CHAPTER 27 - ZANZIBAR AND TANZANIA

 

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Exchange rate 800 Tanzanian Shillings to US$1

 

Fr 9/17/99 - Stone Town, Zanzibar

 

The whole boat was up at 6am but we stayed on board and at anchor for immigration to clear us into port. The call on VHF came 9am and we motored into the Stone Town dhow dock. Captain Abdulha and Bode walked us through the port captain, the port doctor for yellow fever papers, immigration (everyone entering Zanzibar must pass through immigration, Zanzibar still holds onto some independence from the mainland even after 35 years), and lastly the customs baggage check. All this happened within a set of small wooden buildings nearby the dock. The worse of it was paying for a visa. On a bulletin board was posted a sheet listing different visa costs for different nationalities, Seychellious and Australians pay US$20 as do most countries, but others were more, U.S. citizens are charged US$50. I wondered what logic there was to this differences, a Tanzanan visa costs Sri Lankians and Pakistanis US$100. These were payable in U.S. dollars only.

 

Bode was keen on making a buck off us and I knew we were stuck with him to find lodging. I had searched the Lonely Planet, "Africa" guidebook and the Footsteps "East Africa" book and asked that he show us to the Milindi Guest House. There the hotel costs US$10 per night per person with shared bath and breakfast but was extraordinary in it's neatness and cleanliness. The location was rough near the port and a bit out of the more attractive meandering alleyways Zanzibar is known for, but the old building was beautiful with it's high white washed airy rooms and wooden posted ceilings and open and nicely decorated common areas.

 

Actually, Zanzibar is used as the name for Unguja Island, Pemba Island is also part of Zanzibar. Zanzibar, the Swahili island, is also known as Spice Island and is steeped in thousand of years of history with distinctions of being the most important trade port on the coast. It has influences from a great varying number of people including Arabs, Portuguese, Germans, British, Africans, and more. Zanzibar and Tanganyika were British colonies until independence 1963, a revolution overthrowing and ending the long line of Oman sultans occurred early 1964, and later that year Zanzibar and Tanganyika (the mainland) joined to form Tanzania. The island is 100km long and 40km wide and produces a variety of crops including herbs (notably cloves), fruits, and copra. Tourism now is the largest player in income. The old and large Stone Town is a fascinating maze of 'narrows' or alleyways, similar to Lamu. The rest of the island is a scattering of villages with sandy coastline in-between.

 

We made tea at the very popular meeting albeit tatty spot, Africa House, and met a group of Englishmen of varying age who had just completed work for a British non-profit building a schoolhouse in the Tanzanian interior. Non-profit is an overstatement, they each raised 3500 pounds for the three month adventure. We spoke with Brian, a pregnant girl, and a young Scot named Stuart. Four of their group had been accosted and robbed while walking back to the Malindi Guest House a couple of nights before. A handful of locals with pangas (long curved blades used for cutting plants and hacking other Africans) attacked them and Stuart was hit on the back of head and knocked unconscious. They lost all their valuables although one girls pack was later recovered with her important personal travelling documents. And with their story, the may have saved us from a similar mishap, they recommended a taxi from the waterfront to the Malindi Guest House and we readily agreed.

 

They went from Africa House to the Pagoda Chinese restaurant but we eagerly walked to Jamituri Gardens (Forodhani Gardens) on the waterfront for the massive scene of grilled food. Zanzibari filled the park area along the walkways around Blues Restaurant and offered incredible delectables such as grilled octopus, squid, crab, lobster, fish, and kebabs, chapatis, chips, sugar cane juice, and on and on. The area was lit by kerosene lanterns at every vendor's offerings, locals and mazungus browsed about and ate, and the atmosphere was festive. Between the food offerings were curio vendors. We each ordered a plate (less than $2) of morsels and sat on long simple bench and similar table to eat facing the great scene.

 

Because we would repeat a feast here each night in town and I considered this the best food deal on my trip, I list some prices. The cost was unimaginably little:

 

beef kebab 100 ($0.12)

 

chicken kebab 200 ($0.24)

 

chapiti or nan 100 ($0.12)

 

glass of sugar cane juice 100 ($0.12)

 

simosas 100 ($0.12)

 

coke 250 ($0.30)

 

chips 300 ($0.36)

 

octopus 800 / 1000 (large/larger) ($1/$1.20)

 

squid 800 / 1000 ($1/$1.20)

 

crab claws 500 / 1000 ($0.60/$1.20)

 

ice cream 500 (($0.60)

 

Later we paid TS1000 for a taxi to the Malindi and passed through the rough and dark dock area and spied even darker locals who became suspicious in my imagination.

 

Sa 9/18/99 - Stone Town, Zanzibar

 

After a rather plain breakfast of hard fried eggs and bread, we strolled to Creek Road, passing through the main market areas that sold everything imaginable. Notable in the meat and fish markets was a stack of cows heads and men cleaning large octopus with long tentacles and big suckers by swishing them in water. Less exciting but colorful were the vegetable and fruit stands.

 

Of our time in Zanzibar, today would be the true tourist day, spent visiting the museum in Stone Town.

 

First was the Old Slave Market off Creek Road. This was the site of the main slave market in Zanzibar and the largest on the African Coast. Livingstone's descriptions of this market moved the British government to actively block the trade. Upon this site was built St. Monica's, also referred to as United Mission to Central Africa, the first Anglican cathedral in East Africa. The construction totally erased the market but still there is a tour offered of the "slave dungeons" below the churches auxiliary building, now a lodge, restaurant, and art shop. We paid the small fee and were led to the basement below to see concrete slabs and shackles. The crampness and stories told were enough to produce an eeriness and moving feeling of sorrow for what had taken place.

 

We were then brought to the cathedral constructed the same year the market was closed, 1873. A plaque read:

 

"To the glory of god and in the memory of Livingstone and the other explorers, men good and brave to advance knowledge, set free the slave, and hasten Christ's kingdom in Africa. Loved not their lives even unto death. This window is dedicated by their friends."

 

The next stop was the two buildings comprising National Museum and housing shoddy exhibits, mostly historical.

 

After lunch we wandered through the old town, stopped at shops and bookstores, and then at the waterfront. Overlooking the harbor are two sultans palaces, monstrosities, called Beit-el-Ajaib, (House of Wonders) and Beit-el-Sahel (People's Palace). They are both run down and only the People's Palace is open for touring. We haggled the cost and entered as students. The home was abandoned after the 1964 revolution and houses furniture spanning ages, including the 1950's, and many paintings of the sultans. The furniture collection was so eclectic, from beautiful antique beds to gross green laminated bureaus. One room was dedicated to the memory and autobiography of Princess Salbe (Emily Ruete). She was a sultan's daughter and ran off with a German to his homeland. Her booked is titled, "Memoirs of an Arabian Princess".

 

Malindi Bureau de Exchange

 

802 cash, large bills

 

800 cash, small bills

 

775 travelers checks

 

620+6% VISA card

 

806 selling dollars

 

Jamituri Park! Again for dinner!

 

squid 500

 

octopus 500

 

pan 2@100

 

simosas 2@100

 

coke 250

 

total 1650 = US$2.06

 

Su 9/19/99 - Motorcycle touring, Jambiani

 

I was successful in placing the bug in Robyn's ear - renting a motorcycle would be a good way to see the island outside of Stone Town. Each day on Creek Road beneath a tree sit many Honda 250 dirt bikes and their owners renting them for about $20/day, supposedly insured. A small dirty tout had bothered us each day somewhere in Stone Town and through him we arranged a bike for $18/day. At 83am sharp the tout and Indian bike owner were outside our hotel, eager for the business.

 

The snazzy Honda 250 was bright red and white and tacked on were cheap plastic accessories and stickers. The bike was impressive looking, like it belonged in a cross country rally, but there was nothing special about it's performance, it must have been straight stock.

 

We had a general plan to circle the island, first south, then east and north, along the coast. Our first stop was Jozani Forest in the island's center. As we motored cautiously from Stone Town east and through sprawl I realised where the island's 750,000 inhabitants were - just outside the city. After half an hour we entered more pleasant forested area and were stopped at a police check for the first time.

