On the third day, I finally need the scooter for more than just withdrawing more money. I drive to the north of the island. Zanzibar is really tropical and green here. I realise how much I was depressed by the monotonous flat forestlessness in Paje. The route leads through sugar cane fields and spice plantations in the steaming jungle. A tour of a spice farm with tastings of fresh ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, pepper, cloves, passion fruit, star fruit and vanilla cheers me up further.
The Zanzibaris in the north seem happier than those in the arid poorhouse of southern Zanzibar. Smurfy schoolchildren in blue and white uniforms wander along the streets of the poorest villages. In one of them, I hit an easily overlooked high braking hill at 80 kilometres per hour. I manage to avoid a spin. But not another puncture five kilometres further on in the deepest jungle. (more…)
…simply withdraw money
Zanzibar is almost like travelling the world 100 years ago. I let the sound of the sea outside my beach hut beat up my tinnitus and surrender to the circumstances. There is very little of that, in every respect. I’ve been completely offline for three days, as has the wind. The time needs to be utilised. I hire a scooter.
The issue of a local driving licence, prepared in blank thanks to a bribe, is completed with the speed of a drop of heavy fuel oil falling from the tip of my nose. After two and a half hours I set off. The arse end of the world is just 15 kilometres beyond Paje. Deepest central African backwoods. (more…)
The Zanzibar Blues
I sit in the shade in the morning and blow upwards towards my glasses. It’s the only thing that helps against permanent fogging after a heavy thunderstorm the night before. 34°, 95% humidity, no wind. On the plus side, the Zanzibari mosquitoes are all non-swimmers and swimming is the only thing you can do in this air.
The roof of my palm leaf hut at Demani Lodge has a leak. Fortunately, right above my head. Saves the morning shower, which is not always available. After half an hour I’m clean – but unfortunately I can’t sleep any longer. The bed falls apart when I push it away. Assembling the bed in the darkness of the power cut is so exhausting that I only wake up after a total of 14 hours. (more…)
From milkmaids & chocolate boys
Strolling along the beach at Santa Maria, I count the 57th milkmaid/chocolate boy couple of the day. There are far more chocolate child pairings here than single malts. There are hardly any white Fickingers to be found. The black lads are crisp, the white girls are willing and the hormones are running amok.
As a white man here, you’re about as sexy as a piss-yellow olm with dorsal fur, as sought-after as scabies spread for breakfast, as popular as an oven-blasting flatmate on meth – and you’re right at the top of the endangered species list anyway. This is exactly how the dinosaurs must have felt after the comet impact. (more…)
Morning Session
Santa Maria is asleep at six in the morning. The night before at the Reggae Rooftop Bar was once again bloody. Windfinder gave 16 to 18 knots for five to eight o’clock. With three good kite days in a fortnight so far, it’s clear what needs to be done: with four hours of sleep, I stroll through the dark streets, clean and still drunk, and look for the first awake taxi.
In the light of the headlights to Mitu Kitebeach, the salt of the salt pans shines brightly. I’m all alone on the beach. The orange and black striped tiger dog sleepily cuddles a lucky cat. A small flock of sandpipers play catch with the waves. White sand dunes shine golden in the sun rising behind clouds over Africa. Above, the moon watches the waves. On some days, kitesurfing is a religion. (more…)
Dragon Slayer / Banderole Carrier
A lot has changed since my last visit to Egypt. My favourite hotel now has handcuffs. At reception, our hands are decorated with a red plastic band. At just under 30°, this ribbon is unconcealable. White skin alone is not enough. Is this revenge for our grandfathers’ yellow stars?
“So what?” thinks one person. For me, it’s a disaster. I am now branded as a travelling goat – not organic. And from the Grand Resort. Where you once had a good chance of bargaining without a Depperlband, every taxi driver now has the ultimate knock-out argument: 5-star roosters are there to be plucked. No matter how cheap the hotel is. (more…)
Salam Morocco!
Morocco has changed a lot since my last visit 15 years ago. It’s even younger now. In some places and at certain times, you can hear Bollywood techno just as loud as the “Allah u akbar” from the tops of the minarets. Worlds are merging. Last time, all the women were veiled. Not any more, especially the young ones, some of whom are almost dressed up like Turkish women in Cologne on a Saturday night.
