The Great Safari: Part 3

My journey on board the MV Liemba was a highlight. For over 80 years, the old German steamship (formally known as the Graf von Goetzen) has been travelling along the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika between Kigoma in Tanzania and Mpulungu in Zambia. It is the last vessel of the Kaiserliche Marine (German Imperial Navy) still actively sailing anywhere in the world and launched in 1915 as one of three vessels the German Empire used to control Lake Tanganyika during the early part of the First World War. After being scuttled in 1916 she was raised by a British Royal Navy salvage team in 1924 and returned to service. These days she transports passengers and cargo but in days gone by she repatriated more than 75,000 refugees back to Zaire during the First Congo War and still takes Congolese and Burundi refugees back to their respective countries if needed.

Thankfully this time I managed to get a compact and bijou first class cabin complete with 2 small bunk beds, a sink, wardrobe and fan. On the deck below were the second class cabins and third class seats where the wall of heat and smell from the masses and the engine room hit you as soon as you descended the ladders. Unlike the decks above it was dark and dank with men selling biscuits, juice, and fruit to the passengers that couldn't afford the restaurant meals. The gateway to "down below" was kept closed and manned by a member of staff. Whilst we waited to depart, the boat was loaded with sacks of fish, flour, bananas and pineapples to be traded along the way or sold in Zambia. Relaxed Tanzanian passengers dawdled on board hours after the boat should have departed whilst we Europeans had made sure we arrived hours early. 

Unsurprisingly, many of the third class passengers preferred to stay outside on the upper decks where they filled every corridor, bench and gangway with mattresses, suitcases, and small children so that by the evening it was impossible to open the door to the cabin for people outside. The restaurant sold good food although it was unaffordable for many of the passengers, and the huge rat that ran up the wall next to Alex the barman was even more off-putting than the cockroaches coming out of the sink behind him. 

The Liemba stopped many times over the next 48 hours always signalled by loud blasts on the horn regardless of the time of day or night. Only three stops had docks; at the others passengers travelled between ship and shore by means of smaller boats. This period of frantic activity was cause for everyone to flock to the sides of the ship to watch the spectacle unfold below. All sizes of rickety wooden boat (usually containing a boy emptying out water with a bucket) approached the sides of the Liemba, bringing new passengers, collecting those disembarking or containing traders gesticulating wildly and plying their wares. Men climbed aboard selling pineapples or melons while huge tuna and catfish were held aloft for display. Some boats appeared to come along just for the entertainment, seeming neither to sell anything or bring passengers of any kind. As the MV Liemba passes only once every 2 weeks, the 45 minutes of distraction is probably too much to ignore.

One of the most enjoyable experiences was being able to have conversations with the other passengers. The second night on board I gave an English lesson to Deo, a Burundian business man who was headed to Zambia to open his own shop. Consequently, our lesson focused on items he would sell like sugar, flour, tea, and then for some reason transgressed into clothing. Maybe he hoped to branch out at some point. He'd left his wife and six children behind in Burundi. Another time, I met two boys (they looked 13 years old although they said they were 24) who were travelling to the town of Kapili to find work. Even though they had no belongings other than a blanket and probably no schooling they asked very interesting questions; did I consider Barack Obama black or white? What did I think of David Cameron's decision to legalise gay marriage? Did I think I would go to mbiguni? I said I didn't know where mbiguni was and they laughed before pointing to the stars so I think they meant heaven.

In the evenings I escaped the hustle to watch the sunset over the Congo. The lifeboat deck seemed to be out of bounds to most passengers other than staff, friends of the captain and wazungu, who of course could go anywhere they wanted to, so it was the most peaceful place to be. The lifeboats looked well-built too although there were only two of them for the 600 passengers on board. 

By dawn on the third day there were noticeably fewer people on board, many having departed overnight. Nobody knew for sure what time we would arrive at Kasanga; depending on who you asked it could be any time in the next 6 hours. There was no chance of missing it though, as being the last stop in Tanzania the border officials would come aboard to stamp passports and all cargo not going on to Zambia would be offloaded. There's always a bit more time to enjoy doing nothing aboard the MV Liemba.