 

The officer waved us to a stopped from a distance and instead waved through others from a distance with different colored faces. He told me to turn off the motorcycle. I was nervous, I didn't know what to expect as he circled the bike, saying that the right mirror was too small and smiling when commenting on the lack of a left mirror. He asked for my drivers license and I produced the gray AAA international drivers license I purchased ten months previously. Without more fanfare he said, "okay" and said we could proceed. I felt at ease and asked him about the island - where were the mountains. There weren't any, the island is flat, it has small hills, he pointed ahead at one, Pemba has mountains. I asked for the direction of Jozani Forest, and again he pointed ahead. I was happy for that because we hadn't seen any road signs but had passed through forks and intersections. We moved on.

 

At Jozani Forest, home of the Zanzibar Red Colobus Monkey, we found a $8 entrance fee and refused to pay. The man at the desk was perturbed and may of suggested that we pay less as a resident or student, but we left anyway. We had the motorcycle for cruising and maybe we would spot the monkey somewhere else on the island.

 

The secondary road to Kizimkazi in the far south was bad. The sun baked down, we were hot, and red dust rose into our eyes when cars passed by. Kizimkazi is the home for the heavily touted dolphin safari, highly recommended by other tourists, and Robyn was very interested. We entered the village and laughed as eight young men raced to greet us, yelling for our business, and I hit the gas and continued on the road, deeper into the peninsula. We came to a terminus atop a small hill with restaurant, lodge, and view over the pretty bright blue ocean and bright sandy beach.

 

There we met the hotel owner and dolphin safari tout named Abubukarali (what a name!). We rested after hours of driving and lunched on barracuda, rice, and chips (TS3000) and agreed to a swim with dolphins for TS14,000.

 

Offshore were many wooden boats anchored down, some with motors and paint on the side advertising the dolphin safari business. One red and yellow boat amongst them was fiberglass and sported twin Yamahas. Two young men brought us out for the dolphin safari.

 

The event was humorous. The boat was used for fishing at night, maybe that was the explanation for twin engines, but here they only had one gas tank and only ran one engine. Since the steering wasn't connected, the boys took turned sitting on top and swivelling their butts to steer. They alternated between the two engines since both had problems running. With great excitement one spotted dolphins and yelled and beamed ear to ear. We were barely offshore and I could only believe the excitement wasn't for us, but for a short trip for them. They yelled, "Jump, jump, jump!". We laughed and fumbled with our ill fitting gear and missing the pod. We climbed back aboard. "When we say jump, you have to jump quickly!" There was too much yelling and confusion and Robyn was giggling and had me laughing too. The boat moved ahead and crossed the pod, "jump jump, jump!" I left Robyn laughing on the boat's side and crashed into the water to see a handful of dolphins descending into the depths from my presence. We were harassing the poor beasts although each time we were near, one would move to the front of the boat to ride the wake. This spectacle occurred a few more times and the only good view was my last described. The guides grew tired and acted as if we were Bozos and suggested that we snorkel to see coral and fish. The snorkel was horrible, the sea was very cloudy and the coral was dead.

 

We returned to shore. Only those people that haven't dove and seen dolphins and turtles and sharks would have appreciated seeing these dolphins. The $17 was perhaps better spent but both Robyn and I agreed it was great being on the water and getting wet, this side of the island was very scenic, and left the experience at that.

 

As we cruised out of the village, cute kids yelled and screamed 'jambo!' such as we would find in most villages. Anything else they said was beyond our comprehension and was probably a request for money or pens or something else, but we weren't able to figure that out unless a palm was turned upward, so we simply enjoyed the attention, smiled, waved, and returned the greeting.

 

Another highlight of village cruising was the women dressed in bright wraps, similar to Mayotte and Madgascar, although here they normally wear only one. These are patterned and of every color imaginable.

 

We drove east to Makunduchitu, turned north onto the worse road of the day, and stopped when we could no longer ignore the beckons of the ocean scenery. The tide was out, exposing a pretty mixed scene of bright green seaweed, white chalky sand, and bleached coral. The stretch of sea to the coral reef that borders the island's east coast was an array of blues and greens along with the sky. The tones of white, blue, and green melted like a soft watercolor painting, a wonderful work of nature. We strolled along the rough coral, stuck part way from holes in the sand were the black and thin brittle stars (starfish). A few local wooden boats were offshore.

 

We motored to the village named Jambiani to settle into the first guesthouse at the village's edge called Gomani. The price, $10/pp including breakfast, would be the standard for every night of accommodation while in Zanzibar. The Footprint Handbook described Gomanai as the most beautiful in Jambiani, and so we didn't browse for further options. The key to the beauty was that the guesthouse sat atop a small coral cliff which gave advantage to the long and gorgeous beach scene.

 

"Why did the colobus monkey cross the road? He wanted to get to the trees on the other side. Why didn't he make it? Because the new tar road built for tourists lets drivers travel at over 60 kilometers per hour, and so they don't make it."

 

Mo 9/20/99 - Motorcycle Touring, Bwejuu

 

I had a horrid night of sleep and awoke at 5am with Paul Simon's "Keeping My Customers Satisfied", and tried to chase sleep and even tried mediating, Robyn style, but the image of sitting beneath a tree near a river escaped me.

 

So I was up early again, alone, and this time walking the beach through the sunrise was at 615am. The tide was out and revealed a long distance of wet white sand to the small waves this side of the reef. The beach was peaceful and quiet. There were men digging for worms and some net fishing in thigh deep water, the lagoon had a scattering of wooden boats, and the sky was a mix of clouds and sun.

 

I walked north and when I turned to return, school children walked towards me. The girls wore white blouses, deep blue skirts, and white kilemba (head dressing) while the boy's shirts and shorts in the same color. They carried simple whiskbrooms made grass or small stacks of wood under arm or atop their heads and most smiled and said hello when they passed. The first child to pass was a very cute little girl, holding a grass broom and clutching a Pringle's can. She walked with determination and purpose, and when I asked for a "picha", she look stern and said, "no'. Alas, I have the memory only in my mind and not on celluloid. Many more passed and then a group of girls approached. I snapped my short zoom at 80mm when they were still at a distance, the first and oldest in the group saw me and gave me a sly and sensual women-girl smile.

 

Breakfast was good and plentiful - a small loaf of bread, pau pau, margarine, jam, and two bananas. We wore off at 9am and continued north on the rough road. On the edge of Jambiani village we approached a school, white buildings within a white wall border. The classroom buildings were roofed but opened to the air halfway up the walls and from within and around emanated the roar of the students at break. A young, surely to be future entrepreneur asked if we wanted to visit and I immediately parked the bike and although Robyn agreed with the visit, she softly said we would be asked for donations. That comment didn't register until our little tour by a male teacher of their new project, a big and new and empty library. He also showed a board representing the student population by classrooms, 1101 students in age from 7 to 17, the teachers room, a classroom, and best of all the open areas with throngs of students smiling and trying to contain themselves in the visitor's presence. A young girl with bad breath from Belgium was working as a volunteer and also strolled along with us. In the headmasters office we found the school's leader unpacking young children's books from America and we watched us he and our guide laughed and were very amused by a battery operated book that sang.

 

Jambinai School

 

P.O. Box 1678

 

Zanzibar, Tanzania

 

(if anyone is interested in donating anything (books, pens, etc), any school would be thankful)

 

We continued north through Paje, the road turned wide with a coral and sand base. We popped into the luxurious Breezes Beach Club, one of four big resorts along this stretch. We moved on to the top of Ras (Point) Michamvi to the small village of Michamvi facing the green Chwaka Bay.

 

Michamvi had only one simple restaurant with a varied posted menu, but had only two crabs and a lobster. I asked to see the crab for in Jambiani I wondered if the crab was old, and the man brought as one, alive and unhappy. It had smallish claws and no legs. I suppose he pulled them off so the crab couldn't run away. While we waited for our lunch we romped in the sea and under strong sun. The beach was white white and the sea brilliant green. Our lunch was nice, crab in a tomato based vegetable sauce and rice.

 

We drove back south to Bwejuu and with a tip from the Footprint Handbook settled into the Original Twisted Palms Guest House ($10/pp with breakfast. We were north of Paje, the local village, and happy for the more remote and scenic location, and thus thankful for the motorcycle. The room was large enough and faced the ocean. Upstairs was a very comfortable lounge and breakast area under a thatch roof. Out front was a nice porch with cane chairs and beds.

 

My stomach was feeling a bit queasy, so I drove the beach back to Paje village and cruised through to find crackers. The village was quaint, it was afternoon and many people were about, sitting, talking, children playing. Women were dressed in very colorful wraps, some drawing water from a well, others carrying things on their heads and the most famous pose of all - big women laying on their stoops like hippos on a river bank and craning their necks to see people passing by. Children yelled and screamed, "Jambo!". I hoped I didn't set precedence for snacks, I bought plain cookies, creme cookies, doughnuts, and peanut brittle squares.

