Kampala to Dar es Salaam
I hadn't been looking forward to the bus trip from Kampala to Dar es Salaam but since it was at the very beginning of trip I figured excitement alone would get me through, but nothing can quite prepare a person for a 30-hour African bus ride. We left on time at 1:00pm, quite unique for Uganda and considering the double-whammy of riding Kampala Coach, with an estimated arrival of 5:00pm the next day. Delays at the Kenya border held us longer than expected (though we were flagged through with our $20 Mzungu coupons for the transit visa) which set us back. After a short bathroom stop in Nairobi at 2am we headed south to Tanzania. A few Mzungu coupons ($100 for a multiple-entry one-year visa which is the only one available to Americans) and a polite immigration smile later we were in Tanzania. Exhausted, our spirits drained, and that excitement I counted on so much to get me through quickly diminishing, we spotted two giraffe on the roadside which reconfirmed where we were in the world. And though it was cloudy around Moshi, we were able to catch a few glimpses of the glaciers of Mt. Kilimanjaro glistening in the morning equatorial sun.
Finally, after 30 hours on the road and about 1000km behind us, we reached the port city of Dar es Salaam, which means place of peace in Arabic. Up to then I had not traveled in predominately Muslim cultures. Uganda’s Muslim population is about 20% but it’s by no means a Muslim country. Coastal Tanzania, and Zanzibar in particular, has been heavily influenced by the Middle East and Islam for the past several hundred years. Rolling into our hotel (Simba Inn, $8.50 per person with breakfast) at 8pm the only thing we wanted was a cold beer and some food. The hotel: dry. The corner stores: dry. The deserted streets: didn’t want to venture into an unknown city at night.
Two blocks from the hotel was an Indian-run street BBQ, Mamboz. Spiced meats, chili and garlic sauces were a treat to our depraved Ugandan taste buds, but again the restaurant: dry. But we made it safely to the first point on our trip, saw wildlife and the largest mountain in Africa, and the next day we were headed to the Spice Islands.
Phase Two
Zanzibar
Zanzibar has captivated my imagination for several years, mostly because it’s fun to say (and who doesn’t think two ‘z’s in a word is cool?), but also the unique history, white sand beaches, and general exotic allure of the place. Giddy isn’t a strong enough way to describe myself as I was on the ferry making the 90-minute crossing ($35 each way). A triangle-sailed wooden dhow gently passed through our wake and we were in Stone Town.
Stone Town was the seat of the sultanate that ruled the archipelago and at a time also coastal Tanzania. The old town is a UNESCO world heritage site with twisting alleys and a maze of paths. It reminded me of Venice or the French Quarter, though the architecture was distinctly Middle Eastern.
Four types of people are on Zanzibar: the Muslims (97% are Muslim from quite liberal – one guy went and bought us beer – to very conservative with women completely covered), the Rastafarians, the tourists, and finally residents who aren’t any of the others. Fisherman Solomon was one of the latter. A ruddy sun-burnt Arab-African man in his early 40s in a varying degree of sobriety, Solomon always popped out of nowhere to help us out. He started walking with us as we stepped off the ferry as a self-appointed tour guide, showing us to several different guest houses until we found one with available beds. He rambled and muttered as he navigated us through the Stone Town labyrinth, explaining different activities he could arrange and telling off other touts who approached us.
The fish market in Stone Town is at a plaza on the water where fishermen set up stands each night and grill the day’s catch kebab-style. You can get fresh-squeezed cane or fruit juices (yup, finding a beer was a larger challenge than imagined), a spicy potato-falafel soup, and a Zanzibar pizza. We met up with Solomon again that night – he found us and was drunker than earlier in the day – and he explained everything and grilled it all up for us: tuna, kingfish, lobster masala, shrimp, coconut falafel.
The next morning it was beach time. We headed to the sleepy village of Bwejuu on a dalla-dalla, the local open-backed trucks (about one hour, 2500 TSh), and crashed at a Rastafarian beach bungalow called Mustapha’s Place ($30 per night for the room with breakfast, so $7.50 each). The beach was incredible. It’s been described as powdered sugar, but I’m going to go for powdered milk; it’s less appetizing perhaps but more accurate in the consistency of the sand and the way it turns to a fine mud (or thick cream) when it mixes with the incoming crystal turquoise water. The air was sultry, and the warm waters of the Indian Ocean offered no reprieve. It was like walking from a humid bathroom directly into a warm bath.
After three days in a warm, lazy paradise where the day’s typical dilemma was choosing between the fish curry or crab penne, we were ready to continue back to Stone Town and Dar es Salaam for the trip inland.
Phase Three
Dar es Salaam to Mbeya
The day was against us from the beginning. The goal was simple: leave Stone Town at 7am and be at the train station in Dar for the 1:50pm departure; almost seven hours for a trip that should take no longer than three. But this is Africa.
We rolled out of bed at 6am, forwent breakfast, and lumbered with our backpacks to the ferry dock to catch our boat. It was a grey and drizzly morning which accurately reflected our moods. At the dock they wouldn’t let us board because our boat wasn’t loading, so we asked around and found out that our 7am boat was in fact leaving at 11:30. I assume we were duped into buying bad tickets, but had to get off the island so reluctantly forked over another $35 and bought tickets from a different company that had a 9:30 departure. The skies grew greyer and the drizzle turned to rain.
