Mbeya. A town that exists, I can only presume, as a hooker stop for truckers ( somewhat like Beaufort West in that respect) and possibly as a dust mine. The word Mbeya probably means rude fucking people in Swahili, and really, short of the fact that its a major stop on the Tazara line, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why this place is even on the map. I while away my evening in a restaurant near to my hotel, with staff so unfriendly I suspect they might be South African expats. The food, however, is quite something, in a sort of mildly condescending, African way. That is to say, it consists of huge chunks of meat, burnt over charcoal and then sliced, served with a mountain of salt, lemon and chilli, and the standard plate of freshly fried hot chips. Not exactly complicated; the most refined component is the salt (ha ha!), but it is tasty. My stomach, however, is still in knots from the last few days cheerful news, as well as the ship-in-a-storm lurching; walking like a drunk man; cannot take a shit while Im being thrown around a puppies chew toy, train experience. I havent taken a shit in so long Im amazed I havent started burping turds. So, in retrospect, I guess I wasnt in the best of moods when I arrived in Mbeya.
Its a relief to leave. In the morning, after a fitful nights sleep, haunted by images I probably shouldnt describe in detail for reasons I cannot explain(mostly phallic, mostly sexual in nature, in an ex-girlfriend nailing some other dude kind of way) I pack up my tent, bleary-eyed and ill tempered. So far, not digging Mbeya too much. I start cycling along the highway, get sick of it, get thirsty and hot, see a mountain ahead, and climb onto a dalla-dalla. To the border! After this shithole town, I cannot wait for Malawi.
At the border, after the customary ripping-off by foreign exchange touts, I meet Nils. A pro cyclist, Nils is on his way down from Addis Adaba, adding a few more kays to his 17,000 already completed. Nils has a fancy bicycle, and all sorts of proper gear. He is polite enough, in German terms, to cycle much, much slower than usual, and we make conversation. We are both relieved to be out of Tanzania, for much the same reasons. Sick of being treated like walking ATMs and sick of being ripped off in every transaction. In Tanzania, for example, if you ask a local for directions, take their photo, ask the time, or in fact do anything, you will be expected to pay for the pleasure.
After the border, we wind our way through the hills of Northern Malawi. Children come screaming, waving like were superstars. Mzungu! Mzungu! Literally, every child in every hut, in every village we pass come running to shout Mzungu at us, like its some kind of good luck to see a white person and remind them of their whiteness. But, it is charming. We ride past, on perfectly tarred roads, with no cars or wind, hummin along like conquering champions.
After some time (I cycle double my usual speed, Nils at half his) we decide to stop for a cold drink. We spot a village, and pull in. Some 100 people are gathered around, cheerfully shouting to each other like a colony of parrots. We ask a few people about sodas. They seem to not hear us, but then, we figure it out. The entire village are drunk as skunks. They are all shithoused, after drinking god knows how much Chibuku. Chibuku is fermented maize, another carbohydrate-heavy component in the African diet. It tastes, and looks, a lot like mielie-pap vomit. Only faintly alcoholic, it takes a strong stomach to drink enough to actually get pissed.
We spend the night at a campsite in some nondescript town. Dinner is the first of many of Nils and my own combined genius cooking experiences, a simple but sustaining mountain of spaghetti and tomato sauce, with home-made cheese. Eaten by headlamp light, out of a tin cup. Its tasty, but not a scratch on some of the culinary extravaganzas that Nils and I will compose, like beautiful and tasty music, in the next few days..
Monday, September 26, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Train Song
A final night's sleep on a mattress, sheer luxury, at the prison-like YWCA, after a final night's hard drinking at the nearby YMCA, which, while more expensive, seems to attract a finer class of travellers. Of course, having said that, as I pack my bags on my bicycle and make ready to leave, the gorgeous girls arrive, giggles echoing through the dingy halls of the YWCA's grimy canteen. Providence can't always be on your side.
I cycle to the TAZARA station, a monolithic edifice of the 1970's persuasion, totally awe-inspiring in its colonial aspirations for efficiency. Probably the most impressive thing I saw in Dar, it dwarfs the hundreds of people milling about around it, a real architectural masterpiece. Of course, probably only a tenth of the original building is used today for its intended purpose, and most of the building seems to have never been painted, cleaned or maintained. Like most of Africa's architectural relics, then.