 

I stopped at the Mombasa Shop to buy water and witnessed the most confusing then curious thing. Across the street four men sat and watched me stare at two boys on a bicycle. One sat on the rack at the far back and the other pedalled. But the bicycle was a huge black one, way to big for the very small boy and I couldn't figure what was wrong. Then I saw, the boy pedalled from the side of the bicycle, he couldn't have reached from the seat. He held on by wrapping his right arm around the seat, steered with his left, his left foot pedalled on the left pedal properly, but his right foot reached the right pedal underneath the bar running between the seat and handlebars. The men laughed at my confused and gawking expression.

 

Back to the guesthouse along the beach I pushed the bike a bit and cruised at up to 70 kph. It was exhilarating, and I wouldn't have done it unless alone.

 

Rather than eating crab again at Twisted Palm, it was the only dish, we walked a half hour north to the Makuti (word used for coconut frond shingles) restaurant, a small thatched restaurant and bar on the beach without attached lodging near the big Breezes resort. The walk there along the wide and quiet beach was very nice, as was the dinner of fish stew, rice and fried (with 3 beers - TS7000). The restaurant floor was purely beach sand and when we noticed that small crabs had burrowed holes for homes near us inside the establishment, we had to laugh.

 

We walked back at a quick pace, Robyn can fly, and we missed our hotel by ten minutes for that reason and because everything looked very different in the dark.

 

"Usishughulike, utafurahi" --> "Don't worry, be happy."

 

Tu 9/21/99 - Motorcycle touring, Pongwe, Zanzibar

 

The routine was now set, I was up and about at sunrise, about 615am, while Robyn slept in. As I think about this, it started when I first reached Kena, when I first started taking Larium as a malarial prophylactic.

 

I pushed the bike away from the hotel and spent more than ten minutes trying to kick it over (magneto, no battery). I cruised in the morning light and loved it, going as far south as our previous nights lodging, the Gomani in Jambiani, about ten kilometers away. Maybe the bike ride was an excuse for picture taking or vice versa, either way I enjoyed the morning. I passed men digging at the waters edge for worms for fishing with long sticks and women either burying or uncovering coconut husks for making rope (they bury husks for two months to soften). The ride down was leisurely and long, and I was then concerned for Robyn wondering where I have been, I was gone at that point an hour, so I then used that as an excuse to drive even faster back on the hard beach at 80 kph.

 

She was sitting on the veranda, a great vantage point, and smiling, a small monkey was in her lap, and she excited to tell me of the action out front. It seems there is a kind of playful pecking order - the monkey was chasing the cats, the dogs were chasing the monkey, and when the female dog wasn't looking, the males were jumping onto her backside.

 

Breakfast was spent gabbing within a group of us - a Seattle girl working on Pemba Island for the Peace Corp, her parents, an English girl also working in Pemba, and her two English friends.

 

We checked out of the Original Twisted Palms Guest House and drove into Bejuu village for petrol. This morning the village was quiet. We found the gas station, a simple wooden block hut with plastic containers of fuel. We took five liters (3000TS), drove the beach south to Paje, then accessed the gravel main road west. We were heading further north on the island to Pongwe.

 

We passed a sleepy police checkpost without stopping and soon after felt the bumping and thudding of a flat rear tire. The first emotion was anger, the first thought was of John in Bali and finding two flats in two days, so the second emotion was therefore humor, and the second thought was that John would be laughing at me now.

 

Robyn refused to ride on the back with a flat, so she flagged down a van and asked for a lift. I drove on the very flat tire that tended to swing out from underneath me while on side of the crown. At the police check post a young man ran out and asked if I knew I had the flat. I won't repeat what I was then thinking. At the road junction forty meters on three more offered to fix th flat. We were led into Paje village, we all walked while I idled the bike along. I was told to place the bike in a small alley between buildings and there we hung for two hours.

 

We found shade underneath a porch roof. While two young men dealt with the tire, a man named Abdul with rotted buck teeth and a ponch entertained us. He spoke English well, the bike men and others who gathered - women in bright wraps across and up the lane, a young father nearly directly across, children, and many other men and women - could not speak English. Abdul was a secondary school teacher for seven years and now teaches Islam privately. Before the tiremen started on the bike, I had found the culprit of the missing air - a three inch galvanised nail. The nail started a long conversation about the local building methods.

 

When I pulled the nail out, I looked incredulously around, for nothing seemed to use nails. The building walls were earth, the roofs made of palm leaves, and they were tied on with twine. Abdul would straighten me out on these things, but as far as the nail, occasionally a local dwelling used corrugated sheet metal attached to mangrove poles with nails and many more substantial buildings also used nails.

 

The lesson could have been called, "The uses of palm trees". Abdul explained that every part of the tree was used. The trunk is burned to heat coral and create limestone. The coconut husk is buried under the seabed to soften and then torn apart to twirl rope. The coconut milk is drunk, the meat used for cooking. The palm leaves or fronds are made into roofing shingles (makuti), or sliced thin and woven into baskets or used.

 

Robyn lost interest quickly, like a lady might, but her attention to Abdul changed when he spoke of Zanzibar Muslim family life. What was unusual compared to our culture was that children are not necessarily raised with the parents. If someone "needs" a boy or girl they may receive one from relatives. Abdul's first son stayed with Abdul, but his second went to the wives parents. Abdul has his wife's uncle's daughter. Since Abdul is Muslim, he can take four wives. When he announced to his first wife that a second was coming she left him and moved home. The second, who we met there, has not had children yet.

 

Across the lane a meaty man in his mid-twenties stood stone faced yet posing. His toddler son hung his cute face over the door stoop and his wife occasionally smiled and checked us out. But the man simply stood or leaned against his home and never talked. He looked mean but cool, he neatly wore a loud black Nike shirt, blue shorts to the knees, and a funky hat. Later he changed into a Michael Jackson T-shirt. His dress was comical yet he looked serious in his attempt to dress western, all done purely for our benefit.

 

The repair was finally finished (3000TS) and we were off again. Robyn repeatedly said she enjoy the morning there and I had to agree that the experience was unusual.

 

I stopped abruptly at the gate to Jozani forest. Opposite the gate access road were a handful of Zanzibar red colobus monkeys. Since we spotted them, my way of thinking was that we saved $16 on gate fees and were ahead of the game. I looked up through my viewfinder and a man with "staff" written on the back of his T-shirt excitedly said, "This is government property, you can't trespass, or take pictures!". We had come ten meters down a dirt rack into trees and damn him if I can't take a photo of a monkey. The only truth in his claim was that the park gives the local villages part of the gate fees so they don't kill the monkeys when they wander away. In the park, guides are recommended and work on tips. He was probably a guide and even though we lied and said we paid the $8 to enter the park two days earlier, he demanded we pay again to take pictures. The nerve! He then blocked my shot by putting his fingers on my lens - he touched my lens! That more than annoyed me and we were at it, yelling at one another. He stormed off and said he would find the police. I took a couple of quick pictures and left expediently just in case he wasn't bluffing. Oh ya, and the monkeys were very cute too - longish red and yellow hair, tufted faces.

 

We followed someone's finger as it pointed off the tarmac road and supposedly in the direction of Pongwe. It was a shortcut and the road turned dark red and full of large ruts that could have been a challenge had it rained heavy recently. We entered an interesting forest of green trees and bush that looked nice with the red road, and passed through small villages.

 

At the red road's terminus, we joined a tarmac road east and into Chwaka, a spot I assumed interesting because of it's waterside location on a corner of land in Chwaka Bay. But the main village was disappointing, plain and tattered. Again there were school children running about, but the day was long and I'd had enough of that. In Chwaka we found a mid-class hotel. As we entered we noticed the only guest was the old Italian we had met across the bay at Michamvi. Already 3pm, we weren't happy to wait an hour for lunch and again it was fish and chips. We wolfed it down, confirmed the hotel was too expensive for us ($40) and moved on.

 

Less than an hour north and not too far, remember these roads are African, we landed in Pongwe and immediately searched out the Pongwe Beach Hotel, rated "D" in the Footprint - cheap. The quiet hotel did have an incredible beach, two hundred meters wide and at low tide nearly infinite in length. Just back from the top of the beach was a flat sandy area, part of the hotel, with palms and manicured shrubs and plants, swept sand, and twine webbed couches and chairs. The hotel was remote, the beach area very nice and attractive, the sea scene peaceful. The buildings, just four years old, were in need of repair. Our standalone mortar bungalow was round, an awkward shape inside for square furniture. Since the generator had broken, there wasn't electricity, and without electricity the water pump didn't work, so showering and us of the toilet was by bucket.

