The following is a travel essay compiled from notes in my first Africa journal. The essay was originally posted to an online bulletin board in three installments for the amusement and edification of acquaintances there. Some additional stories were planned but never made it off the drawing board; perhaps some day. The photos are from two separate trips to Africa and were added later. On Safari 1: Night Express to the City of Peace
But the rain had stopped and, as people left their temporary shelters, the bank lines once again lengthened until they stretched around the block. Most in the growing queue are plainly dressed, and patient, although minor squabbles over position in line break out now and then; but I've already seen very similar scenes up north. The Tanzanian government had changed the 100 kishilingi (ksh) banknote from a red to blue color in an effort to smoke out the smugglers and money changers through a forced exchange and there was only a week left for everyone to go to their local, state controlled bank and exchange the old currency for the new. A deeply devalued currency invites the activities of black marketeers as much as traffic in goods due to the opportunities for extra profit when exchanging one currency for another and, naturally enough, the government would prefer to make that profit instead. One of my border bus companions who was from Uganda, where he feared to return to the killing fields, quickly made a deal with the bus driver to hold his old red notes during the crossing in case he was searched by the guards as he knew the black marketeers - likely working though banking contacts - would happily exchange old notes for new currency when he arrived at Arusha, albeit at the usual premium. That premium would likely not be large and might even be better with negotiation but worth the cost either way to evade government attention: Owning too much currency was not something one wanted noticed. Controlling currency is a major problem in much of the third world and nowhere more so than Tanzania in 1985 where the quasi-communist economic policies of Julius Nyerere's government had left many state-owned store shelves empty of anything but a few bags of rice and had debased the currency to less than 1/10th it's official value. Despite the fundamental requirement of a highly integrated, industrial society there has always been enough superficial similarity between socialism and tribal culture to fool even the most benevolent dictator and Nyerere had proved no exception. As a partial result, kishilingi had no accepted international value and no one wanted to be paid in it if they could help it. Even the cross-country train to Zambia, "Tazara," that proud legacy of the clasping of hands between Tanzania, Zambia and the Peoples Republic of China, could be delayed if the fuel provided by that other benefactor, the Soviet Union, was not paid for in foreign exchange immediately upon delivery. In brief, never mind what a government says, the price of goods and travel reflects the true value of a currency and with an official rate of 17 ksh to the dollar, a real-world street price of 150 to 200 ksh/dollar (usually 70 - 120 for tourists), navigation across Tanzania in the relatively unplanned manner I pursued would simply not be possible at the official exchange rate; e.g., a sandwich and beer at a tourist hotel cost nearly 250 ksh—$14.70 US at the official exchange rate—about a month's wages for a Tanzanian worker. But in Moshi currency was no longer my concern, I had already dealt with that problem up north. Now I was in the main bus terminal after walking about Mt. Kilimanjaro where, more from curiosity than any serious attempt to reach the top, I'd gone a fairly good distance, turning back shortly after Horombo hut at about 13,000 feet elevation (that's still more than a mile below the 19,340 foot Uhuru summit of Kibo, Kilimanjaro’s loftiest peak, but altitude and cold were significant factors nonetheless, leaving me shaky from edema and chill as well as footsore). Like many events on this safari I had not specifically planned for such a climb and there was scant room in my backpack and duffel for the necessary gear in any case. That of course is the risk and hidden pleasure of traveling without detailed itinerary: Be prepared for surprise, adapt and explore paths that open, let the paths that close go. In this case hiking the Kilimanjaro transect from mist jungle up through subalpine scrub to alpine tundra was very beautiful, worth every step; further ascent was simply not feasible. Hacuna matata (no problem), barely two weeks left to make Victoria Falls and join the river rafting crew, time to move on. So the task at hand is to find the express bus to Dar es Salaam on the coast, then Tazara from Dar es Salaam all the way