THERE IS ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE
BOATS SERVICING THE LIEMBA 
PERDITA AND HILDA OUTSIDE THE LIEMBA FIRST-CLASS CABIN
The above statement is no joke. Many a time when I despaired at a vehicle ever getting one more person into a non-existent space, bodies would miraculously form and reform and the person is somehow accommodated!
During my three-week whistle-stop tour of some parts of Tanzania which I still wanted to see, there was a lot to get into a few days:
Buses, Boats, Bicycles and Breakdowns
Catamarans, Chatting and Climbing
Waiting, Walking and Talking
Taxis, Trains, Planes, People and Patience
Roads, Railways, Refugees and Robberies
Death, Daladalas and Dust........
As a traveller I do not make arrangements beforehand, thus leaving the adventure to take its own shape. This chapter is an illustration of just how such a little trip can include so many elements. They were all unplanned and rewarding!
The overnight fast-ferry catamaran to Dar es Salaam from Zanzibar suited me. There were many young back-packers taking the cheapest option and, once the ferry had left Stone Town at 10pm, foam mattresses were brought out and we slept on them or the luxury settees in the vast lounge. I never understood how a trip which normally takes 90 minutes could now take 8 hours.
In Dar, after 21/2 hours of negotiating at the Central Line Railway Station, I managed to secure a ticket for a connecting bus to Dodoma (already two months after the promised re-opening of the train line) and a train to Kigoma where I could then get a boat going south along the eastern shores of Lake Tanganyika. Only after all this was I told that the boat in question, MV Liemba, would only be travelling south a few days after my arrival and that I could not make an earlier connection. "But if you go to Mbeya, you can make a south/north connection. We do not know when that boat or train will leave". I cancelled my hard-fought-for-ticket, took a daladala to the Tazara Railway station far out of town and stood in a queue. There are trains three times a week. Chozella was only reconfirming her booking and we started to chat. She is Zambian and had just returned from her honeymoon in Nairobi. "My husband, Patrick, is looking after our bags and the train leaves in 40 minutes". When I finally got to the end of the queue, there was a ticket available! A hasty rush outside to buy food from hawkers and I caught the train! Over the last two months I had been told that there was no food on the train because the contractor was not making money. But, without notice, the situation had changed and the buffet car was providing food and drinks. This was a good place to gather for meals and long chats.
I was a great pleasure to have a 'power-shower' on board too! One gets so used to little trickles of water and this was efficient and refreshing. I have never had a shower on a train before and was very impressed. The fact that the train is 'always late' and has inexplicable stops is not reason for concern...just Africa. It was built by the Chinese when the idea of infiltrating Communism into the heart of Africa via Zambia was very prevalent. But maintenance is another matter...
In my compartment was Jennifer, a journalist from the USA who lives in China and has been travelling about Africa, gathering information on the effect of the Chinese presence. The journey was 24 hours long and we joined Chozella and Patrick for lively discussions. Patrick has a stature and strong presence to go with it. Had the British Colonialists not killed off his great-grandfather, he would have been king of a prominent tribe (I forgot which) from the Malawi/Zambia border area.
In Mbeya I 'picked up' a young man out of the usual selection waiting to meet mzungus off the train. Lucky walked me to my chosen Missionary Hostel on the outskirts of town, although he found it a bit strange that a mzungu actually preferred to walk the 6km. The next day he met me early and without being asked, took me the long but more interesting way into town. At one stage we passed the local prison where smiling and very friendly prisoners beckoned us to come inside and see their work. There were none of the usual guarded gun-wielding formalities and only after our visit did we sign the visitors' book. Men were busy making furniture, baskets and other items which are then sold to the public. The large vegetable garden with a great variety of plants is the best I have seen in Africa and I never once thought that I should be wary of the sharp knives and pangas being wielded about. The men get warm shelter, three meals a day, companionship and interesting work to do. Why should they want to escape?
We booked into a central hotel then went to buy a bus ticket for early the next morning. This became a farce as two English-speaking men outside the bus operator's office organised the ticket for me. The assistant inside handed it over and only after they had disappeared into the crowds and I queried the price, did I see that the ticket quoted 10,000/- instead of the 15,000/- I had paid. The hapless assistant could not help and the owner returned just then. He explained how I and his assistant had been duped and all the people in the teaming confusion of the bus station soon managed to find the 'culprits' and divest them of 5,000/-. Honour was re-established.
After this exercise we took a minibus to an area south of Mbeya. Ngozi Peak is a crater lake known for its beauty and local legends. Once the necessary Park Fees were paid and we had walked and climbed for 2 hours, our reward from the 2,629m high rim certainly proved worth the effort. Far in the distance below is a clear lake of cold water with no outlet. Two Dutch girls who had done their volunteering and were now on the usual mini-holiday before returning to college, had climbed up without a guide and were extremely pleased to see us. They had contemplated going down through the thick bush to cool off in the lake, but the remnants of fear at being lost or the stories about the lake and its equivalent of Loch Ness Monster, had restrained them. They gladly returned with us through the thick tropical forest .
Lucky had studied art for 4 years in Bagamoyo (famous for its art college) and now shares a shop with his artist brother where he sells his Tinka Tinka-style art. However, we were back too late to visit the shop and of course I was convinced that I shall return to Mbeya and see him and the shop again. But it never happened. One can never make such plans on my kind of journey.
One leaves in the dark of 4.30am and needs to keep to main roads rather than the short-cut paths to get to the bus stop. Too many warnings about thieves....The bus ride to a connecting town called Sumbawanga was the usual crowded and bumpy ride. We arrived late (what is new?!) and I just managed to find the one and only bus which would take me to Kasanga where I might just catch the once-a-week appearance of the Liemba. I knew it had already left the Zambian border town of Mpulungu. Only after we arrived in the dark and I was convinced that we had missed the boat, did the driver assure me that the boat would not leave without his passengers. Relief! This lengthy day of bumpy bus rides really put me off the thought of repeating it soon. Now for some smooth chugging on the world's second longest and second deepest lake.
'Of course' the boat was later than the advertised time. For the next 50 hours it would not depart from any of its moorings until the last passenger or bag of rice or fish was safely stored aboard. The system works. No one would believe this when viewing the utter chaos which each stop seemed to bring forth.
The parts for the 71m long and 10m wide cargo boat MV Liemba were built in 1913 in Germany and then transported overland for 1500miles from the East Coast to Lake Tanganyika. Here they were assembled in 1914, just for the boat to be scuttled in 1915 by the Germans rather than be left to the English who were mandated to take over the area known as German East Africa. It was re-floated in 1922 and refurbished in 1970 to take up to 600 passengers. It has travelled up and down the east coast of the Lake ever since. However, in the early 1990s, as Mobutu was being overthrown in Zaire, the Liemba was used to ferry 75,000 refugees across the lake from Zaire to Kigoma. Today the same weekly schedule applies, but instead of a rest in Kigoma on Tuesdays, it crosses the lake once again with 500 returning Democratic Republic of the Congo (the new name for Zairre) refugees, only to start its circular trip again on a Wednesday.