 

We were the only guests. After check-in with a man named Juma, I returned to the beach for a swim and was greeted by seven dogs, four belonging to the hotel, the other three all wore golden coats and were probably related. One of our four, a black and white mutt, was immediately protective for us. He growled at any of the other dogs when they neared us. Strange, we thought.

 

We returned back to the room and didn't realise that the black and white dog had stood guard at our door. When the three golden dogs investigated, an extremely loud altercation took place. Snarling, barking, biting. They ram the door again and again in the ruckus and we didn't dare open it for fear of losing half a head or something more important. The noise was tremendous! Cujo! I thought of my dad who had hundreds of stitches and nearly lost a finger from an attempt at stopping a dog fight. We didn't see the black and white dog for a while afterward, I believe he was out numbered and took a beating.

 

Juma served dinner at our bungalow and I felt catered to. We ate octopus, rice, and fries. For desert we ordered pancakes and I requested lime and sugar, reminiscent of mom's German pancakes during the growing years. Sitting on our pie slice shaped veranda under lantern light in the balmy night was peaceful and relaxing, a warm and good feeling for the trip flowed through me.

 

Islamic teacher met while fixing flat in Paje:

 

Abul Mutio

 

Paje Private Bag

 

Zanzibar

 

We 9/22/99 - Motorcycle touring, Nungwi, Zanzibar

 

I was on the beach to swim before 7am. The sunrise wasn't much, there were clouds on the horizon and streaks of black angling from underneath - rain. The sky held more clouds than the previous mornings at this time. . The dogs ran excitedly to greet me and I noted the black and white dog was still breathing after last nights foray. The tide was low and so I walked awhile on the white compact clay-like sand bottom. And I walked. And walked. After a ten, okay five minutes - I was still sleepy - the water was only mid-thigh deep. I dove anyway and sat on the bottom.

 

The water temperature was just cool and I was comfortable. I looked back at the beach - it was a fine stretch of white sand bordered by short coral cliffs with bushes and palm trees on top. Not a building in sight. The manicured area between the bright beach and hotel stood proudly in the morning sunrays. It was a very pretty, African tropical scene and I was glad for it. The dogs were playing on the beach, racing one another, digging here and there and zooming off again. Seaward were a handful of scattered simple fishing boats. A lone man poled one to deeper water.

 

Juma brought breakfast, pau pau and pancakes and tea that was fine with me. We lazed for an hour after breakfast then jumped on the long hard seat of the Honda 250. Our butts were sorer each day and the tire was low after the repair job yesterday, maybe a slow leak.

 

We hadn't even rode a half hour on a track road paralleling the ocean when the skies opened up and rain fell hard. We took shelter at the budget Reef View Ltd in Kiwengwa. We met the owners, Helen (American) and Harob (Zanzibarian) and drank tea while waiting for mercy from above.

 

Because I was already wet and playing macho I drove alone to Kinyagini, about 14 kilometers in the island center for air in the low tire. The rain was still hard but it became even harder. I felt darts in my eyes and face. I sported my dark sunglasses that relieved the pain but contributed to seeing even fewer details, and held my left hand on my forehead like a visor. Someone with common sense may have stopped, but not me, nah ah, I motored as fast as the dart pain allowed. Halfway there the rain let up and the ride was scenic and enjoyable. The ride back was similar, the hard rain was near the coast and I returned just as wet as I left.

 

Robyn had got on well with Helen and since Helen promised lunch within half an hour we stayed on. The skies lightened and then the sun appeared. We hung clothes to dry and talked and read and half an hour turned into an hour and a quarter. I wasn't happy, we didn't leave until 130pm. This was our second day with a late start.

 

We followed Helen's advice to stay north on the coast road. The first stretch to Matemwe was tarmac, out of sight from the water, boring but quick, and then the road turned third world and we could sight the sea. This section was a favourite, we slowly cruised through a few villages and smiled at the greetings we received from screaming, running children and some adults, especially "Jambo, money!" There were goats and chooks (Australian for chickens), glades of palm trees, blue-blue ocean through palm trees, and villages of lime mortar and palm thatch. We cruised like through a movie set, a surreal feeling passed over me, like we were part of the scene but on the other hand not. Had this section been longer or I had drove slower I would have been even happier.

 

The far northern point, Nungwe village, was a long haul to acquire. The road was finicky, it changed from tarmac to rough and back, and I was often zigzagging to avoid potholes and that antagonised our sore butts. We cruised straight into the heart of the large village, obviously not where backpacker lodging is, then were lost on the dark dirt tracks between the buildings trying to get out. We took lodging on the western side at building that read "Union Guest House" in pencil ($10/pp w/ breakfast). It was a happening but ramshackle area and we only agreed to it because we thought the other was happy - not so, and we then kicked ourselves for it. Between the Union and the beach were very simple and deteriorated fisherman's huts. To the sides were other buildings in various states of construction. More interesting were the dwohs being built there of basically one piece of wood. South of the famous Paradise would have been a better area.

 

Our building held two rooms and we met our neighbours, a fun pair - but not couple - from Germany, Winfried (Winnie) and Michaela (Micha), from near Frankfurt.

 

Winnie and Micha would be our buddies for the next few days in Zanzibar. Winnie (30) is a physical engineer and Micha (24) is a nurse in a psychiatric hospital. They had toured East Africa by overland vehicle for two weeks and while Winnie is wrapping up his vacation, Micha has her boyfriend coming for a week the same day Winnie departs.

 

For the afternoon Robyn and I walked as far as possible along beach and in shallow water near cliff to the south, about forty minutes. The beaches are very clean and bright and the water inviting. We swam in front of the Union for convenience, practised our Olympic quality synchronised swimming and underwater ballet.

 

We met Winnie and Micha and an Englishman named Ben for dinner at a small outdoor restaurant, Jambo Brothers II (soon to be Only Jambo), at the far south end of the tourist smudge along the water. Nungwe was the most condensed tourist spot I have yet to see in Africa. It was a fun evening, interesting conversation, and very relaxing.

 

Th 9/23/99 - Stone Town, Zanzibar

 

We were up early to return the motorcycle. From Nungwe to Stone Town took an hour and a half, most of it with Robyn yelling in my ear to slow down. We later had an on-going argument about what was a safe speed, what the open speed limit was, and how the speed limit signs read.

 

At the Malindi Guest House I found three locals happy to see me and the motorcycle. They wore a big smile and gave a big thumbs up. They must have waited each morning for us over the last three days.

 

After breakfast and a few errands, we then took lunch at a local spot around the corner from the Malindi Guest House which was quite a bargain - pilau (rice and beef) each, two mandazis, one tea, and two juices for TS1000 ($1.25) total. We wondered why we've been spending TS3000 each for meals.

 

We wandered the wonderful crooked streets, poking into shops, and finally making our way to Internet Zanzibar for email. Compared to other options, Internet Zanzibar was inexpensive (TS2000 per one half hour) and the line speed was okay. I had not attended to email since Nairobi nineteen days earlier and there were many emails from Sue, a couple from travel buddy John (who wants to rejoin trip), from brother John, and others. Replies weren't to be all cheery.

 

We made plans with the Germans Winfried and Michaela for dinner, met at 6pm in the Malindi, and walked to the waterfront for another pigout, our third dinner here. The sky hadn't yet darkened and the foodmen and crowds hadn't revved up yet, so we popped into the South African owned Blues restaurant (same as Camp's Bay, Cape Town) for the great atmosphere on the pier for a drink, then made our way back to the food madness. Winfried and Michaela were very impressed by the lantern lit offerings of squid, octopus, tuna kebabs, prawns, crab, chapitis, nan, chicken, beef, liver, and on and on. By this time I had narrowed by cravings to octopus and nan and ordered a couple of simosas for measure.

 

After ice cream at the waterfront we strolled the dimly lit alleyways to the Livigstone and Stanley Bar (no direct association with the famous explorers). The bar had a couple of energetic local men prodding clients to drink and be happy. The bar was small, divided into two areas, and held large black and white paintings, historical cartoons, stories of Livingston, Stanley, Kalulu (Livingstone's gunbearer and servant), Tipoo Tib (the famous slave trader), Sultan Seyyid Said, and other interesting key figures in Zanzibar's deep history.