Legs of mutton hang in the sun. A thousand sacks of spices shine on the roadside. Housewives bargain for the best price for Nana mint. Beggars sit outside the entrance to the mosque. Essaouira is like a time machine. Incredibly old, new, smelly and fragrant, narrow and spacious. Medieval marketplace in the here and now. (more…)
At last! Kitesurfing In Essaouira
After nine days of waiting, the wind finally arrives in Essaouira. I’ve never waited so long for wind anywhere. It comes in strong. A cosy 12 in the morning, 15 to 24 knots in the afternoon, gusts well over that. Everything I’ve read is right: The wind is really stubborn. Not as bad as Bavarian lakes, but quite uncomfortable.
The dromedaries stand on the beach. Every now and then a student’s kite bangs into them. Training should actually be forbidden here. The waves are quite heavy, only one metre today, but there are plenty of them. The wind fluctuates slightly by 400% every five seconds. In conditions like these, kitesurfing schools only provide lasting experiences of the third kind. As soon as most of the body drag takes place in the air, there is little safety. (more…)
Dades Gorges
Tough day, another long journey. First stop: Agdz. A large group of young Moroccans are demonstrating loudly against food taxation. Now that the poor Americans have had enough of speculating in precious metals, gold and uranium, they are ruining the lives of the poorest of the poor with their greed. I hope it will strike back one day.
There is a waterfall on the way to Ouarzazate. I quickly find the sign for the Cacades de Tizguin, the track is rough gravel through volcanic rock. Then it goes through large holes and coarser gravel. A few deep washovers, narrow hairpin bends descending at 30% into a narrow valley. At the bottom, for the first time in a long time, I am ready to admit to myself that perhaps that was too much. (more…)
Sandstorm In The Sahara
Motorhead don’t play directly after Marianne and Michael. Nor does the last green before the Sahara turn directly into pure sand dunes. After the green comes the stony desert. The first islands of sand spread out in it. The last rivers run out into nothingness. Two more mountain ridges, then all I can see in the distance are shimmering sand dunes. 52 days to Timbuktu.
For the Touareg, even this is part of the Sahara. Large kasbahs bear witness to ancient caravan history. The temperature rises to just under 40 degrees. That’s quite low, explains a tar round in the shade of a kasbah. It soon gets up to 55 degrees here. A car passes by every half hour, almost exclusively jeeps, hardly any tourists. (more…)
The Touareg
Five days of permanent calm is more than a kitesurfer has to endure. I hire a car and set off before dawn. The road to Marrakech leads from hazy Mad Max via Tuscany without cypresses to the green granary in front of the high Atlas. Because of the bomb attack in Marrakech, the police checkpoints are as dense as in the Golden Triangle – only the armoury is a little more discreet.
After only an hour’s drive, a policeman shoots me down with a laser pistol. 20km/h too fast. My German driving licence saves me from punishment, as it did in the USA. Apparently we have worldwide freedom from fools when it comes to speeding. A little later, the police follow me with blue lights, and this time my stomach gets queasy. They overtake. For free. (more…)
A Week Of Lull
Nothing is worse for kiters than a lull. Everyone gets grumpy, some get scabies. A pitiable radical splinter group smashes the skulls of surfers. I make plans to go to the Sahara. 750km oneway, cars are only available from local hire companies and expensive. However, after a broken boot lid on my last trip 15 years ago, my confidence is a little shaken.
I feel like I’m in a book by Garcia Marquez. I’ve forgotten which one exactly. It’s hot and humid. My glasses fog up during the nightly revelry in the pirate’s den when it rains outside. My six-hamster cage has been converted into a cage and I’m now alone in it. I’m working and waiting for the wind from hell, which will hopefully arrive in six days’ time. (more…)
Essaouira
Essaouira is an old Portuguese trading post. Clouds push the sultriness down, intensified by the complete absence of wind. Anyone who says that the most important ingredient of 1001 Nights is heroes is a bulimic. The only important things are the stench and the scent of the sky. In the morning I wake up in a windowless 12m² six-bed room. When I return from the bathroom, I’m green with envy: I’ll never be able to stink like this on my own.
The roof terrace on the fourth floor offers a view of hundreds of courtyard houses. The outside, and especially the top, is pretty run-down, but the inside is whitewashed. Cats lie on piles of rubbish. The medina is an incredible labyrinth. I count 202 corners and find two right angles. Open manhole, deadly stench. Nana mint on the next corner, then a fish market and mountains of spices. (more…)
Travelling And Smoking
Some things just don’t go together: George Bush and intelligence tests. Dieter Bohlen and groove. Heroes in tights. Sea and calm. Others are absolute dream teams: chips and ketchup, white wine and water, Ray Liotta and broken mafia characters or travelling and smoking.
