North of South

‘Traveling’ is dawn to midnight in a dilapidated matatu with failing brakes while battling dysentery by swigging gin and stuffing greasy napkins down your underpants. ‘Traveling’ is having to decide between crackers and grasshopper kebabs at one of the roadblocks, which come every kilometer. ‘Traveling’ is terse white-hair-sprouting confrontations with border guards who back demands for dash with their Kalashnikovs. ‘Traveling’ is a cement-block hotel at the end of the day: a hotel with no beach, no electricity, no running water, no toilet, no toilet paper, and shredded mosquito nets over the bed..., preferably with some kind of a Methodist church next-door where the faithful enjoy all-night out-of-tune gospel singing. Just getting “There” should feel like a victory, a thing in itself.



North of South is not about counting the kilometers or checking off the highlights; it describes a journey from Zanzibar to Madagascar, where Africa isn’t just the setting or the backdrop. In this book, Africa is the story.