 

I was a little nervous walking back in the dark again but there wasn't an incident. Creek Road had some people about, maybe too many for an attack I thought. We passed a television set in a standalone stall on the border between Creek Road and the market access road, and attended by many men sitting in the roadway and watching, some with Muslim robes and koffias. I had assumed it was a religious program, after all why would anyone sit in a street late at night to watch television? Further along was a similar scene with men sitting in the dirty street and we hesitated long enough to see the religious program was actually an American action movie.

 

Fr 9/24/99 - Stone Town, Zanzibar

 

The morning was routine again. I woke about 5am, laid about until morning light, then sat in the bright hallway and foyer outside the room to type at the journal. I'm very far behind and need many full days too catch up. After breakfast and errands, I slowly made my way to email again while Robyn read at the very posh Serena Hotel with a nice western view over the Indian Ocean.

 

Afterward we walked the city again. I love the narrows or alleyways here and liken them to Lamu and Venice, Italy. They remind Michaela of Greece. I was glad to be strolling and lost and catching the details of intricately carved doorways, varying architecture, and the laughing children playing. A low sun is an aid for navigating the alleys, although some buildings are becoming familiar.

 

I called the Malindi, spoke with Winfried, and later met Winfried and Michaela at the waterfront for another pigout, our forth dinner here. later to Africa House for a bar.

 

At dinner Winnie had us rolling with laughter while he told a comical story in an animated manner that happened while young and rebellious and in the army. He didn't always agree with the drill sergeants ideas, and during an exercise where pretend enemy fire came low from the ground, the soldiers were to squirm on their bellies through mud. Instead of crawling, Winnie walked through without the sergeant watching. Afterward, during attention, Winnie was the only soldier clean and thus asked why he didn't crawl.

 

"But, why should I crawl if I can walk?"

 

"There were enemy shooting at you!"

 

"But," with arms sweeping his body, "I'm not shot, I'm still alive."

 

Winnie wasn't allowed leave for the weekend and instead did the troops washing.

 

This would be our last night in Zanzibar, tomorrow night we would boat to Dar es Salaam on the Tanzanian coast.

 

Sa 9/25/99 - Stone Town, Zanzibar and overnight ferry to Dar Es Salaam

 

We breakfasted with Winfried and Michaela, exchanged address, and I passed info to Michaela containing our recommendations for lodging on the east coast of Zanzibar. Her boyfriend was flying into Zanzibar today on the same Gulf Air plane that Winnie was departing on. I gave them each one of my social cards with "Traveler" and the Hindu god Ganish on it, always good for a laugh.

 

I thought we had seen everything in Stone Town, but not true, we found deep antique shops, walked through the Arab fort, and along interesting Cathedral Street. From the bottom of Kenyatta Avenue runs a long narrow that parallels the waterfront. We had walked it many times and Robyn bought a few colorful acrylic paintings of safari animals, very suitable for a children's room, and today I also bargained for four small paintings.

 

We thought little about a dinner location, perhaps Robyn would rather have had more variation, but I wouldn't have tempted anything else over the waterfront. Of the five nights in Stone Town, we have eating at Forodhani Gardens everytime.

 

While eating, a couple of boys hung nearby and were very interested in us, they wanted to ask something but appeared too shy. We assumed they wanted money and ignored them. After finishing, we tossed our paper plates into a trashcan and the boys dove in the can for our leftovers but were chased away by a man working there. Had we known we would have gladly passed the plates over and now we felt guilty enough to search the two out and to offer to buy them fries. But we couldn't resolve which two they were of the many.

 

We had booked on Flying Horse (US$15 plus US$5 departure tax), a ferry ride that takes two and a half hours from Dar Es Salaam to Stone Town, but eight hours in our direction. The ferry departs Malawi Port at 10pm and sits outside Stone Town until 2am then motors slowing to the big city, arriving at 6am. Out other option was to spend another $10 and motor one and a half hours during the day aboard a Russian made hydrofoil, but we opted for saving the ten bucks and experiencing this small crazy sounding adventure.

 

Flying Horse allows passengers aboard at 8pm and since we had heard that they provide mattresses I anticipated jostling for comfortable positions and we showed just as the first people were walking aboard. I imagined we would be with all the locals, but instead we were shown through a door with a sign reading "V.I.P." and found a new and comfortable forward room with a series of slanted windows arced across the front. A man moved about some small couches and pulled thin foam mattresses from a locker and spread them out for us.

 

I walked back through the dockyards, passed the long set of dhows tied to the pier in shadows, and onto Malawi Street for a quick run at provisions for the night. This was my last look at Zanzibar, my chest sank and I felt sad again for leaving a nice place, wondering if I'd ever return. It was dark and lanterns lighted the area and a few lights and buzzed with locals. I bought water at a small cafe, cookies at another, mandazis, rolls, and a chapiti at another, and still another package of cream cookies only for a plastic bag to carrying everything in before re-entering the port area.

 

On the boat, Ben from England soon joined us, loudly blowing his nose into a hankerchief, followed by an older local gentleman who suffered from a head cold and constantly made hawking noises. Our trip wasn't much of a local experience, not like the dwoh trip to Zanzibar from Mombasa, and besides for these two inconveniences, our trip was incredibly comfortable.

 

We sipped a sugar cane juice concoction and I read ("Cry of the Kalaihari", Owens) while CCN in Sahili was on a television set. Later a very poor American action film came on, there were subtitles in Swahili, and everyone was shot in a roaring bloody mess.

 

Su 9/26/99 - First day in Dar Es Salaam

 

Our catamaram ferry, the Flying Horse, arrived into port at 6am as promised. A tout clung on, found a taxi to the decent Safari Inn for us. Although the Safari was decent, the neighbourhood was tough and filthy, an area containing many automobile repair businesses. Inside I was surprised to see the manager, Ibrahim, push the tout and yell at him. The tout had wanted a commission and Ibrahim guessed correctly that we found the Safari through the Lonely Planet. Ibrahim is strange though, we would see him acting melodramatic and very touchy with females staying there.

 

Dar es Salaam is basically a big and ugly African city, but much nicer than Nairobi. There are actually streets lined with hearty European trees and the city sits on the sea. We walked about, visiting the National Museum and walking through the expensive New Africa Hotel.

 

The National Museum should have cost US$3 each, but when the man at the front desk saw us hesitating, he offered that maybe we were students, and we agreed and paid TS1400. The museum is set-up a little nicer those in Nairobi, Lamu, and Zanzibar. Displays were fairly well described, although fish bleached white in formaldehyde was a too common theme now. We strolled past displays on evolution and laughed hard at drawings of prehistoric man - the heads were tiny and the arms were too long and nearly touched the ground. A area was set aside concerning ruins at Kilwa, a site of Swahli (10th century) and Portuguese (15th century) settlements. There were photographs and models and artefacts such as pottery. I found a wall with portraits of explorers also interesting - Dr. David Livingstone, Sir Richard Francis Burton, Joseph Thomson, Oscar Bauman, John Hannig Speke, Henry Morton Stanley (born English as John Rowland and adopted to American Henry Morton Stanley). Most died young from disease or attack. Other displays concerned the slave trade, and German and British colonialism. Lastly, in a separate building were those ugly whitened fish and a cultural exhibit where we beat out "Yankee Doodle" on a wooden xylophone and drums.

 

We walked across Sokoine Drive to the harbor shore. A man named Robert from Somalia asked if we wanted to go to 'the island' and we began talking. (I noticed across the sun lit harbor there were many rusted steel ships at anchor.) Robert came to Dar as a refugee two years ago because of the unrest in his country with his wife and two children (7 and 12). (Below us a man pulled at his crotch and peed into the water.) On his refuge boat were 120 people and since then 30 have died because of malaria and cholera, jobs are scarce and therefore medicines are hard to acquire. (A boy swam along the shore in hectic rough overhead stokes, no swimming lessons here, at least it could move through the water) The camp is tented, on Kigamboni Island, which Robert pointed to across the harbor. (A father carried his little daughter in pink to the water and washed her hair.) He can't afford school for his children and works as a fishing hand when someone is needed or carrying shipping cargo from and to the boats. (At the far side of the harbor is a large shipping container pier with tall cranes) He spoke English very well and so we talked for half an hour. (A young heavy set man with one lazy and crooked eye stood nearby - for what?) He learned English while aboard a British P&O cruise ship. () Robert talked of the cost of food, a kilogram of ugali can feed eight and costs TS300, a kilogram of vegetables is expensive, TS500, and a kilo of meat is TS1000. (I thought of what was in my pocket, maybe I would give him 1000 shillings, enough for a vegetable dinner. That's $1.25, sounds about right.) He plans to return to Somalia where he can readily find work and place his children in school. (I don't think I have 1000 shillings in my pocket.) Then President Benjamin Mkapa's motorcade blasted passed us, a series of a dozen Mercedes and new white four wheel drive vehicles, he was on the way to greet South African President Mbeke at the airport. (Maybe Robyn has a 1000-shilling note.) Robert went on to talk about politics a bit, and explained how the countries are ran as dictatorships. (I enjoyed this man and how easily he could communicate, but was now tiring.) The three of us walked along the street and he then explained how we could go about obtaining a train ticket to Malawi. (Hell, the 1000 shillings doesn't matter, he isn't going to starve and besides I don't want to pull out my money on the street.) Robyn and I then walked across the street and into a Catholic cathedral to watch a Sunday service for a short while.

