those magnificent icons, which once sat proudly in a vast desert and proud empire, now compete with the rapidly growing sprawl of urban Cairo. In slow motion, the cities ever expanding limits encircle them. Staring down the Sphinx from across the street, lurk KFC and Pizza Hut, patiently waiting for the day when it will be acceptable to serve their food from inside Giza or stamp their neon logos on the exterior walls. For now though, they must be content with a hundred metre buffer zone. Meanwhile, the smog of the city hovers in the distance, loitering, with seemingly nothing better to do.

My bout of Egyptian temple fatigue was mild and the memories of Luxor Temple, Valley of the Kings and my personal favourite, Abu Simbel, remain strong. Though mild, my experience was exacerbated by a deficiency of meaningful human contact. Most of my conversations with Egyptians were in the form of a transaction. A tour guide, a waiter, a tout, a shop owner, a taxi driver and so on. And when someone wants your money they will say whatever they need, to impress, depress, scare or bore you into handing it over. Sadly, in such a fascinating country there was seldom opportunity for a genuine conversation.

The antidote for my temple fatigue was a felucca cruise on the Nile. For two days and nights, under the stewardship of Captain Cool, I could gaze down at the water, up at the sky and into the stars, instead of at bricks, stones and pillars. In Cairo I met Kristine, a backpacker from New Zealand, tall, young and attractive, with flowing blonde hair, understandably she did not want to travel Egypt solo. She too had heard of the questionable reputation of Egyptian men towards Western women, particularly tourists. Thus, her request to join me was mutually beneficial, ensuring less harassment for her and the chance of meaningful conversation for me. So along with three Turkish men and an American / German couple we set sail on our felucca with Captain Cool and his two comrades at the helm.

The days were, unsurprisingly, extremely hot and were spent slowly gliding along the Nile, akin to the rhythm of a serpent through desert sand and we left in our wake zigzag patterned ripples which rolled effortlessly towards the banks. Our motion saw the sun and shade continually trading places, under the felucca’s beige cloth roof. Thus each side of the boat had its turn exposed to the sunlight and sheltered by the cloth cover. The system worked well. By the time it was our turn in the shade I was too hot and when the sun came back around I had cooled sufficiently to want to be warmed again.

As the remedy for temple fatigue, not much was achieved in those two days. Gliding on the river we spent most of the time sharing travel stories, listening to music, watching the desert hills and towns roll past, smoking joints, drinking beer and playing cards. The first night we docked downriver from another felucca, the passengers were a young couple on a romantic getaway. They were provided with an ideal, serene and balmy evening on the river Nile. The water colour night sky was dotted with stars and at dusk the air was crisp, welcoming the body heat of a lover. They sat arm in arm and were surely pondering how fortunate they were. The only setback to their ideal evening was their proximity to us. After our dinner of camel meat, which was brilliantly prepared by Captain Cool’s comrades with the finest local spices, we spent the night around the campfire drinking beer, smoking more joints, singing and playing small high pitched plastic skin drums. Over the course of the evening, sitting around the campfire, we belted out such Arabic classics as Old McDonald had a Farm and She’ll be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain. The couple in the other felucca probably hated us. Their romantic evening was set to the soundtrack of drunken travellers singing nursery rhymes in Arabic and talking and laughing into the wee hours. Eventually we grew tired of singing, the fire died down and the effects of the alcohol subsided, and we soon received our karma. The cold desert night set in and without the comfort of a companion we shivered throughout the night in our sleeping bags. Though with another day of sailing along the Nile, trading time in the sun and shade, we would have ample opportunity to thaw out and catch up on sleep.

As the Egypt experience entered its final days, Luxor was the scene where the opening runs, in what was to become an unmatched African travel innings, were played.

Busy with open air restaurants, trinket shops selling miniature fake gold pyramids and clothing shops overflowing with blue, green, red and yellow sequinned dresses, Luxor was affable yet unremarkable. The grubby roads saw cars, bicycles and pedestrians perform what appeared to be a well rehearsed series of yields, brakes and near misses. In the gutters, litter sprang to life when caught in the wind gust of a passing car, before resettling half a metre away, a scene replayed with each passing vehicle. After a dinner of meat, bread and salad on the side, Kristine and I wandered the streets, soaking up the Luxorian atmosphere. Bicycle bells dinged as riders shimmied along the streets, cats meowed in the gutters, the smell of barbequed meat drifted from sidewalk cafés and welcoming voices beckoned us into souvenir shops. We approached the curb to cross the road and a young man on a bicycle stopped in front us. Abdul, dressed in a white shirt and slacks, introduced himself as a local student. He asked for our help in writing a letter to his friend in London. A reasonable request to be asked of two travellers we thought. Having not slept much the previous night we told Abdul, sorry, we were unable to help him. He said no problem and rode away. The following night, wandering the same streets, watching the same performances, we met Abdul again. With time on our hands we thought sure, let’s help him write his letter, it might be fun and it is a chance to have a real conversation with an everyday Egyptian.

Abdul led us to his friend’s restaurant, along the way making small talk,

‘Where are you from?’

"How long have you been in Egypt?’

‘Where have you been?’

‘What have you seen?’