There are no more jetties or quays for the Liemba to moor to between Kasanga and Kigoma and it has to slowly chug into an area near a village, whether it is day or night. Once the engines are switched off, a blast of the hooter and suddenly the water around is alive with small and large paddle or outboard motor boats. Depending on the size of the nearby villages or the seasonal crop, anything from 10 to 30 boats could arrive for servicing. A new law has forbidden these small boats to wait less than a km. from the expected stop because of accidents in the past. So a dead-calm sea without a boat in sight suddenly becomes a hive of activity with each boat wanting to be on either side of the Liemba for the loading on and off of passengers or the storage of cargo. The latter is usually large baskets or plastic bags of dried fish or, as was the case when I travelled, sacks of rice. It was the rice season and I could not believe how much was being produce in the hinterland! The sacks weigh 110k each and by the end of this slow but efficient way of transporting the annual crop, we had hundreds of them on board. Many were of course brought by small dug-out boats as well as larger motorised ones. There is an efficient crane on board and while some large nets are being filled with bags, other boats might have their cargoes being lifted or getting into position for their turn next. Everything seems so chaotic, but only after a long time did I realise that there was somebody meticulously recording each item that was being stored in the hold or on the deck. The Tax-man is always present!
One evening it was very exciting to see two rival boats resolve their little differences. A boat with about 4 oars was bearing down upon us when an outboard-motor boat shot past and rammed into the Liemba. This was certainly not fair play and the 'captains' very quickly stripped off shirts and the most exciting boxing/wrestling match you can imagine took place. If a film fight had been choreographed to show such a fight, it could not have bettered it. The men, weakly being separated by others but always breaking free would lash out and wrestle amongst the bags, passengers and boats. Not once in this beautiful fight did they loose their balance and no-one else fell into the water despite the two boats rocking from side to side. Honour was finally restored when all the passengers had disembarked and not one wanted to embark. So they each lost out on return customers...
I have never yet seen a wooden boat without water sloshing in the hull. When these boats are built they have a certain area in the design especially for the bailing out of water. Thus each boat often has a little boy as oficial bailer. On this lake the flat oars are very long and pointed, but just as efficient as any curved oar I have seen.
My first-class cabin was extremely comfortable and I found myself singing with happiness. Well, if you can call the dreadful sound eminating from my throat....
There were four of us who soon became a 'unit' through chatting or eating meals together.
Perdita is German and had been working for an NGO in Namibia. She had hoped to arrange to set up an Eco/Cultural-Tourist enterprise which would encourage the local, marginalised people to make an effort to earn some money. But they were not interested and found it easier to just drink away the day. She was thankfully in agreement with me about the relative uselessness of trying to impose Western-style projects on people who will not be able to maintain them on their own....
Jose is Spanish and nearing my age. He has business in Spain and the USA and travels there briefly every month. Magically, the rest of the time he spends in Africa and has done so for the last three years. He has a vehicle with which he has covered just about every country in Africa, or he just takes transport like this boat trip. There are no roads in Central Congo. I would have given much to be able to do his recent 8-day Congo River trip on one of six barges in convoy. There were about 200 people all told and an ox was slaughtered every day. The reassuring thing is that he has promised that I can join him whenever I am free. Something to look forward to!
Mark is Swiss and an Executive Chef with absolutely no pretensions. He has cooked all over the world and is on his way to Manila where he will be in charge of a luxury Hotel with inter alia 15 staff-chefs alone below him. I never realised that these large organisations obviously have to feed their staff as well... But Mark was not a happy man. He was recovering from his 'African experience': He had been head-hunted to run the catering of a 5-star hotel on an island on the lake. Financiers had backed the building operation, but the people who were to run the place were totally incompetent and inexperienced and had no idea about what constitiutes 'service' for clients. Instead of a helicopter, the clients are flown to the nearest mainland airstrip and then subjected to three hours of the kind of roads I am only too familiar with. The kitchen did not have adequate supplies and the facilities generally were very poor for the 1000 $ a day service paid for. He did not renew his probationary contract and left when there were no more bookings at this time of the year which is the height of the tourist season.
We also met and often chatted to Matteus, a Benedictine priest who wore ordinary clothes and had been sent to Germany to study. He learnt to speak the language within three months! I really admire the African ability to learn languages. He and Perdita could indulge in German.
The charm of looking down from one's deck upon the heaving mass of Africans below is that it is so very colourful and full of humour. We learnt that a man had died on the boat and so, when we docked in Kigoma and everyone wanted to get off at the same time, I was very moved to see this active mass of people all stand still in respect whilst the body was carried off and the relatives allowed to follow. Then the orchestrated chaos erupted with everyone trying to get off at the same time. Yet again, not an item dropped into the water.
Kigoma. Matteus was home, but, after our late arrival in the dark, he kindly helped us to get a taxi which took us to a local Mission Hostel where the other three would be leaving from the next day. Or so we thought.
Perdita had booked a bus to take her to Uganda and she successfully departed. The boys were to get a train very early that morning and were there on time, but the train only left at 11am, just to turn back after about a kilometer. They were so fed up with the train that they gave up and booked their respective busses for the next morning. I had always intended to stay a day or so and then return via the next train two days later. When I tried to book a ticket, I was told that there were none available. This was after a delightful hour-long queueing and chat to Arthur who is involved in Adult Education through the Radio. Many people have radios where there might not be electricity for TV coverage, so these tapes are ideal learning tools. The funding is from a Costa Rica-based Foundation and students pay for their books only. The 20-minute tapes are distributed to registered students and they can take a National Examination. It is hoped that these radio classes can eventually go on air for anyone to listen to. Thus queues are not a burden but an interesting way to pass the time and learn about the country.
While the boys sat and fumed on the train that first day, I had hired a bicycle from a young man who repaired bikes. He was totally bemused and borrowed one off a friend, changed a wheel with a bulging tyre and quoted an arbitrary figure. When I gave a deposit with the payment (based on what I had paid in Zanzibar and which pleased him greatly) and said I wanted it for 24 hours, this was a bit difficult to understand, but he was happy. The next day, when I wanted to hire it again for another day, I could not. His friend wanted it back.
Dr. David Livingstone had been ailing on the coast of the lake, in a little village called Ujiji. This was the largest settlement along that stretch for many years until Kigoma was chosen as the rail-head. Ujiji, 8km south of Kigoma, subsequently declined and is today a scruffy, rambling town with signs of former Colonial glory in the street layout and established old trees. Livingstone was informed of the imminent approach of Henry Morton Stanley and chose to meet him on 10th November 1871 by the lake shore under a mango tree. Today that lake edge is 70meters away from the two mango trees grafted from the original in 1924. The lake is becoming more and more degraded and the water is not being replenished. When one thinks that the few meters in depth of the top surface of this steeply graded lake holds most of the water, it is a frightening concept.
The small museum is full of interesting facts about the abortive attempts by Livingstone to convert the natives and stop the slave trade, but one can but marvel at his exploring ability in such an inhospitable continent. Stanley arrived with a USA-flag bearer (where were the cameras?!) and Livingstone does not mention the famous greeting. One wonders if the great exagerator, Stanley, did not invent it to make a better story. All Livingstone mentions is the fact that he was now eating three instead of two meals a day. The local guide ("Michael Palin is my friend" - Oct.1991) kindly showed me where the Royal Geographical Society had erected a memorial in 1927 when the importance of the site was recognised. He then gave me a 5-minute mantra about the life and death of Livingstone, much of which I could not understand although it was in 'English'. In the RGS Head Office in London, there is a petrified piece of the tree from Zambia under which Livingstone's heart had been buried.