I board the train, and to my delight, I'm sharing my six berth cabin with 5 Zambian teenagers, here in Dar for their school holidays. Next door are six Zambian girls, so fun times ahead! Cellphones blare terrible pop music, and high-school gossip is freely circulated,. In no time at all, I'm forced by my own standards of decency to vacate the cabin with the other chaps, leaving two lusty teenagers to grope, fondle and smooch to their hearts content. After dinner, some two hours later, I make my way back down the lurching corridor, as the train leaps about like a drunk snake on a trampoline. I slide my cabin door open, without knocking (silly me!) and reveal two teenagers-she, with her shirt pulled up, he-with a "fingers in the cookie jar" expression on his face, lipstick smeared over his face. A second of awkward stares, a quiet cough, and I close the door again. They're young, dumb and full of.. fun. I'm nearly 25, cranky, and I got "Dear John"'d this morning, so while those two fondle each other in my cabin, somewhere 5000km away, my own favourite girlie is getting fondled too, no doubt. It's in this sour and deeply contemplative mood that I repair to the bar, to hang out with Peter, the super cool barman, and try to spot giraffes and lions and elephants and things out the windows. We are, after all, jerking and jumping along the railroad through the Selous Park. It is, unfortunately, pitch dark outside.
Daylight and dawn brings amazing views from the bar window, mountains and hills rolling past the window. Fresh, warm air blows in the window, and present cicrcumstances notwithstanding, the romance of long distance train travel is undiminished. Sitting on a broken chair half resting on a beer crate, holding onto the table to avoid being thrown about by the teeth-clenching, often actually quite frightening jerks the train gives, like we're going over speedbumps on the rails. But the view is really spectacular, and the blue sky is still there, and its still hot, and birds fly wheel in its infinite depths, great eagles and hawks and things, and we fly over bridges so high you tighten your buttocks on the hard plastic seat, and before you know it, the police come bundling past with some nutter screaming bloody murder, because he wanted to jump off that really big bridge to his death, and the police disagree.
Next stop, Mbeya.
I cycle to the TAZARA station, a monolithic edifice of the 1970's persuasion, totally awe-inspiring in its colonial aspirations for efficiency. Probably the most impressive thing I saw in Dar, it dwarfs the hundreds of people milling about around it, a real architectural masterpiece. Of course, probably only a tenth of the original building is used today for its intended purpose, and most of the building seems to have never been painted, cleaned or maintained. Like most of Africa's architectural relics, then.
I board the train, and to my delight, I'm sharing my six berth cabin with 5 Zambian teenagers, here in Dar for their school holidays. Next door are six Zambian girls, so fun times ahead! Cellphones blare terrible pop music, and high-school gossip is freely circulated,. In no time at all, I'm forced by my own standards of decency to vacate the cabin with the other chaps, leaving two lusty teenagers to grope, fondle and smooch to their hearts content. After dinner, some two hours later, I make my way back down the lurching corridor, as the train leaps about like a drunk snake on a trampoline. I slide my cabin door open, without knocking (silly me!) and reveal two teenagers-she, with her shirt pulled up, he-with a "fingers in the cookie jar" expression on his face, lipstick smeared over his face. A second of awkward stares, a quiet cough, and I close the door again. They're young, dumb and full of.. fun. I'm nearly 25, cranky, and I got "Dear John"'d this morning, so while those two fondle each other in my cabin, somewhere 5000km away, my own favourite girlie is getting fondled too, no doubt. It's in this sour and deeply contemplative mood that I repair to the bar, to hang out with Peter, the super cool barman, and try to spot giraffes and lions and elephants and things out the windows. We are, after all, jerking and jumping along the railroad through the Selous Park. It is, unfortunately, pitch dark outside.
Daylight and dawn brings amazing views from the bar window, mountains and hills rolling past the window. Fresh, warm air blows in the window, and present cicrcumstances notwithstanding, the romance of long distance train travel is undiminished. Sitting on a broken chair half resting on a beer crate, holding onto the table to avoid being thrown about by the teeth-clenching, often actually quite frightening jerks the train gives, like we're going over speedbumps on the rails. But the view is really spectacular, and the blue sky is still there, and its still hot, and birds fly wheel in its infinite depths, great eagles and hawks and things, and we fly over bridges so high you tighten your buttocks on the hard plastic seat, and before you know it, the police come bundling past with some nutter screaming bloody murder, because he wanted to jump off that really big bridge to his death, and the police disagree.
Next stop, Mbeya.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Dar
Dar es Salaam. The first impression is a bit like walking into a festival Portaloo in the hot summer sun; the humid, greasy air a fetid mixture of sewage, rotting vegetables, body odour and diesel fumes. It hits you like a pap snoek in the face as you get out the bus, and like snoek juice, doesnt seem to really wash out too well, either.
Of course, it is in fact Eid. So all the Muslims that have spent the whole month dodging any kind of strenuous activity like drinking or eating or heavy lifting, now rest for a further two days. Of course, in Dar, this means EVERYONE. The entire city shuts down, for TWO DAYS. Every shop is closed, from the watch repair fundi's to the bookstores. I am in Dar for two days. Coincidence? Ha! I thought Eid would be a huge party. Last time I trust the Muslims!
Days are spent sitting about in the YMCA, just a stones throw from the YWCA, where I have taken my lodging. The YWCA is cheaper, by half, but does not serve beer. It gives the impression of being a converted jail; the rooms, while cheap, are scarcely big enough to tickle a cat, let alone swing one. The toilets are a similarly gloomy affair, and the receptionist seems more disheartened with every new arrival checking in.