The Great Safari: Part 2

We chose the only day of the week to continue our safari where there was no direct transport to the next destination. So at 6am we were on a bus to Bwanga hoping to intercept a cross-country bus. Bwanga is a dusty settlement in the middle of nowhere with a cluster of dilapidated buildings that seem to exist purely due to the presence of the road junction. Skirting the children selling honey in gin bottles, I handed over more money for the second bus ticket of the day. No-one knew for sure when the buses from Mwanza would pass by so I was surprised when after only 90 minutes of villager-watching the Adveture Connection (sic) bus bounced over a hill into view. The inside of the bus was covered in a film of orange dust and there were many empty seats which was unexpected and foreboding. The few passengers on-board looked to be in a state of mild shock. Fifty metres out of Bwanga the paved road ended. For 11 more hours we bounced along a dusty red road on a bone-jarring 555km ride past countless villages with a booming onion industry, judging by the buckets paraded at the windows. In front, a man had 3 big fish tied to the luggage rack that kept hitting his neighbour in the face; combined with the pervasive dust and the Bongo Flava tunes, the assault on the senses was merciless. Just when the lights of Kigoma could be seen in the distance, the bus gave up; everyone disembarked and the driver disappeared underneath with a hammer for an hour. Darkness adding to the excitement of the journey, the bus continued to break down every 15 minutes followed by a period of frantic undercarriage hammering which I fancied was a ploy to make us targets of the armed bandits that prowl the region.

Eventually we passed NGO offices and UN refugee camps signalling our arrival in Kigoma. Kigoma is Lake Tanganyika's busiest port, handling most of Burundi's foreign trade and serving as the main arrival point for refugees fleeing Central Africa's conflicts, so French is widely spoken.  It is also the end of the cross-country railway line from Dar Es Salaam and is a few kilometres from the village of Ujiji where Stanley's famous line, "Dr Livingstone, I presume?" can be quoted by all.

Kigoma is the also the gateway to Gombe Stream, the smallest and most expensive of Tanzania's National Parks. The only way to reach the park is by boat on Lake Tanganyika; either the Park boat for $350 or an "overcrowded, potentially dangerous" (Rough Guide 2012) lake taxi for $2.50. As I quote the Rough Guide it probably indicates I'm a lake taxi candidate. Six days a week, 2 lake taxis depart from the fishing village of Kibirizi. As soon as you step on the beach, one of the captains pulls you in the direction of their vessel, which at 11am when we boarded was almost empty. Two hours later 300 passengers had filled every conceivable space so we set off at a slow tempo and a dangerous lilt northwards on Lake Tanganyika. After 3 more hours in the burning sun having chatted to many a fellow traveller interested in my life story, we arrived at Gombe National Park. Shopping and backpacks were passed hand to hand until they reached the jetty before me as I struggled to climb over bodies, under beams and past the crates of soda, tractor tyres, chickens and solar panels.

Before we had started a guided walk the next day, 15 chimpanzees passed by the accommodation block on a search for breakfast. We set off after them with our guide Halfani abiding by the park rules: Do not look directly into a chimp's eyes and if one charges, hug the nearest tree. Titan a young male chimp led us to the rest of his family including Sparrow the oldest chimp in the park at 55. The animals didn't seemed fazed by our presence at all, often breaking the 10 metre distance restriction and walking right past us. They ate, played, groomed and fornicated whilst we took photos.

Sparrow, the matriarch of the Kasekela Chimpanzee community

The park rangers and field researchers live in a small village within the Park with their families. Since alpha male Frodo killed and ate part of a 14-month old (human) baby in 2002, the staff housing is surrounded by metal cages and children are always kept inside, much to the amusement of my travelling buddy Paul, who believes children should always be kept in cages regardless of whether they're in a National Park. The chimps may be occasionally dangerous but the resident baboons are the greater pest, taking food from the kitchen, ripping through mosquito netting to get into the bedrooms or stealing clothes from the washing lines. Reminds me of University life. 