The bicycle ride to and from Ujiji was just what I needed and the exercise was punctuated with chats to locals, meals/drinks by the roadside and questions asked about the refugee situation. The Congolese (Zaierean) and Burundian refugees had turned the area around Kigoma into the largest refugee population in Tanzania which already has the largest number of refugees in Africa. Part of the UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) site is along the road I took and I marveled at the large secondary school where instruction is in French.
Later in the day I cycled to the UNHCR headquarters to try and find out more about the refugee problem. I waited for nearly an hour (I am getting used to timing my waits, but back in England, find it very difficult to justify such time-consuming activities. Did I make an exaggerated mistake? No! The notes in my diary verify it every time...) before I was told to 'come tomorrow, they are at a meeting'. During this wait in the Ptrotection Unit Office, I was amused by one of the three security guards who refused to let me pass their office. The 'traditional build' woman guard had been picking her teeth throughout my waiting period, but near the end, a collegue told her that there was an ant on her collar. She jumped up and down in great agitation and fear, and, with the help of her collegue, managed to flick it off. She really was afraid that it might do her harm. So much for the wild life in Africa. The most common question I am asked on my return to England is "did you see lots of animals?". My reply has to be "no, they eat them all" and I can quote from an email I sent to a friend when visiting Ingrid: The red squirrels have been all over the place, the rabbits, pheasants, partridges and sheep all around the door and a mouse in the bathroom. More wild life than I ever saw in Africa outside the Parks!
Some facts elicited the next day from papers obtained because all members of the 242-strong UNHCR staff (53 internationals) were too busy to see me:
there are currently 273,678 refugees in Tanzania.
the 2007 Tanzania budget is 28,680,000 US $
the camps provide free health care, shelter, education, food, water and sanitation
the local population also has free access to health facilities and schools in the refugee camps
in 2007 it is estimated that 123,000 refugees will be repatiated to DRC and Burundi
Back in Kigoma I bumped into the deservedly angry boys. We discussed supper. I had already explored the expensive hotel complex a few km outside town overlooking the lake on my bicycle and they had taken a taxi there for lunch which was not good. I reccomended another place which I had heard of, which is further down that road. We hired a taxi on the understanding that we pay 10,000 for the ride and 5,00 for an hour's wait. Once there, the place did not do meals and we returned to the usual restaurant in town which we had been patronising. The taxi driver insisted on 15,000 and just could not understand our reasoning: No wait, no money. He angrily denounced us all.
The boys were sorted with buses for the next day, but I was in a quandry:
Do I return on the Liemba and then have that very long and bumpy ride to Mbeya? 4 days
Do I wait for another train a few days hence for either Dar or Mbeya? 4 days
Do I get various buses which would eventually connect me to better roads towards Dar es Salaam? 3 days
Do I get various buses which would go through the Katavi Park towards Mbeya but which are in a very bad state? 2 days
Do I take a 'plane and fly to Dar? 1 day
I enquired about the latter from local airline and travel agencies. No one could tell me how many flights there were on a day, but everyone told me that they were fully booked. "But if you go there and wait, the pilot might let you get on if he thinks he is not too heavy".
I stayed for yet another night in the Mission Hostel and continued interesting conversations with Emile and Jane.
Emile works for the Jane Goodall Institute and of course her 47yr+ research island, Gombe Stream National Park, where chimpanzees are still being studied, is a boat-ride away. Sorry, I never knew this before I came here, but it is so easy to be arrogant about my new-found knowledge! Anyway, Emile is involved in the 'Roots and Shoots' programme which give the local inhabitants schools, education, healthcare and so on in order to encourage them to leave the chimps alone. They are a popular bush-meat food. He was flying off to a meeting in Dar the next day.
Jane and her collegues from Dar, who preferred to stay in more up-market acomodation (she liked the attached church), had driven the 1500km from Dar. They work for the Government Food and Drugs Agency and have not been in the area since 2003. On the first day they went out and visited a few pharmacies and private hospitals. Two were instantly closed down (a patient in the dirty backyard of a clinic was sent to the local hospital) and many such medical establishments had their drug supplies confiscated. The next day, not surprisingly, most of the drugstores were closed. The team hid and waited for about 30 minutes. The owner of one pharmacy arrived. They pounced and found that most ot his drugs were either out of date, illegal or sub-standard. All shelves were cleared and there was much wailing and knashing of teeth. That day they closed down a few more places, but the message had been taken on board in the area and the Govt. officers had done their job. Jane hopes that they can get the funding to return more often, as the same senario will need to be repeated pretty soon.
Very early the next morning I walked a few km to the local fish market. There were no returning fishing boats as it was the time of the full moon and catching fish is less successful. I watched the moon set in glorious orange colours and at the same time, with the same glorious orange colours, the sun rose. Magic!
After breakfast, with nothing else to do, I took a minibus to the spot nearest the turnoff for the airport. It was a long walk as people usually take taxis, but I revelled in the remoteness and surprise of the locals when they saw this strange mzungu with a small rucsac walk down the road. Eventually, along the perimiter fence, I met John who is in charge of the whole airport. He told me to continue walking and that I would find a kiosk with drinks and food and somewhere to sit. This was about 11am and the sun was hot and I had not bothered to bring along any water. I found the airport, I found a spot of shade, I found all kinds of notices, I found profound silence. What I did not find was a supply of water, a supply of food, a seat or a person to talk to. The notices intrigued me with their dire warnings:
Kigoma Airport Regulations:
Going through gate onto tarmac area: 100,000/- or 1year or both
Parking in front of terminal: 20,000/- or 3years or both
Restricted to Public Areas only: 1,000,000/- or 1year or both
Speed limit 15kph: 20,000/- or 3years or both
"Not allowed to be seen at Airport Area more than 6 o'clock": 1,000,000/- or 1year or both
I am not quite sure why I can get 3 years in prison if I park in front of the entrance, but only one year if I enter a restricted area or am seen at Airport Areas after 6 o'clock.
At about 1.30pm a kind gentleman arrived to open up the airport facilities. He had no idea about if/when there would be 'planes that day, but I could buy some chemically manufactured fruitdrink and a packet of dry biscuits with similar chemicals. He provided me with a chair.
At about 3pm some people arrived and then there was movement and noise. A local Tanzanian 'plane finally arrived at about 4pm and people were processed into a waiting area. Just before the 'plane was to take off, I was told that I could get on. I hastilly paid about 350 US$ cash (cash is a requirement, I was told), was given a boarding pass and was pushed through the security. My knife showed up and I was told that it would be given to the pilot who duly returned it to me after the 3-hour flight. Just for the record, when I flew out of Dar on Ethiopian Airways, I had forgotten that I had a whole handful of steel medical dissecting tools in my rucsac which I was going to leave in transit in Addis Ababa. I asked them to please do as the Tanzanian airline had done, and to give them to the pilot. This was graciously agreed to and, while fastening my seat-belt before takeoff, a sewardess came to me and handed back all these incredibly shartp knives, blades, scissors, tweezers and other diverse objects which could cause mayhem in the hands of a few 'terrorists'.