Which brings me to the people of Dar es Salaam. Miserable, thieving bastards. It is here that, no doubt, many mzungus must get their first impressions of Africa. As one of Africa's biggest cities, in the country that gave us the word "safari", it seems like everyone here makes a living ripping people of. I can't wait for Malawi.
I book my ticket at the Tazara station, the 24 hour train journey that will take me through the Selous National Park, a vast wilderness that Tom Robbins himself has rated highly. Animals galloping past the window of my dining car carriage, elephants tootling merrily while I politely nod my head at them, toasting them with a cold Kilimanjaro, as I speed along on my timeless, romantic train journey West. Next stop, Mbeya, and then, Malawi!
Of course, it is in fact Eid. So all the Muslims that have spent the whole month dodging any kind of strenuous activity like drinking or eating or heavy lifting, now rest for a further two days. Of course, in Dar, this means EVERYONE. The entire city shuts down, for TWO DAYS. Every shop is closed, from the watch repair fundi's to the bookstores. I am in Dar for two days. Coincidence? Ha! I thought Eid would be a huge party. Last time I trust the Muslims!
Days are spent sitting about in the YMCA, just a stones throw from the YWCA, where I have taken my lodging. The YWCA is cheaper, by half, but does not serve beer. It gives the impression of being a converted jail; the rooms, while cheap, are scarcely big enough to tickle a cat, let alone swing one. The toilets are a similarly gloomy affair, and the receptionist seems more disheartened with every new arrival checking in.
Which brings me to the people of Dar es Salaam. Miserable, thieving bastards. It is here that, no doubt, many mzungus must get their first impressions of Africa. As one of Africa's biggest cities, in the country that gave us the word "safari", it seems like everyone here makes a living ripping people of. I can't wait for Malawi.
I book my ticket at the Tazara station, the 24 hour train journey that will take me through the Selous National Park, a vast wilderness that Tom Robbins himself has rated highly. Animals galloping past the window of my dining car carriage, elephants tootling merrily while I politely nod my head at them, toasting them with a cold Kilimanjaro, as I speed along on my timeless, romantic train journey West. Next stop, Mbeya, and then, Malawi!
Goodbye Pangani
So its goodbye, Pangani. Its been cool, but its time to leave. A night or two, hazy from zol and shitty vodka, and Nadia makes my custom saddle bags for the bike. I should probably test ride them, and give the bike a bit of work too, but fuck all that! The highway calls!
Next morning I hit the road, after my last ever breakfast of fruit salad, chipati, coffee and fresh hard-boiled farm eggs. Goodness. Laters, Pangani! Laters, lovely, creaking old ferry; laters, chips and samoosa man; laters, groups of unfriendly German volunteer groups huddled together for safety (or so I thought!) ;laters, hippies who think aliens brought magic mushrooms to Earth to advance humankinds evolution!
The road is hot, and dusty, but its good to be moving. The bike is heavy, and as I ride, I constantly make a mental inventory of my wordly possessions, stuffed into my two new psychedelic canvas saddle bags. What seemed, on my back, to be fairly light, now weighs a ton! How much longer; how much sweating, puffing, heaving and panting, pushing the bike up hills, swearing and cursing before I throw my prize coffee pot and 500 grams of coffee into the dense, thorny scrub? Do I really need all this shit? Do I need 6 litres of water? I think so.
I hope that my last minute preparations are sufficient. A cheap, Chinese bicycle, worth about R450, a cheap steel luggage rack, a small basket, a dynamo. Me with no proper shoes, just flip-flops, feet already scabby from falls. No proper protection against falls, no maps, no protein bars, no shaved legs, no proper anything. Just a bit of enthusiasm, derring-do and some pot-luck, and I think I'll be fine!
Where the first day is chilled vibes, day two takes it toll. After a night spent pleasantly lounging on the coconutty beach at a friendly and sympathetic fishermans spot, watching the sun set bright rosy pink and fiery orange through the palm fronds, I set off through the Sadaani National Park. Me, on a bicycle, riding through a Tanzanian national park! Grinning ear to ear, I set a pace, determined to make it through the park, a good 40kms, and see a few animals too. However, luck is not on my side, and its only a giraffe or two, galloping off to hide from any prying eyes that I spot, besides a few distant buck and some monkeys. Still, how often do you get the chance to cycle through a national park?
After a quick stop for lunch, (boiled liver and ugali) I find another reason to curse myself for not bringing a camera. In the hazy, broiling heat of the midday sun, I spot, in the distance, Chumvi Village. Sea salt village, population apparently about six. An old man sits in the shade of an abandoned building, skin like an old dhow sail, withered from the sun. He doesnt look like he's moved all day, or even all week. I sit down in the shade with him and offer him an orange. He grunts in reply, maybe the most effort he could manage today. As I step out again, into the sun, it hits like an open oven door. My skin may as well be perforated; I can feel the moisture vapourising from my insides like a kettle left on the fire. The whole village, almost entirely deserted, it seems, has the overwhelming appearance of an old Polaroid photograph from the 1960's.
