Richard Stupart

Visa week. What was I smoking when I called it that? If you count Sudan, then it’s been more like visa month, with no likely end in sight. This is problematic when going around it to the west would involve Northern Uganda and the Lord’s Resistance army, Chad and the Central African Republic. Which means not good. This is more or less how it has all gone down, with a little bit of what-now thrown in.

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Traveling from Cape Town to Cairo is something that I may quite likely only do once in this life. So I’ve been spending no small amount of thought trying to decide how I want to write and record it, what I want to record, and most importantly, what I hope the journey will come to mean in the end. It seems like a futile question to consider at the outset, when the journey has yet to begin and its conclusion cannot possibly be known. Seems like. But isn’t.

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A day shy of three weeks remain until setting off. In that time, I will have to continue to wait for the elusive Sudanese visa, obtain at least two more and tie up any loose ends that still need tying. It’s not that much to do – and except for the Sudanese visa, largely in my power to get done in time. It’s just that time is becoming a conspicuously short resource as things progress. Nevertheless, some of the useful tasks I’ve managed to put to rest (or vigorously smother) in the last few days are:

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It’s a warm Sunday, dry from the suggestion of highveld dust on the sleeping air. Mixed in with the breeze, sweetening it, the sound of praises being sung in a nearby suburban park. An innocuous place on any other day, Sunday has transformed it, becoming a church to the jubilant celebration of Christ. Worshippers in robes of lush blue and impossibly brilliant white shuffle, sway and weave between the ululating and singing of the possessed. No walking dog or pedestrian picnic will intrude on this space today. As if fuelled by the afternoon, drifting lazily past, their worship blooms, wanes, flickers and explodes with the birth and death of each Sunday moment. Thousands burned in a day. Read the rest of this entry »

This time it’s a super treat. On-theme, but not about either me, packing or visas for a change. Sihle Khumalo, who was kind enough to phone me the other week, was even kind enough to do a mini-interview on questions Cape to Cairo related. For those who don’t remember, Sihle Khumalo is the author of Dark Continent, my Black Arse – the book that initially inspired the idea, now manifested, of travelling Cape to Cairo on public transport. He was also the person that I most dearly wanted to ask questions about his journey, since much of my intended route will go along a similar path. So, without further ado, I give you an interview with Sihle:

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Twenty seven days now.  That’s less time than fits in a February. At this point, gear shopping is complete (I will update the Cape to Cairo page more fully as soon as I have gone through everything and have a full idea myself of what is going in my backpack). Except for a lack of visas, I could set of tomorrow and get at least as far as Kenya. Which is to say both that I am now pretty darn ready – and that I still need visas.

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One of the last items on the pile of things to do before I go (30 days now – squeal!) was sort out travel insurance. For those who have not done any off-the-road travel before, it means making arrangements so that if you get sick or wounded, you will be able to get to (and afford a hospital) and that if something happens to your stuff, you will be able to get more stuff.  Usually, I use World Nomads for my general travel insurance, covering both of these items, but wanted to see if it was possible to save some money on travel insurance by fiddling with the terms of any existing medical or household insurance. Sure enough, you can.

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It seems like only yesterday there were months remaining. My days were as empty as my backpack – only wistful imaginings of trains, dust and adventure lay ahead. Now it’s five weeks away and every morning begins with wondering what it would be like waking up in the Sudan, in Dar es Salaam, on a train. Not an hour slips by uninfiltrated by daydreaming. If it’s going to get worse as the clock ticks down, the waiting will be deliciously excruciating. All the preoccupation, planning and wishing was brought to a complete halt for a few minutes this evening though, when I picked up my screaming phone and the voice on the other end introduced themself as Sihle Khumalo.

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Just a quick welcome to those arriving here from www.travelblogs.com.  Covering a few years of travels and related writing, this blog is in the process at the moment of counting down towards departure on a journey from Cape Town to Cairo done entirely on public transport. With the countdown now at 38 days and reducing fast, you can read an overview of the trip route here, planning here and a summary of related posts here. If you would like to find out more about me, or pop me an email sometime, take a peek here.

Otherwise, please take a look and sniff around a bit. I hope you will  find something to inspire your own wanderings, writings and explorings. And if you are here in 38 days, I can’t wait to take you with me on the long and magical journey across Africa.

- Rich

38 days remaining.  No clever mathematical symbolism in that number (that I can work out), I’m afraid. As the clock counts down, real life is beginning to behave oddly at the edges, like the period just before the end of a dream, when you feel what you thought to be real coming to an end – giving way gently to a new feeling of the world. This is that. It’s getting stronger and stronger, and will consume me soon, I know. But in the remaining days, there are things that must be done. Plans that remain to be planned.  A fundamental part of which is assembling a first aid kit.
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Every day begins fundamentally the same way. In a bed. Asleep. The first move in practically every scenario is usually the sticking of my warm and sleepy snout out of whatever it is that I happen to be sleeping in. More recently a nice, fluffed, duck-downed duvet – but in days past often other, less obviously comfy snout-holders. Hostel dorms, tents in varying conditions and on some occasions simply a sleeping bag on a floor somewhere interesting.

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