Back on that small 'plane I realised that I had fallen victim to a robbery. What a clever scam! There were plenty of empty seats. But this way, I had not been issued with a ticket, my name had not been recorded and I might as well not have boarded that flight.
Back late that night in Dar, I walked the streets and felt the need to be careful. But there was no need, although it did remind me of the time in the 1960s when I lived in Johannesburg's Hillbrow area. Today it is notorious for being one of the most dangerous places in South Africa. Then it was a mixed area of great charm, although not of the safest. It was about 4am and I was walking to my flat from the nearby airport terminal when a man approached me from ahead. He asked if I knew where the local hospital was. I told him that he was walking in the right direction and he thanked me, saying that he had been stabbed and wanted the knife removed. As he walked away I saw the knife protruding from his back....
Bagamoyo, 11/2 hours' travel north of Dar, used to be the main town on that part of the East African coast. All expeditions to the hinterland finally went through this town although the main port of exit was Stone Town on Zanzibar. This has always puzzled me as the latter is on an island 50 miles (80 km) away and one still has to cross water to get to the mainland. However, Bagamoyo was marginalised in 1891 when a rail-head was created at the new port and capital city of Dar es Salaam. So why visit this town? No reason. It is dusty and neglected with German-era colonial buildings in disrepair. There is no real industry and the fish-market seems very lack-lustre. It reminds me of a village in Greece in which I once spent some time. This was in 1964 and the little village of Monomvasia on an island off the eastern Peloponese coast, was a totally deserted place apart from one American artist and his wife who lived in a refurbished house. One approached it via a bridge, but the economic situation was such that locals could not make a living and the children had emigrated. I lived in a deserted lighthouse on the far side and could walk about naked and snorkel to my heart's delight. Today I am sure that it is a thriving town. Bagamoyo needs to reach that stage and currently struggles with a few rough art galleries which reflect its main claim to fame; the local Art College.
Walking from the Bagamoyo bus station towards the hotel which I had chosen from my guidebook, I passed a man repairing bicycles under a tree. Yes, it was unusual, but he could rent me a bike for 24 hours. Just then a man on a bike came past. John could speak English and was willing to help me find my way. My choice of hotel turned out to be very expensive and John knew of another one nearby which was a third of the price with exactly the same facilities. This is where one's reliance on locals really pays off! As John was on a borrowed bike and had some classes to attend to (he is a teacher), we arranged to hire a bike for him for the afternoon. I spent three hours cycling alone around the town and came to the conclusion that it is really not worth a visit although there were defamed Information Boards outside the old buildings which could give some idea of what a bustling and important town it had once been. John and I met up and cycled out of town to the Holy Ghost Catholic Mission. It has a very good museum about the area, its industries and of course, the 19th century Expeditions which caught the imagination of those people at home who were unable to face the unknown of Darkest Africa. White men who came to Africa were either Missionaries, Explorers or Traders. Unlike Africans who only walk when they are going somewhere specific, these strangers walked in circles for no certain purpose. The word Mzungu is Kiswahili and it comes from the meaning 'walking in circles'.
The thing that the Mission is famous for, is the chapel where Livingstone's body was laid before being taken to Zanzibar en route to London. His two faithful servants, only one of whom could be regarded as truly converted to Christianity (what a waste of energy for all those years of deprivation in the bush!), had carried his dessicated body from a village in what is now Zambia to this town. It now lies buried in an honourable space in the nave of Westminster Abbey. And Stanley, having initially been recruited to find Livingstone, went on to do many mysteriously unacceptable things in Africa.
Being stubborn, I did not want to return to Dar es Salaam and to then travel north-east to the Usambara Mountains on the accepted route and tarred road. Why not cut straight west and join the main road there? A daladala was going to the village at the cross-roads, I was told. By the time we came to a stop, it was still 40km from the main road and the driver told me that he was not going further. I was laughingly told that he had a girlfriend in the village. One over-full truck with no room for me (my desperate plea of 'there is always room for one more!' went unheaded) passed and after 30 minutes of no traffic and a setting sun and nowhere to stay, I accepted the offer of a ride on a motorcycle. We only came off once on that dreadfully uneaven road and the driver skillfully managed to keep the bike upright! I scrambled up the slope, he manouvered it through the grass onto the road and we set off again with a nervous giggle. At last, in the dark, we arrived at a place where there is a tar road, shops/eating places and a mangy hotel/guest house but is more likely, a brothel.
The next morning was very frustrating as all the overfull daladalas and buses from Dar rushed past. We were too close to the city for any passengers to disembark and they would not even stop for a mzungu when the conductor was already hanging out of the door. Kind souls did eventually flag down a bus for me and it was only after I was squeezed in that I realised that they were demanding money. But by then we were already moving and I could not reach my purse.
Another bus-change and we were off the tourist road to Arusha and into the Usambara Mountains. It is always a great pleasure to enter mountainous country and I was very pleased to know that I would be walking amongst this range of unspoilt fertile hills and valleys for the next few days.
In the town of Lushoto, there are two rival Eco/Cultural Tour organisations. Rivalry is fierce, but the Guide I chose had the best English I could hear and helped me find a good hotel (no doubt to receive the usual commission). It might be unfair on the other Guides, but it may also just make a point. Said understood this and a few days later, we discussed the profession of Guiding and he could readily understand what I was talking about. We had often 'bumped into' and spent two nights together with a delightful, erudite and unprejudiced Israeli tourist called Guy who had a Guide from the rival outfit. The latter could hardly speak a word of English and Guy was quite frustrated to hear Said and I endlessly talking whilst walking.
We discussed the plants and trees and he took me through various farm lands (the area is famous for its potatoes grown in the valleys), to spectacular viewpoints with Kilimanjaro in the distance, a local village market, to watch the sun set, to eat farm-produced cheese and bread with salads (to die for after a diet of local foods for so long!), to a woman's co-operative pottery and so on. At the latter place, despite the good demonstration of pot-making for which they are paid, Guy and I both refused to buy badly-made clay animals which the children were trying to sell us at exhorbitant prices. Said did not think he could modify this behaviour because most tourists just feel sorry for them and happily pay over the odds. Thus the image of mzumgus being money-suppliers for rubbish continues....
During the first day, Said showed me a chameleon in a bush. Although I had had one as a brief 'pet' many years ago, I knew nothing about them. They are very territorial, extremely difficult to spot because of their rapid camouphlage colour-change and will always be found alone unless they are briefly mating. The bushes have to be quite open and airy, of a certain kind and not close to places where insects will not breed. So a continuous 'chameleon-hunt' took place. After four days we had spotted 32! Well, I had spotted only one......
One day we met a young Masai medicine man. He and Said happily chatted and I asked for a translation of his list of diseases and prices for the cures he carried with him. On the flip side of the list was printed the names in English: Diabetes and Epilepsy cures cost about 7,000/- in Kiswahili, but 85,000/- in English for the same miraculous three-day courses of medicine! This man is one of the many who ride on busses for certain distances and then happily tell his captive audience about his cures or other wonderful potions. I marvel at the volume of sales thus generated.
Days in the mountains came to an end I needed to return to England for a while.
The joy of an overnight flight transit in Addis meant meeting up with friends and eating 'Western foods' in the Hilton Hotel, which I had avoided as much as possible during my travels. The rot set in...