The Great Safari: Part 1

After 10 months in Tanzania and having rarely left the south-eastern corner it was time for a trip, or as the Tanzanian's would say, a safari , to visit some far off places. A 9 hour bus trip from Nyangao to Dar Es Salaam started the adventure which after a bad egg the day before turned into a challenge in itself. Next stop Mwanza on the southern shore of Lake Victoria in the north-west of Tanzania.

                    

For £6 Salum a piki-piki driver, took me on a 2-hour tour of the city. Because I was clinging to Salum's back wearing an over-sized helmet with restricted vision whilst carrying a rucksack there was no opportunity for photos so you will have to take my word for it that Mwanza seemed like a nice place. It is Tanzania's second-largest metropolis, one of Africa's fastest-growing cities and the country's busiest inland port, handling most of Tanzania's trade with Uganda. That said, 70-80% of its' inhabitants live in slums built into the rocks and hills surrounding the centre.

Courtesy of Google images   

These slums are my lasting memory of Mwanza along with their huge avian pest, the Marabou Stork. About 1m high, these dirty birds feast on all the rubbish at the dumps, the markets or down on the shore of Lake Victoria. I won't be complaining about pigeons again.

In the evening, I headed to Mwanza port and joined the throngs of waiting passengers catching the overnight MV Victoria ferry to Bukoba. As we waited in the dark surrounded by tatty suitcases, sacks of flour and dozing children, the gangs of entrepreneurial young men sold juice, biscuits and loaves of bread for the journey. Built in Glasgow in 1960 the MV Victoria was promptly knocked down and exported to Mombasa in 1500 crates where she was commissioned by Elizabeth II and granted Royal Mail Ship designation in 1961. By the time I bought my ticket there were no first class or second class sleeping bunks available which meant a bench for the 10 hour overnight trip. As I was directed down old ladders and past lockable metal gates into the hull of the ship I felt like an Irish passenger on the Titanic. The air was hot, smelt of urine, and there were hundreds of people crammed in to every possible space including in the overhead luggage racks where at least they could stretch out. Everyone seemed surprised to see a mzungu in that part of the boat and I felt like a deserter when I gave one of the restaurant waiters £4 to find me an empty bed on higher deck. I spent the night with others who had bought their way out of the hull-hell, in a room meant for staff with 18 bunk beds, more sleeping on the floor and a few cockroaches.

At dawn I headed up to the lifeboat deck where Muslim passengers were performing the Fajr prayer before sunrise. The MV Victoria arrived at Bukoba at 7am, surprisingly on schedule. Even before the boat had properly docked passengers were jumping from the sides. No such thing as health and safety rules here.

Kagera region borders Uganda, Rwanda and Burundi. Cooler, wetter and more lush than the south, the climate is perfect for growing coffee and making cheese; two important staples to the expat diet. The Haya people of Kagera number around 2 million and in the villages and towns their local tribal language Kihaya is spoken over Kiswahili.  Having grown comfortable in the presence of nuns since arriving in Tanzania, I found myself at the Catholic Mater Misericordiae Cathedral in Bukoba where the rooms were spotless and came with ice cold showers and a glow-in-the-dark Jesus as any well-equipped nuns' quarters should.

I spent a week travelling in Kagera region visiting other VSO volunteers; Kagondo is a small village with only a few dukas to buy food and supplies but has a well equipped 162 bed hospital managed by the Catholic Diocese. St Joseph Hospital has the only orthopaedic technician in the region. Jackson makes prosthetic legs out of plastic piping and attaches heavy rubber feet that come in a variety of sizes. Whilst the limbs are not aesthetically pleasing, they make a huge difference to the children and adults who have lost legs as a result of accidents or tumours, as long as they can afford the $150 price tag. His personal story is hugely inspiring - his sister, who is albino, was taken from her bed in the middle of the night by strangers and had her arms completely severed in a malicious attack whilst she was heavily pregnant. Jackson was on duty at the hospital when his sister was brought in for emergency treatment. Miraculously she survived and even more amazing somebody donated money for her to travel to the United States to be fitted with modern prosthetic arms. Having completed only 1 year of basic training, Jackson really wants to go back to study prosthetics further but as is often the case is limited by lack of funds.