inland and down to the town of Kpiri Mposhi in Zambia, change trains and make the final run to Kisangani (Stanleyville) on the Zambian shore of the Zambezi river near Victoria Falls. But first things first: The answer to the question, 'wakati gani busi ijayo itakwenda Dar es Salaam,' is the Langatta Express on the southern leg of the "Trans African Highway." Highway seems a grandiose name for a road that for much of its length is a mere two lanes with no shoulder and heavy truck ruts so deep in the thin asphalt it hardly seems better than a country lane in some places but if one looks on a map with sufficient scale there is a giant cross upon which sub-Saharan Africa is pinned - East and west, from Zaire (now Congo again) to Kenya, north and south from S. Africa nearly to Ethiopia it travels - and the goods it allows for transport have changed the interior of Africa ...but not always for the better; e.g., the truckers, their prostitutes and the spread of HIV – "Slim" AIDS is called, for its wasting effects – and it is now epidemic over the entire region. Never mind what it looks like, this is a major highway and no doubt about it, transporting commerce and hope along with those terrible hitchhikers death and despair the length and breadth of sub-Saharan Africa. But boarding the bus for Dar es Salaam I think nothing of this, just making sure my camping gear is stored and secured on top of the bus so it won't fall off or be stolen. Somewhat atypically I am not the only mzungu (white person) here today as I have temporarily joined a group of four French travelers exploring this portion of Tanzania but we will part soon as Dar es Salaam is not their destination. Regardless the atmosphere is congenial and busy and, after a month of overland travel, I no longer really notice nor care that I will be traveling alone again soon. As afternoon arrives we are off, currency debasement and the shortage of goods (with the inevitable implication of black marketeering including the need to transport goods in the teeth of fuel and transportation shortages as well as official police intervention) all far from my mind. On Safari 1: Abducted! The Langatta Express bus to Dar es Salaam pulled out of the terminal, headed east out of town to the highway and then south. The ground was drying from the recent rain but the perennial road dust remained suppressed and most of Kilimanjaro was shrouded in clouds as usual although one of its smaller peaks was clearly visible: "Mwenzi," a dark, broken gargoyle perched on mighty Kibo's thigh. The equatorial African sky opened up in that way it has, in soft hues with a huge ever-expanding horizon, and my seat companion, a rather trim fellow whose English was only slightly better than my fractured Swaheli nodded and said, "nice yes?" I agreed as the bus turned and we drove south of Moshi on the transafrican highway in companionable silence watching the golden afternoon sun shine through the fields rippling past at ever greater speed. Until about 10 kilometers out of town when the bus suddenly pulled over on a narrow shoulder and the nearby field erupted men who hurry towards the bus with boxes and cases on their shoulders. The lack of surprise on the faces of nearby passengers causes me to think this is a normally scheduled stop at first. Even though the bus is an "Express" previous experience with the African way of doing things makes such stops fairly unremarkable; time is not really linear and one soon discovers that it is best to be flexible, in scheduling and in other matters. But my seat-companion's sidelong, rather chagrined glance and his muttered, "Ah, this is not good," tell me something else is going on and as the men approach matters become more clear: My companion means I, a mzungu, a foreign white man, should not see this; I should not be here. The approaching men are wearing "sporting" clothes: bright rayon shirts open to the navel, gold chains, bell-bottomed trousers and gold gleams in their teeth when they laugh. The boxes they carry are full of all the things one can not find in the regular government-run stores: Fancy canned goods, soda pop, bread, cigarettes, toilet paper. They are smugglers and the bus is now their transport. There are about a dozen of them and they quickly go about the business of loading their goods atop the bus. Several board, clearly knowing the driver and some of the passengers well. My apprehension grows as I hear their speech and, in particular, the heavily tonal, cat-like screech of two women passengers who greet them with obvious delight. I have heard that speech before on Kilimanjaro whose southern and western slopes are in Wachagaland. It is kichaga I am hearing and the smuggler furthest down the bus, whose smile immediately disappears when he sees me, is an mchaga outlaw!