The above statement is no joke. Many a time when I despaired at a vehicle ever getting one more person into a non-existent space, bodies would miraculously form and reform and the person is somehow accommodated!
During my three-week whistle-stop tour of some parts of Tanzania which I still wanted to see, there was a lot to get into a few days:
Buses, Boats, Bicycles and Breakdowns
Catamarans, Chatting and Climbing
Waiting, Walking and Talking
Taxis, Trains, Planes, People and Patience
Roads, Railways, Refugees and Robberies
Death, Daladalas and Dust........
As a traveller I do not make arrangements beforehand, thus leaving the adventure to take its own shape. This chapter is an illustration of just how such a little trip can include so many elements. They were all unplanned and rewarding!
The overnight fast-ferry catamaran to Dar es Salaam from Zanzibar suited me. There were many young back-packers taking the cheapest option and, once the ferry had left Stone Town at 10pm, foam mattresses were brought out and we slept on them or the luxury settees in the vast lounge. I never understood how a trip which normally takes 90 minutes could now take 8 hours.
In Dar, after 21/2 hours of negotiating at the Central Line Railway Station, I managed to secure a ticket for a connecting bus to Dodoma (already two months after the promised re-opening of the train line) and a train to Kigoma where I could then get a boat going south along the eastern shores of Lake Tanganyika. Only after all this was I told that the boat in question, MV Liemba, would only be travelling south a few days after my arrival and that I could not make an earlier connection. "But if you go to Mbeya, you can make a south/north connection. We do not know when that boat or train will leave". I cancelled my hard-fought-for-ticket, took a daladala to the Tazara Railway station far out of town and stood in a queue. There are trains three times a week. Chozella was only reconfirming her booking and we started to chat. She is Zambian and had just returned from her honeymoon in Nairobi. "My husband, Patrick, is looking after our bags and the train leaves in 40 minutes". When I finally got to the end of the queue, there was a ticket available! A hasty rush outside to buy food from hawkers and I caught the train! Over the last two months I had been told that there was no food on the train because the contractor was not making money. But, without notice, the situation had changed and the buffet car was providing food and drinks. This was a good place to gather for meals and long chats.
I was a great pleasure to have a 'power-shower' on board too! One gets so used to little trickles of water and this was efficient and refreshing. I have never had a shower on a train before and was very impressed. The fact that the train is 'always late' and has inexplicable stops is not reason for concern...just Africa. It was built by the Chinese when the idea of infiltrating Communism into the heart of Africa via Zambia was very prevalent. But maintenance is another matter...
In my compartment was Jennifer, a journalist from the USA who lives in China and has been travelling about Africa, gathering information on the effect of the Chinese presence. The journey was 24 hours long and we joined Chozella and Patrick for lively discussions. Patrick has a stature and strong presence to go with it. Had the British Colonialists not killed off his great-grandfather, he would have been king of a prominent tribe (I forgot which) from the Malawi/Zambia border area.
In Mbeya I 'picked up' a young man out of the usual selection waiting to meet mzungus off the train. Lucky walked me to my chosen Missionary Hostel on the outskirts of town, although he found it a bit strange that a mzungu actually preferred to walk the 6km. The next day he met me early and without being asked, took me the long but more interesting way into town. At one stage we passed the local prison where smiling and very friendly prisoners beckoned us to come inside and see their work. There were none of the usual guarded gun-wielding formalities and only after our visit did we sign the visitors' book. Men were busy making furniture, baskets and other items which are then sold to the public. The large vegetable garden with a great variety of plants is the best I have seen in Africa and I never once thought that I should be wary of the sharp knives and pangas being wielded about. The men get warm shelter, three meals a day, companionship and interesting work to do. Why should they want to escape?
We booked into a central hotel then went to buy a bus ticket for early the next morning. This became a farce as two English-speaking men outside the bus operator's office organised the ticket for me. The assistant inside handed it over and only after they had disappeared into the crowds and I queried the price, did I see that the ticket quoted 10,000/- instead of the 15,000/- I had paid. The hapless assistant could not help and the owner returned just then. He explained how I and his assistant had been duped and all the people in the teaming confusion of the bus station soon managed to find the 'culprits' and divest them of 5,000/-. Honour was re-established.
After this exercise we took a minibus to an area south of Mbeya. Ngozi Peak is a crater lake known for its beauty and local legends. Once the necessary Park Fees were paid and we had walked and climbed for 2 hours, our reward from the 2,629m high rim certainly proved worth the effort. Far in the distance below is a clear lake of cold water with no outlet. Two Dutch girls who had done their volunteering and were now on the usual mini-holiday before returning to college, had climbed up without a guide and were extremely pleased to see us. They had contemplated going down through the thick bush to cool off in the lake, but the remnants of fear at being lost or the stories about the lake and its equivalent of Loch Ness Monster, had restrained them. They gladly returned with us through the thick tropical forest .
Lucky had studied art for 4 years in Bagamoyo (famous for its art college) and now shares a shop with his artist brother where he sells his Tinka Tinka-style art. However, we were back too late to visit the shop and of course I was convinced that I shall return to Mbeya and see him and the shop again. But it never happened. One can never make such plans on my kind of journey.
One leaves in the dark of 4.30am and needs to keep to main roads rather than the short-cut paths to get to the bus stop. Too many warnings about thieves....The bus ride to a connecting town called Sumbawanga was the usual crowded and bumpy ride. We arrived late (what is new?!) and I just managed to find the one and only bus which would take me to Kasanga where I might just catch the once-a-week appearance of the Liemba. I knew it had already left the Zambian border town of Mpulungu. Only after we arrived in the dark and I was convinced that we had missed the boat, did the driver assure me that the boat would not leave without his passengers. Relief! This lengthy day of bumpy bus rides really put me off the thought of repeating it soon. Now for some smooth chugging on the world's second longest and second deepest lake.
'Of course' the boat was later than the advertised time. For the next 50 hours it would not depart from any of its moorings until the last passenger or bag of rice or fish was safely stored aboard. The system works. No one would believe this when viewing the utter chaos which each stop seemed to bring forth.
The parts for the 71m long and 10m wide cargo boat MV Liemba were built in 1913 in Germany and then transported overland for 1500miles from the East Coast to Lake Tanganyika. Here they were assembled in 1914, just for the boat to be scuttled in 1915 by the Germans rather than be left to the English who were mandated to take over the area known as German East Africa. It was re-floated in 1922 and refurbished in 1970 to take up to 600 passengers. It has travelled up and down the east coast of the Lake ever since. However, in the early 1990s, as Mobutu was being overthrown in Zaire, the Liemba was used to ferry 75,000 refugees across the lake from Zaire to Kigoma. Today the same weekly schedule applies, but instead of a rest in Kigoma on Tuesdays, it crosses the lake once again with 500 returning Democratic Republic of the Congo (the new name for Zairre) refugees, only to start its circular trip again on a Wednesday.