I always smoke a lot when travelling. Maintaining an age-old tradition. Back then, on the Eurasian steppe: a biped smells smoke. Even back then, smoke meant: “Go travelling or your balls will burn!” So quickly reduce the take-off weight and set off for new destinations. I’m standing on the observation deck of Nuremberg Airport. The smoke trails behind the jets. (more…)
Kitesurfing In Egypt
The forecast for kitesurfing in Egypt was bad for a whole week. We were hoping for two good days in Hurghada. Well, that meant at least twelve knots of wind. It turned out differently. Completely different. After a day of de-jetlagging, the forecast for the next day is good. At seven o’clock in the morning, we are the first ones on the densely built-up beach of the Grand Hotel in Hurghada.
300 permanently installed parasols every metre. A wide swimming area, 20 metres of space for kitesurfing. A jetty and restaurant directly downwind. Outside on the water there are loads of anchored boats, buoys and a gusty wind. Tobi oversleeps, so I go out first. Not nice. If Viktoria Regensburg were a kitesurfer, she would love this slalom course. (more…)
Revolution In Egypt
Egypt has been a sell-out since the beginning of the revolution. Even after an apparently successful outcome, there is no end in sight. You can get a week in a 5-star hotel with a flight for 260 euros. I wonder what is better: stay away and skip the funeral feast or fly there and at least secure work for the remaining 20% of Egyptians.
We need sun. We need wind. We decide in favour of the latter. We set off for Egypt late at night from Linz and Vienna. We go through passport control at the airport unchecked. There is a recall, but nobody notices that we are simply left sitting there. From above, Hurghada looks like a Christmas tree at night. But that’s deceptive. I was here five years ago. (more…)
Kitesurfing on Boa Vista
The wind comes back on the penultimate day. I don’t need any more offshore wind. At lunchtime I get a trip to the RIU Karamboa Hotel in the south of the bay of Sal Rei. The wind here is only about 30 degrees side-offshore. I set up and have a look around.
Another one of those Smurf houses. All-inclusive terrourists, snot-covered banderl wearers and a caipi with beach volleyball. Sun bangers, topless, fuck everything and especially the country and its culture. Off to the bar. A water please, here’s the money. But drinks are only available everywhere with a banderl, nothing else. (more…)
Topless in Ramadan
Sharm el Sheikh is located in the Bermuda Triangle between Las Vegas, the promised land and a ghost town. It’s up to you to decide which corner is closest. 2000 years ago, Moses led his people through the Sinai in search of the Promised Land. Today, two crowds of people chase up Moses’ mountain every morning. There is nothing to find except their own claustrophobia in the middle of the desert.
We wanted to go there ourselves, alone. But Mubarak sells his country as a fairy tale from the Arabian Nights. Today, robbers are called Islamists and wait just behind the last checkpoint for unbelieving individual tourists. As a result, there are hardly any hire cars, I won’t light the thorn bush in front of St Catherine’s Monastery and nobody throws the first stone. (more…)
Kitesurfing school Sharm el Sheikh
It’s not until the third day that I finally get round to kiting in Sharm el Sheikh. There is practically never any wind in Naama Bay, and when there is, there are still kites and Smurfs close together, followed by several boats. To go kitesurfing in Sharm el Sheikh, you drive 20 kilometres north to Nabq. This costs around €1.30 with the blue minibus and takes 20 to 30 minutes.
If you search the internet for kitesurfing Sharm el Sheikh, Google only spits out one page: Colona Watersports, just taken over by kite junkies. They are located on the beach in front of the Regency Plaza in Nabq. I arrive on day one and realise: calm. For the first time in a week. Back to Naama. (more…)
Smurfs on holiday
Sinai. 41 degrees. Perfect hold. Three-weather taffeta. That’s exactly what the saying would have been if a sneaky hairdresser hadn’t quietly and secretly given the lady from the 80s advert an overdose of Gard sometime in the 90s. Heat and strong winds greet us on the steps out of the aeroplane in Sharm el Sheikh. I’m beaming in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, when we arrive at our hotel in Nama Bay, this joy has already faded. Just 10 kilometres to the south, it’s absolutely calm. We want to take a quick dip in the sea, but the hotel beaches are closed off and the public guards have a massive objection to night swimming. Three o’clock. Off to bed. (more…)
The Author
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.