‘Are you married?’

At the restaurant we walked down a creaky flight of stairs to a dimly lit deserted room with thick wooden tables and bench seats. There was no view of the busy streets above, though the orchestra of sounds flowed down the staircase behind us. Abdul motioned to a table in the middle of the room. We sat opposite him, facing the stairs. Behind Abdul was an empty kitchen and servery. Despite him blocking our exit, we had a full view of the restaurant. Abdul offered a beer. I accepted a tea, Kristine declined. It came as no surprise, nevertheless a disappointment, that the first topic of conversation was whether we would like to buy any of Abdul’s or his friend’s trinkets. We politely declined, we did not require any of his souvenirs, even at his ‘friendly prices.’ Abdul then wanted to know if we had any Australian or New Zealand coins. He unwrapped, from a greasy, stained rag, his collection from countries around the world. That’s all very impressive Abdul, but we are here to write a letter for you, so here, have a 50c coin and let’s get on with it. From his wallet he took a business card, Keith from somewhere is London. Abdul began dictating and I, writing. The letter opened as one would expect. Something like, ‘Dear Keith, I remember when you were in Egypt, we had fun together, I hope you are well in England…’ and so on. It quickly turned strange.

Abdul sat up in his chair, accentuating his height, lean, and tall. His eyes grew devious and his expression and focus changed. He leered at us, particularly Kristine and launched into a vivid description of his experiences with Keith’s beautiful wife Emily.

It did not take long, when travelling with Kristine, to understand why she did not want to be alone in Egypt. It may be a stereotype and generalisation, but it also happens to be true. The reputation of Egyptian men is well earned. The novelty of hearing people yell to Kristine and myself ‘beautiful woman’, ‘beautiful wife’, or ‘how many camels for your wife?’ and so on, wore out before we had entered our first temple. If I were in the market for a caravan of camels, I could have left Egypt a rich man, though I would have had some explaining to do to Kristine’s family. Because of those experiences, we knew when Abdul said beautiful, he was not using it in the Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany’s context.

Abdul continued to dictate, the words sliding off his tongue as he reminisced about Keith and his beautiful wife Emily. He told us of the times when, together, they fucked and sucked and how he hoped Keith and Emily returned to Egypt soon so they could do it again! I was unsure how Abdul wanted me to articulate his story, as he strayed from dictation mode to an excited reminiscent mode. I stopped writing, put the pen on the table and looked at Abdul. He stopped talking. He stared at me with a blank, indistinguishable look and tilted his head, a confused puppy dog. Kristine and I stole a sideways glance at each other – is this guy for real? What to do now in this dimly lit, deserted, downstairs restaurant? Luckily, Abdul gave us no choice.

His eyes narrowed, his narrow jaw line suddenly seemed more defined, as did his stubble and bad breath,

‘Are you getting hot?’ he asked Kristine.

I felt fingernails digging into my skin, Kristine’s right hand locked on my left thigh.

She froze, unable to respond.

I pushed my tea to the centre of the table.

‘ I think you can find someone else to finish your letter Abdul.’

I took Kristine’s hand from my leg and we stood and made confidently for the stairs, amid Abdul’s protests, pleas, apologies and offers of more souvenirs at friendly prices. We did not want to hang around and be the subject of Abdul’s next letter. We edged our way past his lean yet intimidating frame. He offered more apologies and stuttering explanations in broken English. Up the staircase and onto the street above, we crossed the road and entered the nearest souvenir shop. We hid inside, pretending to be interested in the miniature blue pyramids. I peered through the shelves, checking if to see if Abdul was following us. I saw him in an animated discussion with his friend who returned downstairs. Abdul wasn’t finished though, he picked up his bicycle which was leaning against a wall and rode slowly up and down the street. We scrambled out of the souvenir shop and quickly walked away from the area. Abdul spotted us and crossed to the other side of the road, riding and smiling eerily at us. He knew we knew we could see him and he seemed to enjoy it. We ducked in and out of shops and markets before managing to lose him. Finally, we arrived at the Winter Palace Hotel. I pushed open the back gate and we entered the gardens.

As a white tourist in Africa it is easy to attract unwanted attention, but it is rare to be quizzed about your presence in an expensive hotel’s gardens, so we knew we were safe.

We were not sure who Keith or Emily were and felt certain Abdul had misrepresented them. We were also sure we wouldn’t be offering our tuition services to anyone in the future. After the adrenaline subsided and the sheesha took hold we were able to laugh about it. As with most of my adventures to come, it made for a great story to tell if nothing else.

Tea in Morocco

In the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit? a giant brick wall separates Toontown and Los Angeles, from behind it flows a medley of car horns, screeching tyres, endless music, wailing, shouting and a general impression of mayhem and disorder. At the Melilla – Nador border, between Spain and Morocco, Europe and Africa, I stood at the entrance of a real life Toontown. A gentle, tempting, Mediterranean breeze brushed against my back as I approached the main gate. Behind me a landscape of Spanish architecture, cafés with umbrelled tables serving tapas, modern efficient transport and clean streets dared me to leave. Up ahead, manic conductors shouted at potential commuters, fruit sellers thrust their wares in the faces of potential customers and border