There are no more jetties or quays for the Liemba to moor to between Kasanga and Kigoma and it has to slowly chug into an area near a village, whether it is day or night. Once the engines are switched off, a blast of the hooter and suddenly the water around is alive with small and large paddle or outboard motor boats. Depending on the size of the nearby villages or the seasonal crop, anything from 10 to 30 boats could arrive for servicing. A new law has forbidden these small boats to wait less than a km. from the expected stop because of accidents in the past. So a dead-calm sea without a boat in sight suddenly becomes a hive of activity with each boat wanting to be on either side of the Liemba for the loading on and off of passengers or the storage of cargo. The latter is usually large baskets or plastic bags of dried fish or, as was the case when I travelled, sacks of rice. It was the rice season and I could not believe how much was being produce in the hinterland! The sacks weigh 110k each and by the end of this slow but efficient way of transporting the annual crop, we had hundreds of them on board. Many were of course brought by small dug-out boats as well as larger motorised ones. There is an efficient crane on board and while some large nets are being filled with bags, other boats might have their cargoes being lifted or getting into position for their turn next. Everything seems so chaotic, but only after a long time did I realise that there was somebody meticulously recording each item that was being stored in the hold or on the deck. The Tax-man is always present!
One evening it was very exciting to see two rival boats resolve their little differences. A boat with about 4 oars was bearing down upon us when an outboard-motor boat shot past and rammed into the Liemba. This was certainly not fair play and the 'captains' very quickly stripped off shirts and the most exciting boxing/wrestling match you can imagine took place. If a film fight had been choreographed to show such a fight, it could not have bettered it. The men, weakly being separated by others but always breaking free would lash out and wrestle amongst the bags, passengers and boats. Not once in this beautiful fight did they loose their balance and no-one else fell into the water despite the two boats rocking from side to side. Honour was finally restored when all the passengers had disembarked and not one wanted to embark. So they each lost out on return customers...
I have never yet seen a wooden boat without water sloshing in the hull. When these boats are built they have a certain area in the design especially for the bailing out of water. Thus each boat often has a little boy as oficial bailer. On this lake the flat oars are very long and pointed, but just as efficient as any curved oar I have seen.
My first-class cabin was extremely comfortable and I found myself singing with happiness. Well, if you can call the dreadful sound eminating from my throat....
There were four of us who soon became a 'unit' through chatting or eating meals together.
Perdita is German and had been working for an NGO in Namibia. She had hoped to arrange to set up an Eco/Cultural-Tourist enterprise which would encourage the local, marginalised people to make an effort to earn some money. But they were not interested and found it easier to just drink away the day. She was thankfully in agreement with me about the relative uselessness of trying to impose Western-style projects on people who will not be able to maintain them on their own....
Jose is Spanish and nearing my age. He has business in Spain and the USA and travels there briefly every month. Magically, the rest of the time he spends in Africa and has done so for the last three years. He has a vehicle with which he has covered just about every country in Africa, or he just takes transport like this boat trip. There are no roads in Central Congo. I would have given much to be able to do his recent 8-day Congo River trip on one of six barges in convoy. There were about 200 people all told and an ox was slaughtered every day. The reassuring thing is that he has promised that I can join him whenever I am free. Something to look forward to!
Mark is Swiss and an Executive Chef with absolutely no pretensions. He has cooked all over the world and is on his way to Manila where he will be in charge of a luxury Hotel with inter alia 15 staff-chefs alone below him. I never realised that these large organisations obviously have to feed their staff as well... But Mark was not a happy man. He was recovering from his 'African experience': He had been head-hunted to run the catering of a 5-star hotel on an island on the lake. Financiers had backed the building operation, but the people who were to run the place were totally incompetent and inexperienced and had no idea about what constitiutes 'service' for clients. Instead of a helicopter, the clients are flown to the nearest mainland airstrip and then subjected to three hours of the kind of roads I am only too familiar with. The kitchen did not have adequate supplies and the facilities generally were very poor for the 1000 $ a day service paid for. He did not renew his probationary contract and left when there were no more bookings at this time of the year which is the height of the tourist season.
We also met and often chatted to Matteus, a Benedictine priest who wore ordinary clothes and had been sent to Germany to study. He learnt to speak the language within three months! I really admire the African ability to learn languages. He and Perdita could indulge in German.
The charm of looking down from one's deck upon the heaving mass of Africans below is that it is so very colourful and full of humour. We learnt that a man had died on the boat and so, when we docked in Kigoma and everyone wanted to get off at the same time, I was very moved to see this active mass of people all stand still in respect whilst the body was carried off and the relatives allowed to follow. Then the orchestrated chaos erupted with everyone trying to get off at the same time. Yet again, not an item dropped into the water.
Kigoma. Matteus was home, but, after our late arrival in the dark, he kindly helped us to get a taxi which took us to a local Mission Hostel where the other three would be leaving from the next day. Or so we thought.
Perdita had booked a bus to take her to Uganda and she successfully departed. The boys were to get a train very early that morning and were there on time, but the train only left at 11am, just to turn back after about a kilometer. They were so fed up with the train that they gave up and booked their respective busses for the next morning. I had always intended to stay a day or so and then return via the next train two days later. When I tried to book a ticket, I was told that there were none available. This was after a delightful hour-long queueing and chat to Arthur who is involved in Adult Education through the Radio. Many people have radios where there might not be electricity for TV coverage, so these tapes are ideal learning tools. The funding is from a Costa Rica-based Foundation and students pay for their books only. The 20-minute tapes are distributed to registered students and they can take a National Examination. It is hoped that these radio classes can eventually go on air for anyone to listen to. Thus queues are not a burden but an interesting way to pass the time and learn about the country.
While the boys sat and fumed on the train that first day, I had hired a bicycle from a young man who repaired bikes. He was totally bemused and borrowed one off a friend, changed a wheel with a bulging tyre and quoted an arbitrary figure. When I gave a deposit with the payment (based on what I had paid in Zanzibar and which pleased him greatly) and said I wanted it for 24 hours, this was a bit difficult to understand, but he was happy. The next day, when I wanted to hire it again for another day, I could not. His friend wanted it back.
Dr. David Livingstone had been ailing on the coast of the lake, in a little village called Ujiji. This was the largest settlement along that stretch for many years until Kigoma was chosen as the rail-head. Ujiji, 8km south of Kigoma, subsequently declined and is today a scruffy, rambling town with signs of former Colonial glory in the street layout and established old trees. Livingstone was informed of the imminent approach of Henry Morton Stanley and chose to meet him on 10th November 1871 by the lake shore under a mango tree. Today that lake edge is 70meters away from the two mango trees grafted from the original in 1924. The lake is becoming more and more degraded and the water is not being replenished. When one thinks that the few meters in depth of the top surface of this steeply graded lake holds most of the water, it is a frightening concept.
The small museum is full of interesting facts about the abortive attempts by Livingstone to convert the natives and stop the slave trade, but one can but marvel at his exploring ability in such an inhospitable continent. Stanley arrived with a USA-flag bearer (where were the cameras?!) and Livingstone does not mention the famous greeting. One wonders if the great exagerator, Stanley, did not invent it to make a better story. All Livingstone mentions is the fact that he was now eating three instead of two meals a day. The local guide ("Michael Palin is my friend" - Oct.1991) kindly showed me where the Royal Geographical Society had erected a memorial in 1927 when the importance of the site was recognised. He then gave me a 5-minute mantra about the life and death of Livingstone, much of which I could not understand although it was in 'English'. In the RGS Head Office in London, there is a petrified piece of the tree from Zambia under which Livingstone's heart had been buried.