The smuggler who has seen me calls out and one of those outside, who has been giving orders to the others, immediately comes to the side of the bus near my window. He is bearded, less flashily dressed than the others but with an air of authority that makes it difficult to meet his eyes. He regards me steadily for a moment then shrugs, turns to the others who have finished their packing and in kichaga gives a command that seems to mean, "never mind, time to get going boys." Four members of the band immediately board the bus with the rest heading back into the field but before following them the leader turns back to me with a small, rather grim smile and, in clear English says, "welcome to Tanzania!" The bus begins to move but barely makes it up to full speed before slowing again to turn off the main highway onto a dirt road heading east. The road is fairly dry and the late afternoon sunlight filters through thin skeins of deep red, rising dust as the bus, nearly silent now, bounces over ruts and speeds into the slowly darkening African countryside. On Safari 1: Conclusion We have been on this road for barely a half hour and have already made two stops. The young wachaga smugglers offload boxes and load some in return, swaggering and bantering with each other and passersby all the while. Their gold capped teeth may be more than mere decoration as some of them make a show of biting off the bottle-caps of the soda pops and beer they pass among themselves. A few bus passengers are clearly used to the route and some even exit the bus as if the stops were normally scheduled but do not get off scott-free as the smugglers charge them baksheesh - a moiety in the coin of the realm for respect - to offload the passenger's personal possessions from the big bin on the top of the bus. Still my apprehensions have been growing all the while although I have not been molested, only the occasional side-long glance and muttered comment. But at this second stop a young girl, barely ten years old by the look of her and slight of build, struggles in vain to lift a large sack of rice to her shoulders. Tribal women seem little better than beasts of burden in many parts of East Africa and it is common to see them with huge loads of water or kindling on their heads and shoulders, a baby strapped to their backs, walking ten paces behind the men who have only their slender, knob-headed herding sticks to bear. One of the smugglers, with a look of some disdain, helps the little girl place the bag over her shoulders and, as she staggers away, turns and sees me looking through the open bus window and laughs, "she no power, eh," and both the irony of his comment and the humor of the entire affair completely overtake me as I burst out laughing in return. "Ndio!" I shout, "it is so!"
I do not know when we return to the main highway but there have been no stops recently and the bus has maintained a furious rate of speed for nearly an hour now. Perhaps it is to make up for the time taken by previous stops, something I certainly wouldn't mind, but I rather wish we weren't going so fast. The night is pitch dark and although my fears of winding up alone in a ditch with my throat slit have abated considerably there seems a heightened chance of hitting a buffalo or some other large animal out here and the ditch will certainly be no more inviting if we all roll into it together. As well, slamming into the inevitable ruts at high speed - bang, bang, bang - while the perennial dust seeps through every window crack assures sleep will be poor. And sleep is indeed very poor as the dark road and long night unwind. But I must have managed to doze as I rise to peer groggily through the window with day breaking at the outskirts of the city, Dar es Salaam, "Haven of Peace." The bus slows, blasting its horn periodically in the morning commuter traffic. My eyes feel full of salt, my spine is sore, and I want some coffee, a shower and a bed very badly. The commuters in the street, mostly bicycle and foot traffic, move slowly aside as the bus works its way into the bowels of the city. One could almost be in the outskirts of Los Angeles were it not for the lack of racial diversity, relatively fewer number of cars and the narrow, dirt side-streets but there is little sense of strangeness for me now. Over a month ago in northern Kenya, and despite years of living and working in a multi-ethnic society as well as travel abroad, there was occasionally a sense of dislocation when walking streets as a minority alien but now it is just people going about their business; a normal morning in the city, any city. I greet my awakened seat-mate and tell him I hope to find a hotel but he responds that there is a pan-African conference in town and rooms will be difficult to find. I know there will be no problem tonight though because, just right now, I've had enough of motion and weariness. There is a fairly consistent mythology surrounding the concept of freedom in the West, that it is critically defined by choice and the ability to do what you want (which makes