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.
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