After some blistering miles, wrapped up in a sarong like a nomad, I make it to the border of the park. A small canoe comes, and across the river. After a lengthy wrong turn, I start off to Bagamoyo, about 70kms further on. Puff. Pant. The sun begins to dip down, dangerously low to the horizon, and people begin to ask as I wind my way this long, sparsely populated road, "Where are you going, mzungu?" I tell them Bagamoyo and they say, "Too far! Too far, mzungu!" But I dont listen, fuck 'em. What do they know? Im the king of the road! How far, I ask? "Five kilometres! Too far!"
Five kays? No problem! I ride on, undeterred. The sun sets. I shit myself. It turns out people around here have a poor perception of distance, and like Swahili time, Swahili kilometres are fairly arbitrary. A dalla-dalla comes hurtling along, a truck loaded up with people, beehives, mattresses, and the usual clutter. I wave, frantically. Desperation oozing out of every pore, mixing with the sweat, the sunblock, the filth, the food stains, the grime. Please stop. Please God, I cant camp in the bush with only one packet of instant noodles and a coconut for dinner. They continue down the road, undeterred. A little piece of me breaks inside, as it grows darker around me, the baobabs, the thorn trees no doubt concealing millions of leaopards, man eating mosquitoes, tigers, whatever.
But no! Someone only fifty metres away has stopped them! I race up, leap in the back and collapse, no doubt soiling someones brand new mattress, six months salary in one purchase, with my filthy body and sweaty slops. To Bagamoyo! Thank you, kind fate!
I toast my success in Bagamoyo, the kind mercy and gently hand of Providence, and all that, with a cold Kilimanjaro or two, a Portsman cigarette (I earned this shit, bitches!) and a plate of freshly fried chips, some tender, delicious mishikaki skwerers and salad. I ain't even lookin' at all the hookers in this dive bar, I'm just feeling good. A good days ride, with only a little cheating.
Next morning I hit the road, after my last ever breakfast of fruit salad, chipati, coffee and fresh hard-boiled farm eggs. Goodness. Laters, Pangani! Laters, lovely, creaking old ferry; laters, chips and samoosa man; laters, groups of unfriendly German volunteer groups huddled together for safety (or so I thought!) ;laters, hippies who think aliens brought magic mushrooms to Earth to advance humankinds evolution!
The road is hot, and dusty, but its good to be moving. The bike is heavy, and as I ride, I constantly make a mental inventory of my wordly possessions, stuffed into my two new psychedelic canvas saddle bags. What seemed, on my back, to be fairly light, now weighs a ton! How much longer; how much sweating, puffing, heaving and panting, pushing the bike up hills, swearing and cursing before I throw my prize coffee pot and 500 grams of coffee into the dense, thorny scrub? Do I really need all this shit? Do I need 6 litres of water? I think so.
I hope that my last minute preparations are sufficient. A cheap, Chinese bicycle, worth about R450, a cheap steel luggage rack, a small basket, a dynamo. Me with no proper shoes, just flip-flops, feet already scabby from falls. No proper protection against falls, no maps, no protein bars, no shaved legs, no proper anything. Just a bit of enthusiasm, derring-do and some pot-luck, and I think I'll be fine!
Where the first day is chilled vibes, day two takes it toll. After a night spent pleasantly lounging on the coconutty beach at a friendly and sympathetic fishermans spot, watching the sun set bright rosy pink and fiery orange through the palm fronds, I set off through the Sadaani National Park. Me, on a bicycle, riding through a Tanzanian national park! Grinning ear to ear, I set a pace, determined to make it through the park, a good 40kms, and see a few animals too. However, luck is not on my side, and its only a giraffe or two, galloping off to hide from any prying eyes that I spot, besides a few distant buck and some monkeys. Still, how often do you get the chance to cycle through a national park?
After a quick stop for lunch, (boiled liver and ugali) I find another reason to curse myself for not bringing a camera. In the hazy, broiling heat of the midday sun, I spot, in the distance, Chumvi Village. Sea salt village, population apparently about six. An old man sits in the shade of an abandoned building, skin like an old dhow sail, withered from the sun. He doesnt look like he's moved all day, or even all week. I sit down in the shade with him and offer him an orange. He grunts in reply, maybe the most effort he could manage today. As I step out again, into the sun, it hits like an open oven door. My skin may as well be perforated; I can feel the moisture vapourising from my insides like a kettle left on the fire. The whole village, almost entirely deserted, it seems, has the overwhelming appearance of an old Polaroid photograph from the 1960's.