 

We finally took one of Robert's suggestions and bussed a couple of kilometers toward the beaches to find travellers socialising at the Palm Springs, but that wasn't really happening. The guidebook recommended an Indian tandoori chicken restaurant within walking distance called Barbecue House. It was worth the trip, the chicken was great, so was the nan, bhajis, and amura.

 

Sign at base of stairs in the Safari Inn: "Women of immoral turpitude are strictly not allowed into the rooms."

 

Mo 9/27/99 - Dar Es Salaam

 

During breakfast I walked from table to table hitting fellow lodgers and travellers up to exchange dollars into shillings. The hotel manager, Ibrahim, was going to the train station and could purchase tickets for a train heading toward Malawi for us, but we were short a few thousand. There we met young girl named Coffee from Florida, traveling from Zambia and out of Nairobi during a four month vacation.

 

Coffe story: On train trip from Zambia to Dar Es Salaam, she met a young Kenyan girl who was on her first time out of her country. She had visited relatives in Zimbabwe and was then travelling on to see a friend in Dar. In Zambia, people in 3rd class hoarded at the platform entrance while 2nd and 3rd class passengers waited in a balcony above, a vantage point for observing the choas. Coffee was amazed as the throng started pushing for doors, there was tough competition for seats since standing for 36 hours was an unpleasant option. When the crowd became too unwieldy, a man ran out with a whip and snapped the whip and screamed at the crowd to create order. The young Kenyan girl looked up at Coffe with horror in her innocent face. At the Tanzanian border the girl had trouble with a expired visa and only received her stamp after the train was moving away from the platform. The immigration officers smiled and shrugged. Her transportation was gone with her bags and she fell crying at that platform as the train slowly disappeared. A young boy offered to help by running with her for twenty minutes through the bush to the next village where she boarded the train.

 

I've light heartedly kept track of cities with hashes (the silly international running and socialising club). In Tanzania there are two - Arusha and Dar es Salaam, and the Dar es Salaam hash runs Monday's. I had to put effort into making this run since most clubs meet once a week and the chances of hitting one while travelling is slim.

 

My stomach was acting up, cramps and a squishy butt, but being able to meet some expatriates overrode the attentions my digestive asked for. I hit the British Council without luck on information then tried the British High Commission nearby. After passing through a security point with bag check and metal detector, again I received blank stares. The extra large women at the main reception desk on the fifth floor passed me onto the Commerce Department on the first floor. I shrugged when the receptionist there asked why I was sent, then magically a muzungu appeared named Kelvin who was a hasher. He Xeroxed a map and circled an area named Regent Estate north of the city and said it was somewhere there, look for the signs.

 

We met Coffee back at the Safari Inn, and a quick and bad sales pitch convinced her into going. I believe she simply didn't want to be alone for dinner. We bartered for a taxi, searched through Regent Estate for five minutes before finding a "HHH" sign and pitched up at Richard's house.

 

Yes, this is what I wanted to see, how expats lived. Actually Richard, I'm not sure of his wife, was born in Dar and his parents lived nearby. The neighborhood was more African than western. The streets were shoddy and poor locals lived nearby, but their house was very nice, big, a comfortable back yard, and a building for a daycare center. About fifty people had showed for the hash, they milled about talking in typical runners wear - colorful T-shirts with writing, many from past hashes, and gym shorts or tight runners shorts. Many were older, maybe the average was even higher than my own age. Over thirty people ran while fifteen or so, including Robyn and Coffee, walked.

 

The run was very interesting if for simply the African experience. This was a unique way to see local villages and there surrounds and my eyes were wide open. There are two strong impressions left behind - the enormous amount of trash strewn everywhere, mostly plastic, and the hordes of locals laughing and screaming at us as we ran through. Some people must have thought, "Why? Why are they running?". I wonder if any saw the amusement in it, seeing thirty people run lost through their village must have been humorous. Some children ran along side laughing and pretending to jog like us in overly large strides or by pumping their arms quickly. I said "Jumbo!" as often as my breath would allow and smiled and snickered at the nonsense of it all.

 

The run went along and over main streets packed with traffic where similar looks of confusion and wonder were found on faces. There was one very large village we ran through with many small shops. At a short section along the ocean I stopped to gaze in the waning light far across the water at large buildings lit up. Again I shook my head at the trash across the ground. From here Richard promised the home stretch, straight on, and after a few turns and crossing the bumpy dirt and now dark streets we finished his eight and a half kilometer course.

 

I hadn't run since Singapore on July 1st, I had taken some water beforehand but not enough, and along with my stomach illness I was now very dehydrated from sweating. At the house I grabbed a bad tasting orange soda and through half out. During the post run ceremonies, the down-down, I stood to be recognised with others as a first timer. I entered the circle and said, "I'm Bob from Newport, Rhode Island. I've hashed five times now in three different countries - America, Indonesia, and here. And, I'm looking for a lift back into the city afterward.". They had poured a warm and non-respected beer in large mugs and made the seven newcomers drink while they sang. I was happy to see Robyn and Coffee enjoying the scene, they had never witnessed such ridiculousness and wondered if hashes were held in there home areas. The down-down went on and on and I felt worse and worse. I bowed out to sit under a large thatched covering made through a tree, stretched my legs onto a stool and half laid and watched the silliness from afar. Now my stomach was distended and I was incapacitated. I couldn't eat. I spent 6000 shillings for drink and food and couldn't come close to covering the amount.

 

I rolled around all night, uncomfortable with fever. Just after midnight I was up and emptied my gut that was actually humorous but the details aren't for the majority. I was feeling weak and decided that sitting on the pot with my head bent over the sink was a good position, and so filled the sink with lunch and soda and hopefully the bad things upsetting my stomach. There were many good wretches and I immediately felt much better, but then, I had filled and clogged the sink. With my hands I cupped the chunky mess into the toilet and rinsed down the whole bathroom.

 

Tu 9/28/99 - Train from Dar es Salaam to Mbeya

 

The day, our last in the big metropolis, was spent running down a list of tasks. After posting a package (bao game board, acrylic paintings, misc. travel papers), the three of us sat for lunch at Salamander on Samora Ave. I ordered beef pilau (with rice) but still had stomach cramps and no appetite.

 

I had been having an impossible time finding 200 ASA slide film. In Zanzibar they didn't have it and every shop I had popped into was also without. I critically spied a typical shop across the street, splattered with Kodak signs. After lunch, I found they had it (TS5000), and also alkaline batteries for the handheld.

 

The other impossible task was to transfer files from the handheld to a floppy so I could then back them to the website. The simplest way to pull files off is using the 8M RAM card in the PCMCIA slot, then using a similar slot in a laptop. This is how I handled it on Hi Velocity. Well, I had checked many cybercafes and computer shops and didn't find a laptop anywhere. After buying film I walked into a nice looking cybercafe called Cyberspot, run by Indians. It was painted blue, purple, and black - very techie and metro looking. They had a dozen newer desktop computers spread through second and third rooms, the first had tables, a TV, and bar. Without much hope, I inquired at the desk for laptops and halfway through my sentence I realised the man was working at one. He laughed at my surprise then set another laptop on a round black table near the bar, plug it into a network jack in the wall, and away I went - RAM card slot, floppy drive, and internet access! I spent three hours playing about, in heaven with the setup, backed-up files, and posted an incomplete chapter to the website.