 

Jackson with one of his legs

Last stop before the safari continued was in Ndolage, an even smaller village on the edge of a huge plateau complete with waterfall and Jurassic Park-esque scenery. The specialty dish of the area is matoke, mashed cooking bananas served if you're lucky with beans, cabbage and meat. It seems the locals here don't like to go more than a day without their serving of bananas. 

To be continued.....

The half way point

Midway through my time in Tanzania and it has started to feel like home.

FOOD: My taste buds have become low maintenance after 9 months. Rice with beans and a dried fish for lunch every day and spaghetti with the same 3 vegetables each night will do that. On the upside, a dinner of kitimoto (deep fried scraps of hairy pork skin, fat and bone) is a culinary delight. A meal without  stones or insects is a triumph. Only creatures bigger than a fly get removed from my plate these days and any cabbage dish wouldn't be right if it wasn't covered in dead ants. I am accepting of the stark reality that my right hand will smell of fish every afternoon and a dinner where there is Angel Delight for pudding is a very special occasion.

WILDLIFE: After accidentally decapitating two geckos in the door, I have lost any acquired confidence regarding Africa's wildlife. Being solely responsible for cleaning up body parts of small lizards was a step backwards. I haven't yet seen a live snake but taking my behaviour around dead ones into consideration (a lot of shrieking and jumping) I don't think it would go too well if I did.

DOMESTIC DUTIES: I do not miss having a washing machine. There is something about cleaning clothes yourself with a soap powder that is also used to wash your dishes, floors and hands that appeals to the frugal Victorian in me. Although now that I have a cleaning lady I have had to relinquish this joyful task and only get to wash my corsets and bloomers. Even then I feel like a Bronte sister. Twice a week Leggie* leaves the baby at home and comes to clean our house. I don't see what she does exactly, but I've noticed she doesn't like to clean the toilet and scrubs the colour out of all our clothes for £1.40 a week.

*Leggie's real name is Reggie but Tanzanian's always mix-up R's and L's. 

My new home

TRANSPORT: Long ago I became familiar with the Africa-wide mode of transport known in Tanzania as the dala-dala. They range from being reasonably safe-looking to poorly disguised death traps. There have been journeys where the door has fallen off, tyres have burnt out, long delays in villages whilst said tyre/door has been reattached, fights, vomiting, brushes with death. Not long ago I swear the three of us travelling thought that would be our last day on Earth and wondered how our bodies would get home. The only thing you can be certain of is that it will be ridiculously overloaded, if you're lucky enough to have a seat you will have a backside or an armpit in your face, and the conductor will have no change for you.  Do you pick a seat by the window where you have to wave away the soda/sugar cane/squid sellers at every stop, or one in the aisle where someone eating corn will spit pieces into your hair? Bejaj's (tuk-tuk's) are infinitely more fun for short trips around town but not as cheap as a piki-piki (motorbike) where your life is in the hands of a young, helmet-less scoundrel who thinks it is funny to ignore you if you ask him to go slowly. As a lady you sit side-saddle balancing baggage and gripping the driver (if you're me); as a local you carry a few children, livestock and send text messages whilst you ride.

The VSO piki-piki's

PASTIMES - Finishing work at 3.30pm and being home by 3.32pm means no lack of free time. In Nyangao at least, you have to be content with your own company - there are no clubs, teams, or sports to join. My Tanzanian colleagues either return home to start their domestic chores, rest or go to their farms to work until it gets dark. Having moved house recently, I spend the afternoons listening to my new housemate play her music at full volume. George Michael and Enrique Englesias have almost made me terminate my contract and come home. Fridays we always go out for a chip omelette - there are pool tables in every village but women aren't allowed to play. Indeed, women don't go to bars alone (unless they are prostitutes). Fortunately for me, James is always keen for a chip omelette and a warm beer. Trips to Mtwara are something to look forward to every few weeks. There's the chance to catch up with the town volunteers, have some good food and stock up on treats. Today, I went to a salon and had my first pedicure which involved a foot wash (obligatory with all the sand), a foot scour (with 4 different sized scrubbing brushes), moisturise, toe bending and a polish - for £1.20. Sadly after all that relaxation it was necessary to get back on a dala-dala and enjoy 3 hours of elbow/backside/child in-face-action back to Nyangao.