After some blistering miles, wrapped up in a sarong like a nomad, I make it to the border of the park. A small canoe comes, and across the river. After a lengthy wrong turn, I start off to Bagamoyo, about 70kms further on. Puff. Pant. The sun begins to dip down, dangerously low to the horizon, and people begin to ask as I wind my way this long, sparsely populated road, "Where are you going, mzungu?" I tell them Bagamoyo and they say, "Too far! Too far, mzungu!" But I dont listen, fuck 'em. What do they know? Im the king of the road! How far, I ask? "Five kilometres! Too far!"
Five kays? No problem! I ride on, undeterred. The sun sets. I shit myself. It turns out people around here have a poor perception of distance, and like Swahili time, Swahili kilometres are fairly arbitrary. A dalla-dalla comes hurtling along, a truck loaded up with people, beehives, mattresses, and the usual clutter. I wave, frantically. Desperation oozing out of every pore, mixing with the sweat, the sunblock, the filth, the food stains, the grime. Please stop. Please God, I cant camp in the bush with only one packet of instant noodles and a coconut for dinner. They continue down the road, undeterred. A little piece of me breaks inside, as it grows darker around me, the baobabs, the thorn trees no doubt concealing millions of leaopards, man eating mosquitoes, tigers, whatever.
But no! Someone only fifty metres away has stopped them! I race up, leap in the back and collapse, no doubt soiling someones brand new mattress, six months salary in one purchase, with my filthy body and sweaty slops. To Bagamoyo! Thank you, kind fate!
I toast my success in Bagamoyo, the kind mercy and gently hand of Providence, and all that, with a cold Kilimanjaro or two, a Portsman cigarette (I earned this shit, bitches!) and a plate of freshly fried chips, some tender, delicious mishikaki skwerers and salad. I ain't even lookin' at all the hookers in this dive bar, I'm just feeling good. A good days ride, with only a little cheating.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Monkey Vomit
Lunch time in the middle of Ramadan, in Tanga town. A huge amount of the inhabitants of this fun-deprived town are Muslims, and apparently that includes the restaurant owners and bar clientele. Hungry-looking, slow-moving, long-shirt-and-funny-little-hat-wearing types shuffle about, no doubt dreaming about mountains of grilled octopus, plates of steaming fragrant rice, cheeseburgers, chipati's and maybe here and there a bacon sarmie. The blood-curdling drone of starving Muslims fills the air, as they wail on the radio and from large, specially constructed towers using megaphones to make sure everyone knows its still Ramadan. Their message, I imagine, is probably something to do with not eating, and god being really fantastic. Its hard to find good food, or a busy bar, no matter how hard one tries. And believe me, I have tried.
We ask the curiously named Black Seed, the local "flycatcher" or tourist hustler, for a good, cheap local bar. No problem! Really good, super cheap place close by! We zoom off, on our spiffy new bicycles, overtaking women in full burqua's, sitting old-fashioned side-saddle on cheap chinese motorbikes, and the usual: chickens running through the streets, men with four hundred kilograms of charcoal on the back of their bicycles, bicycle-riding sugarcane vendors. Tanga is built on a grid, slightly unusually for this neck of the woods, I would think. But the overall effect of wandering through the streets is that everything looks the same- dusty, broken, fixed and then broken some more.
We arrive at our local restaurant. A large, freshly killed rat lies flattened in the road not ten steps from the front door. Our guide promises us that the local dish of plantain and beef stew will be not only delicious and easy on the pockets, but also a cultural experience to remember. Our mouths water at the thought of a hearty beef stew, even if we are slightly uncertain. We sit down at some cramped plastic tables, some chickens milling about and a fan blowing a cool breeze around the slightly squalid, dirty little room.
Cheap African restaurants, in my humble experience, are quite fascinating in their own way. I normally enjoy them thoroughly. Although I can understand why for many mzungus a large chunk of fresh goat meat, or some bits of an unfortunate chicken hanging from a piece of dirty wire over the bar counter, unrefrigerated and popular with flies might seem like dancing with gastroenteritis, I'm generally willing to try it out. Its true, noone uses fridges here, really. The lack of a reliable electricity supply makes long storage of perishables a challenge, and generally people don't bother. So animals are slaughtered in the morning, and the meat is used either that day, or the next. The thirty degree heat generally doesnt get much of a chance to spoil the meat, although its worth trusting your nose, and washing your hands. Besides, its free range! Its generally worth getting past the "why the fuck are you so far from your hotel, honky?" stares one occasionally encounters (very rarely indeed, but it does happen), and the fear so many mzungus have of ugali, or mielie-pap, and enjoying a fine, freshly prepared, locally sourced, home made meal. We're from South Africa! Not New Zealand, or some pussy country where they dont know how to eat with their hands and cook meat on fires!