 

Robyn, I, and a prearranged taxi driver met at Safari Inn at 6pm, and we drove to TAZARA (Tanzania-Zambia Rail) train station. Tanzania has two train systems, Tanzania Rail and the Chinese built (mid-sixities) TAZARA. Two routes head from Dar, one to Arusha and the other close to northern Malawi and into Zambia. We would depart at 6pm with an expected arrival into Mbeya at 9am. Of course arrival times are always taken with doubt in Africa. From Mbeya, time permitting, we would then catch a bus to the border the same day.

 

After dinner we met a veterinarian from England named Catherine and talked with her at length while on the train. She travelled alone and even though she was obviously intelligent and appeared strong and self re-assured, she was nervous to be alone.

 

We 9/29/99 - Mbeye

 

Robyn was awake and bright and looking for me at 730am. I had actually slept well considering the massive amount of clacking noise the train made and African people socialising through the night. Robyn laughed and said that the Zambian women in her compartment woke her by buying a huge bag of rice through the window while the train had stopped in a local village at 4am and asked for more money for fish. The women said she couldn't sleep so she thought she would buy things.

 

Imagine people waiting through the night for a train with a very flexible timetable. It's amazing how people try to eke out a living here. On our taxi ride to the train station we could have bought an amazing array of items while waiting for traffic lights including TV antennas, toilet plungers, skirts, shirts, picture frames, soap, clocks, pillows, and so on. Earlier still I watched a young man walk through the city streets holding at shoulder height two very simple wooden clothes racks and then too wondered how much he could earn and how he could survive.

 

Similar to the Nairobi to Mombasa train, we hung out the windows and watched Africa pass by. Much of the scenery here was forest. During the night we passed through the large Seleous Game Reserve and like Tsavo in Kenya, missed it in the darkness. We passed through typical villages and at one point were very surprised to see complete home-made wooden bicycles and scooters (pushed with one foot).

 

We were happy to be to heading toward southwestern Tanzania and leaving the train in Mbeya, 114km north of Malawi. The train would continue into Zambia and we would find transport south. We were excited and looking forward to visiting Malawi, but a horror story was about to unfold.

 

We sat in the dining car for 45 minutes before breakfast began, then ordered the only breakfast - eggs, toast, sausage, and tea. The meal was as bland and greasy as possible. The toast wasn't cooked. Catherine joined us. We sat until we were tossed out then looked to the bar car as a possible comfort spot.

 

The bar car wasn't bad. It was rows of green velvet chairs and couches, very roomy and comfortable. On a television at each end played a very comical Chinese martial arts movie dubbed into American accented English. It was full of fanciful moves and ridiculous facial expressions. I wondered if the Chinese who built th railway also provide the videos.

 

We arrived Mbeya and piled off the train with a dozen other backpackers. Two minivans competed for our business and we split into both. Our group talked the price down from 4500 shillings to 2500 per person. There were six of us - Robyn, myself, Catherine, and three men - German, Australian, and English. During the commotion of loading bags and people, Robyn and I shifted seats a few times since we expected a two and a half to three hour drive. I sat shotgun, the German first in on the short seat behind me and across from the sliding door, Robyn beside him, the remaining three in the last seat. A stack of young local men then stuffed the van full.

 

We were boarded and drove into Mbeya making a few stops along the way. The driver's eyelids were heavy, he looked odd to me. Behind me the conductor pushed for money from each of us. We somehow thought that we should pay when we arrived, but this isn't the way in buses and matatus and I passed 5000 shillings over. In Mbeya we stopped in front of the main police station, the driver said he needed a document to cross into Malawi.

 

As we waited Robyn said aloud, "Where's my moneybelt!?", and quickly sounded frantic. She had missed placed a few things on our travels together and I calmly knew it would turn up. I turned and saw that she had searched her daypack but I grabbed it anyway to also look. As I turned back around I heard her say, "What's this!". I looked around again and she was tugging on a cord running from a young man's shirt. I assumed it was part of his funky get-up and looked at her with amazement, a look of "what are you doing to that poor man?". He said "what?", stepped out and seemed turned to find what Robyn was talking about. With a flash he slammed the door closed and was off. Robyn yelled, "Stop him! My passport!"

 

Robyn's daypack was at her feet, inside was her security pouch normally worn underneath a garment ad strapped around the neck. The thief had unzipped her bag and worked it our without her seeing. Other Tanzanians around Robyn had distracted her.

 

I threw my daypack at Robyn and the German and ran past the rear of the van and into the street and ... he was gone. I continued up the street and stopped a van heading off but he wasn't there. Fifty or more people in the street stopped to watch the commotion and I yelled and asked and pantomimed, "Where did the running man go?". Nothing.

 

The thief fled with Robyn's passport, vaccination card, VISA cards, ATM cards, cash, traveller checks, and address book.

 

Directly outside the police station were two officers who looked indifferently at our pleas for help. One in a bright and fancy suit walked inside. The other meandered off somewhere else. A big tall man, Rowland, with gray at his ears and without a uniform grabbed one of the men who was in the van, a man wearing a black Tuskers beer T-shirt, and slapped him hard across the face and pushed him toward the station house. I followed Robyn toward the station. There Rowland was pushing the driver and conductor (Dickson) toward the station and also slapped the driver hard across the face. They stopped and more Swahili was shouted and then he released the two. They weren't happy.

 

The driver and Dickson were told to find the thief. We (the driver, Dickson and I - Robyn and the Australian stayed behind at the station, we left without telling them, the others sat in the van and observed) started a manhunt for this man who stole Robyn's most worldly pocessions. Although the driver and Dickson denied knowing the man earlier, they now admitted differently and told me his name was Eria.

 

Mbeya is a city of over 160,000 people. The center hasn't a building more than three stories high, and few at that. The city sprawls away over small dirt hills, most buildings there are made of mud brick. Especially interesting were the many purple flowering trees throughout, jacaranda. Although Mbeya is mostly flat, the distance surroundings are mountainous and it supposed to be a perfect central location to hill walk from. Whatever Mbeya may offer to a traveller would be lost on us, we looked at it more with tempered disdain, it would be the location of a travelling mess.

 

The whole happening was actually exciting. Some creep had Robyn's passport, we knew who he was, that he jumped into another minivan and the police had even witnessed it. We had to find him and the purse, obviously we would. I didn't know exactly what the police told these two, but they were very unhappy and desperate. We drove through the town at 130kph in a 50kph zone. We first went to Eria's neighborhood and picked up a small boy who knew where Eria lived. I stayed in the van while the two checked to see if Eria was there. No, he wasn't. We drove about and checked a few places then returned back to Eria's house. I consciously noted what was happening and tried to remember where we were driving in case I needed the information later. I accompanied the two into Eria's home. His home was part of a mud bricked building, accessed through a common area. He shared a room with his wife and a women called his mother was there (actually just the landlady). They spoke back and forth in Swahili and I just stood stone faced. We looked inside Eria's block. On the wall were sports pictures, in the corner a bed, and not much else. The old women held my hand and smiled as we left.

 

And so it went. We spent two hours hunting for this character. The other backpackers sat fairly idle, the Engishmen whined a bit and I knew they worried about missing the border closing at 6pm. I felt bad for everyone, it was amazing how many people were effected by this botched theft - Robyn, myself, Eria's friends, his wife, and baby. The police knew his name and where he lived, they saw him do it. We returned to Eria's house a third time. Dickson translated - the police had come and asked for a photograph of Eria. We went to where Eria "played", a large bus and matatu stop. We scoured different neighborhoods and stopped to talk to many people.

 

In the mean time, Robyn was filling out paperwork and witnessed the beating of the Tuskers guy twice inside the station at the front. She later told me with wide eyes how he was hit with a club to the floor the first time, then worse the second when the police removed his belt and made him drop his pants. He pleaded and cried out from behind a desk and the club repeatedly smack his rear.

 

We returned to the police station at 230pm, enough time to make the border I noticed. I figured that Dickson and the driver would go ahead and bring the remaining backpackers to the border. Robyn and I would have to remain behind and I worried for the 5000 shillings I gave Dickson. But, that was not the case. Dickson returned everyone there money. I asked about the van and Dickson smiled sickly, "That is for the police now". It was here I asked him his name and he brightened and smiled little when he said, "Dickson". The backpackers heard the name and laughed as if saying, "sounds about right". The driver and Dickson were incarcerated.

 

Robyn had been somewhat emotional when the event happened and after that I didn't see her for two hours. When I found her inside the station she was together and still angry. I hoped that she remained clam for every guide book advises that emotions lead nowhere in Asia and Africa. We were calm.