the concept nearly indistinguishable from license), but in Africa one learns that the ability to do whatever you want inexorably drains the world of content; there is less and less that seems really worth doing. What matters most is understanding necessity, then doing what you must, and the greatest freedom is to be embedded in life with all its obligations including the ability to rest without fear of trouble in a place you know. Tonight I want a piece, however small, of that freedom very much. After the bus reaches the terminal I exit and greet the smuggler with whom I laughed. He is standing atop the bus screaming in outrage at a passenger who appears reluctant to pay for the privilege of reclaiming his own baggage but turns when I speak to him and wordlessly tosses my bag and backpack down, nodding only as if to say, "well msungu, you saw something interesting tonight didn't you? The usual baggage claim fee will be waived as a courtesy and now we are quits." There is a single taxi parked to the side and I greet the driver with the traditional, "jambo." He politely answers, "salama, sabalkheri bwana" (peace, good morning mister) and I respond in my usual broken Swaheli, "nzuri, hoteli tafadhali." The driver grunts, needing no further instructions: I am a mzungu, clearly rich since I can afford to travel abroad (although my presence alone in a mid-city bus station must be puzzling) and that means the big tourist hotels near the beach, full charge at the official currency exchange rate with 15% added as gratuity for services I will rarely receive. It's highway robbery and the Wachaga of evil reputation treated me better but so be it. I'll worry about more reasonably priced accommodations, acquiring a ticket on Tazara, and all the rest tomorrow. So I think now in the brightening morning but as it turns out I will be stuck in the expensive hotel for several days and Tazara will require baksheesh at both ends as I must pay to share a sleeping car first and two Zambian customs agents will prove greedy later when we reach the border. The journey itself will involve yet another strange night, this time accompanied by flame and smoke instead of darkness and dust, but all that is yet to come and not part of this story. My Safari is barely more than two-thirds complete today and I am, quite simply, very tired. Finis Rolfe Windward Return to Avocations and Hobbies Page |
The rain had stopped in Moshi, the city skipped by many tourists near the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro since those who wish to climb that mountain usually fly to Arusha further north and then are driven directly to base at Marangu or, less frequently, to Machembe (Machame). Air travel was long behind me by this time, my safari now a month in transit and myself arriving from the Kenyan border where our local bus had been stopped for two hours by a Tanzanian customs guard upset with his Kenyan counterpart for failing to show sufficient respect. Rather than a major border incident this seemed more a gesture of old habit as these two East African nations had not been on speaking terms for years. Indeed, this year was the first the border between the two countries had been officially open in a long time. But now, in 1985, I was traveling south and why not? Hired to work rafting the Zambezi river as a boat helper ("swamper") it seemed entirely reasonable to begin a couple months early and about 1,400 miles further north in Kenya and, sans itinerary, just work my way overland down to Victoria Falls with side trips as opportunity offered.
My friend, P. Muema, with whom I traveled for over three weeks in Kenya has told me of the Wachaga in the way some tribal Africans have, speaking of oneself and other individuals in terms of tribal identity rather than individual traits. He had told me that if I ever met a dishonest Mkamba I could kill them - being a Kamba he meant he personally could be trusted completely - but that the Wachaga gave their children knives in preparation for a life of cutting purses and throats. Of course he also pointed out that the Kikuyu (the largest tribe in Kenya and noted for their shrewd business dealings) would jingle coins by their children's cribs to attune them to the sound of money and he would hardly deign to speak at all of those who had "gone swaheli," had in effect become tribeless because they left home for life on the coast. Naturally I took all this with a grain of salt yet here I was, darkened from sun and travel to be sure but clearly not a person of color, in exactly the situation brother Muema had warned me I should avoid: Isolated in Wachagaland, a fat mzungu chicken ready for the plucking, too big for a single Mchaga maybe but no problem at all for a Wachaga pack.
And suddenly we are laughing together. He walks to my window, passing me a soda and cigarette as the other smugglers nod approvingly. Clearly this mzungu is a sensible fellow who understands matters and will be no trouble, time to get back to work; and they do as the bus makes its appointed rounds while night falls.