So when our food arrived, some boiled meat and bits of bone floating in a stodgy paste with some chunks of banana, looking (and smelling) an awful lot like an omnivorous monkeys vomit, we did what I never thought I'd do.
We got up, paid, and left.
Our food untouched. Not a fucking mouthful. Chicken and chips at the hotel restaurant, five minutes later.
We ask the curiously named Black Seed, the local "flycatcher" or tourist hustler, for a good, cheap local bar. No problem! Really good, super cheap place close by! We zoom off, on our spiffy new bicycles, overtaking women in full burqua's, sitting old-fashioned side-saddle on cheap chinese motorbikes, and the usual: chickens running through the streets, men with four hundred kilograms of charcoal on the back of their bicycles, bicycle-riding sugarcane vendors. Tanga is built on a grid, slightly unusually for this neck of the woods, I would think. But the overall effect of wandering through the streets is that everything looks the same- dusty, broken, fixed and then broken some more.
We arrive at our local restaurant. A large, freshly killed rat lies flattened in the road not ten steps from the front door. Our guide promises us that the local dish of plantain and beef stew will be not only delicious and easy on the pockets, but also a cultural experience to remember. Our mouths water at the thought of a hearty beef stew, even if we are slightly uncertain. We sit down at some cramped plastic tables, some chickens milling about and a fan blowing a cool breeze around the slightly squalid, dirty little room.
Cheap African restaurants, in my humble experience, are quite fascinating in their own way. I normally enjoy them thoroughly. Although I can understand why for many mzungus a large chunk of fresh goat meat, or some bits of an unfortunate chicken hanging from a piece of dirty wire over the bar counter, unrefrigerated and popular with flies might seem like dancing with gastroenteritis, I'm generally willing to try it out. Its true, noone uses fridges here, really. The lack of a reliable electricity supply makes long storage of perishables a challenge, and generally people don't bother. So animals are slaughtered in the morning, and the meat is used either that day, or the next. The thirty degree heat generally doesnt get much of a chance to spoil the meat, although its worth trusting your nose, and washing your hands. Besides, its free range! Its generally worth getting past the "why the fuck are you so far from your hotel, honky?" stares one occasionally encounters (very rarely indeed, but it does happen), and the fear so many mzungus have of ugali, or mielie-pap, and enjoying a fine, freshly prepared, locally sourced, home made meal. We're from South Africa! Not New Zealand, or some pussy country where they dont know how to eat with their hands and cook meat on fires!
So when our food arrived, some boiled meat and bits of bone floating in a stodgy paste with some chunks of banana, looking (and smelling) an awful lot like an omnivorous monkeys vomit, we did what I never thought I'd do.
We got up, paid, and left.
Our food untouched. Not a fucking mouthful. Chicken and chips at the hotel restaurant, five minutes later.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Tanga
Enough of this small village; two chickens and half a donkey. We're off to the suspiciously named, bustling metropolis of Tanga!
Up in the morning, after a night of pillow-biting, nail-chewing, swearword-mumbling and canine-murder-fantasies, thanks to the four farm dogs and one farm puppy. For a while I've suspected them all of being retarded (like, slightly mongoloid). When you throw a stick, they don not fetch. When you call them, they do not come. In the heat of the sunny farm afternoon, when the bees are buzzing and millions of small, frisky nosed and bushy tailed animals bustle about in the nearby bushes begging to be torn limb from limb by any half-capable canine. But no, the dogs lie about under trees, sleeping out their carbohydrate coma's (their diet of ugali is eaten with long teeth, ha ha!) and generally littering the ground, as if some kind of insane doggy massacre has just taken place. But come night time, its Bark O' Clock! Time to bark at things in the darkness! Oh boy! Sleep, for us humans, comes in short, poorly spaced bursts.
Up at the crack of pearly, and out! Sleep when you're dead, or at least, far away from Aurora! Off to Pangani, over the ferry, onto the bus, two hours of being shaken until our insides begin to foam, and just before we involuntarily uncork ourselves, we're in Tanga! No sign of the eponymous jockstraps anywhere, but there are all sorts of distant memories coming back in a wave of heat, dust, car hooters and diesel fumes. Tar roads! Actual shops! Fresh herbs! Oh my fuck, thats a lettuce! Industry! More than three bars! Oh man, the Big Time! Im going to be a part of it.
We're here,Nick and I, ostensibly to buy bicycles. Nick is off to Arusha, where thousands of wazungu (plural whitey) go to climb a retired volcano, or ride about in Land Cruisers and look at animals in parks and have sex in expensive canvas tents. Im off to Malawi, or something, to swim in a big lake, and possibly avoid being thrown in the back of a police truck as the Malawian President (officially called, His Excellency The President, no joke) tests the waters, as it were, for his impending dictatorship. So we're both on holiday, then.