Normally the crossing to the mainland is 90 minutes, but because of the rain and rough waters it took about 120 minutes, we left a half-hour late, and a lot of people on the boat got sick. We finally reached Dar at noon, plenty of time for an 8km taxi ride to the train station. But because of the rains the main road had flooded, adding to the already backed up traffic from road construction. Our taxi driver knew a few shortcuts and put general road rules in the back seat and we made it to the station at one, my nerves on edge from lack of a contingency plan, and the rest of the gang tired and hungry.
The TAZARA Line (Tanzania Zambia Railroad) was built by the Chinese in the 1970s to link landlocked Zambia and interior Tanzania with the port at Dar es Salaam. I don’t think it has been updated since.
We met our friends and fellow ex-Peace Corps Volunteers Steve and Katherine at the station who had picked up the tickets (one worry off of my plate), and from there the skies cleared and the day became enjoyable again. Our six-bed-berth, second-class cabin (24,000 TSh per person to Mbeya) was large enough to accommodate all of us and our backpacks comfortably, and the saloon car was only a car away. Staff were friendly and helpful and the food was good and cheap (3500 TSh for meals, and 2000 TSh for cold beer), a few steps up from what I had prepared myself for. The train also goes through the Selous Game Reserve, one of the largest protected areas in Africa, and skirts two national parks. From the dinning car we spotted springbok, warthogs, monkeys, a herd of zebra, four giraffes, and a dead elephant (hit by the train?).
The TAZARA line is also known for its breakdowns. I asked a few friends who had lived in Tanzania about the train before we left Kampala and the general response was: “That’s the last option people use to get anywhere.” To me I just heard: “Adventure.” The train stopped 12 hours from Dar at 2am because of a derailment ahead. I had taken some Benadryl so I slept through most of it, but in the morning when we still weren’t moving I went out to explore. The third-class passengers were mostly on the station platform or milling around the train. Some people had set up coal stoves and were selling breakfast. Everyone was taking it in stride and I never heard anyone complain.
By noon we were finally on our way, weaving through valleys and finally onto a plateau that would take us straight into Mbeya, the regional hub of south-western Tanzania. 860km and 32 hours later (about 16 mph) we trundled into the station at midnight. Some missionaries also traveling on the train had called ahead and arranged for us to be picked up and taken to a church-run hostel. Without their help we would have been stranded with no idea where to go. Seeing a bunch of white people with luggage packed into the back of a pickup in the middle of Africa was quite the contrast to the ordinary scene!
Phase Four
Mbeya and Lake Malawi
Our destination was the small lake-side village of Chilumba in northern Malawi. Based on transport experiences in Uganda I was prepared for a long day of crowded buses, crying babies, and hectic taxi parks, but the transport went surprising smoothly. We left Mbeya without much difficulty at 10am on a coaster to the border (6500 TSh, two full hours). After exchanging the last of our colonial shillings for the bright new colonial kwacha we decided to hoof the one kilometer to the border post. A local Malawian teen, Joe, walked with us, keeping us company on the way.
Starting with Joe on that one kilometer walk I started to sense an altogether different vibe from Malawi. Even the immigration officer was more jovial than the stern-faced down-to-business officers of Kenya and Tanzania. “Oh, welcome to Malawi,” he said as he asked about where we were from. We questioned him about local foods we needed to try. “You must have nsima, I love it very much.”
Indeed, the tourism slogan for Malawi is “The warm heart of Africa.”
The MV Ilala was built by a Scottish shipbuilder in the early 1970s and has been plying the waters of Lake Malawi, the second-longest lake in the world, since. It’s a combination freighter and passenger ship, with room for over 400 people on three decks. From the northern port of Chilumba it slowly steams its way southern end of the lake to Monkey Bay in three days, stopping at lake-side villages along the way. It is the only transport to the touristy Malawian island of Likoma, and even calls at a port in Mozambique. What better way to experience Malawi than a three-day cruise on a local boat?
Transportation in Africa is the same everywhere you go. The modes may be different, the buses called something different, but bus, train, or boat, boda-boda or piki-piki, matatu or matola, pick-up or baakie, they all share the same characteristics. They are usually overcrowded, but always have room for one more. Chickens or other livestock come along for the ride, and you can buy most goods through the window from vendors. The Ilala was no different. In fact, we considered starting a cock-fighting ring on the lower deck to pass the time.
And then there are the people that make the experience unique and personal. Tall and lanky Maria, the twenty-something that runs the dinning hall with a touch of sass that garners respect. Francis, our one-eyed bartender who never forgot how much he owed you if he couldn’t make change. Or Justice, the ticketing manager in Chilumba who didn’t skip a beat when Cooper, the snack-shop operator, brought us a cold beer as we talked about cabin particulars: “For me I drink Coke.” No ambiguity there.
The boat didn’t show up until 1am (the scheduled said 5pm – another one of those African transport constants). It was a warm night so we crashed on the beach with the other locals waiting for the boat, the talkative Herold assuring us he’d keep us safe from the drunk and rowdy teenagers goofing off nearby.
As the Ilala is small, there are only about eight cabins, and once we were on board we learned they were all booked. The alternative was to rent foam mattresses and sleep outside on the upper deck, not an unpleasant experience on a warm tropical night.
Three days after we left the northern end of the second longest lake in the world at the dawdling pace of 7 knots, we reached the southern port of Chipoka. Twelve hours behind schedule, but well rested from this great African experience.
No comments:
Post a Comment