 

Inside I was introduced to two of the many men Robyn had spoken to, Officer Paulo, the district crime officer, and Officer Mustafa. Paulo encouraged us to continue into Malawi, he would provide a form allowing us to cross the border. It appeared to be an flagrant effort to remove us as burdensome. In another office, Mustafa, tall, thin, young, and quick to a big smile, was more laid back and interested. But he too pointed us toward Malawi. We told both that we wanted the documents back, we all knew who had them, and it certainly seemed probable that they could be recovered. They laughed. From downstairs, in the back of the station came cries of pain as a man was beaten, our eyes widened, and Mustafa laughed and said, "He's crying". Mustafa had a clerk prepare a dubious typewritten page, on off-white paper, a police report. This would be like a passport and Robyn could travel anywhere with it. I looked at it sceptically. It may help with an insurance claim, I thought, but not much at an immigration office. On the other hand, they have been through this before. Robyn had seen a long pile of wallets at the station earlier, some were muzugus. We agreed to meet tomorrow and bring the police report to the Mbeya immigration office to make it an offical traveling document.

 

Rowland walked us into the city center and to the closest hotel, Mbeya Peak (10,000TS/2 including breakfast). We showered and laid on the beds and rehashed the day and tried to form a plan. I thought that returning to Eria's home with Robyn may generate sympathy from his wife and the old women who I still thought to be his mother. Maybe the police would do nothing more, maybe they would be upset we were taking the matter into our on hands. I tried to be logical and think through our options and how to appear to people in what we said and how we looked. We dressed conservatively and went to find a cab. I felt like I was in a Hollywood crime movie.

 

Two taxis sat on the street near the hotel, on one of the two main streets through the center. The men laughed when I asked for an English-speaking driver. One man fetched another, a shopkeeper named Francis who spoke English well and who would act as our interrupter on our private investigation. He managed a small and messy office and store paper supply store. He dressed nicely in black and white striped shirt and black trousers. We employed a taxi driver Francis recommended named Dowa. He seemed too aloof to me, he acted like a major player immediately, and wanted too much money from two poor travellers that had been robbed.

 

We visited Eria's, now my forth time, and the women looked sad at Robyn, although the wife, cute and pretty as she was, sometimes seem to act cocky and that bothered me. Francis spoke with them at length. They hadn't seen him was the end answer. Outside the home Dowa then offered to help, he knew Eria and said he would get the wife to agree to hold the documents when Eria did return and Dowa would then bring them to Francis. Dowa would try that night, about 7pm, he asked (Francis translated), "If everything worked out okay, would you remember him?"

 

Nearly every African is self interested. Back in the town we brought Francis to dinner. I like Francis, he's seems like a very pleasant, moral, and straight ahead guy. But, the culture is different and it can be funny. He chose one of the most expensive meals, 900 shillings, and while he devoured his chicken with the manners of a starving hyena, he told us he wasn't married, we could see why, and could we find him a black American girl? Well, we thought, the best way would be with a personal advertisement in a newspaper. We described personal advertisements to him and wrote one:

 

Single, black, African male, 28, 6ft, 70kg, Tanzanian. Interested in jogging, travelling, reading, dancing. Seeks 21-30 year old, fun, loving girl for pen pal and possible relationship.

 

Francis Henry Mulungu

 

Box 2553

 

Mbeya, Tanzania

 

East Africa

 

That night Robyn and I went to sleep thinking about the situation optimistically, the thief was known, and we were approaching the situation from two angles.

 

Th 9/30/99 - Tanzanian border near Kweya

 

We arranged to meet Francis at 10am and hoped that by then Dowa had already gave him the documents. Breakfast was continental and we spent the little time before looking for cold relief medicine in a local chemist. We were both now suffering the after effects of the stomach cramping illness from a few days ago. We found Chinese Contact. Also on the counters was Animal Juice, Lung Tonic,...

 

At 10am Francis was at his shop and the news wasn't good. Dowa checked last night and the family hadn't seen Eria. Dowa soon showed and asked for more money for another trip to Eria's. Robyn and I joined, Francis did not.

 

Swahili was flying in the little gray courtyard and Dowa looked upset. Again the women looked at Robyn sadly, all we could say was "no passport" and they returned the too often heard, "poli sana", meaning "very sorry". Robyn was now really suffering from her cold, her eyes and nose ran, and I assumed they took that as crying and I wondered if that was a good or bad effect. So, all this banter went about, excitement, shouting, sad faces, and we had to wait and return to Francis to find the translation.

 

Back in the city the translation was simple: Eria flew with the documents to Chunya Town, a village four hour bus ride away. Now Dowa and Francis were sad, things didn't "go okay", and we wouldn't reward them for their help. That claim may be a little unfair but to some extent truthful. Alright, now we had enough, we were leaving! We told this to Francis and he asked that we return for a note before we left and I reassured him I would (his note would later read, "lottery card -> pay gift you thought". Okay, his written English wasn't so good).

 

We walked to the police station and cheekily asked if there was any progress, we didn't expect an answer, we thought they did nothing. Instead Mustufa said, "He flew, to Kyela, right where you are going to enter Malawi". That threw me for a second, what was correct, what the police reported or the family? Was this another push for us to leave the country? Sounded like it. Hell, we're leaving!

 

Mustufa walked us to the immigration office. There a man made the dubious paper official by writing on the back and stamping it. We said goodbye and headed for our bags in the hotel.

 

The logistics of dealing with the lost documents could have worse. There were three major issues - the passport, one VISA card, and the ATM account. Supposedly we could enter Malawi, not travel backwards to Dar es Salaam, and continue our travels. Australia hasn't an embassy in either country, but Britian does, and we assumed they would help a Commonwealth citizen. The VISA card - we called Robyn's home in Oz earlier and her family would help. The ATM card is connected to a Irish account and without her address book, Robyn couldn't telephone a friend there to help but could email later. I would lend money until Lilongwe. So, we had a new plan now.

 

After lunch, we walked to the bus station and were mobbed by a dozen touts yelling in our faces. The just was, we couldn't get across the border by 6pm, it was now 230pm, and the trip takes about four hours. We took a 100 shilling matatu to a larger station in Mwanjelwa about five kilometers away and there boarded a jam packed bus to Mbeya near the border.

 

I stood for two hours. If I could have stood straight up my shoulders would have touched the roof. It was very uncomfortable, I slouched and cocked my head, or clung my hands to the luggage carrier or handbar and I laid my head on the arms. The bus was packed and very aware of two muzungus on board. Robyn found a seat after an hour and after two I did also. It wasn't too bad, just another day in Africa - many breasts stuck in babies mouths, funky odors, many many stops, yelling, and a couple of fist fights outside over bus related jobs. I suppose I was uncomfortable. At some larger town half the bus emptied, meaning all those that were standing, and I found a seat. Robyn and I gazed out the window at passing Africa in the warm glow of the setting sun. Our problem was behind us and we would simply take the steps necessary to deal with the issues, one at a time.

 

We arrived the border at 630pm and booked into an inexpensive lodge, Boder Hardware Spare and Guest House, at 3500TS ($4.38) for two, no breakfast. At the bus station Moses found us and followed us to the hotel. We was persistent, that we should change money with him, and he insistent that the rate was 20 shillings to 1 Malawian kwacha and he wouldn't budge even when we told him other people, people not in the black market, claimed the rate was 17 to 1.

 

Tomorrow we would try to cross in Malawi.

 

-end

 

address for dwoh photo:

 

Hamsi Said Bode

 

P.O. Box 98611

 

Mombasa (Mv Leben)

 

book to get - The Wildest Africa by Paul Tingay

 

-end of document

 

Notes from Erik Brenner of Prague, the Tanzanian game hunter and painter:

 

Stone Town: Coco De Mer $25 very nice, Manchea Vuga Lodge $7pp, Africa House for social drink, Emerson Green for arabic rooftop dinner $30pp book 24hrs in advance

 

The Zanzibarr SE point is Jambiana, best beach, snorkeling, not as popular as NE Zanzibar, bus share 2000 shillings, try nice hotel Sauinn and get off season rate

 

East-east village name? place is Sultan's Palace, see sign on main road (go north at fork to Jumbianna), small store and very Tanzanian remote lodge, very nice

 

Arusha: Tropical Tours near P.O., a little more than others but best, German run. SEE Arusha National Park

 

Lake Eyasi, couple hours from Arusha, 'last frontier'

 

-end of document