Bicycle buying, like many things in Africa, takes time. 'Polepole', as they say in Swahili. Slowly, slowly. Sometimes, very polepole indeed. First, you have to find a bicycle that isnt made for a 12 year old Chinese girl (everything in Africa is made in China, except the things that are made out of endangered species). Even just finding a shop that sells bicycles is a challenge, because the streets are thick with bicycles- piling up on the pavements, whizzing past on the streets, and furiously ringing their shrill Chinese bells at you to make way. One easily finds oneself seriously considering a bike, lined up in a neat row on shopfront display, when the owner comes out of mosque, or a bar (or both?!), hops on it and leaves you in his dust. Second hand is cheaper, and generally better quality. Choose the one you like, but dont look too interested. Tell the dealer, or random owner, that you like it, but you have another one at half the price. You like this colour better. He'll inform you, with tears in his eyes, that his children haven't eaten in weeks. His grandmother is dying, and the children ate the coffin last month. Eighty thousand shillings! You must be mad! Mzungu, please! A word you hear often is:" Impossible!" After hours of haggling, pleading, stonewalling, on the spot repairs, repairing the repairs, replacing broken parts with pieces from other bikes also on show, he'll take half the original offer, and go home to his bachelor flat and order a pizza with the profits. Or something. This six hour long marathon of haggling, a test of wills, a battle of wits, is all in a days work for the Tanzanian bicycle dealer, I ponder to myself, as I zoom through the dusty and, inevitably, hot Tanga streets on my new, pimped out ride.
Now we have bicycles! The city is ours! The plan is to buy a litre of freshly pressed sugar cane juice, some limes, some gin, some mint, and roam the streets, presenting a menace for both ourselves and the greater community. Tally ho!
Up in the morning, after a night of pillow-biting, nail-chewing, swearword-mumbling and canine-murder-fantasies, thanks to the four farm dogs and one farm puppy. For a while I've suspected them all of being retarded (like, slightly mongoloid). When you throw a stick, they don not fetch. When you call them, they do not come. In the heat of the sunny farm afternoon, when the bees are buzzing and millions of small, frisky nosed and bushy tailed animals bustle about in the nearby bushes begging to be torn limb from limb by any half-capable canine. But no, the dogs lie about under trees, sleeping out their carbohydrate coma's (their diet of ugali is eaten with long teeth, ha ha!) and generally littering the ground, as if some kind of insane doggy massacre has just taken place. But come night time, its Bark O' Clock! Time to bark at things in the darkness! Oh boy! Sleep, for us humans, comes in short, poorly spaced bursts.
Up at the crack of pearly, and out! Sleep when you're dead, or at least, far away from Aurora! Off to Pangani, over the ferry, onto the bus, two hours of being shaken until our insides begin to foam, and just before we involuntarily uncork ourselves, we're in Tanga! No sign of the eponymous jockstraps anywhere, but there are all sorts of distant memories coming back in a wave of heat, dust, car hooters and diesel fumes. Tar roads! Actual shops! Fresh herbs! Oh my fuck, thats a lettuce! Industry! More than three bars! Oh man, the Big Time! Im going to be a part of it.
We're here,Nick and I, ostensibly to buy bicycles. Nick is off to Arusha, where thousands of wazungu (plural whitey) go to climb a retired volcano, or ride about in Land Cruisers and look at animals in parks and have sex in expensive canvas tents. Im off to Malawi, or something, to swim in a big lake, and possibly avoid being thrown in the back of a police truck as the Malawian President (officially called, His Excellency The President, no joke) tests the waters, as it were, for his impending dictatorship. So we're both on holiday, then.
Bicycle buying, like many things in Africa, takes time. 'Polepole', as they say in Swahili. Slowly, slowly. Sometimes, very polepole indeed. First, you have to find a bicycle that isnt made for a 12 year old Chinese girl (everything in Africa is made in China, except the things that are made out of endangered species). Even just finding a shop that sells bicycles is a challenge, because the streets are thick with bicycles- piling up on the pavements, whizzing past on the streets, and furiously ringing their shrill Chinese bells at you to make way. One easily finds oneself seriously considering a bike, lined up in a neat row on shopfront display, when the owner comes out of mosque, or a bar (or both?!), hops on it and leaves you in his dust. Second hand is cheaper, and generally better quality. Choose the one you like, but dont look too interested. Tell the dealer, or random owner, that you like it, but you have another one at half the price. You like this colour better. He'll inform you, with tears in his eyes, that his children haven't eaten in weeks. His grandmother is dying, and the children ate the coffin last month. Eighty thousand shillings! You must be mad! Mzungu, please! A word you hear often is:" Impossible!" After hours of haggling, pleading, stonewalling, on the spot repairs, repairing the repairs, replacing broken parts with pieces from other bikes also on show, he'll take half the original offer, and go home to his bachelor flat and order a pizza with the profits. Or something. This six hour long marathon of haggling, a test of wills, a battle of wits, is all in a days work for the Tanzanian bicycle dealer, I ponder to myself, as I zoom through the dusty and, inevitably, hot Tanga streets on my new, pimped out ride.