One less mzungu in the village

We were ready. Truthfully, we'd been ready for two hours. The invitation to Sandra's farewell party said from 6pm. It was now 8pm, no one had come to escort her to the party and we'd started listening to the Dixie Chicks to keep the mood up (James' choice). I was starting to doubt anyone would come to collect Sandra. Maybe they would just have the party without her.

Weeks ago, a committee had taken over the planning of Sandra's goodbye sherehe. She had wanted a small affair for some of her colleagues, friends, and the people whom she had grown close to during her year in Nyangao. But that is not the Tanzanian way. Parties are scheduled, ticketed events. End of. The committee chose the date, the venue, the caterer, the DJ, the decorations - we just paid for our cardi (entrance ticket) and waited for Sandra to be driven to the venue. Except that was two hours ago and there was still no sign of a party starting. We sent James down to the village to scout out the venue and see what was going on. He fed back - there were 3 people there. This was going to be a long night. A while later, a second message came - the music was pumping and more people had arrived. Finally, our neighbour and Sandra's boss, Dr Wambyakale drove up to our front door and took the two of us to Nhamo Garden Bar, which was only a 10 minute walk away on Nyangao's main (only) road. I felt like a bridesmaid escorting the bride to her wedding. Except when we arrived at Nhamo, I abandoned Sandra as soon as I could because she would have to dance in to the venue and I didn't want to be part of the procession.

With doctor-in-charge Max Makota and hospital Patron Edgar Chilembe, Sandra danced in to the bar to the soundtrack of Celine Dion. Tanzania loves Celine Dion. Actually, East Africa loves Celine Dion. She took her seat among the balloons, fairy lights and fake silk flowers on the pink and white decorated throne and for the next few hours, flanked by senior hospital staff, that is where she would stay. Through the food (2 frankfurter sausages, a piece of skinny chicken carcass, chips, and raw onion salad - no cutlery included), the "champagne" ceremony (the bottle was brought around all the guests and a small amount poured into your beer/soda), the speeches (Sandra gave a two page speech in Kiswahili) and the zawadi procession, Sandra perched on her throne. She received six kangas, two new African outfits and some cashew nuts from the people she has worked with for the last year. James, Tim, Marije and I danced up with our Bongo-flava CD - our gift of Tanzanian musical memories for Dr Sandra - the romantic favourite I rove you folever (Tanzanian's have a problem with 'L's' and 'R's') included on the compilation CD we bought from the village DJ. We danced up a second time when we wazungu were asked to open the dance floor.

Hours of rhythmic, synchronised, hip-swinging ensued. This was from the Tanzanians. Awkward, out of time knee and elbow jerking was exhibited by the Europeans. Sandra was in huge demand for dancing and photographs. James requested his favourite song "Chop my money" from DJ Stoodio , and Celine Dion was on repeat. The crowd swelled as "Under the Coconut Tree" came on. All was right with the world. A perfect evening to say goodbye under the stars in Nyangao.

Around 1am, without consulting her, the decision was made that it was time for Sandra to leave her own party. In a bit of a rush, midway through drinking a beer and minus her jacket, she was escorted out of Nhamo's surrounded by the committee members and friends - her big pile of presents carried on someone's head. We danced her to the waiting car. We cheered as she climbed in. Waving to her guests, my housemate was driven the 3 minutes back to the home we shared. I guess that meant I'd be walking.

It was an emotional time experiencing Sandra's final week in Tanzania. We were there for her last day at work, shared our last chipsi mayai at the Old Trafford, went for a final run up to the dead baobab tree, ate our last chapattis, and risked our last ride on the dala dala (called "Happy"). Eventually there were no more lasts and it was time to say goodbye. Our time in Nyangao will not be the same without her. Goodbye for now Doctor Sandra. We miss you.