The bicycle ride to and from Ujiji was just what I needed and the exercise was punctuated with chats to locals, meals/drinks by the roadside and questions asked about the refugee situation. The Congolese (Zaierean) and Burundian refugees had turned the area around Kigoma into the largest refugee population in Tanzania which already has the largest number of refugees in Africa. Part of the UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) site is along the road I took and I marveled at the large secondary school where instruction is in French.
Later in the day I cycled to the UNHCR headquarters to try and find out more about the refugee problem. I waited for nearly an hour (I am getting used to timing my waits, but back in England, find it very difficult to justify such time-consuming activities. Did I make an exaggerated mistake? No! The notes in my diary verify it every time...) before I was told to 'come tomorrow, they are at a meeting'. During this wait in the Ptrotection Unit Office, I was amused by one of the three security guards who refused to let me pass their office. The 'traditional build' woman guard had been picking her teeth throughout my waiting period, but near the end, a collegue told her that there was an ant on her collar. She jumped up and down in great agitation and fear, and, with the help of her collegue, managed to flick it off. She really was afraid that it might do her harm. So much for the wild life in Africa. The most common question I am asked on my return to England is "did you see lots of animals?". My reply has to be "no, they eat them all" and I can quote from an email I sent to a friend when visiting Ingrid: The red squirrels have been all over the place, the rabbits, pheasants, partridges and sheep all around the door and a mouse in the bathroom. More wild life than I ever saw in Africa outside the Parks!
Some facts elicited the next day from papers obtained because all members of the 242-strong UNHCR staff (53 internationals) were too busy to see me:
there are currently 273,678 refugees in Tanzania.
the 2007 Tanzania budget is 28,680,000 US $
the camps provide free health care, shelter, education, food, water and sanitation
the local population also has free access to health facilities and schools in the refugee camps
in 2007 it is estimated that 123,000 refugees will be repatiated to DRC and Burundi
Back in Kigoma I bumped into the deservedly angry boys. We discussed supper. I had already explored the expensive hotel complex a few km outside town overlooking the lake on my bicycle and they had taken a taxi there for lunch which was not good. I reccomended another place which I had heard of, which is further down that road. We hired a taxi on the understanding that we pay 10,000 for the ride and 5,00 for an hour's wait. Once there, the place did not do meals and we returned to the usual restaurant in town which we had been patronising. The taxi driver insisted on 15,000 and just could not understand our reasoning: No wait, no money. He angrily denounced us all.
The boys were sorted with buses for the next day, but I was in a quandry:
Do I return on the Liemba and then have that very long and bumpy ride to Mbeya? 4 days
Do I wait for another train a few days hence for either Dar or Mbeya? 4 days
Do I get various buses which would eventually connect me to better roads towards Dar es Salaam? 3 days
Do I get various buses which would go through the Katavi Park towards Mbeya but which are in a very bad state? 2 days
Do I take a 'plane and fly to Dar? 1 day
I enquired about the latter from local airline and travel agencies. No one could tell me how many flights there were on a day, but everyone told me that they were fully booked. "But if you go there and wait, the pilot might let you get on if he thinks he is not too heavy".
I stayed for yet another night in the Mission Hostel and continued interesting conversations with Emile and Jane.
Emile works for the Jane Goodall Institute and of course her 47yr+ research island, Gombe Stream National Park, where chimpanzees are still being studied, is a boat-ride away. Sorry, I never knew this before I came here, but it is so easy to be arrogant about my new-found knowledge! Anyway, Emile is involved in the 'Roots and Shoots' programme which give the local inhabitants schools, education, healthcare and so on in order to encourage them to leave the chimps alone. They are a popular bush-meat food. He was flying off to a meeting in Dar the next day.
Jane and her collegues from Dar, who preferred to stay in more up-market acomodation (she liked the attached church), had driven the 1500km from Dar. They work for the Government Food and Drugs Agency and have not been in the area since 2003. On the first day they went out and visited a few pharmacies and private hospitals. Two were instantly closed down (a patient in the dirty backyard of a clinic was sent to the local hospital) and many such medical establishments had their drug supplies confiscated. The next day, not surprisingly, most of the drugstores were closed. The team hid and waited for about 30 minutes. The owner of one pharmacy arrived. They pounced and found that most ot his drugs were either out of date, illegal or sub-standard. All shelves were cleared and there was much wailing and knashing of teeth. That day they closed down a few more places, but the message had been taken on board in the area and the Govt. officers had done their job. Jane hopes that they can get the funding to return more often, as the same senario will need to be repeated pretty soon.
Very early the next morning I walked a few km to the local fish market. There were no returning fishing boats as it was the time of the full moon and catching fish is less successful. I watched the moon set in glorious orange colours and at the same time, with the same glorious orange colours, the sun rose. Magic!
After breakfast, with nothing else to do, I took a minibus to the spot nearest the turnoff for the airport. It was a long walk as people usually take taxis, but I revelled in the remoteness and surprise of the locals when they saw this strange mzungu with a small rucsac walk down the road. Eventually, along the perimiter fence, I met John who is in charge of the whole airport. He told me to continue walking and that I would find a kiosk with drinks and food and somewhere to sit. This was about 11am and the sun was hot and I had not bothered to bring along any water. I found the airport, I found a spot of shade, I found all kinds of notices, I found profound silence. What I did not find was a supply of water, a supply of food, a seat or a person to talk to. The notices intrigued me with their dire warnings:
Kigoma Airport Regulations:
Going through gate onto tarmac area: 100,000/- or 1year or both
Parking in front of terminal: 20,000/- or 3years or both
Restricted to Public Areas only: 1,000,000/- or 1year or both
Speed limit 15kph: 20,000/- or 3years or both
"Not allowed to be seen at Airport Area more than 6 o'clock": 1,000,000/- or 1year or both
I am not quite sure why I can get 3 years in prison if I park in front of the entrance, but only one year if I enter a restricted area or am seen at Airport Areas after 6 o'clock.
At about 1.30pm a kind gentleman arrived to open up the airport facilities. He had no idea about if/when there would be 'planes that day, but I could buy some chemically manufactured fruitdrink and a packet of dry biscuits with similar chemicals. He provided me with a chair.
At about 3pm some people arrived and then there was movement and noise. A local Tanzanian 'plane finally arrived at about 4pm and people were processed into a waiting area. Just before the 'plane was to take off, I was told that I could get on. I hastilly paid about 350 US$ cash (cash is a requirement, I was told), was given a boarding pass and was pushed through the security. My knife showed up and I was told that it would be given to the pilot who duly returned it to me after the 3-hour flight. Just for the record, when I flew out of Dar on Ethiopian Airways, I had forgotten that I had a whole handful of steel medical dissecting tools in my rucsac which I was going to leave in transit in Addis Ababa. I asked them to please do as the Tanzanian airline had done, and to give them to the pilot. This was graciously agreed to and, while fastening my seat-belt before takeoff, a sewardess came to me and handed back all these incredibly shartp knives, blades, scissors, tweezers and other diverse objects which could cause mayhem in the hands of a few 'terrorists'.