Now we have bicycles! The city is ours! The plan is to buy a litre of freshly pressed sugar cane juice, some limes, some gin, some mint, and roam the streets, presenting a menace for both ourselves and the greater community. Tally ho!
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Pangani
Riding on a bicycle to the nearby town of Pangani is always loads of fun. After the recent heavy rains of the last few days, a sunny afternoon is too good to ignore! The road from the farm to Pangani is a mud track, barely more than a glorified path at the best of times. As I ride along, small children run out of their huts and wave. "Mzungu! Muzungu!" Always nice to be noticed. Chickens squawk and leap out of the way; butterflies flit about, playing with death in the form of speeding bicycle tyres. The sun beats down, blasting everything with a cheerful glare and fierce, broiling heat. The omnipresent red dust has transformed after the rains, forming muddy pits you could lose a goat in. Cattle tracks in the mud complete the picture of remote, darkest Africa. As I pedal along, squeaking gently, Iggy Pop wails away on the MP3 player, "Sweet sixteen, in leather boots, body and soul, I go crazy.." Totally at odds with the surrounds. I wonder what the dreadlocked chap sitting by the side of the road pounding mielies, would think if he knew anything about Iggy Pop, and chuckle quietly to myself.
To get into town proper its necessary to cross the river on the ferry, from Bweni. Bweni isn't a village. It isn't anything. A few houses and some scraggly chickens scuttling about in the dirt, eating worms more unfortunate than themselves. It only exists because the ferry needs to stop somewhere over the river. The children here play a game that involves nailing a paint tin lid to a stick, and then running it along the ground. Poor bastards. Someone needs to send an aid shipment of proper toys to Tanzania, desperately. Ninja Turtles, Transformers, Africa needs you!
The river is straight out of Apocalypse Now; small wooden canoes paddle about in the green, slimy looking water. Tropical rainforest lines the sides of the river, coconut palms and their ilk. The ferry is always on the other side of the river. It comes across slowly, fighting the current and the tide, past plastic bottles and other detritus, groaning with the weight of trucks, motorcycles, cars, bicycles and what sometimes seems to be hundreds of people. Snot nosed babies, faces caked with dust, mothers wrapped in elegant kanga's, motorcyclists delivering six cases of beer on the back of their bikes, old men clutching hand woven baskets of live chickens, scuttling and scratching and clucking to themselves. The hoi-polloi that is Africa's public transport- the noise, the spitting of mango pips and nonchalant throwing overboard of litter, the shouting, the crying, the blank faces, the diesel fumes, the sweat.
Pangani is not a tourist town. A few mad mzungu's come here- some lost, some adventuring off the (very) well beaten track (ie: Zanzibar), some volunteers. But, after Zanzibar's heaving tides of pale-skinned vacationers, its a pleasure to be able to spot a whitey out in a crowd. It feels slightly more authentic, for one thing. No queues of safari-suited Americans snaking through the streets photographing everything that moves, no constant smell of sunblock and chatter about hair dryers and nail varnish. Luxury!
To get into town proper its necessary to cross the river on the ferry, from Bweni. Bweni isn't a village. It isn't anything. A few houses and some scraggly chickens scuttling about in the dirt, eating worms more unfortunate than themselves. It only exists because the ferry needs to stop somewhere over the river. The children here play a game that involves nailing a paint tin lid to a stick, and then running it along the ground. Poor bastards. Someone needs to send an aid shipment of proper toys to Tanzania, desperately. Ninja Turtles, Transformers, Africa needs you!
The river is straight out of Apocalypse Now; small wooden canoes paddle about in the green, slimy looking water. Tropical rainforest lines the sides of the river, coconut palms and their ilk. The ferry is always on the other side of the river. It comes across slowly, fighting the current and the tide, past plastic bottles and other detritus, groaning with the weight of trucks, motorcycles, cars, bicycles and what sometimes seems to be hundreds of people. Snot nosed babies, faces caked with dust, mothers wrapped in elegant kanga's, motorcyclists delivering six cases of beer on the back of their bikes, old men clutching hand woven baskets of live chickens, scuttling and scratching and clucking to themselves. The hoi-polloi that is Africa's public transport- the noise, the spitting of mango pips and nonchalant throwing overboard of litter, the shouting, the crying, the blank faces, the diesel fumes, the sweat.
Pangani is not a tourist town. A few mad mzungu's come here- some lost, some adventuring off the (very) well beaten track (ie: Zanzibar), some volunteers. But, after Zanzibar's heaving tides of pale-skinned vacationers, its a pleasure to be able to spot a whitey out in a crowd. It feels slightly more authentic, for one thing. No queues of safari-suited Americans snaking through the streets photographing everything that moves, no constant smell of sunblock and chatter about hair dryers and nail varnish. Luxury!
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