Back on that small 'plane I realised that I had fallen victim to a robbery. What a clever scam! There were plenty of empty seats. But this way, I had not been issued with a ticket, my name had not been recorded and I might as well not have boarded that flight.
Back late that night in Dar, I walked the streets and felt the need to be careful. But there was no need, although it did remind me of the time in the 1960s when I lived in Johannesburg's Hillbrow area. Today it is notorious for being one of the most dangerous places in South Africa. Then it was a mixed area of great charm, although not of the safest. It was about 4am and I was walking to my flat from the nearby airport terminal when a man approached me from ahead. He asked if I knew where the local hospital was. I told him that he was walking in the right direction and he thanked me, saying that he had been stabbed and wanted the knife removed. As he walked away I saw the knife protruding from his back....
Bagamoyo, 11/2 hours' travel north of Dar, used to be the main town on that part of the East African coast. All expeditions to the hinterland finally went through this town although the main port of exit was Stone Town on Zanzibar. This has always puzzled me as the latter is on an island 50 miles (80 km) away and one still has to cross water to get to the mainland. However, Bagamoyo was marginalised in 1891 when a rail-head was created at the new port and capital city of Dar es Salaam. So why visit this town? No reason. It is dusty and neglected with German-era colonial buildings in disrepair. There is no real industry and the fish-market seems very lack-lustre. It reminds me of a village in Greece in which I once spent some time. This was in 1964 and the little village of Monomvasia on an island off the eastern Peloponese coast, was a totally deserted place apart from one American artist and his wife who lived in a refurbished house. One approached it via a bridge, but the economic situation was such that locals could not make a living and the children had emigrated. I lived in a deserted lighthouse on the far side and could walk about naked and snorkel to my heart's delight. Today I am sure that it is a thriving town. Bagamoyo needs to reach that stage and currently struggles with a few rough art galleries which reflect its main claim to fame; the local Art College.
Walking from the Bagamoyo bus station towards the hotel which I had chosen from my guidebook, I passed a man repairing bicycles under a tree. Yes, it was unusual, but he could rent me a bike for 24 hours. Just then a man on a bike came past. John could speak English and was willing to help me find my way. My choice of hotel turned out to be very expensive and John knew of another one nearby which was a third of the price with exactly the same facilities. This is where one's reliance on locals really pays off! As John was on a borrowed bike and had some classes to attend to (he is a teacher), we arranged to hire a bike for him for the afternoon. I spent three hours cycling alone around the town and came to the conclusion that it is really not worth a visit although there were defamed Information Boards outside the old buildings which could give some idea of what a bustling and important town it had once been. John and I met up and cycled out of town to the Holy Ghost Catholic Mission. It has a very good museum about the area, its industries and of course, the 19th century Expeditions which caught the imagination of those people at home who were unable to face the unknown of Darkest Africa. White men who came to Africa were either Missionaries, Explorers or Traders. Unlike Africans who only walk when they are going somewhere specific, these strangers walked in circles for no certain purpose. The word Mzungu is Kiswahili and it comes from the meaning 'walking in circles'.
The thing that the Mission is famous for, is the chapel where Livingstone's body was laid before being taken to Zanzibar en route to London. His two faithful servants, only one of whom could be regarded as truly converted to Christianity (what a waste of energy for all those years of deprivation in the bush!), had carried his dessicated body from a village in what is now Zambia to this town. It now lies buried in an honourable space in the nave of Westminster Abbey. And Stanley, having initially been recruited to find Livingstone, went on to do many mysteriously unacceptable things in Africa.
Being stubborn, I did not want to return to Dar es Salaam and to then travel north-east to the Usambara Mountains on the accepted route and tarred road. Why not cut straight west and join the main road there? A daladala was going to the village at the cross-roads, I was told. By the time we came to a stop, it was still 40km from the main road and the driver told me that he was not going further. I was laughingly told that he had a girlfriend in the village. One over-full truck with no room for me (my desperate plea of 'there is always room for one more!' went unheaded) passed and after 30 minutes of no traffic and a setting sun and nowhere to stay, I accepted the offer of a ride on a motorcycle. We only came off once on that dreadfully uneaven road and the driver skillfully managed to keep the bike upright! I scrambled up the slope, he manouvered it through the grass onto the road and we set off again with a nervous giggle. At last, in the dark, we arrived at a place where there is a tar road, shops/eating places and a mangy hotel/guest house but is more likely, a brothel.
The next morning was very frustrating as all the overfull daladalas and buses from Dar rushed past. We were too close to the city for any passengers to disembark and they would not even stop for a mzungu when the conductor was already hanging out of the door. Kind souls did eventually flag down a bus for me and it was only after I was squeezed in that I realised that they were demanding money. But by then we were already moving and I could not reach my purse.
Another bus-change and we were off the tourist road to Arusha and into the Usambara Mountains. It is always a great pleasure to enter mountainous country and I was very pleased to know that I would be walking amongst this range of unspoilt fertile hills and valleys for the next few days.
In the town of Lushoto, there are two rival Eco/Cultural Tour organisations. Rivalry is fierce, but the Guide I chose had the best English I could hear and helped me find a good hotel (no doubt to receive the usual commission). It might be unfair on the other Guides, but it may also just make a point. Said understood this and a few days later, we discussed the profession of Guiding and he could readily understand what I was talking about. We had often 'bumped into' and spent two nights together with a delightful, erudite and unprejudiced Israeli tourist called Guy who had a Guide from the rival outfit. The latter could hardly speak a word of English and Guy was quite frustrated to hear Said and I endlessly talking whilst walking.
We discussed the plants and trees and he took me through various farm lands (the area is famous for its potatoes grown in the valleys), to spectacular viewpoints with Kilimanjaro in the distance, a local village market, to watch the sun set, to eat farm-produced cheese and bread with salads (to die for after a diet of local foods for so long!), to a woman's co-operative pottery and so on. At the latter place, despite the good demonstration of pot-making for which they are paid, Guy and I both refused to buy badly-made clay animals which the children were trying to sell us at exhorbitant prices. Said did not think he could modify this behaviour because most tourists just feel sorry for them and happily pay over the odds. Thus the image of mzumgus being money-suppliers for rubbish continues....
During the first day, Said showed me a chameleon in a bush. Although I had had one as a brief 'pet' many years ago, I knew nothing about them. They are very territorial, extremely difficult to spot because of their rapid camouphlage colour-change and will always be found alone unless they are briefly mating. The bushes have to be quite open and airy, of a certain kind and not close to places where insects will not breed. So a continuous 'chameleon-hunt' took place. After four days we had spotted 32! Well, I had spotted only one......
One day we met a young Masai medicine man. He and Said happily chatted and I asked for a translation of his list of diseases and prices for the cures he carried with him. On the flip side of the list was printed the names in English: Diabetes and Epilepsy cures cost about 7,000/- in Kiswahili, but 85,000/- in English for the same miraculous three-day courses of medicine! This man is one of the many who ride on busses for certain distances and then happily tell his captive audience about his cures or other wonderful potions. I marvel at the volume of sales thus generated.
Days in the mountains came to an end I needed to return to England for a while.
The joy of an overnight flight transit in Addis meant meeting up with friends and eating 'Western foods' in the Hilton Hotel, which I had avoided as much as possible during my travels. The rot set in...
posted by Hilda Matthews @ 6:33 AM
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